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   3 Sri Aurobindo
   2 Shaykh Abdul Qadir Jilani
   1 Umar ibn al-Khattab
   1 Saint Ambrose On the Death of Satyrus
   1 Kasim Anwar
   1 AD 314)

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   6 Sri Aurobindo
   6 Al Sharpton
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   4 Stephen Hawking
   4 Seneca
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1:Like a hand that possesses five fingers is destiny: when it wants anyone to be obeying its decree … it places two of the fingers on the ears and two on the eyes and one on the lips, saying 'Silent be!'" ~ Kasim Anwar, (1336-1433) Sufi poet.,

2:Concerning women who commit fornication and destroy that which they have conceived, or who are employed in making drugs for abortion, a former decree excluded them until the hour of death, and to this some have assented. ~ Council of Ancyra ~ AD 314),

3:No amount of guilt can change the past and no amount of worrying can change the future. Go easy on yourself, for the outcome of all affairs is determined by Allah's Decree." ~ Umar ibn al-Khattab, @Sufi_Path

4:Death was not part of nature; it became part of nature. God did not decree death from the beginning; he prescribed it as a remedy…. Without the assistance of grace, immortality is more of a burden than a blessing. ~ Saint Ambrose On the Death of Satyrus,

5:All is not finished in the unseen decree; A Mind beyond our mind demands our ken, A life of unimagined harmony Awaits, concealed, the grasp of unborn men. ~ Sri Aurobindo, Collected Poems, Evolution - II,

6:Doom is a passage for our inborn force, Our ordeal is the hidden spirit's choice, Ananke is our being's own decree. ~ Sri Aurobindo, Savitri, The Joy of Union; the Ordeal of the Foreknowledge of Death and the Heart's Grief and Pain,

7:You have to be satisfied with the divine decree, observe the Law, and perform good works under all circumstances: in hardship and prosperity, when it is something you love and when it is something you hate. ~ Shaykh Abdul Qadir Jilani, @Sufi_Path

8:I, Wisdom, dwell with prudence and find out knowledge of witty inventions.... Counsel is mine and sound knowledge. I am understanding. I am strength. By me Kings reign and princes decree justice. By me princes rule, and nobles, even all the judges of the earth. I love them that love me. And those that seek me shall find me. Riches and honour are with me; yea, durable riches and righteousness. My fruit is better than gold, yea, than fine gold; and my revenue than choice silver. I lead in the way of righteousness, in the midst of the paths of judgment, that I may cause those that love me to inherit substance; and I will fill their treasures.... I was set up from everlasting, from the beginning before ever the earth was. When there were no depths, I was brought forth; when there were no fountains abounding with water, before the mountains were settled, before the hills were, I was brought forth. ~ Proverbs, the Eternal Wisdom

9:O King, thy fate is a transaction done At every hour between Nature and thy soul With God for its foreseeing arbiter. Fate is a balance drawn in Destiny's book. Man can accept his fate, he can refuse. Even if the One maintains the unseen decree He writes thy refusal in thy credit page: For doom is not a close, a mystic seal. Arisen from the tragic crash of life, Arisen from the body's torture and death, The spirit rises mightier by defeat; Its godlike wings grow wider with each fall. Its splendid failures sum to victory. O man, the events that meet thee on thy road, Though they smite thy body and soul with joy and grief, Are not thy fate, - they touch thee awhile and pass; Even death can cut not short thy spirit's walk: Thy goal, the road thou choosest are thy fate. On the altar throwing thy thoughts, thy heart, thy works, Thy fate is a long sacrifice to the gods Till they have opened to thee thy secret self And made thee one with the indwelling God. ~ Sri Aurobindo, Savitri, 06:02 The Way of Fate and the Problem of Pain,

*** WISDOM TROVE ***

1:Luxury! thou curst by Heaven's decree! ~ oliver-goldsmith, @wisdomtrove

2:The Sphinx-riddle. Solve it, or be torn to bits, is the decree. ~ d-h-lawrence, @wisdomtrove

3:Go easy on yourself, for the outcome of all affairs is determined by God’s decree. ~ rajneesh, @wisdomtrove

4:I believe that nothing happens apart from divine determination and decree. We shall never be able to escape from the doctrine of divine predestination - the doctrine that God has foreordained certain people unto eternal life. ~ charles-spurgeon, @wisdomtrove

5:How happy is the little stone That rambles in the road alone, And doesn't care about careers, And exigencies never fears; Whose coat of elemental brown A passing universe put on; And independent as the sun, Associates or glows alone, Fulfilling absolute decree In casual simplicity. ~ emily-dickinson, @wisdomtrove

6:The NRA believes America's laws were made to be obeyed and that our Constitutional liberties are just as important today as 200 years ago. And by the way, the Constitution does not say Government shall decree the right to keep and bear arms. The Constitution says &

*** NEWFULLDB 2.4M ***

1:declare the decree: the Lord hath said ~ Anonymous,

2:Reed hasn’t issued the Royal decree yet. ~ Erin Watt,

3:This Day, whate'er the Fates decree; ~ Jonathan Swift,

4:By shaping some august decree, ~ Alfred Lord Tennyson,

5:The decree is dreadful indeed, I confess. ~ John Calvin,

6:A stately pleasure-dome decree. ~ Samuel Taylor Coleridge,

7:O Luxury! thou curst by Heaven's decree! ~ Oliver Goldsmith,

8:Real divorce takes place without a decree. ~ Margaret Deland,

9:Fulfilling absolute decree in casual simplicity. ~ Emily Dickinson,

10:under the decree and guidance of the great King Sejong. ~ Pearl S Buck,

11:Madness ends sometimes. The Gods decree it, not man. ~ Bernard Cornwell,

12:The Sphinx-riddle. Solve it, or be torn to bits, is the decree. ~ D H Lawrence,

13:But you never got thirsty for me. You ignored me.” GOD’S Decree. 9 ~ Eugene H Peterson,

14:What is to be, will be, and no prayers of ours can arrest the decree. ~ Abraham Lincoln,

15:It is God’s decree which by itself completely determines the course of history; ~ Anonymous,

16:You cannot decree women to be sexually free when they are not economically free. ~ Shere Hite,

17:The Cellar had been founded by Presidential Decree in order to legally do the illegal. ~ Bob Mayer,

18:But you never got hungry for me. You continued to ignore me.” GOD’S Decree. 7-8 ~ Eugene H Peterson,

19:Whene'er, by Jove's decree, our conquering powers Shall humble to the dust her lofty towers. ~ Homer,

20:I ask for a decree dooming my bitter enemies to laughter advanced against them. ~ John Berryman,

21:We cannot create jobs without company owners, the state cannot create jobs by decree. ~ Emmanuel Macron,

22:The brain may devise laws for the blood, but a hot temper leaps o'er a cold decree. ~ William Shakespeare,

23:Once the monarchy was abolished, a decree was passed that there would be no more kings in Rome. ~ Edward Gibbon,

24:It is the just decree of Heaven that a traitor never sees his danger till his ruin is at hand. ~ Pietro Metastasio,

25:A tree that cannot bend will crack in the wind. Thus by nature's own decree, the soft and gentle are triumphant. ~ Laozi,

26:For everything there is a sign. The sign of love is fortitude under My decree and patience under My trials. ~ Bah u ll h,

27:Under the standardization covenant, talent is not rare by empirical fact. Talent is rare by institutional decree. ~ Todd Rose,

28:A decree of death has been passed on America. The judgment of God has been rendered, and she must be destroyed. ~ Louis Farrakhan,

29:Have we,” he wondered, “conceived a merely human project and then imagined it to be a decree of the Almighty? ~ Barbara W Tuchman,

30:The Patriot Act followed 9-11 as smoothly as the suspension of the Weimar constitution after the Reichstag Fire Decree. ~ Sr a Trifkovic,

31:This decree is very serious and we will not allow it to pass unopposed. (on Israel offers 10-month West Bank settlement freeze) ~ Uri Orbach,

32:This particular consent decree not only looks at the police department, but it also looks at how we engage our community. ~ Catherine E Pugh,

33:God forgives not with a decree but with a caress. Jesus too goes beyond the law and forgives by caressing the wounds of our sins. ~ Pope Francis,

34:The laws of God, the laws of man, He may keep that will and can; Not I: let God and man decree Laws for themselves and not for me. ~ A E Housman,

35:When angels visit earth, the messengers Of God's decree, they come as lightning, wind: Before the throne, they all are living fire. ~ Emma Lazarus,

36:You heard the decree of the gods, boy. You’ve become entirely too close to this mortal. You are hereby banned from further contact! ~ Rick Riordan,

37:Kings don't beg, they decree. They have only one destiny and that's to reign. God has made you king. Reign and rule, refuse to beg! ~ Chris Oyakhilome,

38:Actual aristocracy cannot be abolished by any law: all the law can do is decree how it is to be imparted and who is to acquire it. ~ Georg C Lichtenberg,

39:But if she is alone now, it is because she chose to be alone, not someone decree if for her. Her life is hers to live, not yours to repair. ~ Robin Hobb,

40:the word predestinate refers not to election but to that decree or purpose of God by which he has ordained that his own bear the cross. In ~ John Calvin,

41:Woman, never judge man by his individual actions; But upon man as a whole, pass thy decisive decree. ~ Friedrich Schiller, The Forum Of Woman ,

42:wrong are those who magnify the decree of the Father, and the atonement of the Son, so as to depreciate the work of the Spirit. ~ Charles Haddon Spurgeon,

43:Henceforth and from now on, I decree that whenever something bad happens to me, there shall be bunnies around. So it shall be written. ~ Christopher Moore,

44:By predestination we mean the eternal decree of God, by which He determined with Himself whatever He wished to happen with regard to every man ~ John Calvin,

45:All of us who desire the kingdom of God are, by the Lord's decree, under an equal and rigorous necessity of seeking after the grace of Baptism. ~ Saint Basil,

46:I think everybody understood what happened, why this consent decree came about after the Freddie Gray situation. There was tension on both sides. ~ Al Sharpton,

47:We can prevent reading: but in the decree that forbids reading there will be still read something of the truth that we would wish never to be read ~ Italo Calvino,

48:And again and again the human race will decree from time to time: “There is something at which it is absolutely forbidden henceforth to laugh. ~ Friedrich Nietzsche,

49:A divine decree, resting beyond the gaze of human beings, works mysteriously to bring all things into outer manifestation at the proper time. ~ Paramahansa Yogananda,

50:Our time is fixed and settled by eternal decree. Let us not be anxious about it, but wait with patience until the gates of pearl shall open. ~ Charles Haddon Spurgeon,

51:The decree against parasitism was originally formulated for Gypsies, then broad-mindedly expanded to include dissidents and all sorts of profiteers, ~ Martin Cruz Smith,

52:We`re looking forward to getting our monitor appointed and we`re looking forward to all of the reforms that will take place under this consent decree. ~ Catherine E Pugh,

53:In Xanadu did Kubla Khan A stately pleasure-dome decree: Where Alph, the sacred river, ran Through caverns measureless to man Down to a sunless sea. ~ Samuel Taylor Coleridge,

54:Talc: You have been found guilty of misleading and perverting the young. I decree that you be hung by your underdeveloped testicles until dead. ZORRO ~ John Kennedy Toole,

55:In the exercise of God's efficiency, the decree of God comes first. This manner of working is the most perfect of all and notably agrees with the divine nature. ~ William Ames,

56:they have only that power which the secret decree of the Almighty allots to them, in order that we may not set too great store by earthly prosperity, ~ Saint Augustine of Hippo,

57:We, Norton I, do hereby decree that the offices of President, Vice President, and Speaker of the House of Representatives are, from and after this date, abolished. ~ Emperor Norton,

58:the authority of Scripture does not depend on the decision or decree of any church or any man. Rather, Scripture is authoritative because it is the Word of the living God. ~ Anonymous,

59:A decision by the Fuhrer in the express form of a law or a decree may not be scrutinized by a judge. In addition, the judge is bound by any other decision of the Fuhrer. ~ Adolf Hitler,

60:Yet if our chief for plunder only fight, The spoils of Ilion shall thy loss requite, Whene'er, by Jove's decree, our conquering powers Shall humble to the dust her lofty towers. ~ Homer,

61:In Xanadu did Kubla Khan A stately pleasure-dome decree: Where Alph, the sacred river, ran Through caverns measureless to man Down to a sunless sea. ~ Samuel Taylor Coleridge,

62:the activity of modern poets stands under the decree of necessity, as though they were building a pyramid, the monstruos residence of a dead King or an unborn God. ~ Hugo von Hofmannsthal,

63:Decree now, and say it meaningly: "From this moment forward, I will admit to my mind for mental consumption only those ideas and thoughts that heal, bless, inspire, and strengthen ~ Joseph Murphy,

64:For a generous deed lives longer than a great battle or a king’s decree of a scholar’s essay, because it spreads and leaves its mark on all nature and endures through many generations. ~ L Frank Baum,

65:Dr Cohalan, the Bishop of Cork, who pronounced a decree of excommunication on 12 December 1920. In fact the Bishop was extremely even-handed and judicious in his condemnation of violence ~ Tim Pat Coogan,

66:God’s providence, which is nothing but the fulfillment of His decree, should be a guarantee and an opposing force against discontent. In His wisdom, God has set us in our current station. ~ Thomas Watson,

67:I decree and I declare that I am not a raw material but rather a finished product. God knows me and knows the reason for which he created me. I am not here on earth to merely live and depart. ~ Israelmore Ayivor,

68:There are many who lust for the simple answers of doctrine or decree. They are on the left and right. They are not confined to a single part of the society. They are terrorists of the mind. ~ A Bartlett Giamatti,

69:In this new hall the factions regroup in their old places. Legendre the butcher bawls out a Brissotin: “I’ll slaughter you!” “First,” says the deputy, “have a decree passed to say that I am an ox. ~ Hilary Mantel,

70:All is not finished in the unseen decree; A Mind beyond our mind demands our ken, A life of unimagined harmony Awaits, concealed, the grasp of unborn men. ~ Sri Aurobindo, Collected Poems, Evolution - II,

71:Let me just say that we are under the consent decree. There are people in our city [Baltimore] along with the police department and advocates who believe that this is absolutely the right thing to do. ~ Al Sharpton,

72:Persuasion, kind, unassuming persuasion, should be adopted to influence the conduct of men. The opposite course would be a reversal of human nature, which is God's decree and can never be reversed. ~ Abraham Lincoln,

73:BY ORDER OF ——— The High Inquisitor of Hogwarts   Any student found in possession of the magazine The Quibbler will be expelled.   The above is in accordance with Educational Decree Number Twenty-seven.   ~ J K Rowling,

74:For peace is not mere absence of war, but is a virtue that springs from force of character: for obedience is the constant will to execute what, by the general decree of the commonwealth, ought to be done. ~ Baruch Spinoza,

75:Optimism is, in the first instance, a way of explaining failure, not prophesying success. It says that there is no fundamental barrier, no law of nature or supernatural decree, preventing progress. Whenever ~ David Deutsch,

76:At the North Carolina border, the dull landscape ended abruptly, as if by decree. Suddenly the countryside rose and fell in majestic undulations, full of creeping thickets of laurel, rhododendron and palmetto. ~ Bill Bryson,

77:If slavery be a sin, it is not yours. It does not rest on your action for its origin, on your consent for its existence. It is a common law right to property in the service of man; its origin was Divine decree. ~ Jefferson Davis,

78:Whatever happened in the world was a decree from God. A task to be completed. Any crying or joy just got in the way of being useful. Any emotion was decadent. Anticipation or regret was a silly extra. A luxury. ~ Chuck Palahniuk,

79:Jeff Sessions, the person who`s likely to become our next attorney general, is striking a very different tone from our current attorney general, Loretta Lynch, who announced a consent decree with the city of Baltimore. ~ Al Sharpton,

80:We do not ask to be born; and we do not ask to die. But born we are and die we must. We come into existence and we pass out of existence. And in neither case does high-handed fate await our ratification of its decree. ~ Corliss Lamont,

81:Mr. Lincoln's maxim and philosophy were: 'What is to be, will be, and no prayers of ours can arrest the decree.' He never joined any Church. He was a religious man always, I think, but was not a technical Christian. ~ Mary Todd Lincoln,

82:Doom is a passage for our inborn force, Our ordeal is the hidden spirit’s choice, Ananke is our being’s own decree. ~ Sri Aurobindo, Savitri, The Joy of Union; the Ordeal of the Foreknowledge of Death and the Heart’s Grief and Pain,

83:No tsar, nor even the Tatars or German Fascists, ever signed such a decree. The decree meant the death by famine of the peasants of the Ukraine, the Don, and the Kuban. It meant the death of them and their children. Even ~ Vasily Grossman,

84:I know not what to call this, nor will I urge that it is a secret, overruling decree, that hurries us on to be the instruments of our own destruction, even though it be before us, and that we rush upon it with our eyes open. ~ Daniel Defoe,

85:According to the Bolshevik decree, the repressions were “of a temporary nature and will be removed by a special degree just as soon as normal conditions are reestablished,” but, of course, “normal” conditions never returned.63 ~ Stephen Kotkin,

86:I believe that nothing happens apart from divine determination and decree. We shall never be able to escape from the doctrine of divine predestination - the doctrine that God has foreordained certain people unto eternal life. ~ Charles Spurgeon,

87:Fine. To answer your questions: like crap. And, yes, my leg hurts. I need a gallon sized bottle of Advil and a kilo of chocolate, pronto!” I clapped my hands as if issuing a royal decree, then smiled to lighten the atmosphere. ~ Claudia Y Burgoa,

88:There can be no greater stretch of arbitrary power than to seize children from their parents, teach them whatever the authorities decree they shall be taught, and expropriate from the parents the funds to pay for the procedure. ~ Isabel Paterson,

89:Again I ask whence it happened that the fall of Adam involved, without remedy, in eternal death so many nations, together with their infant children, except because it so seemed good to God? A decree horrible, I confess, and yet true. ~ John Calvin,

90:The transition will not be easy, ended the decree, and it will not be without cost. But we are not cowards to hide from the powers that define us. We are Psy and we are capable of greatness. It is time to step out of the dark. ~ Nalini Singh,

91:It was funny stuff, sanity. When it was taken away, you didn’t know it. You didn’t feel its departure. You only really knew it when it was restored, like some rare wild bird which lived and sang within you not by decree but by choice. ~ Stephen King,

92:In 58 BCE Cicero’s enemies argued that, whatever authority he had claimed under the senate’s prevention of terrorism decree, his executions of Catiline’s followers had flouted the fundamental right of any Roman citizen to a proper trial. ~ Mary Beard,

93:I believe that nothing happens apart from divine determination and decree. We shall never be able to escape from the doctrine of divine predestination - the doctrine that God has foreordained certain people unto eternal life. ~ Charles Haddon Spurgeon,

94:We further decree that the Senate of the United States elect a prominent Democrat as their presiding officer, to act as President until the next election, and to reconstruct the Cabinet according to our wishes hereafter to be declared. ~ Emperor Norton,

95:Though you read a hundred volumes without a pause, you won't remember a single point without a Divine decree; but if you serve God and read not a single book, you'll learn rare sciences within your own heart. ~ Rumi Mevlana aka Rumi ~ Rumi,

96:We're coming, Father Abraham, three hundred thousand more We leave our homes and firesides with bleeding hearts and sore Since poverty has been our crime, we bow to thy decree; We are the poor and have no wealth to purchase liberty. ~ Howard Zinn,

97:We will implement this consent decree because we know that it is in the best interests of our city that the police department and the community are working together so that we can resolve many of the issues that we face in our community. ~ Catherine E Pugh,

98:Once the barrier is exposed, fear and anxiety reduces! Once the barrier is broken, movement progresses! I decree and I declare the exposure and breakage of both strong and tall barriers ahead of us! We are unstoppable; We are victorious! ~ Israelmore Ayivor,

99:In addition, the decree authorized the Reich government to take over complete power in the federal states when necessary and imposed the death sentence for a number of crimes, including “serious disturbances of the peace” by armed persons. ~ William L Shirer,

100:The end result of positively reinforcing bad behavior is that you get more of it. The culmination of a failure to punish predators is a debased, dissolute, slum-dog society in which, by legal decree, the righteous suffer and the wicked prosper. ~ Ilana Mercer,

101:Your subconscious mind does not argue with you. It accepts what your conscious mind decrees. If you say, "I can't afford it," your subconscious mind works to make it true. Select a better thought. Decree, "I'll buy it. I accept it in my mind." ~ Joseph Murphy,

102:I had just two rules for their virtual reality worlds: No shooting violence and no pornography. I issued that decree mostly because those things have been done in computer games only about a zillion times, and I was looking for original thinking. ~ Randy Pausch,

103:Early one morning, before the sun had fully risen over the horizon, he sent two messengers on horseback, each to deliver the royal decree to Laird Armstrong and Laird Montgomery. He only hoped to hell that they didn’t kill each other at the wedding. ~ Maya Banks,

104:I took the position from day one that it was the right decree, that the modifications I made to the decree were proper, that the correct outcome had been obtained, and that in due time all of that would become apparent. And it has become apparent. ~ Harold H Greene,

105:In 1419, the Council issued the famously worded decree that Quidditch should not be played “anywhere near any place where there is the slightest chance that a Muggle might be watching or we’ll see how well you can play whilst chained to a dungeon wall. ~ J K Rowling,

106:If there's another 9/11 or a major war in the Middle-East involving a U.S. attack on Iran, I have no doubt that there will be, the day after or within days an equivalent of a Reichstag fire decree that will involve massive detentions in this country. ~ Daniel Ellsberg,

107:(Indeed there were outstanding examples of good governance in India at the time, notably the Travancore kingdom, which in 1819 became the first government in the world to decree universal, compulsory and free primary education for both boys and girls.) ~ Shashi Tharoor,

108:The iron hand of necessity commands, and her stern decree is supreme law, to which the gods even must submit. In deep silence rules the uncounselled sister of eternal fate. Whatever she lays upon thee, endure; perform whatever she commands. ~ Johann Wolfgang von Goethe,

109:Aeschylus observed that the gods ordained a solemn decree that from suffering alone comes wisdom. Such earned wisdom brings greater dignity and depth to our lives, and we are blessed by the spiritual enlargement that is its byproduct. ~ James Hollisyoutube.com/watch?v=yqjR80…,

110:Dragons don't ask for maidens, he said. Dragons are offered maidens. Alys shook her head to show she didn't understand. Is a king likely to be a maiden? Or a village headman? It's the men who make the laws that decree that maidens be offered. ~ Vivian Vande Velde,

111:U.S. Supreme Court on May 15, 1911, couched its decision in these clear terms: 'Seven men and a corporate machine have conspired against their fellow citizens. For the safety of the Republic we now decree that this dangerous conspiracy must be ended by November 15th. ~ Jim Marrs,

112:30-31 “‘They’ll know, beyond doubting, that I, GOD, am their God, that I’m with them and that they, the people Israel, are my people. Decree of GOD, the Master: You are my dear flock, the flock of my pasture, my human flock, And I am your God. Decree of GOD, the Master. ~ Anonymous,

113:Then we realized that your Kind like to make laws. Like to decree what's what, and whether it's good or not. And the world, being a loving thing, and not wishing to disappoint you or distress you, indulges you. Behaves as though your doctrines are in some way absolute. ~ Clive Barker,

114:All things being at God's disposal, and the decision of salvation or death belonging to him, he orders all things by his counsel and decree in such a manner, that some men are born devoted from the womb to certain death, that his name may be glorified in their destruction. ~ John Calvin,

115:I make a decree, and it shall be published from the mountains to the mountains; your names, Incubu, Macumazahn, and Bougwan, shall be "hlonipa" even as the names of dead kings, and he who speaks them shall die.[1] So shall your memory be preserved in the land for ever. ~ H Rider Haggard,

116:In the whole vast dome of living nature there reigns an open violence, a kind of prescriptive fury which arms all the creatures to their common doom: as soon as you leave the inanimate kingdom you find the decree of violent death inscribed on the very frontiers of life. ~ Joseph de Maistre,

117:Norms of forbearance are especially important in presidential democracies. As Juan Linz argued, divided government can easily bring deadlock, dysfunction, and constitutional crisis. Unrestrained presidents can pack the Supreme Court or circumvent Congress by ruling via decree. ~ Steven Levitsky,

118:Virtue depends partly upon training and partly upon practice; you must learn first, and then strengthen your learning by action. If this be true, not only do the doctrines of wisdom help us but the precepts also, which check and banish our emotions by a sort of official decree. ~ Seneca the Younger,

119:How happy is the little stone That rambles in the road alone, And doesn't care about careers, And exigencies never fears; Whose coat of elemental brown A passing universe put on; And independent as the sun, Associates or glows alone, Fulfilling absolute decree In casual simplicity. ~ Emily Dickinson,

120:Man can, indeed, act contrarily to the decrees of God, as far as they have been written like laws in the minds of ourselves or the prophets, but against that eternal decree of God, which is written in universal nature, and has regard to the course of nature as a whole, he can do nothing. ~ Baruch Spinoza,

121:It is not an arbitrary "decree of God," but in the nature of man, that a veil shuts down on the facts of to-morrow; for the soul will not have us read any other cipher than that of cause and effect. By this veil, which curtains events, it instructs the children of men to live in to-day. ~ Ralph Waldo Emerson,

122:(Indeed there were outstanding examples of good governance in India at the time, notably the Travancore kingdom, which in 1819 became the first government in the world to decree universal, compulsory and free primary education for both boys and girls.) The British charges against the rulers they ~ Shashi Tharoor,

123:The divine decree related to the believer is always a bounty, even if it is in the form of withholding (something that is desired); and it is a blessing, even if it appears to be a trial and an affliction that has befallen him; it is in reality a cure, even though it appears to be a disease!" So ~ Yasmin Mogahed,

124:There is a denial of the value of the individual. Christianity affirms the value of each individual soul. Nazism denies it. The individual is sacrificed to the idol of the German Leader, German State or the German race. The ordinary citizen is allowed to hear and think only as the rulers decree. ~ Clement Attlee,

125:Will-power, he saw, was not a thing one could suddenly decree oneself to possess. It must be built up imperceptibly and laboriously out of a succession of small efforts to meet definite objects, out of the facing of daily difficulties instead of cleverly eluding them, or shifting their burden on others. ~ Edith Wharton,

126:Back then, being a pawnbroker-merchant was one of the only career options available to Jews. Thanks to a papal decree centuries earlier, usury laws forbade Christians from lending for profit. So Jews took over the moneylending trades, becoming pawnbrokers, small trade merchants, and wizards of finance. ~ Kenneth L Fisher,

127:Throughout that first year in Germany, Dodd had been struck again and again by the strange indifference to atrocity that had settled over the nation, the willingness of the populace and of the moderate elements in the government to accept each new oppressive decree, each new act of violence, without protest. ~ Erik Larson,

128:By August the government ordered by decree the use of military tribunals. During that same month, Kropotkin and his French colleague Reclus openly supported terrorism as a tactic and declared: “propaganda by the deed.” This slogan would later become more synonymous with the German-American anarchist Johann Most. ~ Anonymous,

129:It was the association of Celtic women with barbarism that persuaded the Senate to decree in AD 40 that prostitutes should make their hair blonde – the colour the Romans associated with the Celts. It was the eroticism, how-ever, that persuaded ladies at the highest level of Roman society to put on blonde wigs. ~ Terry Jones,

130:Throughout that first year in Germany, Dodd had been struck again and again by the strange indifference to atrocity that had settled over the nation, the willingness of the populace and of the moderate elements in the government to accept each new oppressive decree, each new act of violence, without protest. It ~ Erik Larson,

131:How happy is the little stone That rambles in the road alone, And doesn't care about careers, And exigencies never fears; Whose coat of elemental brown A passing universe put on; And independent as the sun, Associates or glows alone, Fulfilling absolute decree In casual simplicity. ~ Emily Dickinson,

132:=Lost Hope= You cast to ground the hope which once was mine, But did the while your harsh decree deplore, Embalming with sweet tears the vacant shrine, My heart, where Hope had been and was no more. So on an oaken sprout A goodly acorn grew; But winds from heaven shook the acorn out, And filled the cup with dew. ~ Alfred Tennyson,

133:Martial law! Rule by decree from the White House! Barry Soetoro, emperor of the United States. People had been whispering for years about the possibility, but like most folks, I dismissed the whisperers as alarmist crackpots. Now, according to Sal Molina, the president’s longtime guru, the crackpots were oracles. ~ Stephen Coonts,

134:majority in the Reichstag for any policy—of the Left, the Center or the Right—and that merely to carry on the business of government and do something about the economic paralysis he had to resort to Article 48 of the constitution, which permitted him in an emergency, if the President approved, to govern by decree. ~ William L Shirer,

135:Cyprian was not issuing a new decree but was keeping to the most solid belief of the Church in order to correct some who thought that infants ought not be baptized before the eighth day after their birth. . . . He agreed with certain of his fellow bishops that a child is able to be duly baptized as soon as he is born. ~ Saint Augustine,

136:apportionment in the world. Thus, one is opposing how God meted out sustenance in concord with His wisdom. Therefore, one must oppose his own ego's desires and seek treatment for this disease with the healing force of acceptance of the divine decree and prayer on behalf of one's enemies in a way that suppresses the ego [nafs]. ~ Hamza Yusuf,

137:Charmed with his discourse, delighted to learn that it is so easy to promote, by legislating, the prosperity of a people, the law-makers voted the restriction. “Talk of labor and economy,” they said, “what is the use of these painful means of increasing the national wealth, when all that is wanted for this object is a decree? ~ Fr d ric Bastiat,

138:Disciplinary hearing of the twelfth of August,’ said Fudge in a ringing voice, and Percy began taking notes at once, ‘into offences committed under the Decree for the Reasonable Restriction of Underage Sorcery and the International Statute of Secrecy by Harry James Potter, resident at number four, Privet Drive, Little Whinging, Surrey. ~ J K Rowling,

139:The NRA believes America's laws were made to be obeyed and that our Constitutional liberties are just as important today as 200 years ago. And by the way, the Constitution does not say Government shall decree the right to keep and bear arms. The Constitution says 'The right of the people to keep and bear arms shall not be infringed.' ~ Ronald Reagan,

140:I do not say this is a decree,” she wrote, her beautiful writing brushing the page with firm yet delicate strokes. “Let it be greeting and invitation, a hope that we may meet again with quiet hearts and wise minds. Come, then, before the ceremonies for my sixtieth birthday. Let us spend an hour together before we mingle with the Court. ~ Pearl S Buck,

141:When Danglars witnessed Napoleon’s return to France, he realized the full effect of the blow he had directed against Dantès: his denunciation had been accurate and, like all men with a certain natural aptitude for crime and only average understanding of ordinary life, he described this strange coincidence as ‘a decree of Providence’. ~ Alexandre Dumas,

142:God has a mastermind. He arranged everything in His gigantic intellect long before He did it, and once having settled it, He never alters it. “This shall be done,” says He, and the iron hand of destiny marks it down, and it is brought to pass. “This is My purpose,” and it stands. Nor can earth or hell alter it. “This is My decree, ~ Charles Haddon Spurgeon,

143:Mubarak was the glue that held this very leaderless and organic and very pluralistic mix of people together. Now that he's gone, there's a lot more debate and division about what happens next, which is healthy. We're essentially still under military dictatorship right now. The military rules the country. It can issue laws by decree. ~ Sharif Abdel Kouddous,

144:Within a few generations, the Chinese allowed their naval and merchant fleets to wither; in 1500, an imperial edict made the construction of vessels with more than two masts a capital offense. In 1525, another decree forbade the building of any oceangoing vessel. Where navies are absent, pirates pillage. By the middle of the sixteenth century, Japanese ,

145:Hosni Mubarak was the glue that held very leaderless and organic and very pluralistic mix of people together. Now that he's gone, there's a lot more debate and division about what happens next, which is healthy. We're essentially still under military dictatorship right now. The military rules the country. It can issue laws by decree. ~ Sharif Abdel Kouddous,

146:How can God be happy and decree calamity? Consider that he has the capacity to view the world through two lenses. Through the narrow one he is grieved and angered at sin and pain. Through the wide one he sees evil in relation to its eternal purposes. Reality is like a mosaic. The parts may be ugly in themselves, but the whole is beautiful. ~ Jonathan Edwards,

147:Being desirous of allaying the dissensions of party strife now existing within our realm, I do hereby dissolve and abolish the Democratic and Republican parties, and also do hereby decree the disfranchisement and imprisonment, for not more than 10, nor less than five, years, to all persons leading to any violation of this our imperial decree. ~ Emperor Norton,

148:men have their cake and get to eat it too, for while they decree themselves as representative of humanity, women who argue that men are not, are simply showing how little they know! And when men's standards are defined as human standards, then women who assert that women are different, demonstrate how 'inhuman' they are. It is a real 'Catch 22. ~ Dale Spender,

149:Alif, Lam, Ra. These are the verses of the Book and a clear Qur'an.Perhaps those who disbelieve will wish that they had been Muslims.Let them eat and enjoy themselves and be diverted by [false] hope, for they are going to know.And We did not destroy any city but that for it was a known decree." Quran :Surah Chapter AL-HIJR (THE ROCKY TRACT):15 :1-4 . ~ Anonymous,

150:The dons, the bashaws, the grandees, the patricians, the sachems, the nabobs, call them by what names you please, sigh and groan and fret, and sometimes stamp and foam and curse, but all in vain. The decree is gone forth, and it cannot be recalled, that a more equal liberty than has prevailed in other parts of the earth must be established in America. ~ John Adams,

151:If you have indulged in fear, worry, and other destructive forms of thinking, the remedy is to recognize the omnipotence of your subconscious mind and decree freedom, happiness, and perfect health. Your subconscious mind, being creative and one with your divine source, will proceed to create the freedom and happiness, which you have earnestly decreed. ~ Joseph Murphy,

152:In the summer of 1863, a “Song of the Conscripts” was circulated by the thousands in New York and other cities. One stanza: We’re coming, Father Abraham, three hundred thousand more We leave our homes and firesides with bleeding hearts and sore Since poverty has been our crime, we bow to thy decree; We are the poor and have no wealth to purchase liberty. ~ Howard Zinn,

153:When we look at cities across the country, Cincinnati, for example, where they have come under DOJ guidance with a consent decree, we see that, over time, there has been a transformation in the relationship between the police and the community, where now they have a partnership and true collaborative policing, co-policing, to make the community safer overall. ~ Ronnie Dunn,

154:It has been said that marriages are arranged by Heaven, that destiny will bring even the most distantly separated people together, that all is settled before birth, and no matter how much we wander from our paths, no matter how our fortunes change—for good or bad—all we can do is accomplish the decree of fate. This, in the end, is our blessing and our heartbreak. ~ Lisa See,

155:Philosophy The sulky sage scarce condescends to see This pretty world of sun and grass and leaves; To him 'tis all illusion--only he Is real amid the visions he perceives. No sage am I, and yet, by Love's decree, To me the world's a masque of shadows too, And I a shadow also--since to me The only real thing in life is--you. ~ Edith Nesbit,

156:That which is useless dies. Animals that fail to serve some useful purpose in the scheme of things slowly but surely become extinct. Let any part of the human body cease to perform its ordained function, and it withers-as when an arm is kept long in a sling. This same decree, that nothing useless is permitted to survive, runs through the mind of the industrial world. ~ B C Forbes,

157:It has been said that marriages are arranged by Heaven, that destiny will bring even the most distantly separated people together, that all is settled before birth, and no matter how much we wander from our paths, no matter how our fortunes change—for good or bad—all we can do is accomplish the decree of fate. This, in the end, is our blessing and our heartbreak. Regrets ~ Lisa See,

158:God decreed to save and damn certain particular persons. This decree has its foundation in the foreknowledge of God, by which he knew from all eternity those individuals who would, through his preventing [going before] grace, believe, and, through his subsequent grace would persevere by which foreknowledge, he likewise knew those who would not believe and persevere. ~ Jacobus Arminius,

159:...Let's keep going. Decree Number Two." "Holidays, more holidays." "There you go again with an ungovernmental approach! First and foremost are civil liberties, not holidays." "Why? What does it matter?" "Because! That's how revolution is always done: first the tyrant is overthrown, then the new Boss of everything is named, and then come civil liberties. ~ Tatyana Tolstaya,

160:How Happy Is The Little Stone 1510 How happy is the little Stone That rambles in the Road alone, And doesn't care about Careers And Exigencies never fears— Whose Coat of elemental Brown A passing Universe put on, And independent as the Sun Associates or glows alone, Fulfilling absolute Decree In casual simplicity— ~ Emily Dickinson,

161:Nebuchadnezzar spoke, saying, “. . . I make a decree that any people, nation, or language which speaks anything amiss against the God of Shadrach, Meshach, and Abed-Nego shall be cut in pieces, and their houses shall be made an ash heap; because there is no other God who can deliver like this.” Then the king promoted Shadrach, Meshach, and Abed-Nego in the province of Babylon. ~ David Jeremiah,

162:Webster’s dislike of words that weren’t pronounced the way they looked led him to decree that words such as centre and theatre should be spelled center and theater; he also dropped the silent u from words such as colour, favour and honour. In fact, Webster was single-handedly responsible for most of the differences between British and American spelling that survive to this day. ~ Caroline Taggart,

163:The result was a remarkable December 30 decree that gave the Vatican its first ever anti–money laundering law, set to go into effect the following April 1.27 “The Prevention and Countering of Illegal Activities in the Area of Monetary and Financial Dealings” was issued as a motu proprio, a document historically signed personally by the Pope. Benedict took full responsibility for the decision. ~ Gerald Posner,

164:One of the reasons that so many women and girls are kidnapped, trafficked, raped, and otherwise abused is that they grin and bear it. Stoic docility—in particular, acceptance of any decree by a man—is drilled into girls in much of the world from the time they are babies, and so they often do as they are instructed, even when the instruction is to smile while being raped twenty times a day. ~ Nicholas D Kristof,

165:26“I issue a decree that in all the dominion of my kingdom men are to [reverently] fear and tremble before the God of Daniel, For He is the living God, enduring and steadfast forever, And His kingdom is one which will not be destroyed, And His dominion will be forever. 27“He rescues and saves and performs signs and wonders In heaven and on earth— He who has rescued Daniel from the power of the lions. ~ Anonymous,

166:Whether God has decreed all things that ever come to pass or not, all that own the being of a God, own that He knows all things beforehand. Now, it is self-evident that if He knows all things beforehand, He either doth approve of them or doth not approve of them; that is, He either is willing they should be, or He is not willing they should be. But to will that they should be is to decree them. ~ Jonathan Edwards,

167:The masterminds and their flatterers are progressively immune to regular democratic processes and pressures, such as elections and citizen lobbying, unless, of course, the electoral results and policy demands comport with their own governing objectives. Otherwise, they have an escalating preference for rule by administrative regulation, executive decree, and judicial fiat as the ends justifies the means. ~ Mark R Levin,

168:With the decree issued in March of 1492, all the Jews in Spain were given six months to leave. Two hundred thousand would ultimately abandon their homes and livelihoods in the only land their families had known for generations. Like the riches of Alhambra, much of the wealth of Jews fleeing Torquemada’s fires fell into royal hands, which in turn financed Columbus’s expedition of commerce and evangelism. ~ Peter Manseau,

169:And the Church is directed to send the gospel to every creature. We pray for the salvation of all men, but not for the loss of a single human being. Christ interceded even for his murderers on the cross. Here, then, is a practical difficulty. The decree of reprobation cannot be made an object of prayer or preaching, and this is an argument against it. Experience confirms election, but repudiates reprobation. ~ Philip Schaff,

170:Whether they regard themselves as pro- or antifeminist, most women want men to do more of the emotional work in relationships. And most men, even those who wholeheartedly support gender equality in the workforce, still believe that emotional work is female labor. Most men continue to uphold the sexist decree that emotions have no place in the work world and that emotional labor at home should be done by females. ~ bell hooks,

171:Once a Woman, always a Woman" is a Decree of Nature; and the very Laws of Evolution seem suspended in her disfavour. Yet at least we can admire the wise Prearrangement which has ordained that, as they have no hopes, so they shall have no memory to recall, and no forethought to anticipate, the miseries and humiliations which are at once a necessity of their existence and the basis of the constitution of Flatland. ~ Edwin A Abbott,

172:Laws that are not equal for all revert to rights and privileges, something contradictory to the very nature of nation-states. The clearer the proof of their inability to treat stateless people as legal persons and the greater the extension of arbitrary rule by police decree, the more difficult it is for states to resist the temptation to deprive all citizens of legal status and rule them with an omnipotent police. ~ Hannah Arendt,

173:In 1515 a decree of Sultan Selim I had threatened with death anyone found using the printing press.36 This failure to reconcile Islam with scientific progress was to prove disastrous. Having once provided European scholars with ideas and inspiration, Muslim scientists were now cut off from the latest research. If the Scientific Revolution was generated by a network, then the Ottoman Empire was effectively offline. ~ Niall Ferguson,

174:There is an utterance of Necessity, an ancient decree of the gods, eternal, sealed fast with broad oaths: whenever any one defiles his body sinfully with bloody gore or perjures himself in regard to wrong-doing, one of those spirits who are heir to long life, thrice ten thousand seasons shall he wander apart from the blessed, being born meantime in all sorts of mortal forms, changing one bitter path of life for another. ~ Empedocles,

175:Who is giving the orders to ants? No one. They are self-organizing. Each of our immune systems get smarter over the years as its biochemical parts share information, and it responds with individualized defenses, but it isn't conscious and it has no memory. The host of that party didn't decree that everyone would gather in the kitchen, but it happened anyway. Emergence means we sometimes act in concert for better or worse. ~ Steven Johnson,

176:Afraid! Of Whom Am I Afraid? 608 Afraid! Of whom am I afraid? Not Death—for who is He? The Porter of my Father's Lodge As much abasheth me! Of Life? 'Twere odd I fear [a] thing That comprehendeth me In one or two existences— As Deity decree— Of Resurrection? Is the East Afraid to trust the Morn With her fastidious forehead? As soon impeach my Crown! ~ Emily Dickinson,

177:Repeatedly and frankly we have announced that in Irans national security doctrine there is no room for atomic and chemical weapons as we consider them against Islamic laws. Irans Supreme Leader (Ayatollah Seyyed Ali Khamenei) in this connection had issued a decree that mass destruction weapons are prohibited by the Muslim religion. [. . .] Therefore we support the idea of a Middle East free from weapons of mass destruction[.] ~ Ali Larijani,

178:If the Canadian parliament, say, should declare that in light of evolving social mores, triangles should be regarded as sometimes having four sides, and decree also that anyone who expresses disagreement with this judgment shall be deemed guilty of discriminatory hate speech against four-sided triangles, none of this would change the geometrical facts in the least, but merely cast doubt on the sanity of Canadian parliamentarians. ~ Edward Feser,

179:Five score years ago, a great American, in whose symbolic shadow we stand today signed the Emancipation Proclamation. This momentous decree came as a great beacon light of hope to millions of Negro slaves who had been seared in the flames of withering injustice. It came as a joyous daybreak to end the long night of their captivity. But one hundred years later, we must face the tragic fact that the Negro is still not free. ~ Martin Luther King Jr,

180:  Familiar to our eyes, all places else   Inhospitable appeer and desolate,   Nor knowing us nor known: and if by prayer   Incessant I could hope to change the will   Of him who all things can, I would not cease   To wearie him with my assiduous cries:   But prayer against his absolute Decree   No more availes then breath against the winde,   Blown stifling back on him that breaths it forth:   Therefore to his great bidding I submit. ~ John Milton,

181:On the edge of a laughing teacup Did Kubla Kat decree The the corn fritter festooned with medals Shall make the brownies free And so the walls turned to water To let our sorrows drown As the chairs burned themselves for warmth So they need not face the clown Then the spoons burst into song And all the forks they understood As I stared at my talking claws Becasue this catnip is just that good ~ Francesco Marciuliano,

182:The problem, however, comes within the reach of possible solution, if we distinguish between sovereignty as an inherent power, and the exercise of sovereignty. God may limit the exercise of his sovereignty to make room for the free action of his creatures. It is by his sovereign decree that man is free. Without such self-limitation he could not admonish men to repent and believe. Here, again, the Calvinistic logic must either bend or break. ~ Philip Schaff,

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

184:[Necessity is] the sum of all things, which being now existent, conduce and concur to the production of that action hereafter, whereof if any one thing now were wanting, the effect could not be produced. This concourse of causes, whereof every one is determined to be such as it is by a like concourse of former causes, may well be called (in respect they were all set and ordered by the eternal causes of all things, God Almighty) the decree of God. ~ Thomas Hobbes,

185:Blind faith can justify anything.* If a man believes in a different god, or even if he uses a different ritual for worshipping the same god, blind faith can decree that he should die—on the cross, at the stake, skewered on a Crusader’s sword, shot in a Beirut street, or blown up in a bar in Belfast. Memes for blind faith have their own ruthless ways of propagating themselves. This is true of patriotic and political as well as religious blind faith. ~ Richard Dawkins,

186:In an instant's compass, great hearts sometimes condense to one deep pang, the sum total of those shallow pains kindly diffused through feebler men's whole lives. And so, such hearts, though summary in each one suffering; still, if the gods decree it, in their lifetime aggregate a whole age of woe, wholly made up of instantaneous intensities; for even in their pointless centres, those noble natures contain the entire circumferences of inferior souls. ~ Herman Melville,

187:In an instant's compass, great hearts sometimes condense to one deep pang, the sum total of those shallow pains kindly diffused through feebler men's whole lives. And so, such hearts, though summary in each one suffering; still, if the gods decree it, in their life-time aggregate a whole age of woe, wholly made up of instantaneous intensities; for even in their pointless centers, those noble natures contain the entire circumferences of inferior souls. ~ Herman Melville,

188:Let us imagine, for example, a merchant who, entering a wood with a company of faithful men, unwisely wanders away from his companions, and in his wandering comes upon a robber’s den, falls among thieves, and is slain. His death was not only foreseen by God’s eye, but also determined by his decree. For it is not said that he foresaw how long the life of each man would extend, but that he determined and fixed the bounds that men cannot pass [Job 14:5]. Yet ~ John Calvin,

189:[E]conomic liberty and creative entrepreneurship are the basis of any solution to today's social and economic difficulties. Blaming business, setting wages, and attempting to run the economy by decree from Washington only exacerbates the problems. Consider the minimum wage. It seems so simple: Tell business to pay its workers more. But a hike in the minimum wage is essentially a tax, punishing precisely those companies that hire workers with the least skills. ~ Doug Bandow,

190:Your edict, King, was strong, But all your strength is weakness itself against The immortal unrecorded laws of God. They are not merely now: they were, and shall be, Operative for ever, beyond man utterly. I knew I must die, even without your decree: I am only mortal. And if I must die Now, before it is my time to die, Surely this is no hardship: can anyone Living, as I live, with evil all about me, Think Death less than a friend? ~ Sophocles,

191:had been Lenin’s greatest innovation: a line that, like the Proletariat itself, was universal and infinite. He established it by decree in 1917 and personally took the first slot as his comrades jostled to line up behind him. One by one every Russian took his place, and the line grew longer and longer until it shared all of the attributes of life. In it friendships were formed and romances kindled; patience was fostered; civility practiced; even wisdom attained. If ~ Amor Towles,

192:The teachers were of course forbidden from mentioning the interview by Educational Decree Number Twenty-six, but they found ways to express their feelings about it all the same. [...] and Professor Trelawney broke into hysterical sobs during Divination and announced to the startled class, and a very disapproving Umbridge, that Harry was not going to suffer an early death after all, but would live to a ripe old age, become Minister for Magic and have twelve children ~ J K Rowling,

193:On April 23, therefore, he signed a secret decree confirming Göring as his deputy in Berlin, while Hess continued to manage the Party in his absence. On May 2, 1938, Hitler wrote out a private testament and handed it in a sealed envelope to Dr Lammers, head of the Reich Chancellery – a rare documentary glimpse of Hitler as a human being, putting his affairs in order, arranging his own funeral and disposing of his personal effects to his family and private staff. The ~ David Irving,

194:Whereas, it is hereby decreed to all felines of the Middle Kingdom: They are enjoined to observe every provision of the judicial codes unless such provisions aforesaid have been abrogated heretofore, though any abrogation is liable to reinstatement at any time whatever and shall be effective retroactively without recourse on behalf of said felines whether or not said felines are presently or will be engaged in litigation. This decree is not susceptible to appeal. ~ Lloyd Alexander,

195:(Barry) Bonds' records must remain part of baseball's history. His hits happened. Erase them and there will be discrepancies in baseball's bookkeeping about the records of the pitchers who gave them up. George Orwell said that in totalitarian societies, yesterday's weather could be changed by decree. Baseball, indeed America, is not like that. Besides, the people who care about the record book - serious fans - will know how to read it. That may be Bonds' biggest worry. ~ George Will,

196:God has decreed troubles for the church’s good. The troubles of God’s church is like the angel’s troubling the water, which made way for healing his people. John 5: 4. He has decreed troubles in the church. ‘His fire is in Zion, and his furnace in Jerusalem.’ Isa 31: 9. The wheels in a watch move cross one to another, but they all carry on the motion of the watch; so the wheels of Providence often move cross to our desires, but still they carry on God’s unchangeable decree. ~ Thomas Watson,

197:They established a hierarchy of four High Gods over the rest of the pantheon, and Seven Who Decree the Fates. They had no idea that an insignificant scrapper, the Watcher called Gadreel, would bide his time, build his strength and perfect his fighting technique to become the mighty Ninurta of Uruk, and now Marduk of Babylon. Ishtar had to admit that he had been clever about it. She stood before her tent, watching the puny humans labor on her fabulous temple, musing on the Plan of the Watchers. ~ Brian Godawa,

198:The native American has been generally despised by his white conquerors for his poverty and simplicity. They forget, perhaps, that his religion forbade the accumulation of wealth and the enjoyment of luxury... Furthermore, it was the rule of his life to share the fruits of his skill and success with his less fortunate brothers. Thus he kept his spirit free from the clog of pride, cupidity, or envy, and carried out, as he believed, the divine decree-a matter profoundly important to him. ~ Charles Alexander Eastman,

199:The Constitution exists precisely so that opinions and judgments, including esthetic and moral judgments about art and literature, can be formed, tested, and expressed. What the Constitution says is that these judgments are for the individual to make, not for the Government to decree, even with the mandate or approval of a majority. Technology expands the capacity to choose; and it denies the potential of this revolution if we assume the Government is best positioned to make these choices for us. ~ Anthony Kennedy,

200:with Khemu, the Maker of Mankind, were seen in the birth chamber, glowing like gold. Also Pharaoh issued a decree that wherever the name of the Queen Ahura was graven in all the land, to it should be added the title "By the will of Amen, Mother of his Morning Star," and that a new hall should be built in the temple of Amen in the Northern Apt, and all about it carved the story of the coming of Prince Abi and of the vision of the Queen. But Ahura never lived to see this glorious place, since from the hour ~ H Rider Haggard,

201:One of the most interesting accomplishments of the film community, it seems to me, is that it has made real for America the exquisite beauty of incompatibility. Divorce among the gods possesses the sweet, holy sadness that has long been associated with marriage among the mortals. There is something infinitely tender about the inability of an actor to get along with an actress. When it is all over, and the decree is final, the two are even more attentive to each other, are seen oftener together, than ever before. ~ E B White,

202:In comparison with the justice exercised with sovereign power by traditional chiefs, the kings of justice, by the powerful of crooked judgments, Hesiodic justice, going from the decree of Zeus to the order of the world, and from this to peasant vigilance and exactness, to the interplay of good understanding and debts repaid, calls for a whole transfer of sovereignty. Calls for it, but does not record it, for at the time of Works and Days justice is institutionalized only in the hands of the kings of justice. ~ Michel Foucault,

203:When life begins   we are tender and weak When life ends   we are stiff and rigid All things, including the grass and trees,   are soft and pliable in life   and dry in brittle in death So the soft and supple   are the companion of life While the stiff and unyielding   are the companions of death An army that cannot yield   will be defeated A tree that cannot bend   will crack in the wind Thus by Nature's own decree   the hard and strong are defeated   while the soft and gentle are triumphant ~ Laozi,

204:Let the gentleman go to Revelation to learn the decree of God - let him go to the Bible. . . . I said that slavery was sanctioned in the Bible, authorized, regulated, and recognized from Genesis to Revelation. . . . Slavery existed then in the earliest ages, and among the chosen people of God; and in Revelation we are told that it shall exist till the end of time shall come. You find it in the Old and New Testaments - in the prophecies, psalms, and the epistles of Paul; you find it recognized - sanctioned everywhere. ~ Jefferson Davis,

205:Scripture describes God’s saving acts as words of God, speeches of God. Salvation begins when God speaks his decree before time. He executes that decree by sending the living Word, Jesus (John 1:1–14; 1 John 1:1–3). He draws us to himself by the word of effectual calling (Isa. 43:1; see chapter 4), and by the gospel. Paul says: For I am not ashamed of the gospel, for it is the power of God for salvation to everyone who believes, to the Jew first and also to the Greek. (Rom. 1:16; cf. Phil. 2:16; 1 Thess. 1:5; 2:13; 2 Tim. 1:10) ~ Anonymous,

206:That same year the same Yakovlev explained on television that the decree rehabilitating all those who had been persecuted since 1917 was not at all a measure of clemency, as people in the Party were saying, but of repentance: “We are not pardoning them, we are asking their pardon. The goal of this decree is to rehabilitate us, who by remaining silent and looking away were accomplices to these crimes.” In short, there was a sudden consensus that for the last seventy years the country had been in the hands of a gang of criminals. ~ Emmanuel Carr re,

207:Donald Trump gives the impression that he would like to govern by decree. He has that impulse in him and he wants to be a savior, so he says, in his famous phrase, "Only I can fix it!" That's a strange and weird statement for anybody to make, but it's central to Trump's sense of self and self-presentation. And I think that has a lot to do with his identification with dictators. No matter how many they kill and no matter what else they do, they have this capacity to rule by decree without any interference by legislators or courts. ~ Robert Jay Lifton,

208:But this intensity of his physical prostration did but so much the more abbreviate it. In an instant's compass, great hearts sometimes condense to one deep pang, the sum total of those shallow pains kindly diffused through feebler men's whole lives. And so, such hearts, though summary in each one suffering; still, if the gods decree it, in their life-time aggregate a whole age of woe, wholly made up of instantaneous intensities; for even in their pointless centres, those noble natures contain the entire circumferences of inferior souls. ~ Herman Melville,

209:Yes, business really does change. 400 years ago, corporations were formed by royal decree. 300 years ago, many countries were powered by slave labour, or its closest moral equivalent. 200 years ago, debtors didn't go bankrupt, they went to prison. 100 years ago - well, business is largely the same as it was a century ago. And that's exactly the problem. Business hasn't changed, but today's array of tectonic global shocks demands a different, radically better kind of business. Yesterday's corporations visibly cannot meet today's economic challenges. ~ Umair Haque,

210:We can gather all the Conferences of the world, gather by herds Heads of State, economic experts and champions of all techniques. They will weigh. They will decree. But, basically, they will fail because they will miss the point. The disease of the century is not in the body. The body is sick because the soul is sick. It was she who needed to be healed and revitalized. The real, the big revolution to do is there. Spiritual revolution Or bankruptcy of the century. The salvation of the world is in the will of the souls who believe. ~ Leon Degrelle,

211:of the infant, whispering that a man and not a woman should wear the Double Crown. But in public they said nothing, since the story of this child had gone abroad and folk declared that it was sent by the gods, and divine, and that the goddesses, Isis, Nepthys, and Hathor, with Khemu, the Maker of Mankind, were seen in the birth chamber, glowing like gold. Also Pharaoh issued a decree that wherever the name of the Queen Ahura was graven in all the land, to it should be added the title "By the will of Amen, Mother of his Morning Star," and that a new hall should be ~ H Rider Haggard,

212:Blessed is that man who has done with chance,[3] who never speaks of luck, but believes that from the least even to the greatest, all things are ordained of the Lord. We dare not leave out the least event! The creeping of an aphid upon a rosebud is as surely arranged by the decree of Providence as the march of a pestilence through a nation. Believe this, for if the least is omitted from the supreme government, so may the next be, and the next, until nothing is left in the Divine hands. There is no place for chance, since God fills all things.”–1891, Sermon 2205 ~ Charles Haddon Spurgeon,

213:A Lament For My Son, Ts'Ui You were a pearl In the palm of my hand, My tiny baby boy. Why is it that I, A white-haired man of three-score years, Am left behind, And you, a child of three, Must by Heaven's silent, stern decree, Precede me To that strange and far-off land Of death? My heart is wounded sorely, But not with a blade of steel; My old eyes are dimmed and dull, But not with the dust of earth. These arms That held you closely to my breast Are empty now, And I mourn, as did Teng Yu of old, My only son. ~ Bai Juyi,

214:But another decree was written. It seemed I must be stimulated into action, i must be goaded, driven, stung, forced to energy. My little morsel of human affection, which I prized as if it were a solid pearl, must melt in my fingers and slip thence like a dissolving hailstone. My small adopted duty must be snatched from my easily contented conscience. I had wanted to compromise with Fate: to escape occasional great agonies by submitting to a whole life of privation and small pains. Fate would not be so pacified; nor would Providence sanction this shrinking sloth and cowardly indolence. ~ Charlotte Bront,

215:Jacob sighed. “One strictly enforced rule was put into place by Father Gabriel to teach patience. That’s one of the reasons so many of us follow him. He has answers, reasons behind each decree. He didn’t create the rules for The Light arbitrarily; each one has meaning and purpose. As I said, this rule teaches that patience is a virtue. God’s word instructs men to marry virtuous women. Therefore all women of The Light, such as yourself, are forbidden from questioning men, including your husband. This teaches you, and all the women, patience. Answers will be revealed in God’s time, not yours.” I ~ Aleatha Romig,

216:My comrades, hardly strangers to pain before now, we all have weathered worse. Some god will grant us an end to this as well. You've threaded the rocks resounding with Scylla's howling rabid dogs, and taken the brunt of the Cyclops' boulders, too. Call up your courage again. Dismiss your grief and fear. A joy it will be one day, perhaps, to remember even this. Through so many hard straits, so many twists and turns our course holds firm for Latium. There Fate holds out a homeland, calm, at peace. There the gods decree the kingdom of Troy will rise again. Bear up. Save your strength for better times to come. ~ Virgil,

217:Calvinism, as we have seen, starts from a double decree of absolute predestination, which antedates creation, and is the divine program of human history. This program includes the successive stages of the creation of man, an universal fall and condemnation of the race, a partial redemption and salvation, and a partial reprobation and perdition: all for the glory of God and the display of his attributes of mercy and justice. History is only the execution of the original design. There can be no failure. The beginning and the end, God’s immutable plan and the issue of the world’s history, must correspond. ~ Philip Schaff,

218:For those who are sceptical about such events as the wives of clerics and other religious being sold into slavery with the sanction of Rome, I have to point out the following: during the time of Pope Leo IX (1049–54), the pontiff did sanction the rounding up of the wives of priests to become slaves in the Lateran Palace. Moreover, it was when Urban II (1088–99) was elected to the papacy that he reinforced celibacy not only by decree but also by force. While attending a council in Rheims he gave approval to the Archbishop of Rheims to order Robert, Count of Rheims, to abduct all the wives of priests and ~ Peter Tremayne,

219:Fate Alas, alas, for the tourist's guide! He turned from the beaten trail aside, Wandered bewildered, lay down and died. O grim is the Irony of Fate: It switches the man of low estate And loosens the dogs upon the great. It lights the fireman to roast the cook; The fisherman squirms upon the hook, And the flirt is slain with a tender look. The undertaker it overtakes; It saddles the cavalier, and makes The haughtiest butcher into steaks. Assist me, gods, to balk the decree! Nothing I'll do and nothing I'll be, In order that nothing be done to me. ~ Ambrose Bierce,

220:On every side was the silence, pressing upon them with a tangible presence.  It affected their minds as the many atmospheres of deep water affect the body of the diver.  It crushed them with the weight of unending vastness and unalterable decree.  It crushed them into the remotest recesses of their own minds, pressing out of them, like juices from the grape, all the false ardours and exaltations and undue self-values of the human soul, until they perceived themselves finite and small, specks and motes, moving with weak cunning and little wisdom amidst the play and inter-play of the great blind elements and forces. ~ Jack London,

221:Presently comfort came to him, and he thought the she had always given him of her strength though he had never quite realised it until now. Glory had passed him by; fame too perhaps would not endure; it might well be that the incalculable goddess would decree ill fame as his due. Perhaps there might not be included in his epitah the one tribute to his knighthood the he knew he deserved "Ii fut toujours bon et loyal chevalier" (He was always good and loyal knight) But whatever the shadowed years might bring, as long as life should last, he knew that he had here at his side one sure recompense and one abiding loyalty. ~ Anya Seton,

222:and not a woman should wear the Double Crown. But in public they said nothing, since the story of this child had gone abroad and folk declared that it was sent by the gods, and divine, and that the goddesses, Isis, Nepthys, and Hathor, with Khemu, the Maker of Mankind, were seen in the birth chamber, glowing like gold. Also Pharaoh issued a decree that wherever the name of the Queen Ahura was graven in all the land, to it should be added the title "By the will of Amen, Mother of his Morning Star," and that a new hall should be built in the temple of Amen in the Northern Apt, and all about it carved the story of the coming ~ H Rider Haggard,

223:The nature of law is to maintain justice. This is so much the case that, in the minds of the people, law and justice are one and the same thing. There is in all of us a strong disposition to believe that anything lawful is also legitimate. This belief is so widespread that many persons have erroneously held that things are "just" because law makes them so. Thus, in order to make plunder appear just and sacred to many consciences, it is only necessary for the law to decree and sanction it. Slavery, restrictions, and monopoly find defenders not only among those who profit from them but also among those who suffer from them. ~ Fr d ric Bastiat,

224:The nature of law is to maintain justice. This is so much the case that, in the minds of the people, law and justice are one and the same thing. There is in all of us a strong disposition to believe that anything lawful is also legitimate. This belief is so widespread that many persons have erroneously held that things are 'just' because law makes them so. Thus, in order to make plunder appear just and sacred to many consciences, it is only necessary for the law to decree and sanction it. Slavery, restrictions, and monopoly find defenders not only among those who profit from them but also among those who suffer from them. ~ Fr d ric Bastiat,

225:The dynamics of disbelief is an oscillating maneuver between covert and overt Polytheisms; between Modalism (aka, Sabellianism) and Partialism. Stubbing that resonance from its leaking cavity/roots -with the effect taking place worldwide in public and for all nations- was the exact function for which the (Semite) Christ was sent (onto Earth) to apply. The Paraclete's job half a millennium thereafter was to ensure rekindling the right belief by feeding the new revelation into the world; and the broken cavity (and demising roots) got eventually sealed for good by this active function through a passive courier of God’s decree: Muhammad. ~ Ibrahim Ibrahim,

226:MIC7.8 Rejoice not against me, O mine enemy: when I fall, I shall arise; when I sit in darkness, the LORD shall be a light unto me. MIC7.9 I will bear the indignation of the LORD, because I have sinned against him, until he plead my cause, and execute judgment for me: he will bring me forth to the light, and I shall behold his righteousness. MIC7.10 Then she that is mine enemy shall see it, and shame shall cover her which said unto me, Where is the LORD thy God? mine eyes shall behold her: now shall she be trodden down as the mire of the streets. MIC7.11 In the day that thy walls are to be built, in that day shall the decree be far removed. ~ Anonymous,

227:Horace To Leuconoë I pray you not, Leuconoë, to pore With unpermitted eyes on what may be Appointed by the gods for you and me, Nor on Chaldean figures any more. ’T were infinitely better to implore The present only:—whether Jove decree More winters yet to come, or whether he Make even this, whose hard, wave-eaten shore Shatters the Tuscan seas to-day, the last— Be wise withal, and rack your wine, nor fill Your bosom with large hopes; for while I sing, The envious close of time is narrowing;— So seize the day, or ever it be past, And let the morrow come for what it will. ~ Edwin Arlington Robinson,

228:Every advantage appeared to be on the side of the white faction: the authority of established government; an army of an hundred and twenty thousand soldiers, against a sixth part of that number; and the presence and merit of the caliph Mervan, the fourteenth and last of the house of Ommiyah. Before his accession to the throne, he had deserved, by his Georgian warfare, the honourable epithet of the ass of Mesopotamia;27 and he might have been ranked among the greatest princes, had not, says Abulfeda, the eternal order decreed that moment for the ruin of his family: a decree against which all human prudence and fortitude must struggle in vain. ~ Edward Gibbon,

229:Fashion See those resplendent creatures, as they glide O'er scarlet carpet, between footmen tall, From sumptuous carriage to effulgent hall A dazzling vision in their pomp and pride! See that choice supper - needless - cast aside Though worth a thousand fortunes, counting all, To them for whom no crumb of it will fall The starved and homeless in the street outside. Some day the little great god will decree That overmuch connotes the underbred, That pampered body means an empty head, And wealth displayed the last vulgarity. When selfish greed becomes a social sin The world's regeneration may begin. ~ Ada Cambridge,

230:Bull of September 1348 in which he said that Christians who imputed the pestilence to the Jews had been “seduced by that liar, the Devil,” and that the charge of well-poisoning and ensuing massacres were a “horrible thing.” He pointed out that “by a mysterious decree of God” the plague was afflicting all peoples, including Jews; that it raged in places where no Jews lived, and that elsewhere they were victims like everyone else; therefore the charge that they caused it was “without plausibility.” He urged the clergy to take Jews under their protection as he himself offered to do in Avignon, but his voice was hardly heard against local animus. ~ Barbara W Tuchman,

231:God sovereignly decreed that man should be free to exercise moral choice, and man from the beginning has fulfilled that decree by making his choice between good and evil. When he chooses to do evil, he does not thereby countervail the sovereign will of God but fulfills it, inasmuch as the eternal decree decided not which choice the man should make but that he should be free to make it. If in His absolute freedom God has willed to give man limited freedom, who is there to stay His hand or say, 'What doest thou?' Man’s will is free because God is sovereign. A God less than sovereign could not bestow moral freedom upon His creatures. He would be afraid to do so. ~ A W Tozer,

232:It is through the light that we are born and through the night that we travel. The light is the love of our parents who greet us and welcome us into this world and it is with the love of our partner that we leave it. Wulf and Cassandra have chosen to be with each other, to ease their remaining journey and to comfort one another in the coming nights. And when the final night is upon them, they vow to stand together and ease the one who travels first. Soul to soul we have touched. Flesh to flesh we have breathed. And it is alone that we must leave this existence, until the night comes that the Fates decree we are reunited in Katoteros. (Apollite Marriage Vows) ~ Sherrilyn Kenyon,

233:Scientists are intent on testing [our] theories to the breaking point. They do not trust what is intuitively obvious. That the Earth is flat was once obvious. That heavy bodies fall faster than light ones was once obvious. That blood-sucking leeches cure most diseases was once obvious. That some people are naturally and by divine decree slaves was once obvious. That there is such a place as the centre of the Universe, and that the Earth sits in that exalted spot was once obvious. That there is an absolute standard of rest was once obvious. The truth may be puzzling or counterintuitive. It may contradict deeply held beliefs. Experiment is how we get a handle on it. ~ Carl Sagan,

234:this matter will not go uninvestigated.” He glanced at Madam Bones, who readjusted her monocle and stared back at him, frowning slightly. “I would remind everybody that the behavior of these dementors, if indeed they are not figments of this boy’s imagination, is not the subject of this hearing!” said Fudge. “We are here to examine Harry Potter’s offenses under the Decree for the Reasonable Restriction of Underage Sorcery!” “Of course we are,” said Dumbledore, “but the presence of dementors in that alleyway is highly relevant. Clause seven of the Decree states that magic may be used before Muggles in exceptional circumstances, and as those exceptional circumstances ~ J K Rowling,

235:A Voluptuary Who's this that lispeth in the thickening throng Which crowds to claim distinction in my song? Fresh from 'the palms and temples of the South,' The mixed aromas quarrel in his mouth: Of orange blossoms this the lingering gale, And that the odor of a spicy tale. Sir, in thy pleasure-dome down by the sea (No finer one did Kubla Khan decree) Where, Master of the Revels, thou dost stand With joys and mysteries on either hand, Dost keep a poet to report the rites And sing the tale of those Elysian nights? Faith, sir, I'd like the place if not too young. I'm no great bard, but-I can hold my tongue. ~ Ambrose Bierce,

236:The balance between consumption and production makes price. The market settles, and alone can settle, that price. Market is the meeting and conference of the consumer and producer, when they mutually discover each other’s wants. Nobody, I believe, has observed with any reflection what market is, without being astonished at the truth, the correctness, the celerity, the general equity, with which the balance of wants is settled. They who wish the destruction of that balance, and would fain by arbitrary regulation decree, that defective production should not be compensated by encreased price, directly lay their axe to the root of production itself. [Thoughts and Details on Scarcity] ~ Edmund Burke,

237:Since forever, infrastructure has been consensually understood to be a core function of government. The argument between left and right is about what you do beyond infrastructure. It's about transfer payments and redistributionist taxation, about geometrically expanding entitlements, about tax breaks and subsidies to induce actions pleasing to central planners. It's about free contraceptives for privileged students and welfare without work--the latest Obama entitlement-by-decree that would fatally undermine the great bipartisan welfare reform of 1996. It's about endless government handouts that, ironically, are crowding out necessary spending on, yes, infrastructure. ~ Charles Krauthammer,

238:As death approaches me, I regret this most, Pilgrim--aside from my loss of you. I regret that I blamed, so often, others--for faults and problems of my own making. And, if not of my own making, certainly of my own tolerance. That men could not love men--or women, women--that poverty was the fault and responsibility of the poverty-stricken (how can I have thought so!)--and that 'good' was something that could be decreed by governments, as if by creating laws we could establish the boundaries of someone else's needs and joys and confidence. How dare we decree what is 'good' for others when for us it has been a gift!' Sybil Quartermaine Hôtel Baur au Lac Zürich 14th May 1912 ~ Timothy Findley,

239:It was through the Declaration of Independence that we Americans acknowledged the eternal inequality of man. For by it we abolished a cut-and-dried aristocracy. We had seen little men artificially held up in high places, and great men artificially held down in low places, and our own justice-loving hearts abhorred this violence to human nature. Therefore, we decreed that every man should thenceforth have equal liberty to find his own level. By this very decree we acknowledged and gave freedom to true aristocracy, saying, "Let the best man win, whoever he is." Let the best man win! That is America's word. That is true democracy. And true democracy and true aristocracy are one and the same thing ~ Owen Wister,

240:He did believe that the magistrate had entered the almshouse searching for a son. How it must agonize Woodward now, to think he might lose another one to the corruption of circumstance. But as much as Matthew felt for the magistrate, he would not—could not—turn away from Rachel. He might be a substitute for a son, yes … but he was also a man, and he must do what he thought to be the correct thing. Which meant fighting to prove her innocence, right up to the moment of her execution. Nightbird or not, she had indeed spoken to him. He heard her even now, suffering in the darkness of her cage. What was he going to do tomorrow, when the magistrate asked him to prepare the decree of death and sign it as ~ Anonymous,

241:Sonnet Lxxix: The Monochord Is it this sky's vast vault or ocean's sound That is Life's self and draws my life from me, And by instinct ineffable decree Holds my breath quailing on the bitter bound? Nay, is it Life or Death, thus thunder-crown'd, That 'mid the tide of all emergency Now notes my separate wave, and to what sea Its difficult eddies labour in the ground? Oh! what is this that knows the road I came, The flame turned cloud, the cloud returned to flame, The lifted shifted steeps and all the way?— That draws round me at last this wind-warm space, And in regenerate rapture turns my face Upon the devious coverts of dismay? ~ Dante Gabriel Rossetti,

242:we call the editorial plural or the editorial “we,” which a writer or speaker uses to communicate a point. This device is often used by dignitaries; a king, a pope, or another person in high office prefaces his or her comments by saying, “We decree” or “We declare,” even though the person is speaking only for himself or herself. More specifically, there is a Hebrew literary device called the plural of intensity, which calls attention to the depth of the character of God, in whom resides all elements of deity and majesty. So, I believe that the name Elohim is compatible with the doctrine of the Trinity and may be hinting in that direction, but the name itself does not demand that we infer that God is triune ~ R C Sproul,

243:Perverse Times Have Come Perverse times have come, I know the mystery of the beloved crows have begun to hunt hawks, and sparrows feed on falcons horses bear the whipping, while donkeys graze on lush green no love is lost between relatives, be they younger or elder uncles There is no accord between fathers and sons, Nor any between mothers and daughters The truthful ones are being pushed about, the tricksters are seated close by The front liners have become wretched, the back benchers sit on carpets Those in tatters have turned into kings, the kings have taken to begging O Bulleh, that which is His command who can alter His decree. ~ Bulleh Shah,

244:None of the various 'language rules,' carefully contrived to deceive and to camouflage, had a more decisive effect on the mentality of the killers than this first war decree of Hitler, in which the word for 'murder' was replaced by the phrase 'to grant a mercy death.' Eichmann, asked by the police examiner if the directive to avoid 'unnecessary hardships' was not a bit ironic, in view of the fact that the destination of these people was certain death anyhow, did not even understand the question, so firmly was it still anchored in his mind that the unforgivable sin was not to kill people but to cause unnecessary pain. ~ Hannah Arendt,

245:Sonnet Lxxxviii: Hero's Lamp. That lamp thou fill'st in Eros' name to-night, O Hero, shall the Sestian augurs take To-morrow, and for drowned Leander's sake To Anteros its fireless lip shall plight. Aye, waft the unspoken vow: yet dawn's first light On ebbing storm and life twice ebb'd must break; While 'neath no sunrise, by the Avernian Lake, Lo where Love walks, Death's pallid neophyte. That lamp within Anteros' shadowy shrine Shall stand unlit (for so the gods decree) Till some one man the happy issue see Of a life's love, and bid its flame to shine: Which still may rest unfir'd; for, theirs or thine, O brother, what brought love to them or thee? ~ Dante Gabriel Rossetti,

246:This function of the King energy shows up everywhere in ancient mythology and in ancient interpretations of actual history. In ancient Egyptian mythology, as James Breasted and Henri Frankfort have shown, the world arose from the formlessness and chaos of a vast ocean in the form of a central Hill, or Mound. It came into being by the decree, by the sacred “Word,” of the Father god, Ptah, god of wisdom and order. Yahweh, in the Bible, creates in exactly the same way. Words, in fact, define our reality; they define our worlds. We organize our lives and our worlds by concepts, by our thoughts about them, and we can only think in terms of words. In this sense, at least, words make our reality and make our universe real. ~ Robert L Moore,

247:Nimrod and Marduk had planned for this eleventh day celebration for over a generation. All seven planets were aligned in a heavenly convergence. The cusp of the Age of Aries had arrived. All the high gods of the pantheon were present, as well as a dozen others. Anu, the father god of heaven, Enlil, the Lord of the Air, Enki, god of water, Ninhursag, goddess of the earth, Sin the moon god, and Shamash the sun god. The only one of the Seven Who Decree the Fates absent was Ishtar. Thank the gods, thought Nimrod. She would have made a catastrophe out of it. with her lime-lighting for attention and her tendency to hijack such ceremonies for her own exaltation. She might have ruined their bacchanalia with her violent extremes. ~ Brian Godawa,

248:1And it came to pass in those days that a decree went out from Caesar Augustus that all the world should be registered. 2aThis census first took place while Quirinius was governing Syria. 3So all went to be registered, everyone to his own city. 4Joseph also went up from Galilee, out of the city of Nazareth, into Judea, to bthe city of David, which is called Bethlehem, cbecause he was of the house and lineage of David, 5to be registered with Mary, dhis betrothed 1wife, who was with child. 6So it was, that while they were there, the days were completed for her to be delivered. 7And eshe brought forth her firstborn Son, and wrapped Him in swaddling cloths, and laid Him in a 2manger, because there was no room for them in the inn. ~ Anonymous,

249:The logic of the Bible says: Act according to God's "will of command," not according to his "will of decree." God's "will of decree" is whatever comes to pass. "If the Lord wills, we will live and do this or that" (James 4:15). God's "will of decree" ordained that his Son be betrayed (Luke 22:22), ridiculed (Isaiah 53:3), mocked (Luke 18:32), flogged (Matthew 20:19), forsaken (Matthew 26:31), pierced (John 19:37), and killed (Mark 9:31). But the Bible teaches us plainly that we should not betray, ridicule, mock, flog, forsake, pierce, or kill innocent people. That is God's "will of command." We do not look at the death of Jesus, clearly willed by God, and conclude that killing Jesus is good and that we should join the mockers. ~ John Piper,

250:Sonnet Xii: The Lovers' Walk Sweet twining hedgeflowers wind-stirred in no wise On this June day; and hand that clings in hand:— Still glades; and meeting faces scarcely fann'd:— An osier-odoured stream that draws the skies Deep to its heart; and mirrored eyes in eyes:— Fresh hourly wonder o'er the Summer land Of light and cloud; and two souls softly spann'd With one o'erarching heaven of smiles and sighs:— Even such their path, whose bodies lean unto Each other's visible sweetness amorously,— Whose passionate hearts lean by Love's high decree Together on his heart for ever true, As the cloud-foaming firmamental blue Rests on the blue line of a foamless sea. ~ Dante Gabriel Rossetti,

251:I agree with Aristotle as regards all other living beings and à fortiori as regards plants and all the rest of earthly creatures. For I do not believe that it is through Divine Providence that a certain leaf drops, nor do I hold that when a certain spider catches a certain fly, that this is a direct result of a special decree and will of God in that moment; it is not by a particular Divine decree that the spittle of a certain person moved, fell on a certain gnat in a certain place, and killed it; nor is it by the direct will of God that a certain fish catches and swallows a certain worm on the surface of the water. In all these cases the action is... entirely due to chance, as taught by Aristotle. ~ Maimonides, Guide for the Perplexed (c. 1190),

252:David’s Psalm says that the principalities and powers of heaven and earth would take counsel together to stand against Yahweh and against his Messiah. But, Yahweh will speak to them in his wrath, and terrify them in his fury, saying, “As for me, I have set my King on Zion, my holy mountain.” I will tell of the decree: The Lord said to me, “You are my Son; today I have begotten you. “When Jesus was baptized in the Jordan by the prophet John, he was given the kingship of Yahweh’s holy mountain, Zion. Now, Mount Sinai was Yahweh’s first cosmic mountain of habitation. But with the building of the Temple in Jerusalem, it is now Mount Zion. But this mountain we climb, Hermon, is the cosmic mountain of the Watcher gods, the mountain of Bashan. ~ Brian Godawa,

253:Sonnet Xxxii: Equal Troth Not by one measure mayst thou mete our love; For how should I be loved as I love thee?— I, graceless, joyless, lacking absolutely All gifts that with thy queenship best behove;— Thou, throned in every heart's elect alcove, And crowned with garlands culled from every tree, Which for no head but thine, by Love's decree, All beauties and all mysteries interwove. But here thine eyes and lips yield soft rebuke:— “Then only” (say'st thou) “could I love thee less, When thou couldst doubt my love's equality.” Peace, sweet! If not to sum but worth we look,— Thy heart's transcendence, not my heart's excess,— Then more a thousandfold thou lov'st than I. ~ Dante Gabriel Rossetti,

254:Sonnet Lxxxix: The Trees Of The Garden Ye who have passed Death's haggard hills; and ye Whom trees that knew your sires shall cease to know And still stand silent:—is it all a show,— A wisp that laughs upon the wall?—decree Of some inexorable supremacy Which ever, as man strains his blind surmise From depth to ominous depth, looks past his eyes, Sphinx-faced with unabashèd augury? Nay, rather question the Earth's self. Invoke The storm-felled forest-trees moss-grown to-day Whose roots are hillocks where the children play; Or ask the silver sapling 'neath what yoke Those stars, his spray-crown's clustering gems, shall wage Their journey still when his boughs shrink with age. ~ Dante Gabriel Rossetti,

255:It was through the Declaration of Independence that we Americans acknowledged the eternal quality of man. For by it we abolished a cut-and-dried aristocracy. We had seen little men artificially held up in high places, and great men artificially held down in low places, and our own justice-loving hearts abhorred this violence to human nature. Therefore, we decreed that every man should thenceforth have equal liberty to find his own level. By this very decree we acknowledged and gave freedom to true aristocracy, saying, "Let the best man win, whoever he is." Let the best man win! That is America's word. That is true democracy. And true democracy and true aristocracy are one and the same thing. If anybody cannot see this, so much the worse for his eyesight. ~ Owen Wister,

256:It was through the Declaration of Independence that we Americans acknowledged the ETERNAL INEQUALITY of man. For by it we abolished a cut-and-dried aristocracy. We had seen little men artificially held up in high places, and great men artificially held down in low places, and our own justice-loving hearts abhorred this violence to human nature. Therefore, we decreed that every man should thenceforth have equal liberty to find his own level. By this very decree we acknowledged and gave freedom to true aristocracy, saying, "Let the best man win, whoever he is." Let the best man win! That is America's word. That is true democracy. And true democracy and true aristocracy are one and the same thing. If anybody cannot see this, so much the worse for his eyesight. ~ Owen Wister,

257:Harry was several streets away before he collapsed onto a low wall in Magnolia Crescent, panting from the effort of dragging his trunk. He sat quite still, anger still surging through him, listening to the frantic thumping of his heart. But after ten minutes alone in the dark street, a new emotion overtook him: panic. Whichever way he looked at it, he had never been in a worse fix. He was stranded, quite alone, in the dark Muggle world, with absolutely nowhere to go. And the worst of it was, he had just done serious magic, which meant that he was almost certainly expelled from Hogwarts. He had broken the Decree for the Restriction of Underage Wizardry so badly, he was surprised Ministry of Magic representatives weren’t swooping down on him where he sat. Harry ~ J K Rowling,

258:I Wake and Feel the Fell of Dark, Not Day" I wake and feel the fell of dark, not day. What hours, O what black hours we have spent This night! what sights you, heart, saw; ways you went! And more must, in yet longer light's delay. With witness I speak this. But where I say Hours I mean years, mean life. And my lament Is cries countless, cries like dead letters sent To dearest him that lives alas! away. I am gall, I am heartburn. God's most deep decree Bitter would have me taste: my taste was me; Bones built in me, flesh filled, blood brimmed the curse. Selfyeast of spirit a dull dough sours. I see The lost are like this, and their scourge to be As I am mine, their sweating selves, but worse. ~ Gerard Manley Hopkins,

259:The motorization of law into mere decree was not yet the culmination of simplifications and accelerations. New accelerations were produced by market regulations and state control of the economy —with their numerous and transferable authorizations and subauthorizations to various offices, associations and commissions concerned with economic decisions. Thus in Germany, the concept of “directive” appeared next to the concept of “decree.” This was “the elastic form of legislation,” surpassing the decree in terms of speed and simplicity. Whereas the decree was called a “motorized law,” the directive became a “motorized decree.” Here independent, purely positivist jurisprudence lost its freedom of maneuver. Law became a means of planning, an administrative act, a directive. ~ Carl Schmitt,

260:Sign of Life. Now Pharaoh and his house and the priests in every temple, and indeed all Egypt went mad with joy, though there were many who in secret mourned over the sex of the infant, whispering that a man and not a woman should wear the Double Crown. But in public they said nothing, since the story of this child had gone abroad and folk declared that it was sent by the gods, and divine, and that the goddesses, Isis, Nepthys, and Hathor, with Khemu, the Maker of Mankind, were seen in the birth chamber, glowing like gold. Also Pharaoh issued a decree that wherever the name of the Queen Ahura was graven in all the land, to it should be added the title "By the will of Amen, Mother of his Morning Star," and that a new hall should be built in the temple of Amen in the Northern ~ H Rider Haggard,

261:For these new states this curse bears the germs of a deadly sickness. For the nation-state cannot exist once its principle of equality before the law has broken down. Without this legal equality, which originally was destined to replace the older laws and orders of the feudal society, the nation dissolves into an anarchic mass of over- and underprivileged individuals. Laws that are not equal for all revert to rights and privileges, something contradictory to the very nature of nation-states. The clearer the proof of their inability to treat stateless people as legal persons and the greater the extension of arbitrary rule by police decree, the more difficult it is for states to resist the temptation to deprive all citizens of legal status and rule them with an omnipotent police. ~ Hannah Arendt,

262:holy Sign of Life. Now Pharaoh and his house and the priests in every temple, and indeed all Egypt went mad with joy, though there were many who in secret mourned over the sex of the infant, whispering that a man and not a woman should wear the Double Crown. But in public they said nothing, since the story of this child had gone abroad and folk declared that it was sent by the gods, and divine, and that the goddesses, Isis, Nepthys, and Hathor, with Khemu, the Maker of Mankind, were seen in the birth chamber, glowing like gold. Also Pharaoh issued a decree that wherever the name of the Queen Ahura was graven in all the land, to it should be added the title "By the will of Amen, Mother of his Morning Star," and that a new hall should be built in the temple of Amen in the Northern ~ H Rider Haggard,

263:There is the taunt of the One quoted as being God, and quoted in the first person, taunting skeptics, saying, “Why, you’re nothing at all. Come on! Let’s hear your arguments that we may watch whether it turns out. Predict what is going to happen in the future, and let us watch and see whether you can foretell. Have you the power to bring it about? Are you a God? Do you rule the universe? Can you make and unmake nations? Can you pronounce a sentence or a decree on a nation, and bring it to PASS?” That is the taunt of the God of the Bible to the doubter. Prophecy is a PROOF of God If One, in the Bible, speaking and claiming to be God, can make prophecies and tell what is going to happen in the future to nations, to cities, to empires, then if it actually happens in every case, ~ Herbert W Armstrong,

264:Prayer May things stay the way they are in the simplest place you know. May the shuttered windows keep the air as cool as bottled jasmine. May you never forget to listen to the crumpled whisper of sheets that mould themselves to your sleeping form. May the pillows always be silvered with cat-down and the muted percussion of a lover’s breath. May the murmur of the wall clock continue to decree that your providence run ten minutes slow. May nothing be disturbed in the simplest place you know for it is here in the foetal hush that blueprints dissolve and poems begin, and faith spreads like the hum of crickets, faith in a time when maps shall fade, nostalgia cease and the vigil end. ~ Arundhathi Subramaniam,

265:The revolution is led by pigs with a vision of an egalitarian utopia free from tyrannical human beings, but their ideals are gradually abandoned as power goes to their heads and they become cruel and greedy. They decree that only pigs are allowed to eat the apples grown in the orchard (nutritionally essential for a pig’s brain, they claim), and they breed a terror squad of dogs to police the hens, sheep, cows and horses living on the farm. As the pigs take on the luxuries of the humans they fought to overthrow—sleeping in the farmhouse and swilling whisky—the other animals die of overwork and starvation. Orwell had based Animal Farm on the Russian Revolution of 1917 and Stalin’s fearsome drive to collectivize the Soviet Union’s farmland, resulting in the death of millions of peasants. ~ Emma Larkin,

266:lovely face and waving hair and eyes that from the first were blue like the summer sky at even. Also on her breast was a mole of the length of a finger nail, which mole was shaped like the holy Sign of Life. Now Pharaoh and his house and the priests in every temple, and indeed all Egypt went mad with joy, though there were many who in secret mourned over the sex of the infant, whispering that a man and not a woman should wear the Double Crown. But in public they said nothing, since the story of this child had gone abroad and folk declared that it was sent by the gods, and divine, and that the goddesses, Isis, Nepthys, and Hathor, with Khemu, the Maker of Mankind, were seen in the birth chamber, glowing like gold. Also Pharaoh issued a decree that wherever the name of the Queen Ahura ~ H Rider Haggard,

267:house and the priests in every temple, and indeed all Egypt went mad with joy, though there were many who in secret mourned over the sex of the infant, whispering that a man and not a woman should wear the Double Crown. But in public they said nothing, since the story of this child had gone abroad and folk declared that it was sent by the gods, and divine, and that the goddesses, Isis, Nepthys, and Hathor, with Khemu, the Maker of Mankind, were seen in the birth chamber, glowing like gold. Also Pharaoh issued a decree that wherever the name of the Queen Ahura was graven in all the land, to it should be added the title "By the will of Amen, Mother of his Morning Star," and that a new hall should be built in the temple of Amen in the Northern Apt, and all about it carved the story of the coming ~ H Rider Haggard,

268:The path taken by the authorities in their so-called Rauschgiftbekämpfung, or “war on drugs,” lay less in an intensification of the opium law, which was simply adopted from the Weimar Republic,21 than in several new regulations that served the central National Socialist idea of “racial hygiene.” The term Droge—drug—which at one point meant nothing more than “dried plant parts,”* was given negative connotations. Drug consumption was stigmatized and—with the help of quickly established new divisions of the criminal police—severely penalized. This new emphasis came into force as early as November 1933, when the Reichstag passed a law that allowed the imprisonment of addicts in a closed institution for up to two years, although that period of confinement could be extended indefinitely by legal decree.22 ~ Norman Ohler,

269:Thus on 12 February 1912, Empress Longyu put her name to the Decree of Abdication, which brought the Great Qing, which had ruled for 268 years, to its end, along with more than 2,000 years of absolute monarchy in China. It was Empress Longyu who decreed: 'On behalf of the emperor, I transfer the right to rule to the whole country, which will now be a constitutional Republic.' This 'Great Republic of China will comprise the entire territory of the Qing empire as inhabited by the five ethnic groups, the Manchu, Han, Mongol, Hui and Tibetan'. She was placed in this historic role by Cixi. Republicanism was not what Empress Dowager Cixi had hoped for, but it was what she would accept, as it shared the same goal as her wished-for parliamentary monarchy: that the future of China belonged to the Chinese people. ~ Jung Chang,

270:David felt glorious hope rise within him. He knew at that moment that Yahweh had made a way for the impossible to become possible. Abinadab said, “Are you listening to me?” “Is that true?” asked David. “Is what true?” complained Shammah. “What you said about the king offering his daughter in marriage?” Abinadab scolded him, “I told you it was part of the royal decree.” David’s mind raced. He would do anything to win Michal’s hand. Anything. This champion was huge, but he was also loaded down with clumsy armor. David thought he would be no different than a big stupid bear, like the ones he had easily outwitted protecting his flock. Sure, he could not face the giant’s strength, but he didn’t have to. He could outmaneuver him, dance around him and make him tired. Keep his distance and keep pelting him with stones from his sling. ~ Brian Godawa,

271:Hitler had lost no time in exploiting the Reichstag fire to the limit. On the day following the fire, February 28, he prevailed on President Hindenburg to sign a decree “for the Protection of the People and the State” suspending the seven sections of the constitution which guaranteed individual and civil liberties. Described as a “defensive measure against Communist acts of violence endangering the state,” the decree laid down that: Restrictions on personal liberty, on the right of free expression of opinion, including freedom of the press; on the rights of assembly and association; and violations of the privacy of postal, telegraphic and telephonic communications; and warrants for house searchers, orders for confiscations as well as restrictions on property, are also permissible beyond the legal limits otherwise prescribed. ~ William L Shirer,

272:Pope Gelasius I (492-496) expressed his vision of the West in a famous letter to the Byzantine Emperor Anastasius I, and, even more clearly in his fourth treatise, where, with reference to the Byzantine model of Melchizedek [who was king and priest at the same time (Genesis 14:18)], he affirmed that the unity of powers lies exclusively in Christ: “Because of human weakness (pride!), they have separated for the times that followed the two offices, so that neither shall become proud.” On worldly matters, priests should follow the laws of the emperor installed by divine decree, while on divine matters the emperor should submit to the priest. This introduced a separation and distinction of powers that would be of vital importance to the later development of Europe, and laid the foundations for the distinguishing characteristics of the West. ~ Benedict XVI,

273:This had to be Finn Dalton’s mother. It simply had to be. From the moment Nash had given Carrie what seemed like the impossible assignment of interviewing Finn, she’d looked for out-of-the-box ways to locate him. Her mother’s mention of work on the Alaskan pipeline and that many of those employed came from Washington State had led to a breakthrough. At least she hoped so. The search led Carrie to the birth record for a Finnegan Paul Dalton, not in Alaska but in her own birth state of Washington. That record revealed his mother’s name—Joan Finnegan Dalton—which then led to a divorce decree, along with a license for a second marriage several years later. Tax records indicated that Joan, whose married name was now Reese, continued to reside in Washington State. Her hope was that Joan Dalton Reese would be willing to help Carrie find Finn. ~ Debbie Macomber,

274:Pocahantas Upon the barren sand, The lonely captive stood: Around him came, with bow and brand, The red men of the wood. Like one of old, his doom he hears, Rock-bound on Ocean's brim; The Chieftain's daughter knelt in tears, And breathed a prayer for him. Above his head, in air, The savage war-club swung: The frantic maid, in wild despair, Her arms around him flung; Then shook the warriors off the shade, Like leaves on aspen limb, Subdued by that heroic maid, Who breathed a prayer for him! 'Unbind him!' gasp'd the Chief; 'It is your King's decree.' He kiss'd away the tears of grief, And set the captive free! 'Tis ever thus when, in life's storm, Hope's Star to man grows dim, An Angel kneels, in woman's form, And breathes a prayer for him. ~ Anonymous Americas,

275:We live without feeling the country beneath our feet, our words are inaudible from ten steps away. Any conversation, however brief, gravitates, gratingly, toward the Kremlin’s mountain man. His greasy fingers are thick as worms, his words weighty hammers slamming their target. His cockroach moustache seems to snicker, and the shafts of his high-topped boots gleam. Amid a rabble of scrawny-necked chieftains, he toys with the favors of such homunculi. One hisses, the other mewls, one groans, the other weeps; he prowls thunderously among them, showering them with scorn. Forging decree after decree, like horseshoes, he pitches one to the belly, another to the forehead, a third to the eyebrow, a fourth in the eye. Every execution is a carnival that fills his broad Ossetian chest with delight. ~ Osip Mandelstam,

276:Repeat the names,” my mother instructs, and we listen while Paschal recites the names of the months. “Vintage, Fog, Frost, Snow, Rain …” He hesitates on the sixth month. “Wind,” she says helpfully. We are all sitting at the caissier’s desk, and it is very important he get this right. “Wind,” he repeats after her. “Seed, Blossoms, M-Mead—” “Meadows,” I say. “Meadows, Harvesting, Heat, and Fruit.” Isabel claps. “Very good.” “And what year is this?” my mother asks. Paschal frowns. “Seventeen ninety-three?” “No,” Isabel says forcefully. “It is Year Two.” “But I don’t understand.” “The first year began on September twenty-second, seventeen ninety-two.” The day France declared itself the First Republic. “But how?” He doesn’t see how he could have been alive before time began. “That is the decree of the Convention,” she explains. ~ Michelle Moran,

277:holy Sign of Life. Now Pharaoh and his house and the priests in every temple, and indeed all Egypt went mad with joy, though there were many who in secret mourned over the sex of the infant, whispering that a man and not a woman should wear the Double Crown. But in public they said nothing, since the story of this child had gone abroad and folk declared that it was sent by the gods, and divine, and that the goddesses, Isis, Nepthys, and Hathor, with Khemu, the Maker of Mankind, were seen in the birth chamber, glowing like gold. Also Pharaoh issued a decree that wherever the name of the Queen Ahura was graven in all the land, to it should be added the title "By the will of Amen, Mother of his Morning Star," and that a new hall should be built in the temple of Amen in the Northern Apt, and all about it carved the story of the coming of Prince Abi and of the vision ~ H Rider Haggard,

278:child had gone abroad and folk declared that it was sent by the gods, and divine, and that the goddesses, Isis, Nepthys, and Hathor, with Khemu, the Maker of Mankind, were seen in the birth chamber, glowing like gold. Also Pharaoh issued a decree that wherever the name of the Queen Ahura was graven in all the land, to it should be added the title "By the will of Amen, Mother of his Morning Star," and that a new hall should be built in the temple of Amen in the Northern Apt, and all about it carved the story of the coming of Prince Abi and of the vision of the Queen. But Ahura never lived to see this glorious place, since from the hour of her daughter's birth she began to sink. On the fourteenth day, the day of purification, she bade the nurse bring the beautiful babe, and gazed at it long and blessed it, and spoke with the Ka or Double of the child, which she said ~ H Rider Haggard,

279:Rapid attempts at reforming society and culture were met with great resistance and fury aimed at the government for again issuing decrees to ban child marriage and the lucrative trading of women and girls, and for stating that no women should be sold for marriage, or married against her will. Once more tribal men saw the risk of losing both cash and influence. If women were to be educated and work outside the home, they would “dishonor” their families by being seen in public and potentially develop other, even more subversive ideas. And who would care for the children if women took over the tasks of men? Society would undoubtedly fall apart. Worst of all, another proposed decree would allow women to initiate divorce more easily. Clearly, foreign influence brought decadence and subverted Afghan traditions. The reforms were declared un-Islamic by many religious mullahs. ~ Jenny Nordberg,

280:she prayed as follows: The healing presence is right where my mother is. Her bodily condition is but a reflection of her thought-life, like shadows cast on the screen. I know that in order to change the images on the screen I must change what they reflect. I now project in my own mind the image of wholeness, harmony, and perfect health for my mother. The infinite healing presence that created my mother’s body and all her organs is now saturating every atom of her being, and a river of peace flows through every cell of her body. The doctors are divinely guided and directed, and whoever touches my mother is guided to do the right thing. I know that disease has no ultimate reality; if it had, no one could be healed. I now align myself with the infinite principle of love and life, and I know and decree that harmony, health, and peace are now being expressed in my mother’s body. ~ Joseph Murphy,

281:The first gas chambers were constructed in 1939, to implement a Hitler decree dated September 1 of that year, which said that “incurably sick persons should be granted a mercy death.” (It was probably this “medical” origin of gassing that inspired Dr. Servatius’s amazing conviction that killing by gas must be regarded as “a medical matter.” ) The idea itself was considerably older. As early as 1935, Hitler had told his Reich Medical Leader Gerhard Wagner that “if war came, he would take up and carry out this question of euthanasia, because it was easier to do so in wartime.” The decree was immediately carried out in respect to the mentally sick, and between December, 1939, and August, 1941, about fifty thousand Germans were killed with carbon-monoxide gas in institutions where the death rooms were disguised exactly as they later were in Auschwitz—as shower rooms and bathrooms. ~ Hannah Arendt,

282:After opposition parties won control of the Venezuelan congress in a landslide election in December 2015, they hoped to use the legislature to check the power of autocratic president Nicolás Maduro. Thus, the new congress passed an amnesty law that would free 120 political prisoners, and it voted to block Maduro’s declaration of a state of economic emergency (which granted him vast power to govern by decree). To fend off this challenge, Maduro turned to the supreme court, which was packed with loyalists. The chavista court effectively incapacitated the legislature by ruling nearly all of its bills—including the amnesty law, efforts to revise the national budget, and the rejection of the state of emergency—unconstitutional. According to the Colombian newspaper El Tiempo, the court ruled against congress twenty-four times in six months, striking down “all the laws it has approved. ~ Steven Levitsky,

283:Ah me! think, sister, how our father perished, amid hate and scorn, when sins bared by his own search had moved him to strike both eyes with self-blinding hand; then the mother wife, two names in one, with twisted noose did despite unto her life; and last, our two brothers in one day,-each shedding, hapless one, a kinsman's blood,-wrought out with mutual hands their common doom. And now we in turn-we two left all alone think how we shall perish, more miserably than all the rest, if, in defiance of the law, we brave a king's decree or his powers. Nay, we must remember, first, that we were born women, as who should not strive with men; next, that we are ruled of the stronger, so that we must obey in these things, and in things yet sorer. I, therefore, asking the Spirits Infernal to pardon, seeing that force is put on me herein, will hearken to our rulers. for 'tis witless to be over busy. ~ Sophocles,

284:I, Wisdom, dwell with prudence and find out knowledge of witty inventions.... Counsel is mine and sound knowledge. I am understanding. I am strength. By me Kings reign and princes decree justice. By me princes rule, and nobles, even all the judges of the earth. I love them that love me. And those that seek me shall find me. Riches and honour are with me; yea, durable riches and righteousness. My fruit is better than gold, yea, than fine gold; and my revenue than choice silver. I lead in the way of righteousness, in the midst of the paths of judgment, that I may cause those that love me to inherit substance; and I will fill their treasures.... I was set up from everlasting, from the beginning before ever the earth was. When there were no depths, I was brought forth; when there were no fountains abounding with water, before the mountains were settled, before the hills were, I was brought forth. ~ Proverbs,

285:As members of my cabinet," Alyss calmly explained, "you share in the responsibilty of ensuring a safe furture for Wonderland. I'm sure the four of you will agree that we're in a crisis and that trying times bring out the best in you. What queen wouldn't want such helpful cabinet members by her side in an hour of need? Forgive me for calling you here. I was thinking only of myself and others when I did it. But for the love of your rank if nothing else, advise me. How do you think we should conter this invasion?" Uh," said the Lady of Clubes. I know exactly how we should counter it! said her husband. "First and foremost, a decree must be at once...decreed! All ranking families are to remain indoors and well-protected until it can be guaranteed that every threat is violence is past! It's imperative that nothing inconvenient happen to us, for the population would then have no one to look up to! ~ Frank Beddor,

286:Black Flag! Run up your Black Flag, Skull and crossbones display! Why should you palter—why should you lag?— For never was freebooting crew, From Heligoland to Cathay— And the Coast of Barbary, too, So deserved the foul ensign as you! Yes, run up the Black Flag, Too long have your colors been hid! Make good your insolent brag, Who have staked off the waters at will, And the honored sea-law have defied, Going forth to plunder and kill! You have staked off the waters at will— What! You yet think to forbid? Sea-way for other Flags, too— Way for the Red-White-and-Blue! But it's down with your Black Flag— Down, in the end, it must be, In the depths where you lurk let it drag— Down to the charnelled abyss . . . You hearken the World's decree?— Pirates were hunted ere this, And you shall be swept from the sea! ~ Edith Matilda Thomas,

287:She was made after the time of ribs and mud. By papal decree there were to be no more people born of the ground or from the marrow of bones. All would be created from the propulsions and mounts performed underneath bedsheets- rare exception granted for immaculate conceptions. The mixing pits were sledged and the cutting tables, where ribs were extracted from pigs and goats, were sawed in half. Although the monks were devout and obedient to the thunder of Rome, the wool of their robes was soaked not only by the salt of sweat but also by that of tears. The monks rolled down their heavy sleeves, hid their slaughter knives in the burlap of their scrips, and wiped the hoes clean. They closed the factory down, chained the doors with Vatican-crested locks, and marched off in holy formation. Three lines, their faces staring down in humility, closing their eyes when walking over puddles, avoiding their unshaven reflections. ~ Salvador Plascencia,

288:Another delegate in the House had this to say: “Oklahomans are tired of being ruled by federal bureaucrats and judges, none of them elected. They decide everything from what can be taught in the public schools to what can be served to kids for lunch and whether the kids can have a prayer. They decree that welfare recipients are entitled to a color television and cell phone, all paid for by the working families of Oklahoma, some of whom can afford neither. They claim they have the right to regulate every creek, farm pond, mudhole, and wet spot in America, including here in Oklahoma. We have to pay for their crackpot regulations based on crackpot science, or no science at all. We have to pay the salaries of the bureaucrats and put up with the endless delays and mountainous paperwork. It’s high time to put a stop to bureaucrats and judges running our lives. Let’s take back control. Independence today, tomorrow, and forever. ~ Stephen Coonts,

289:Silhouette The sky-line melts from russet into blue, Unbroken the horizon, saving where A wreath of smoke curls up the far, thin air, And points the distant lodges of the Sioux. Etched where the lands and cloudlands touch and die A solitary Indian tepee stands, The only habitation of these lands, That roll their magnitude from sky to sky. The tent poles lift and loom in thin relief, The upward floating smoke ascends between, And near the open doorway, gaunt and lean, And shadow-like, there stands an Indian Chief. With eyes that lost their lustre long ago, With visage fixed and stern as fate's decree, He looks towards the empty west, to see The never-coming herd of buffalo. Only the bones that bleach upon the plains, Only the fleshless skeletons that lie In ghastly nakedness and silence, cry Out mutely that naught else to him remains ~ Emily Pauline Johnson,

290:The Laws Of God, The Laws Of Man The laws of God, the laws of man, He may keep that will and can; Not I: let God and man decree Laws for themselves and not for me; And if my ways are not as theirs Let them mind their own affairs. Their deeds I judge and much condemn, Yet when did I make laws for them? Please yourselves, say I, and they Need only look the other way. But no, they will not; they must still Wrest their neighbor to their will, And make me dance as they desire With jail and gallows and hell-fire. And how am I to face the odds Of man's bedevilment and God's? I, a stranger and afraid In a world I never made. They will be master, right or wrong; Though both are foolish, both are strong. And since, my soul, we cannot fly To Saturn nor to Mercury, Keep we must, if keep we can, These foreign laws of God and man. ~ Alfred Edward Housman,

291:But do the governors themselves need that? Are they ready to line up under the vertikal? They are. After all, the governors are part of the country, and they also suffer from management weaknesses. Not everyone is going to like everything. You can’t please everybody, but you can find some common approaches. I was also interested in learning more about the country. I had only ever worked in St. Petersburg, apart from the time I spent abroad. . . . Of course, my seven years of experience in Peter was good experience, both administrative and managerial. But Peter isn’t the whole country. I wanted to travel and see things. So, why did you drop that interesting job and go to work as director of the FSB? Do you have some affinity for the agencies? No. I wasn’t asked whether or not I wanted to go, and they had given me no inkling that I was even being considered for such an appointment. The president simply signed a decree. . . . ~ Vladimir Putin,

292:ESAELP GNITTIPS ON This mysterious decree would incite me to defy it and spit on the ground at once, but because the police were stationed two steps away in front of the Governor's Mansion, I'd just stare at it uneasily instead. Now I began to fear that spit would suddenly climb out of my throat and land on the ground without my even willing it. But as I knew, spitting was mostly a habit of grown-ups of the same stock as those brainless, weak-willed, insolent children who were always being punished by my teacher. Yes, we would sometimes see people spitting on the streets, or hawking up phlegm because they had no tissues, but this didn't happen often enough to merit a decree of this severity, even outside the Governor's Manson. Later on, when I read about the Chinese spitting pots and discovered how commonplace spitting was in other parts of the world, I asked myself why they'd gone to such lengths to discourage spitting in Istanbul, where it had never been popular. ~ Orhan Pamuk,

293:What was at stake for the Romans was whether they could win in battle and then whether – by persuasion, bullying or force – they could impose their will where, when and if they chose. The style of this imperium is vividly summed up in the story of the last encounter between Antiochus Epiphanes and the Romans. The king was invading Egypt for the second time, and the Egyptians had asked the Romans for help. A Roman envoy, Gaius Popilius Laenas, was dispatched and met Antiochus outside Alexandria. After his long familiarity with the Romans, the king no doubt expected a rather civil meeting. Instead, Laenas handed him a decree of the senate instructing him to withdraw from Egypt immediately. When Antiochus asked for time to consult his advisors, Laenas picked up a stick and drew a circle in the dust around him. There was to be no stepping out of that circle before he had given his answer. Stunned, Antiochus meekly agreed to the senate’s demands. This was an empire of obedience. ~ Mary Beard,

294:To Lady Mary Wortley Montagu I. In beauty, or wit, No mortal as yet To question your empire has dared: But men of discerning Have thought that in learning To yield to a lady was hard. II. Impertinent schools, With musty dull rules, Have reading to females denied; So Papists refuse The Bible to use, Lest flocks should be wise as their guide. III. 'Twas a woman at first (Indeed she was curst) In knowledge that tasted delight, And sages agree The laws should decree To the first possessor the right. IV. Then bravely, fair dame, Resume the old claim, Which to your whole sex does belong; And let men receive, From a second bright Eve, The knowledge of right and of wrong. V. But if the first Eve Hard doom did receive, When only one apple had she, What a punishment new Shall be found out for you, Who tasting, have robb'd the whole tree? 259 ~ Alexander Pope,

295:There can be no doubt of this: All America is divided into two classes--the quality and the equality. The latter will always recognize the former when mistaken for it. Both will be with us until our women bear nothing but kings. It was through the Declaration of Independence that we Americans acknowledged the ETERNAL INEQUALITY of man. For by it we abolished a cut-and-dried aristocracy. We had seen little men artificially held up in high places, and great men artificially held down in low places, and our own justice-loving hearts abhorred this violence to human nature. Therefore, we decreed that every man should thenceforth have equal liberty to find his own level. By this very decree we acknowledged and gave freedom to true aristocracy, saying, "Let the best man win, whoever he is." Let the best man win! That is America's word. That is true democracy. And true democracy and true aristocracy are one and the same thing. If anybody cannot see this, so much the worse for his eyesight. ~ Owen Wister,

296:were seen in the birth chamber, glowing like gold. Also Pharaoh issued a decree that wherever the name of the Queen Ahura was graven in all the land, to it should be added the title "By the will of Amen, Mother of his Morning Star," and that a new hall should be built in the temple of Amen in the Northern Apt, and all about it carved the story of the coming of Prince Abi and of the vision of the Queen. But Ahura never lived to see this glorious place, since from the hour of her daughter's birth she began to sink. On the fourteenth day, the day of purification, she bade the nurse bring the beautiful babe, and gazed at it long and blessed it, and spoke with the Ka or Double of the child, which she said she saw lying on her arm beside it, bidding that Ka protect it well through the dangers of life and death until the hour of resurrection. Then she said that she heard Amen calling to her to pay the price which she had promised for the gift of the divine child, the price of her own life, and smiled ~ H Rider Haggard,

297:the sex of the infant, whispering that a man and not a woman should wear the Double Crown. But in public they said nothing, since the story of this child had gone abroad and folk declared that it was sent by the gods, and divine, and that the goddesses, Isis, Nepthys, and Hathor, with Khemu, the Maker of Mankind, were seen in the birth chamber, glowing like gold. Also Pharaoh issued a decree that wherever the name of the Queen Ahura was graven in all the land, to it should be added the title "By the will of Amen, Mother of his Morning Star," and that a new hall should be built in the temple of Amen in the Northern Apt, and all about it carved the story of the coming of Prince Abi and of the vision of the Queen. But Ahura never lived to see this glorious place, since from the hour of her daughter's birth she began to sink. On the fourteenth day, the day of purification, she bade the nurse bring the beautiful babe, and gazed at it long and blessed it, and spoke with the Ka or Double of the child, which she ~ H Rider Haggard,

298:No society can exist unless the laws are respected to a certain degree. The safest way to make laws respected is to make them respectable. When law and morality contradict each other, the citizen has the cruel alternative of either losing his moral sense or losing his respect for the law. These two evils are of equal consequence, and it would be difficult for a person to choose between them. The nature of law is to maintain justice. This is so much the case that, in the minds of the people, law and justice are one and the same thing. There is in all of us a strong disposition to believe anything lawful is also legitimate. This belief is so widespread that many persons have erroneously held that things are “just” because law makes them so. Thus, in order to make plunder appear just and sacred to many consciences, it is only necessary for the law to decree and sanction it. Slavery, restrictions, and monopoly find defenders not only among those who profit from them but also among those who suffer from them. ~ Fr d ric Bastiat,

299:Five standard years have passed since Darth Sidious proclaimed himself galactic Emperor. The brutal Clone Wars are a memory, and the Emperor’s apprentice, Darth Vader, has succeeded in hunting down most of the Jedi who survived dreaded Order 66. On Coruscant a servile Senate applauds the Emperor’s every decree, and the populations of the Core Worlds bask in a sense of renewed prosperity. In the Outer Rim, meanwhile, the myriad species of former Separatist worlds find themselves no better off than they were before the civil war. Stripped of weaponry and resources, they have been left to fend for themselves in an Empire that has largely turned its back on them. Where resentment has boiled over into acts of sedition, the Empire has been quick to mete out punishment. But as confident as he is in his own and Vader’s dark side powers, the Emperor understands that only a supreme military, overseen by a commander with the will to be as merciless as he is, can secure an Empire that will endure for a thousand generations … ~ James Luceno,

300:in public they said nothing, since the story of this child had gone abroad and folk declared that it was sent by the gods, and divine, and that the goddesses, Isis, Nepthys, and Hathor, with Khemu, the Maker of Mankind, were seen in the birth chamber, glowing like gold. Also Pharaoh issued a decree that wherever the name of the Queen Ahura was graven in all the land, to it should be added the title "By the will of Amen, Mother of his Morning Star," and that a new hall should be built in the temple of Amen in the Northern Apt, and all about it carved the story of the coming of Prince Abi and of the vision of the Queen. But Ahura never lived to see this glorious place, since from the hour of her daughter's birth she began to sink. On the fourteenth day, the day of purification, she bade the nurse bring the beautiful babe, and gazed at it long and blessed it, and spoke with the Ka or Double of the child, which she said she saw lying on her arm beside it, bidding that Ka protect it well through the dangers of life and ~ H Rider Haggard,

301:Jane! you think me, I daresay, an irreligious dog: but my heart swells with gratitude to the beneficent God of this earth just now. He sees not as man sees, but far clearer: judges not as man judges, but far more wisely. I did wrong: I would have sullied my innocent flower--breathed guilt on its purity: the Omnipotent snatched it from me. I, in my stiff-necked rebellion, almost cursed the dispensation; instead of bending to the decree, I defied it. Divine justice pursued its course; disasters came thick on me: I was forced to pass through the valley of the shadow of death. His chastisements are mighty; and one smote me which has humbled me for ever. You know I was proud of my strength: but what is it now, when I must give it over to foreign guidance, as a child does it weakness? Of late, Jane--only--only of late--I began to see and acknowledge the hand of God in my doom. I began to experience remorse, repentance; the wish for reconcilement to my Maker. I began sometimes to pray: very brief prayers they were, but very sincere. ~ Charlotte Bront,

302:THEY WERE DIVORCED IN THE fall. I wish it could have been otherwise. The clarity of those autumn days affected them both. For Nedra, it was as if her eyes had been finally opened; she saw everything, she was filled with a great, unhurried strength. It was still warm enough to sit outdoors. Viri walked, the old dog wandering behind him. The fading grass, the trees, the very light made him dizzy, as if he were an invalid or starving. He caught the aroma of his own life passing. All during the proceedings, they lived as they always had, as if nothing were going on. The judge who gave her the final decree pronounced her name wrong. He was tall and decaying, the pores visible in his cheeks. He misread a number of things; no one corrected him. It was November. Their last night together they sat listening to music—it was Mendelssohn—like a dying composer and his wife. The room was peaceful, filled with beautiful sound. The last logs burned. “Would you like some ouzo?” she asked. “I don’t think there is any.” “We drank it all?” “Some time ago. ~ James Salter,

303:In the whole vast dome of living nature there reigns an open violence. A kind of prescriptive fury which arms all the creatures to their common doom: as soon as you leave the inanimate kingdom you find the decree of violent death inscribed on the very frontiers of life. You feel it already in the vegetable kingdom: from the great catalpa to the humblest herb, how many plants die and how many are killed; but, from the moment you enter the animal kingdom, this law is suddenly in the most dreadful evidence. A Power, a violence, at once hidden and palpable. . . has in each species appointed a certain number of animals to devour the others. . . And who [in this general carnage] exterminates him who will exterminate all others? Himself. It is man who is charged with the slaughter of man. . . The whole earth, perpetually steeped in blood, is nothing but a vast altar upon which all that is living must be sacrificed without end, without measure, without pause, until the consummation of things, until evil is extinct, until the death of death. ~ Joseph de Maistre,

304:Ballad Of Broken Flutes In dreams I crossed a barren land, A land of ruin, far away; Around me hung on every hand A deathful stillness of decay; And silent, as in bleak dismay That song should thus forsaken be, On that forgotten ground there lay The broken flutes of Arcady. The forest that was all so grand When pipes and tabors had their sway Stood leafless now, a ghostly band Of skeletons in cold array. A lonely surge of ancient spray Told of an unforgetful sea, But iron blows had hushed for aye The broken flutes of Arcady. No more by summer breezes fanned, The place was desolate and gray; But still my dream was to command New life into that shrunken clay. I tried it. Yes, you scan to-day, With uncommiserating glee, The songs of one who strove to play The broken flutes of Arcady. ENVOY So, Rock, I join the common fray, To fight where Mammon may decree; And leave, to crumble as they may, The broken flutes of Arcady. ~ Edwin Arlington Robinson,

305:We thus arrive at the important result: Events that are simultaneous with reference to the embankment are not simultaneous with respect to the train,” said Einstein. The principle of relativity says that there is no way to decree that the embankment is “at rest” and the train “in motion.” We can say only that they are in motion relative to each other. So there is no “real” or “right” answer. There is no way to say that any two events are “absolutely” or “really” simultaneous.43 This is a simple insight, but also a radical one. It means that there is no absolute time. Instead, all moving reference frames have their own relative time. Although Einstein refrained from saying that this leap was as truly “revolutionary” as the one he made about light quanta, it did in fact transform science. “This was a change in the very foundation of physics, an unexpected and very radical change that required all the courage of a young and revolutionary genius,” noted Werner Heisenberg, who later contributed to a similar feat with his principle of quantum uncertainty. ~ Walter Isaacson,

306:O King, thy fate is a transaction done At every hour between Nature and thy soul With God for its foreseeing arbiter. Fate is a balance drawn in Destiny's book. Man can accept his fate, he can refuse. Even if the One maintains the unseen decree He writes thy refusal in thy credit page: For doom is not a close, a mystic seal. Arisen from the tragic crash of life, Arisen from the body's torture and death, The spirit rises mightier by defeat; Its godlike wings grow wider with each fall. Its splendid failures sum to victory. O man, the events that meet thee on thy road, Though they smite thy body and soul with joy and grief, Are not thy fate, - they touch thee awhile and pass; Even death can cut not short thy spirit's walk: Thy goal, the road thou choosest are thy fate. On the altar throwing thy thoughts, thy heart, thy works, Thy fate is a long sacrifice to the gods Till they have opened to thee thy secret self And made thee one with the indwelling God. ~ Sri Aurobindo, Savitri, 06:02 The Way of Fate and the Problem of Pain,

307:Also Pharaoh issued a decree that wherever the name of the Queen Ahura was graven in all the land, to it should be added the title "By the will of Amen, Mother of his Morning Star," and that a new hall should be built in the temple of Amen in the Northern Apt, and all about it carved the story of the coming of Prince Abi and of the vision of the Queen. But Ahura never lived to see this glorious place, since from the hour of her daughter's birth she began to sink. On the fourteenth day, the day of purification, she bade the nurse bring the beautiful babe, and gazed at it long and blessed it, and spoke with the Ka or Double of the child, which she said she saw lying on her arm beside it, bidding that Ka protect it well through the dangers of life and death until the hour of resurrection. Then she said that she heard Amen calling to her to pay the price which she had promised for the gift of the divine child, the price of her own life, and smiled upon Pharaoh her husband, and died happily with a radiant face. Now joy was turned to mourning, and during all the days of embalming Egypt ~ H Rider Haggard,

308:If God did not arrange [the world] this way, then there must be an independent factor in the universe. And if there is such, one consequence and perhaps two follow. First, the doctrine of creation must be abandoned. A creation ex nihilo would be completely in God's control. Independent forces cannot be created forces, and created forces cannot be independent. Then, second, if the universe is not God's creation, his knowledge of it--past and future--cannot depend on what he intends to do, but on his observation of how it works. In such a case, how could we be sure that God's observations are accurate? How could we be sure that these independent forces will not later show an unsuspected twist that will falsify God's predictions? And, finally, on this view God's knowledge would be empirical, rather than an integral part of his essence, and thus he would be a dependent knower. These objections are insurmountable. We can consistently believe in creation, omnipotence, omniscience, and the divine decree. But we cannot retain sanity and combine any one of these with free will. ~ Gordon H Clark,

309:The Final Tax Said Statesman A to Statesman Z: 'What can we tax that is not paying? We’re taxing every blessed thing— Here’s what our people are defraying: 'Tariff tax, income tax, Tax on retail sales, Club tax, school tax, Tax on beers and ales, 'City tax, county tax, Tax on obligations, War tax. wine tax, Tax on corporations, 'Brewer tax, sewer tax, Tax on motor cars, Bond tax, stock tax, Tax on liquor bars, 'Bridge tax, check tax, Tax on drugs and pills, Gas tax, ticket tax, Tax on gifts in wills, 'Poll tax, dog tax, Tax on money loaned, State tax, road tax, Tax on all things owned, 'Stamp tax, land tax, Tax on wedding ring, High tax, low tax, Tax on everything!' Said Statesman A to Statesman Z: 'That is the list, a pretty bevy; No thing or act that is untaxed; There’s nothing more on which to levy.' 68 Said Statesman Z to Statesman A: 'The deficit each moment waxes; This is no time for us to fail— We will decree a tax on taxes.' ~ Ellis Parker Butler,

310:infant, whispering that a man and not a woman should wear the Double Crown. But in public they said nothing, since the story of this child had gone abroad and folk declared that it was sent by the gods, and divine, and that the goddesses, Isis, Nepthys, and Hathor, with Khemu, the Maker of Mankind, were seen in the birth chamber, glowing like gold. Also Pharaoh issued a decree that wherever the name of the Queen Ahura was graven in all the land, to it should be added the title "By the will of Amen, Mother of his Morning Star," and that a new hall should be built in the temple of Amen in the Northern Apt, and all about it carved the story of the coming of Prince Abi and of the vision of the Queen. But Ahura never lived to see this glorious place, since from the hour of her daughter's birth she began to sink. On the fourteenth day, the day of purification, she bade the nurse bring the beautiful babe, and gazed at it long and blessed it, and spoke with the Ka or Double of the child, which she said she saw lying on her arm beside it, bidding that Ka protect it well through the dangers of life and ~ H Rider Haggard,

311:For somehow, beneath this gorgeous paradigm of unnecessary being, lies the Act by which it exists. You have just now reduced it to its parts, shivered it into echoes, and pressed it to a memory, but you have also caught the hint that a thing is more than the sum of all the insubstantialities that comprise it. Hopefully, you will never again argue that the solidities of the world are mere matters of accident, creatures of air and darkness, temporary and meaningless shapes out of nothing. Perhaps now you have seen at least dimly that the uniquenesses of creation are the result of continuous creative support, of effective regard by no mean lover. He likes onions, therefore they are. The fit, the colors, the smell, the tensions, the tastes, the textures, the likes, the shapes are a response, not to some forgotten decree that there may as well be onions as turnips, but to His present delight - His intimate and immediate joy in all you have seen, and in the thousand other wonders you do not even suspect. With Peter, the onion says, Lord, it is good for us to be here. Yes, says God. Tov, Very good. ~ Robert Farrar Capon,

312:All the authorities, however, agree as to the following facts:—that until the third day after Hephaestion’s death, Alexander neither tasted food nor paid any attention to his personal appearance, but lay on the ground either bewailing or silently mourning; that he also ordered a funeral pyre to be prepared for him in Babylon at the expense of 10,000 talents; some say at a still greater cost; that a decree was published throughout all the barbarian territory for the observance of a public mourning. Many of Alexander’s Companions dedicated themselves and their arms to the dead Hephaestion in order to show their respect to him; and the first to begin the artifice was Eumenes, whom we a short time ago mentioned as having been at variance with him. This he did that Alexander might not think he was pleased at Hephaestion’s death. Alexander did not appoint any one else to be commander of the Companion cavalry in the place of Hephaestion, so that the name of that general might not perish from the brigade; but that division of cavalry was still called Hephaestion’s and the figure made from Hephaestion went in front of it. ~ Arrian,

313:Ballade Of The Bookworm Far in the Past I peer, and see A Child upon the Nursery floor, A Child with books upon his knee, Who asks, like Oliver, for more! The number of his years is IV, And yet in Letters hath he skill, How deep he dives in Fairy-lore! The Books I loved, I love them still! One gift the Fairies gave me: (Three They commonly bestowed of yore) The Love of Books, the Golden Key That opens the Enchanted Door; Behind it BLUEBEARD lurks, and o'er And o'er doth JACK his Giants kill, And there is all ALADDIN'S store, The Books I loved, I love them still! Take all, but leave my Books to me! These heavy creels of old we bore We fill not now, nor wander free, Nor wear the heart that once we wore; Not now each River seems to pour His waters from the Muses' hill; Though something's gone from stream and shore, The Books I loved, I love them still! ENVOY. Fate, that art Queen by shore and sea, We bow submissive to thy will, Ah grant, by some benign decree, The Books I loved--to love them still. ~ Andrew Lang,

314:Where am I?” she asked, interrupting him. He seemed startled by her ability to speak, but he stood and retrieved a glass of some amber liquid from a corner table for her. “You sound as terrible as you look, kiddo. Have a sip.” She stared at it. “Oh, you’re no fun,” he said with a little pout. “I suppose you’ll want water instead. Wait here and be quiet—can’t raise the alarm just yet, can we?” Etta wasn’t sure what that meant, but she complied all the same, watching as the young man walked to the door and stuck his head out into the hall. “You, there—yes, you—bring me a glass of water. And don’t bloody well spit in it this time—you honestly think I’m not well versed enough in that fine art to notice?” The response was immediate and irritated. “I’m not your damned servant.” So there are guards after all. The only question was whether they were protecting him, or protecting themselves from him. “I do believe the official decree from your master and commander was, ‘Give the dear boy what he wants.’ This dear boy wants water. And make it snappy. Pep in your step and all that. Thanks, old chum. ~ Alexandra Bracken,

315:which mole was shaped like the holy Sign of Life. Now Pharaoh and his house and the priests in every temple, and indeed all Egypt went mad with joy, though there were many who in secret mourned over the sex of the infant, whispering that a man and not a woman should wear the Double Crown. But in public they said nothing, since the story of this child had gone abroad and folk declared that it was sent by the gods, and divine, and that the goddesses, Isis, Nepthys, and Hathor, with Khemu, the Maker of Mankind, were seen in the birth chamber, glowing like gold. Also Pharaoh issued a decree that wherever the name of the Queen Ahura was graven in all the land, to it should be added the title "By the will of Amen, Mother of his Morning Star," and that a new hall should be built in the temple of Amen in the Northern Apt, and all about it carved the story of the coming of Prince Abi and of the vision of the Queen. But Ahura never lived to see this glorious place, since from the hour of her daughter's birth she began to sink. On the fourteenth day, the day of purification, she bade the nurse bring the beautiful babe, and gazed at it ~ H Rider Haggard,

316:Jen snorted a laugh as she spoke out loud. "Gee thanks, so kind of you to chalk it up to me just being a dumb ass." Decebel chuckled and his eyes had begun to get lighter. "You will stop undressing in front of other people." Jen put a hand on her hip as she tipped her head to the side. She narrowed her eyes at her mate and tapped her lip with a finger. "Now, I'm going to need you clarify that." When Decebel didn't respond, but continued to stare at her, Jen rolled her eyes. "Clarify, elucidate, enlighten. Do. You. Understand. The. Words. That. Are…," Jen emphasized each word. "Jennifer," Decebel growled. "Comingoutofmymouth," Jen finished quickly making Sally giggle. "Only undress in our bedroom." "Nope, na-ah. There's waaaay too many loop holes in that little decree. Seriously Dec, you can do better than that," Jen told him with a single eyebrow raised. Decebel growled at the challenge in her words and the tone of her voice. Damn, when am I going to learn not to poke the angry wolf. The thought ran through her mind before she could censor it from a now wickedly smiling Alpha. ~ Quinn Loftis,

317:nail, which mole was shaped like the holy Sign of Life. Now Pharaoh and his house and the priests in every temple, and indeed all Egypt went mad with joy, though there were many who in secret mourned over the sex of the infant, whispering that a man and not a woman should wear the Double Crown. But in public they said nothing, since the story of this child had gone abroad and folk declared that it was sent by the gods, and divine, and that the goddesses, Isis, Nepthys, and Hathor, with Khemu, the Maker of Mankind, were seen in the birth chamber, glowing like gold. Also Pharaoh issued a decree that wherever the name of the Queen Ahura was graven in all the land, to it should be added the title "By the will of Amen, Mother of his Morning Star," and that a new hall should be built in the temple of Amen in the Northern Apt, and all about it carved the story of the coming of Prince Abi and of the vision of the Queen. But Ahura never lived to see this glorious place, since from the hour of her daughter's birth she began to sink. On the fourteenth day, the day of purification, she bade the nurse bring the beautiful babe, and gazed at it ~ H Rider Haggard,

318:and not a woman should wear the Double Crown. But in public they said nothing, since the story of this child had gone abroad and folk declared that it was sent by the gods, and divine, and that the goddesses, Isis, Nepthys, and Hathor, with Khemu, the Maker of Mankind, were seen in the birth chamber, glowing like gold. Also Pharaoh issued a decree that wherever the name of the Queen Ahura was graven in all the land, to it should be added the title "By the will of Amen, Mother of his Morning Star," and that a new hall should be built in the temple of Amen in the Northern Apt, and all about it carved the story of the coming of Prince Abi and of the vision of the Queen. But Ahura never lived to see this glorious place, since from the hour of her daughter's birth she began to sink. On the fourteenth day, the day of purification, she bade the nurse bring the beautiful babe, and gazed at it long and blessed it, and spoke with the Ka or Double of the child, which she said she saw lying on her arm beside it, bidding that Ka protect it well through the dangers of life and death until the hour of resurrection. Then she said that she heard Amen calling ~ H Rider Haggard,

319:The president is declaring martial law tomorrow. He wants you standing behind him tomorrow at ten o’clock in the press room when he announces it.” Jake Grafton didn’t look surprised. I was flabbergasted, but since I was sitting on the couch against the wall Sal Molina couldn’t see the stunned look on my face unless he turned his head, and he didn’t. “Why?” said Grafton. “These terrorist conspiracies need to be rooted out. We must make sure the American people are safe, and feel safe.” “Horseshit,” Grafton roared, and smacked the desk with both fists. “Pure fucking horseshit! Oh, a million or two jihadists would love to murder Americans, including Soetoro, if they could get here, but if they were a credible threat we’d have heard about it. This is just an excuse for Soetoro to suspend the Constitution and declare himself dictator.” “The American people must be protected, Admiral. The president is taking no chances. No one wants to be the next victim of Islamic terrorists.” “So he is going to rule by decree.” “We face a national emergency.” “And he is going to postpone or cancel the election in November. Isn’t that the real reason for martial law? ~ Stephen Coonts,

320:Ballade Of Dead Republics Tell me ye King-craft of to-day Where is Athens, who made men free; Then sank into stupor by the way, Subdued by the Spartan tyranny? And Rome that staggered to death, perdie, Stabbed by the sword of Hannibal, And bled by patrician infamy -The Dragon of Greed destroyed them all! Cleon and Pericles held sway O'er the foes of Greek democracy. The Gracchi brothers struggled to stay The stress of the Ceasars' stern decree. And look at Rienzi's passion, he Who strove the republic to recall! Slain at last for his perfidy -The Dragon of Greed destroyed them all! What of Florence and Venice, say? And the Netherlands that ruled the sea? And Cromwell's England more strong than they Which banished the throne and the bended knee? Yes, and Savonarola's plea, And William of Orange's rise and fall? Yea, though they labored for you and me -The Dragon of Greed destroyed them all! ENVOY. Prince! 'tis the year of your jubilee, The great republic is in your thrall. And who will restore her armory?-The Dragon of Greed destroyed them all! ~ Edgar Lee Masters,

321:Upon A Fit Of Sickness Twice ten years old not fully told since nature gave me breath, My race is run, my thread spun, lo, here is fatal death. All men must die, and so must I; this cannot be revoked. For Adam's sake this word God spake when he so high provoked. Yet live I shall, this life's but small, in place of highest bliss, Where I shall have all I can crave, no life is like to this. For what's this but care and strife since first we came from womb? Our strength doth waste, our time doth haste, and then we go to th' tomb. O bubble blast, how long can'st last? that always art a breaking, No sooner blown, but dead and gone, ev'n as a word that's speaking. O whilst I live this grace me give, I doing good may be, Then death's arrest I shall count best, because it's Thy decree; Bestow much cost there's nothing lost, to make salvation sure, O great's the gain, though got with pain, comes by profession pure. The race is run, the field is won, the victory's mine I see; Forever known, thou envious foe, the foil belongs to thee. ~ Anne Bradstreet,

322:the holy Sign of Life. Now Pharaoh and his house and the priests in every temple, and indeed all Egypt went mad with joy, though there were many who in secret mourned over the sex of the infant, whispering that a man and not a woman should wear the Double Crown. But in public they said nothing, since the story of this child had gone abroad and folk declared that it was sent by the gods, and divine, and that the goddesses, Isis, Nepthys, and Hathor, with Khemu, the Maker of Mankind, were seen in the birth chamber, glowing like gold. Also Pharaoh issued a decree that wherever the name of the Queen Ahura was graven in all the land, to it should be added the title "By the will of Amen, Mother of his Morning Star," and that a new hall should be built in the temple of Amen in the Northern Apt, and all about it carved the story of the coming of Prince Abi and of the vision of the Queen. But Ahura never lived to see this glorious place, since from the hour of her daughter's birth she began to sink. On the fourteenth day, the day of purification, she bade the nurse bring the beautiful babe, and gazed at it long and blessed it, and spoke with the Ka or Double of the child, ~ H Rider Haggard,

323:Long Ago I once knew all the birds that came And nested in our orchard trees; For every flower I had a name-My friends were woodchucks, toads, and bees; I knew where thrived in yonder glen What plants would soothe a stone-bruised toe-Oh, I was very learned then; But that was very long ago! I knew the spot upon the hill Where checkerberries could be found, I knew the rushes near the mill Where pickerel lay that weighed a pound! I knew the wood,--the very tree Where lived the poaching, saucy crow, And all the woods and crows knew me-But that was very long ago. And pining for the joys of youth, I tread the old familiar spot Only to learn this solemn truth: I have forgotten, am forgot. Yet here's this youngster at my knee Knows all the things I used to know; To think I once was wise as he-But that was very long ago. I know it's folly to complain Of whatsoe'er the Fates decree; Yet were not wishes all in vain, I tell you what my wish should be: I'd wish to be a boy again, Back with the friends I used to know; For I was, oh! so happy then-But that was very long ago! ~ Eugene Field,

324:One Whisper of the Beloved Lovers share a sacred decree – to seek the Beloved. They roll head over heels, rushing toward the Beautiful One like a torrent of water In truth, everyone is a shadow of the Beloved – Our seeking is His seeking, Our words are His words. At times we flow toward the Beloved like a dancing stream. At times we are still water held in His pitcher. At times we boil in a pot turning to vapor – that is the job of the Beloved. He breathes into my ear until my soul takes on His fragrance. He is the soul of my soul – How can I escape? But why would any soul in this world want to escape from the Beloved? He will melt your pride making you thin as a strand of hair, Yet do not trade, even for both worlds, One strand of His hair. We search for Him here and there while looking right at Him. Sitting by His side we ask, "O Beloved, where is the Beloved?" Enough with such questions! – Let silence take you to the core of life. All your talk is worthless When compared to one whisper of the Beloved. ~ Rumi,

325:According to that splendid education I received out at the U., it was Rousseau who began in Western culture the worship of the child, innocent and perfect in nature. Anyone who has raised a human from scratch knows this is a lie. Children are savages—egocentric little brutes who by the age of three master every form of human misconduct, including violence, fraud, and bribery, in order to get what they want. The one who lived in my house never improved. Last fall it turned out that the community college, for which I’d dutifully given him a tuition check at the beginning of each quarter, did not have the bastard registered. A month ago I took him out to dinner and caught him trying to pocket the waitress’s tip. About three times a week I threaten to throw him out, but his mother has told him the divorce decree provides that I will support him until he’s twenty-one—Brushy and I had assumed that meant paying for college—and Nora, who thinks the boy needs understanding, especially since she doesn’t have to provide much, would doubtless find this an occasion for yet another principled disagreement and probably seek an order requiring Lyle and me to get some counseling—another five hundred bucks a month. ~ Scott Turow,

326:Spartan Mothers ``One more embrace! Then, o'er the main, And nobly play the soldier's part!'' Thus sounds, amid the martial strain, The Spartan Mother's patriot heart. She hides her woe, She bids him go, And tread the path his Fathers trod. ``Who dies for England, dies for God!'' In the husht night, she wakes, she weeps, And listens for the far-off fray. He scours the gorge, he scales the steeps, Scatters the Foe,-away! away! But feigned the flight! Smite, again smite! How fleet their steeds, how nimbly shod! She kneels, she prays-``Protect him, God!'' Weep, tender souls. The sob, the tear, The lonely prayer, the stifled wail, These brace the will, these nerve the spear, And speed him over veldt and vale. What is to him Or life or limb, Who rends the chain and breaks the rod! Who strikes for Freedom, strikes for God! Should Heaven decree that he once more Unscathed return to home and rest, She will be standing at the door, To fold him to her trembling breast. Or, should he fall By ridge or wall, And lie 'neath some green southern sod,``Who dies for England, sleeps with God.'' ~ Alfred Austin,

327:author class:Jalaluddin Rumi /Farsi & Turkish By the God who was in pre-eternity living and moving and omnipotent, everlasting. His light lit the candles of love so that a hundred thousand secrets became known. By one decree of Him the world was filled -- lover and loved, ruler and ruled. In the talismans of Shams-e Tabrizi the treasure of His marvels became concealed. For from the moment that you journeyed forth, we became separated from sweetness like wax; All the night we are burning like candles, paired to his flame and deprived of honey. In separation from his beauty, my body is a waste, and the soul in it is like an owl. Turn those reins in this direction, twist the trunk of the elephant of joy. Without your presence concert is not lawful; music has been stoned like Satan. Without you not one ode has been uttered, until that gracious vision of yours arrived and was understood; Then out of the joy of hearing your letter five or six odes were composed. May our eventide through you be radiant dawn, O you in whom Syria and Armenia and Rum glory. [1494.jpg] -- from Mystical Poems of Rumi: Volume 2, Translated by A. J. Arberry ~ the God who was in pre-eternity living and moving and omnipotent, everlasting ,

328:Enoch Primordial (Sumer) Elohim Anu   Inanna     Noah Primeval (Sumer) Elohim, Yahweh  Inanna   Gilgamesh Immortal (Sumer) Elohim  Ishtar   Ninurta Gilgamesh Abraham Allegiant (Babylon) El Shaddai  Ishtar   Marduk   Nimrod Abraham Allegiant (Canaan) El Elyon  Ashtart Ba’al Amraphel Divine attribute Creator Almighty Most High High God of pantheon Goddess of sex & war God of vegetation & storm A Nephilim     Creator God Nachash Giants Sons of God Noah Other Names Yahweh Elohim The Serpent Nephilim Bene ha Elohim Utnaphishtim Yahweh The satan Adversary Rephaim Watchers Ziusudra Elohim Mastema Emim gods Chosen One El Shaddai A Seraphim Caphtorim Heavenly Host   Angel of Yahweh Shining One Zamzummim Divine Council   Son of Man Accuser Anakim Shining Ones   El Elyon Belial Avvim Holy Ones     Diablos Horim Anunnaki       True Heaven Sumerian Pantheon Seven Gods Who Decree the Fates Sumerian Pantheon Four High Gods Mesopotamian Heavens and Earth Hierarchy Yahweh Elohim Anu Anu Yahweh Elohim’s throne Angel of Yahweh Enlil Enlil The waters above the heavens Seraphim Enki Enki The firmament Cherubim Ninhursag Ninhursag The heavens Sons of God Inanna  Earth M’alak (angels) Utu  The Abyss   Nana  ~ Brian Godawa,

329:Here are a few important principles to remember with regard to the giving and receiving between males and females. When a male demands, a female reacts; she doesn’t respond. When a male gives, a female responds. When a male commits, a female submits. Nothing is more precious to a female than a committed male. Nothing is no more depressing to a female than an uncommitted male. Here’s the secret, guys: If you want a submitted female, be a committed male. It’s that simple. When a male abuses, a female refuses. Whenever a man abuses a woman, she refuses to respond. When a male shares, a female cares. If you find a man who is willing to share with the woman in his life, you will find a woman who is willing to care for her man. When a male leads, a female follows. When a man carries out his God-given responsibility for leadership, a woman responds by following his lead. Leadership does not mean being bossy, always telling others what to do. No, leadership means going ahead, not putting others in the front. Good leaders lead by example, not by decree. Jesus led by example, and so did Moses, Peter, Paul, and all the other great leaders in the Bible. Leading by example means doing ourselves the things we wish others to do. ~ Myles Munroe,

330:fresh and lovely face and waving hair and eyes that from the first were blue like the summer sky at even. Also on her breast was a mole of the length of a finger nail, which mole was shaped like the holy Sign of Life. Now Pharaoh and his house and the priests in every temple, and indeed all Egypt went mad with joy, though there were many who in secret mourned over the sex of the infant, whispering that a man and not a woman should wear the Double Crown. But in public they said nothing, since the story of this child had gone abroad and folk declared that it was sent by the gods, and divine, and that the goddesses, Isis, Nepthys, and Hathor, with Khemu, the Maker of Mankind, were seen in the birth chamber, glowing like gold. Also Pharaoh issued a decree that wherever the name of the Queen Ahura was graven in all the land, to it should be added the title "By the will of Amen, Mother of his Morning Star," and that a new hall should be built in the temple of Amen in the Northern Apt, and all about it carved the story of the coming of Prince Abi and of the vision of the Queen. But Ahura never lived to see this glorious place, since from the hour of her daughter's birth she began to sink. On the fourteenth day, the day of ~ H Rider Haggard,

331:To decide that a man must be definitively punished is to deny him any further opportunity whatsoever to make reparation for his acts... This right to live that coincides with the opportunity for reparation is the natural right of every man, even the worst. The most wretched criminal and the worthiest judge here find themselves side by side, equally miserable and jointly responsible. Without this right, the moral life is strictly impossible. None among us is entitled to despair of a single man, unless it be after his death, which transforms his life into destiny and admits of a final judgment. But to pronounce this final judgment before death, to decree the closing of accounts when the creditor is still alive, is the privilege of no man. On these grounds, at least, he who judges absolutely condemns himself absolutely. ...It is because man is not fundamentally good that no one among us can set himself up as an absolute judge, for no one among us can pretend to absolute innocence. The verdict of capital punishment destroys the only indisputable human community there is, the community in the face of death, and such a judgment can only be legitimated by a truth or a principle that takes its place above all men, beyond the human condition. ~ Albert Camus,

332:nothing, since the story of this child had gone abroad and folk declared that it was sent by the gods, and divine, and that the goddesses, Isis, Nepthys, and Hathor, with Khemu, the Maker of Mankind, were seen in the birth chamber, glowing like gold. Also Pharaoh issued a decree that wherever the name of the Queen Ahura was graven in all the land, to it should be added the title "By the will of Amen, Mother of his Morning Star," and that a new hall should be built in the temple of Amen in the Northern Apt, and all about it carved the story of the coming of Prince Abi and of the vision of the Queen. But Ahura never lived to see this glorious place, since from the hour of her daughter's birth she began to sink. On the fourteenth day, the day of purification, she bade the nurse bring the beautiful babe, and gazed at it long and blessed it, and spoke with the Ka or Double of the child, which she said she saw lying on her arm beside it, bidding that Ka protect it well through the dangers of life and death until the hour of resurrection. Then she said that she heard Amen calling to her to pay the price which she had promised for the gift of the divine child, the price of her own life, and smiled upon Pharaoh her husband, and died happily with a radiant face. Now ~ H Rider Haggard,

333:Wishing -- Or Fate And I Wise men tell me thou, O Fate, Art invincible and great. Well, I own thy prowess; still Dare I flount thee, with my will. Thou canst shatter in a span All the earthly pride of man. Outward things thou canst control But stand back - I rule my soul! Death? 'Tis such a little thing Scarcely worth the mentioning. What has death to do with me, Save to set my spirit free? Something in me dwells, O Fate, That can rise and dominate. Loss, and sorrow, and disaster, How, then, Fate, art thou my master? In the great primeval morn My immortal will was born. Part of the stupendous Cause Which conceived the Solar Laws. Lit the suns and filled the seas, Royalest of pedigrees. That great Cause was Love, the Source, Who most loves has most of Force. He who harbors hate one hour Saps the soul of Peace and Power. He who will not hate his foe Need not dread life's hardest blow. In the realm of brotherhood Wishing no man aught but good. Naught but good can come to me. This is love's supreme decree. Since I bar my door to hate, What have I to fear, O Fate? Since I fear not - Fate, I vow, I the ruler am, not thou! ~ Ella Wheeler Wilcox,

334:A Letter To Her Husband Absent upon Public Employment My head, my heart, mine eyes, my life, nay more, My joy, my magazine, of earthly store, If two be one, as surely thou and I, How stayest thou there, whilst I at Ipswich lie? So many steps, head from the heart to sever, If but a neck, soon should we be together. I, like the Earth this season, mourn in black, My Sun is gone so far in's zodiac, Whom whilst I 'joyed, nor storms, nor frost I felt, His warmth such fridged colds did cause to melt. My chilled limbs now numbed lie forlorn; Return; return, sweet Sol, from Capricorn; In this dead time, alas, what can I more Than view those fruits which through thy heart I bore? Which sweet contentment yield me for a space, True living pictures of their father's face. O strange effect! now thou art southward gone, I weary grow the tedious day so long; But when thou northward to me shalt return, I wish my Sun may never set, but burn Within the Cancer of my glowing breast, The welcome house of him my dearest guest. Where ever, ever stay, and go not thence, Till nature's sad decree shall call thee hence; Flesh of thy flesh, bone of thy bone, I here, thou there, yet both but one. ~ Anne Bradstreet,

335:Sign of Life. Now Pharaoh and his house and the priests in every temple, and indeed all Egypt went mad with joy, though there were many who in secret mourned over the sex of the infant, whispering that a man and not a woman should wear the Double Crown. But in public they said nothing, since the story of this child had gone abroad and folk declared that it was sent by the gods, and divine, and that the goddesses, Isis, Nepthys, and Hathor, with Khemu, the Maker of Mankind, were seen in the birth chamber, glowing like gold. Also Pharaoh issued a decree that wherever the name of the Queen Ahura was graven in all the land, to it should be added the title "By the will of Amen, Mother of his Morning Star," and that a new hall should be built in the temple of Amen in the Northern Apt, and all about it carved the story of the coming of Prince Abi and of the vision of the Queen. But Ahura never lived to see this glorious place, since from the hour of her daughter's birth she began to sink. On the fourteenth day, the day of purification, she bade the nurse bring the beautiful babe, and gazed at it long and blessed it, and spoke with the Ka or Double of the child, which she said she saw lying on her arm beside it, bidding that Ka protect it well through the dangers of life and death until the ~ H Rider Haggard,

336:and his house and the priests in every temple, and indeed all Egypt went mad with joy, though there were many who in secret mourned over the sex of the infant, whispering that a man and not a woman should wear the Double Crown. But in public they said nothing, since the story of this child had gone abroad and folk declared that it was sent by the gods, and divine, and that the goddesses, Isis, Nepthys, and Hathor, with Khemu, the Maker of Mankind, were seen in the birth chamber, glowing like gold. Also Pharaoh issued a decree that wherever the name of the Queen Ahura was graven in all the land, to it should be added the title "By the will of Amen, Mother of his Morning Star," and that a new hall should be built in the temple of Amen in the Northern Apt, and all about it carved the story of the coming of Prince Abi and of the vision of the Queen. But Ahura never lived to see this glorious place, since from the hour of her daughter's birth she began to sink. On the fourteenth day, the day of purification, she bade the nurse bring the beautiful babe, and gazed at it long and blessed it, and spoke with the Ka or Double of the child, which she said she saw lying on her arm beside it, bidding that Ka protect it well through the dangers of life and death until the hour of resurrection. Then she said that she heard ~ H Rider Haggard,

337:Cupid And Folly CUPID, ere depriv'd of Sight, Young and apt for all Delight, Met with Folly on the way, As Idle and as fond of Play. In gay Sports the time they pass; Now run, now wrestle on the Grass; Their painted Wings then nimbly ply, And ev'ry way for Mast'ry try: 'Till a Contest do's arise, Who has won th' appointed Prize. Gentle Love refers the Case To the next, that comes in Place; Trusting to his flatt'ring Wiles, And softens the Dispute with Smiles. But Folly, who no Temper knows, Words pursues with hotter Blows: 'Till the eyes of Love were lost, Which has such Pain to Mortals cost. Venus hears his mournful Crys, And repeats 'em, in the Skys, To Jupiter in Council set, With Peers for the Occasion met; In her Arms the Boy she bears, Bathing him in falling Tears; And whilst his want of Eyes is shown, Secures the Judges by her Own. Folly to the Board must come, And hear the Tryal and the Doom; Which Cytherea loudly prays May be as heavy as the Case: Which, when All was justly weigh'd, Cupid's Wings now useless made, That a staff, his Feet must guide, Which wou'd still be apt to slide; This Decree at last was read, That Love by Folly shou'd be lead. 58 ~ Anne Kingsmill Finch,

338:sent by the gods, and divine, and that the goddesses, Isis, Nepthys, and Hathor, with Khemu, the Maker of Mankind, were seen in the birth chamber, glowing like gold. Also Pharaoh issued a decree that wherever the name of the Queen Ahura was graven in all the land, to it should be added the title "By the will of Amen, Mother of his Morning Star," and that a new hall should be built in the temple of Amen in the Northern Apt, and all about it carved the story of the coming of Prince Abi and of the vision of the Queen. But Ahura never lived to see this glorious place, since from the hour of her daughter's birth she began to sink. On the fourteenth day, the day of purification, she bade the nurse bring the beautiful babe, and gazed at it long and blessed it, and spoke with the Ka or Double of the child, which she said she saw lying on her arm beside it, bidding that Ka protect it well through the dangers of life and death until the hour of resurrection. Then she said that she heard Amen calling to her to pay the price which she had promised for the gift of the divine child, the price of her own life, and smiled upon Pharaoh her husband, and died happily with a radiant face. Now joy was turned to mourning, and during all the days of embalming Egypt wept for Ahura until, at length, the time came when her body was rowed ~ H Rider Haggard,

339:THE tame bird was in a cage, the free bird was in the forest.       They met when the time came, it was a decree of fate.       The free bird cries, "O my love, let us fly to the wood."       The cage bird whispers, "Come hither, let us both live in the cage."       Says the free bird, "Among bars, where is there room to spread one's wings?"       "Alas," cries the caged bird, "I should not know where to sit perched in the sky."            The free bird cries, "My darling, sing the songs of the woodlands."       The cage bird sings, "Sit by my side, I'll teach you the speech of the learned."       The forest bird cries, "No, ah no! songs can never be taught."       The cage bird says, "Alas for me, I know not the songs of the woodlands."            There love is intense with longing, but they never can fly wing to wing.       Through the bars of the cage they look, and vain is their wish to know each other.       They flutter their wings in yearning, and sing, "Come closer, my love!"       The free bird cries, "It cannot be, I fear the closed doors of the cage."       The cage bird whispers, "Alas, my wings are powerless and dead." ~ Rabindranath Tagore, The Tame Bird Was In A Cage ,

340:The Endless Argument Political life in a democracy is a nonstop flow of contradictions and conflicts. What shall we do when the will of the majority infringes on the rights of a minority? If we want both freedom and justice, what is the proper balance of unrestrained personal or economic activity and government regulation? Which is most effective in transforming various kinds of behaviors: education, incentives, or legal sanctions? In the face of a foreign threat, is our national interest more likely to be secured through quiet diplomacy or saber-rattling? In the face of divergent problems like these, what kinds of institutions will allow people who disagree to open up and work together rather than shut down and turn against each other? When America's founders wrestled with that question, they were motivated in part by a desire to grow beyond Old World traditions of “resolving” conflicts by royal decree. But their more immediate motivation was the need to deal with the serious conflicts among themselves. The fact that the founders were all white, male landholders did not make for a united approach to declaring independence from British rule and framing a national constitution. Far from it. Their own diversity of convictions compelled them to invent political institutions capable of surviving conflict and of putting it to good use. ~ Parker J Palmer,

341:Egypt went mad with joy, though there were many who in secret mourned over the sex of the infant, whispering that a man and not a woman should wear the Double Crown. But in public they said nothing, since the story of this child had gone abroad and folk declared that it was sent by the gods, and divine, and that the goddesses, Isis, Nepthys, and Hathor, with Khemu, the Maker of Mankind, were seen in the birth chamber, glowing like gold. Also Pharaoh issued a decree that wherever the name of the Queen Ahura was graven in all the land, to it should be added the title "By the will of Amen, Mother of his Morning Star," and that a new hall should be built in the temple of Amen in the Northern Apt, and all about it carved the story of the coming of Prince Abi and of the vision of the Queen. But Ahura never lived to see this glorious place, since from the hour of her daughter's birth she began to sink. On the fourteenth day, the day of purification, she bade the nurse bring the beautiful babe, and gazed at it long and blessed it, and spoke with the Ka or Double of the child, which she said she saw lying on her arm beside it, bidding that Ka protect it well through the dangers of life and death until the hour of resurrection. Then she said that she heard Amen calling to her to pay the price which she had promised for the gift of the divine child, the price ~ H Rider Haggard,

342:all Egypt went mad with joy, though there were many who in secret mourned over the sex of the infant, whispering that a man and not a woman should wear the Double Crown. But in public they said nothing, since the story of this child had gone abroad and folk declared that it was sent by the gods, and divine, and that the goddesses, Isis, Nepthys, and Hathor, with Khemu, the Maker of Mankind, were seen in the birth chamber, glowing like gold. Also Pharaoh issued a decree that wherever the name of the Queen Ahura was graven in all the land, to it should be added the title "By the will of Amen, Mother of his Morning Star," and that a new hall should be built in the temple of Amen in the Northern Apt, and all about it carved the story of the coming of Prince Abi and of the vision of the Queen. But Ahura never lived to see this glorious place, since from the hour of her daughter's birth she began to sink. On the fourteenth day, the day of purification, she bade the nurse bring the beautiful babe, and gazed at it long and blessed it, and spoke with the Ka or Double of the child, which she said she saw lying on her arm beside it, bidding that Ka protect it well through the dangers of life and death until the hour of resurrection. Then she said that she heard Amen calling to her to pay the price which she had promised for the gift of the divine child, the price ~ H Rider Haggard,

343:Be fair, my friends! To be the empire of such an emperor, what a splendid destiny for a nation, when that nation is France, and when it adds its genius to the genius of such a man ! To appear and to reign, to march and to triumph, to have every capital for a staging area, to take his grenadiers and make kings of them, to decree the downfall of dynasties, to transfigure Europe at a double quickstep, so men feel, when you threaten, that you are laying your hand on the hilt of God’s sword, to follow in one man Hannibal , Caesar, and Charlemagne, to be the people of a man who mingles with your every dawn the glorious announcement of a battle won, to be wakened in the morning by the cannon of the Invalides, to hurl into the vault of day mighty words that blaze forever, Marengo, Arcola, Austerlitz, lena, Wagram ! To repeatedly call forth constellations of victories at the zenith of the centuries, to make the French Empire the successor of the Roman Empire, to be the grand nation and to bring forth the Grand Army, to send your legions flying across the whole earth as a mountain sends out its eagles, to vanquish, to rule, to strike thunder, to be for Europe a kind of golden people through glory, to sound through history a Titan’s fanfare, to conquer the world twice, by conquest and by resplendence, that is sublime. What could be greater?" "To be free," said Combeferre. ~ Victor Hugo,

344:A Leaf Somebody said, in the crowd, last eve, That you were married, or soon to be. I have not thought of you, I believe, Since last we parted. Let me see: Five long Summers have passed since then – Each has been pleasant in its own way – And you are but one of a dozen men Who have played the suitor a Summer day. But, nevertheless, when I heard your name, Coupled with some one’s, not my own, There burned in my bosom a sudden flame, That carried me back to the day that is flown. I was sitting again by the laughing brook, With you at my feet, and the sky above, And my heart was fluttering under your look – The unmistakable look of Love. Again your breath, like a South wind, fanned My cheek, where the blushes came and went; And the tender clasp of your strong, warm hand Sudden thrills through my pulses sent. Again you were mine by Love’s decree: So for a moment it seemed last night, When somebody mentioned your name to me. Just for the moment I thought you mine – Loving me, wooing me, as of old. The tale remembered seemed half divine – Though I held it lightly enough when told. The past seemed fairer than when it was near, As ‘blessings brighten when taking flight, ’ And just for the moment I held you near – When somebody mentioned your name last night. ~ Ella Wheeler Wilcox,

345:The Decree Of Athena Hear ye my statute, men of Attica-Ye who of bloodshed judge this primal cause; Yea, and in future age shall Aegeus's host Revere this court of jurors. This the hill Of Ares, seat of Amazons, their tent, What time 'gainst Theseus, breathing hate, they came, Waging fierce battle, and their towers upreared, A counter-fortress to Acropolis;-To Ares they did sacrifice, and hence This rock is titled Areopagus. Here then shall sacred Awe, to Fear allied, By day and night my lieges hold from wrong, Save if themselves do innovate my laws, If thou with mud, or influx base, bedim The sparkling water, nought thou'lt find to drink. Nor Anarchy, nor Tyrant's lawless rule Commend I to my people's reverence;-Nor let them banish from their city Fear; For who 'mong men, uncurbed by fear, is just? Thus holding Awe in seemly reverence, A bulwark for your State shall ye possess, A safeguard to protect your city walls, Such as no mortals otherwhere can boast, Neither in Scythia, nor in Pelops's realm. Behold! This Court august, untouched by bribes, Sharp to avenge, wakeful for those who sleep, Establish I, a bulwark to this land. This charge, extending to all future time, I give my lieges. Meet it as ye rise, Assume the pebbles, and decide the cause, Your oath revering. All hath now been said. ~ Aeschylus,

346:Let us be just, my friends! What a splendid destiny for a nation to be the Empire of such an Emperor, when that nation is France and when it adds its own genius to the genius of that man! To appear and to reign, to march and to triumph, to have for halting-places all capitals, to take his grenadiers and to make kings of them, to decree the falls of dynasties, and to transfigure Europe at the pace of a charge; to make you feel that when you threaten you lay your hand on the hilt of the sword of God; to follow in a single man, Hannibal, Caesar, Charlemagne; to be the people of some one who mingles with your dawns the startling announcement of a battle won, to have the cannon of the Invalides to rouse you in the morning, to hurl into abysses of light prodigious words which flame forever, Marengo, Arcola, Austerlitz, Jena, Wagram! To cause constellations of victories to flash forth at each instant from the zenith of the centuries, to make the French Empire a pendant to the Roman Empire, to be the great nation and to give birth to the grand army, to make its legions fly forth over all the earth, as a mountain sends out its eagles on all sides to conquer, to dominate, to strike with lightning, to be in Europe a sort of nation gilded through glory, to sound athwart the centuries a trumpet-blast of Titans, to conquer the world twice, by conquest and by dazzling, that is sublime; and what greater thing is there?" "To be free," said Combeferre. ~ Victor Hugo,

347:Perhaps the belief that the Indians were destined to vanish originated in early colonial times as a means of justifying the massacres of Indians by the Puritans. If, as the New England colonists believed, Indians were under a cosmic curse and in a state of rapid decline, killing a few was not really a criminal act and in some instances might actually be doing the Lord’s work. It was not all Thanksgiving dinners in those early days. No one questions that the Indian population in the East did decline precipitiously as whites settled the New England area. Many Ind­ians were killed, others hid in obscure places, and still other Indians moved west before the American Revolution. Many eastern Indians were allies of Great Britain in both the Revolution and the War of 1812. Believing they should not stay behind in the United States when their English friends fled to Canada after the Revolution, they left with the departing British troops, vanishing from the United States but remaining very much a part of things north of the border. The virtual disappearance of Indians east of the Mississippi can be traced directly to Andrew Jackson’s policy of removing the tribes of that region to Oklahoma and Kansas, not to some cosmic decree commanding their inevitable extinction. Even then only the largest and most threatening tribes were removed. Smaller tribal groups simply remained in the backwaters of the eastern United States where they had always lived. ~ Vine Deloria Jr,

348:Among the girls at this party were a number of the now-famous wives of Americans and Britons who are not permitted to leave the Soviet Union. Pretty and rather sad girls. They cannot join their husbands in England or America, and so they are employed by their embassies until some final decision is reached. There are many things we cannot understand about the Soviet Union, and this is one of them. There are not more than fifty of these women. They are no good to the Soviet Union. They are suspected. Russians do not associate with them, and yet they are not permitted to leave. And on these fifty women, these fifty unimportant women, the Soviet Union has got itself more bad publicity than on any other single small item. Of course this situation cannot arise again, since by a new decree no Russian may marry a foreigner. But here they sit in Moscow, these sad women, no longer Russians, and they have not become British or American. And we cannot understand the reasoning which keeps them here. Perhaps it is just that the Russians do not intend to be told what to do about anything by anyone else. It might be as simple as that. When Clement Attlee personally requested that they be sent out of Russia, he was told, in effect, to mind his own business. It is just one more of the international stupidities which seem to be on the increase in the world. Sometimes it seems that the leaders of nations are little boys with chips on their shoulders, daring each other to knock them off. ~ John Steinbeck,

349:Despite the raised voices and the wild gesticulations, nobody here is wrong. The beauty of ragù is that it's an idea as much as it is a recipe, a slow-simmered distillation of what means and circumstances have gifted you: If Zia Peppe's ragù is made with nothing but pork scraps, that's because her neighbor raises pigs. When Maria cooks her vegetables in a mix of oil and butter, it's because her family comes from a long line of dairy farmers. When Nonna Anna slips a few laurel leaves into the pot, she plucks them from the tree outside her back door. There is no need for a decree from the Chamber of Commerce to tell these women what qualifies as the authentic ragù; what's authentic is whatever is simmering under the lid. Eventually the women agree to disagree and the rolling boil of the debate calms to a gentle simmer. Alessandro opens a few bottles of pignoletto he's brought to make the peace. We drink and take photos and make small talk about tangential ragù issues such as the proper age of Parmesan and the troubled state of the prosciutto industry in the region. On my way out, Anna no. 1 grabs me by the arm. She pulls me close and looks up into my eyes with an earnestness that drowns out the rest of the chatter in the room. "Forget about these arguments. Forget about the small details. Just remember that the most important ingredient for making ragù, the one thing you can never forget, is love." Lisetta overhears from across the room and quickly adds, "And pancetta! ~ Matt Goulding,

350:The king does seal himself from his subjects and will not speak on such matters, but the Grudge price must be set and so it shall be. For the desecration of the Third Deep: one thousand urk heads. For the lost lives of two hundred and thirteen dawi in defiance of such barbarism: two thousand urk heads. For the abduction of Queen Morga, the lustre of Azul, and those others of King Kazador’s blood: their safe return with five thousand urk heads, or the restoration of their remains to the Ancestor Chambers of Karak Azul and no fewer than six thousand of the greenskin dead. Of Kazador’s son, the king does forbid our speaking beyond the pages of the kron. The prince is no longer of sound mind and the king does command his confinement until he can be found recovered. Let it be known that that for the brutal shaming of brave Prince Kazrik upon the very seat of the Iron Throne itself, King Kazador will accept no price. May this grudge against the urk of Black Crag stand forevermore. The greatly wronged king did then rouse from his grief to issue one mighty decree: half his wealth to any that returns his lost kin, and the pick of his own treasures to any that can avenge his son’s torture upon the squatter king. The thanes did each raise voice against so rash and unprecedented an oath, but the king, so mined of passion that even the wealth of Karak Azul could afford him no joy, was resolute. Thus is it recorded, and by Grimnir let it soon be done. ~ David Guymer,

351:Whose but his own? ingrate, he had of mee All he could have; I made him just and right, Sufficient to have stood, though free to fall. Such I created all th’ Ethereal Powers And Spirits, both them who stood and them who fail’d; Freely they stood who stood, and fell who fell. Not free, what proof could they have giv’n sincere Of true allegiance, constant Faith or Love, Where only what they needs must do, appear’d, Not what they would? what praise could they receive? What pleasure I from such obedience paid, When Will and Reason (Reason also is choice) Useless and vain, of freedom both despoil’d, Made passive both, had served necessity, Not mee. They therefore as to right belong’d, So were created, nor can justly accuse Thir maker, or thir making, or thir Fate; As if Predestination over-rul’d Thir will, dispos’d by absolute Decree Or high foreknowledge; they themselves decreed Thir own revolt, not I; if I foreknew Foreknowledge had no influence on their fault, Which had no less prov’d certain unforeknown. So without least impulse or shadow of Fate, Or aught by me immutable foreseen, They trespass, Authors to themselves in all Both what they judge and what they choose; for so I form’d them free, and free they must remain, Till they enthrall themselves: I else must change Thir nature, and revoke the high Decree Unchangeable, Eternal, which ordain’d Thir freedom: they themselves ordain’d thir fall. ~ John Milton,

352:Since every I is, in itself, fundamentally criminal in its attitude toward the State and the people, we must recognize that to live is to transgress. Unless we accept death, we must be willing to kill in order to be unique. "You are not as noble as a criminal, you who do not desecrate anything." Moreover Stirner, still without the courage of his convictions, specifies: "Kill them, do not martyr them." But to decree that murder is legitimate is to decree mobilization and war for all the Unique. Thus murder will coincide with a kind of collective suicide. Stirner, who either does not admit or does not see this, nevertheless does not recoil at the idea of any form of destruction. The spirit of rebellion finally discovers one of its bitterest satisfactions in chaos. "You [the German nation] will be struck down. Soon your sister nations will follow you; when all of them have gone your way, humanity will be buried, and on its tomb I, sole master of myself at last, I, heir to all the human race, will shout with laughter." And so, among the ruins of the world, the desolate laughter of the individual-king illustrates the last victory of the spirit of rebellion. But at this extremity nothing else is possible but death or resurrection. Stirner, and with him all the nihilist rebels, rush to the utmost limits, drunk with destruction. After which, when the desert has been disclosed, the next step is to learn how to live there. Nietzsche's exhaustive search then begins. ~ Albert Camus,

353:But now, supposing that, instead of confessing the sins of the world which she has taken upon herself, the Church - or a group of Christians who arrogate to themselves the name of “Church” - becomes a social mechanism for self-justification? Supposing this “Church,” which is in reality no church at all, takes to herself the function of declaring that everyone else is guilty and rationalizing the sins of her members as acts of virtue? Suppose that she becomes a perfect and faultless machine for declaring herself not guilty? Suppose that she provides men with a convenient method of deciding when they do or do not need to accuse themselves of anything before God? Supposing that, instead of conscience, she provides men with the support of unanimous group approval or disapproval? This is what explains the fact that some men can commit murder in the name of Christ and believe themselves guiltless, indeed congratulate themselves on having served Him well. For them, the function of “the Church” is to provide a milieu in which one can decide what is and is not guilty, what is or is not sinful. The “Church” becomes simply a place where men gather to decree that others are guilty and they themselves are innocent. The fact that others then accuse them of hypocrisy and of flagrant infidelity to truth only confirms them in their own self-assured righteousness. The “Church” in such an event becomes a machine for setting the unquiet conscience at rest. It is a perfectly efficient machine for the manufacture of self-complacency and inner peace! ~ Thomas Merton,

354:this matter will not go uninvestigated.” He glanced at Madam Bones, who readjusted her monocle and stared back at him, frowning slightly. “I would remind everybody that the behavior of these dementors, if indeed they are not figments of this boy’s imagination, is not the subject of this hearing!” said Fudge. “We are here to examine Harry Potter’s offenses under the Decree for the Reasonable Restriction of Underage Sorcery!” “Of course we are,” said Dumbledore, “but the presence of dementors in that alleyway is highly relevant. Clause seven of the Decree states that magic may be used before Muggles in exceptional circumstances, and as those exceptional circumstances include situations that threaten the life of the wizard or witch himself, or witches, wizards, or Muggles present at the time of the —” “We are familiar with clause seven, thank you very much!” snarled Fudge. “Of course you are,” said Dumbledore courteously. “Then we are in agreement that Harry’s use of the Patronus Charm in these circumstances falls precisely into the category of exceptional circumstances it describes?” “If there were dementors, which I doubt —” “You have heard from an eyewitness,” Dumbledore interrupted. “If you still doubt her truthfulness, call her back, question her again. I am sure she would not object.” “I — that — not —” blustered Fudge, fiddling with the papers before him. “It’s — I want this over with today, Dumbledore!” “But naturally, you would not care how many times you heard from a witness, if the alternative was a serious miscarriage of justice,” said Dumbledore. ~ J K Rowling,

355:Most people don’t “choose” fiery tempers or alcoholic binges or torturing prisoners of war or exploiting Third-World workers or dumping toxic chemicals into their community’s water supply. Most people don’t first conclude that adultery is right and then start fantasizing about their neighbor swinging from a stripper pole. Most people don’t first learn to praise gluttony and then start drizzling bacon grease over their second helping of chicken-fried steak. It happens in reverse. First, you do what you want to do, even though you “know God’s decree that those who practice such things deserve to die,” and only then do you “give approval to those who practice them” (Rom. 1:32). You start to see yourself as either special or as hopeless, and thus the normal boundaries don’t seem to apply. It might be that you are involved in certain patterns right now and that you would, if asked, be able to tell me exactly why they are morally and ethically wrong. It’s not that you are deficient in the cognitive ability to diagnose the situation. It’s instead that you slowly grow to believe that your situation is exceptional (“I am a god”), and then you find all kinds of reasons why this technically isn’t theft or envy or hatred or fornication or abuse of power or whatever (“I am able to discern good and evil”). Or you believe you are powerless before what you want (“I am an animal”) and can therefore escape accountability (“I will not surely die”). You’ve forgotten who you are. You are a creature. You are also a king or a queen. You are not a beast, and you are not a god. That issue is where temptation begins. ~ Russell D Moore,

356:The trial, despite the subserviency of the court to the Nazi authorities, cast a great deal of suspicion on Goering and the Nazis, but it came too late to have any practical effect. For Hitler had lost no time in exploiting the Reichstag fire to the limit.   On the day following the fire, February 28, he prevailed on President Hindenburg to sign a decree “for the Protection of the People and the State” suspending the seven sections of the constitution which guaranteed individual and civil liberties. Described as a “defensive measure against Communist acts of violence endangering the state,” the decree laid down that:      Restrictions on personal liberty, on the right of free expression of opinion, including freedom of the press; on the rights of assembly and association; and violations of the privacy of postal, telegraphic and telephonic communications; and warrants for house searchers, orders for confiscations as well as restrictions on property, are also permissible beyond the legal limits otherwise prescribed.   In addition, the decree authorized the Reich government to take over complete power in the federal states when necessary and imposed the death sentence for a number of crimes, including “serious disturbances of the peace” by armed persons.8   Thus with one stroke Hitler was able not only to legally gag his opponents and arrest them at his will but, by making the trumped-up Communist threat “official,” as it were, to throw millions of the middle class and the peasantry into a frenzy of fear that unless they voted for National Socialism at the elections a week hence, the Bolsheviks might take over. ~ William L Shirer,

357:Of all the war crimes which he claimed he had to commit on the orders of Hitler “the worst of all,” General Keitel said on the stand at Nuremberg, stemmed from the Nacht und Nebel Erlass—“Night and Fog Decree.” This grotesque order, reserved for the unfortunate inhabitants of the conquered territories in the West, was issued by Hitler himself on December 7, 1941. Its purpose, as the weird title indicates, was to seize persons “endangering German security” who were not to be immediately executed and make them vanish without a trace into the night and fog of the unknown in Germany. No information was to be given their families as to their fate even when, as invariably occurred, it was merely a question of the place of burial in the Reich. On December 12, 1941, Keitel issued a directive explaining the Fuehrer’s orders. “In principle,” he said, “the punishment for offenses committed against the German state is the death penalty.” But if these offenses are punished with imprisonment, even with hard labor for life, this will be looked upon as a sign of weakness. Efficient intimidation can only be achieved either by capital punishment or by measures by which the relatives of the criminal and the population do not know his fate.42 The following February Keitel enlarged on the Night and Fog Decree. In cases where the death penalty was not meted out within eight days of a person’s arrest, the prisoners are to be transported to Germany secretly… these measures will have a deterrent effect because (a) the prisoners will vanish without leaving a trace, (b) no information may be given as to their whereabouts or their fate. ~ William L Shirer,

358:to Memphis." So Abi returned to the white-walled city of Memphis and sat there sullenly, putting it about that a plot was on foot to deprive him of his heritage. But Kaku shook his head, saying in secret that the Star, Neter-Tua, would arise, for so it was decreed by Amen, father of the gods. CHAPTER III RAMES, THE PRINCESS, AND THE CROCODILE At the appointed time to Ahura, the royal wife, was born a child, a girl with a fresh and lovely face and waving hair and eyes that from the first were blue like the summer sky at even. Also on her breast was a mole of the length of a finger nail, which mole was shaped like the holy Sign of Life. Now Pharaoh and his house and the priests in every temple, and indeed all Egypt went mad with joy, though there were many who in secret mourned over the sex of the infant, whispering that a man and not a woman should wear the Double Crown. But in public they said nothing, since the story of this child had gone abroad and folk declared that it was sent by the gods, and divine, and that the goddesses, Isis, Nepthys, and Hathor, with Khemu, the Maker of Mankind, were seen in the birth chamber, glowing like gold. Also Pharaoh issued a decree that wherever the name of the Queen Ahura was graven in all the land, to it should be added the title "By the will of Amen, Mother of his Morning Star," and that a new hall should be built in the temple of Amen in the Northern Apt, and all about it carved the story of the coming of Prince Abi and of the vision of the Queen. But Ahura never lived to see this glorious place, since from the hour of her daughter's birth she began to sink. On the fourteenth day, the ~ H Rider Haggard,

359:to Memphis." So Abi returned to the white-walled city of Memphis and sat there sullenly, putting it about that a plot was on foot to deprive him of his heritage. But Kaku shook his head, saying in secret that the Star, Neter-Tua, would arise, for so it was decreed by Amen, father of the gods. CHAPTER III RAMES, THE PRINCESS, AND THE CROCODILE At the appointed time to Ahura, the royal wife, was born a child, a girl with a fresh and lovely face and waving hair and eyes that from the first were blue like the summer sky at even. Also on her breast was a mole of the length of a finger nail, which mole was shaped like the holy Sign of Life. Now Pharaoh and his house and the priests in every temple, and indeed all Egypt went mad with joy, though there were many who in secret mourned over the sex of the infant, whispering that a man and not a woman should wear the Double Crown. But in public they said nothing, since the story of this child had gone abroad and folk declared that it was sent by the gods, and divine, and that the goddesses, Isis, Nepthys, and Hathor, with Khemu, the Maker of Mankind, were seen in the birth chamber, glowing like gold. Also Pharaoh issued a decree that wherever the name of the Queen Ahura was graven in all the land, to it should be added the title "By the will of Amen, Mother of his Morning Star," and that a new hall should be built in the temple of Amen in the Northern Apt, and all about it carved the story of the coming of Prince Abi and of the vision of the Queen. But Ahura never lived to see this glorious place, since from the hour of her daughter's birth she began to sink. On the fourteenth day, the day ~ H Rider Haggard,

360:the first were blue like the summer sky at even. Also on her breast was a mole of the length of a finger nail, which mole was shaped like the holy Sign of Life. Now Pharaoh and his house and the priests in every temple, and indeed all Egypt went mad with joy, though there were many who in secret mourned over the sex of the infant, whispering that a man and not a woman should wear the Double Crown. But in public they said nothing, since the story of this child had gone abroad and folk declared that it was sent by the gods, and divine, and that the goddesses, Isis, Nepthys, and Hathor, with Khemu, the Maker of Mankind, were seen in the birth chamber, glowing like gold. Also Pharaoh issued a decree that wherever the name of the Queen Ahura was graven in all the land, to it should be added the title "By the will of Amen, Mother of his Morning Star," and that a new hall should be built in the temple of Amen in the Northern Apt, and all about it carved the story of the coming of Prince Abi and of the vision of the Queen. But Ahura never lived to see this glorious place, since from the hour of her daughter's birth she began to sink. On the fourteenth day, the day of purification, she bade the nurse bring the beautiful babe, and gazed at it long and blessed it, and spoke with the Ka or Double of the child, which she said she saw lying on her arm beside it, bidding that Ka protect it well through the dangers of life and death until the hour of resurrection. Then she said that she heard Amen calling to her to pay the price which she had promised for the gift of the divine child, the price of her own life, and smiled upon Pharaoh her husband, and ~ H Rider Haggard,

361:There may be some truth (atheists) do not need to believe in a god to be good, but then if they do not believe in a god, who do they believe gives the Universal Law of following good and shunning evil? Obviously, mankind. But then that is a dangerous thing, for if a man does not believe in a god capable of giving perfect laws, he is in the position of declaring all laws come from man, and as man is imperfect, he can declare that as fallible men make imperfect laws, he can pick and choose what he wishes to follow, that which, in his own mind seems good. He does not believe in divine retribution, therefore he can also declare his own morality contrary to what the divine may decree simply because he believes there is no divine decree. He may follow his every whim and passion, declaring it to be good when it may be very evil, for he like all men is imperfect, so how can he tell what is verily good? The atheist is in danger of mistaking vice for good and consequently follow another slave master and tyrant, his own physical and mental weakness. Evil would be wittingly or unwittingly perpetrated, therefore, to recognise the existence of a perfect divine being that gives perfect Universal Laws is much better than not to believe in a god, for if there is a perfect god, they will not allow their laws to be broken with impunity as in the case with many corrupt judges on earth, but will punish accordingly in due time. Therefore, to be pious and reverent is the surest path to true freedom as a perfect god will give perfect laws to prevent all manner of slavery, tyranny and moral wantonness, even if we do not understand why they are good laws at times. ~ E A Bucchianeri,

362:In 1846 Easter fell on the same date in the Latin and Greek Orthodox calendars, so the holy shrines were much more crowded than usual, and the mood was very tense. The two religious communities had long been arguing about who should have first right to carry out their Good Friday rituals on the altar of Calvary inside the Church of the Holy Sepulchre, the spot where the cross of Jesus was supposed to have been inserted in the rock. During recent years the rivalry between the Latins and the Greeks had reached such fever pitch that Mehmet Pasha, the Ottoman governor of Jerusalem, had been forced to position soldiers inside and outside the church to preserve order. But even this had not prevented fights from breaking out. On this Good Friday the Latin priests arrived with their white linen altar-cloth to find that the Greeks had got there first with their silk embroidered cloth. The Catholics demanded to see the Greeks’ firman, their decree from the Sultan in Constantinople, empowering them to place their silk cloth on the altar first. The Greeks demanded to see the Latins’ firman allowing them to remove it. A fight broke out between the priests, who were quickly joined by monks and pilgrims on either side. Soon the whole church was a battlefield. The rival groups of worshippers fought not only with their fists, but with crucifixes, candlesticks, chalices, lamps and incense-burners, and even bits of wood which they tore from the sacred shrines. The fighting continued with knives and pistols smuggled into the Holy Sepulchre by worshippers of either side. By the time the church was cleared by Mehmet Pasha’s guards, more than forty people lay dead on the floor.1 ~ Orlando Figes,

363:All the solitary hours a writer pours into a novel would avail little if not for the solitary hours poured into it by many unseen others. Anyway I assume those others also do their work in solitude; maybe they work in pairs or crews or tag teams, but I’d rather imagine them slaving over my words in a poorly lit and otherwise unoccupied room, just as I do. Maybe they will have a little music for company, but nothing too upbeat, something along the lines of Mozart’s Requiem, for example, because as everybody who has ever worked on a book knows, this work can be as grueling in its way as crawling on your knees through ten acres of ground-hugging plants to pick potato beetles off one at a time and flick them into a galvanized bucket filled with soapy water. But it can also be as transcendent as the Requiem—or as picking potato beetles when you are in the right frame of mind for it. Knowing other people are engaged in the same underappreciated labor and squeezing a perverse kind of joy out of it is what keeps me writing, especially if it’s my field of potatoes they are picking over. Sometimes I like to picture each of my collaborators working their way down a row, their backs aching, hands filthy with beetle juice, fingernails broken, eyes going cross-eyed in the faltering light. It’s inspirational. Thirty years ago, I would have written (and did) a dull-as-dirt acknowledgment to thank each of my collaborators. It would have had all the excitement of a divorce decree. Back then I had no idea how difficult and precarious a job it is to turn out a novel every couple of years. It gets more difficult and precarious every year. So does living. To me, they’re pretty much the same thing. ~ Randall Silvis,

364:Nocturne Night of Mid-June, in heavy vapours dying, Like priestly hands thy holy touch is lying Upon the world's wide brow; God-like and grand all nature is commanding The "peace that passes human understanding"; I, also, feel it now. What matters it to-night, if one life treasure I covet, is not mine! Am I to measure The gifts of Heaven's decree By my desires? O! life for ever longing For some far gift, where many gifts are thronging, God wills, it may not be. Am I to learn that longing, lifted higher, Perhaps will catch the gleam of sacred fire That shows my cross is gold? That underneath this cross--however lowly, A jewel rests, white, beautiful and holy, Whose worth can not be told. Like to a scene I watched one day in wonder:-A city, great and powerful, lay under A sky of grey and gold; The sun outbreaking in his farewell hour, Was scattering afar a yellow shower Of light, that aureoled With brief hot touch, so marvellous and shining, A hundred steeples on the sky out-lining, Like network threads of fire; Above them all, with halo far outspreading, I saw a golden cross in glory heading A consecrated spire: I only saw its gleaming form uplifting, Against the clouds of grey to seaward drifting, And yet I surely know Beneath the seen, a great unseen is resting, 64 For while the cross that pinnacle is cresting, An Altar lies below. Night of Mid-June, so slumberous and tender, Night of Mid-June, transcendent in thy splendour Thy silent wings enfold And hush my longing, as at thy desire All colour fades from round that far-off spire, Except its cross of gold. ~ Emily Pauline Johnson,

365:Judex Judicatus Judge Armstrong, when the poor have sought your aid, To be released from vows that they have made In haste, and leisurely repented, you, As stern as Rhadamanthus (Minos too, And AEeacus) have drawn your fierce brows down And petrified them with a moral frown! With iron-faced rigor you have made them run The gauntlet of publicity-each Hun Or Vandal of the public press allowed To throw their households open to the crowd And bawl their secret bickerings aloud. When Wealth before you suppliant appears, Bang! go the doors and open fly your ears! The blinds are drawn, the lights diminished burn, Lest eyes too curious should look and learn That gold refines not, sweetens not a life Of conjugal brutality and strifeThat vice is vulgar, though it gilded shine Upon the curve of a judicial spine. The veiled complainant's whispered evidence, The plain collusion and the no defense, The sealed exhibits and the secret plea, The unrecorded and unseen decree, The midnight signature and-_chink! chink! chink! Nay, pardon, upright Judge, I did but think I heard that sound abhorred of honest men; No doubt it was the scratching of your pen. O California! long-enduring land, Where Judges fawn upon the Golden Hand, Proud of such service to that rascal thing As slaves would blush to render to a king Judges, of judgment destitute and heart, Of conscience conscious only by the smart From the recoil (so insight is enlarged) Of duty accidentally discharged; Invoking still a 'song o' sixpence' from The Scottish fiddle of each lusty palm, Thy Judges, California, skilled to play 325 This silent music, through the livelong-day Perform obsequious before the rich, And still the more they scratch the more they itch! ~ Ambrose Bierce,

366:In One's Age to One's Youth Listen, thou child I used to be! I know what thou didst fret to knowKnowledge thou couldst not lure to thee, Whatever bribe thou wouldst bestow. That knowledge but a waymark plants Along the road of ignorance. Listen, thou child I used to be! I am enlarged where thou wert bound, Though vaunting still that thou wast free, And lord of thine own pleasure crowned. True freedom heeds a hidden stress, Whereby desire to range grows less. Listen, thou child I used to be! Unmoved I meet thy fear of old, Where thou, but masked with bravery, Didst ever charge thyself, Be bold! True courage owns a dread extremeLed blind through the blind battle's scheme! Listen, thou child I used to be! I love, I serve with proffered veins, Where thou demandest praise thy fee, And grateful solace for thy pains. True love and service do but win That I may more exceed therein. Listen, thou child I used to be! My soul to wrath 'gainst wrong is used, Where thy rash combat utterly The doer and the deed confused. Right wrath the deed stabs soon or late, The doer spares, his deed to hate. Listen, thou child I used to be! Unproud I move, and yet unbowed, Where thou wast fed with vanity, Thy chiefest pride- thou wast not proud! True lowliness forgets its state, And equal trains with small or great. Listen, thou child I used to be! I am what thy dream-wandering sense Did shape, and thy fresh will decree, Yet all with subtle difference: Where heaven's arc did seem to end, Still on and on fair fields extend. Yet listen, child I used to be! Nothing of thine I dare despise, Nor passion, deed, nor fantasy; For lo! the soul's far years shall rise And with unripeness charge this hour Would boast o'er thine its riper power. ~ Edith Matilda Thomas,

367:All the days of my appointed time will I wait." Job 14:14 A little stay on earth will make heaven more heavenly. Nothing makes rest so sweet as toil; nothing renders security so pleasant as exposure to alarms. The bitter quassia cups of earth will give a relish to the new wine which sparkles in the golden bowls of glory. Our battered armour and scarred countenances will render more illustrious our victory above, when we are welcomed to the seats of those who have overcome the world. We should not have full fellowship with Christ if we did not for awhile sojourn below, for he was baptized with a baptism of suffering among men, and we must be baptized with the same if we would share his kingdom. Fellowship with Christ is so honourable that the sorest sorrow is a light price by which to procure it. Another reason for our lingering here is for the good of others. We would not wish to enter heaven till our work is done, and it may be that we are yet ordained to minister light to souls benighted in the wilderness of sin. Our prolonged stay here is doubtless for God's glory. A tried saint, like a well-cut diamond, glitters much in the King's crown. Nothing reflects so much honour on a workman as a protracted and severe trial of his work, and its triumphant endurance of the ordeal without giving way in any part. We are God's workmanship, in whom he will be glorified by our afflictions. It is for the honour of Jesus that we endure the trial of our faith with sacred joy. Let each man surrender his own longings to the glory of Jesus, and feel, "If my lying in the dust would elevate my Lord by so much as an inch, let me still lie among the pots of earth. If to live on earth forever would make my Lord more glorious, it should be my heaven to be shut out of heaven." Our time is fixed and settled by eternal decree. Let us not be anxious about it, but wait with patience till the gates of pearl shall open. ~ Charles Haddon Spurgeon,

368:In the whole vast domain of living nature there reigns an open violence, a kind of prescriptive fury which arms all the creatures to their common doom. As soon as you leave the inanimate kingdom, you find the decree of violent death inscribed on the very frontiers of life. You feel it already in the vegetable kingdom: from the great catalpa to the humblest herb, how many plants die, and how many are killed. But from the moment you enter the animal kingdom, this law is suddenly in the most dreadful evidence. A power of violence at once hidden and palpable … has in each species appointed a certain number of animals to devour the others. Thus there are insects of prey, reptiles of prey, birds of prey, fishes of prey, quadrupeds of prey. There is no instant of time when one creature is not being devoured by another. Over all these numerous races of animals man is placed, and his destructive hand spares nothing that lives. He kills to obtain food and he kills to clothe himself. He kills to adorn himself, he kills in order to attack, and he kills in order to defend himself. He kills to instruct himself and he kills to amuse himself. He kills to kill. Proud and terrible king, he wants everything and nothing resists him. From the lamb he tears its guts and makes his harp resound ... from the wolf his most deadly tooth to polish his pretty works of art; from the elephant his tusks to make a toy for his child - his table is covered with corpses ... And who in all of this will exterminate him who exterminates all others? Himself. It is man who is charged with the slaughter of man ... So it is accomplished ... the first law of the violent destruction of living creatures. The whole earth, perpetually steeped in blood, is nothing but a vast altar upon which all that is living must be sacrificed without end, without measure, without pause, until the consummation of things, until evil is extinct, until the death of death. ~ Joseph de Maistre,

369:Holy Dan It was in the Queensland drought; And over hill and dell, No grass – the water far apart, All dry and hot as hell. The wretched bullock teams drew up Beside a water-hole – They’d struggled on through dust and drought For days to reach this goal. And though the water rendered forth A rank, unholy stench, The bullocks and the bullockies Drank deep their thirst to quench. Two of the drivers cursed and swore As only drivers can. The other one, named Daniel, Best known as Holy Dan, Admonished them and said it was The Lord’s all-wise decree; And if they’d only watch and wait, A change they’d quickly see. ’Twas strange that of Dan’s bullocks Not one had gone aloft, But this, he said, was due to prayer And supplication oft. At last one died but Dan was calm, He hardly seemed to care; He knelt beside the bullock’s corpse And offered up a prayer. "One bullock Thou has taken, Lord, And so it seemeth best. Thy will be done, but see my need And spare to me the rest!" A month went by. Dan’s bullocks now Were dying every day, But still on each occasion would 13 The faithful fellow pray, "Another Thou has taken, Lord, And so it seemeth best. Thy will be done, but see my need, And spare to me the rest!" And still they camped beside the hole, And still it never rained, And still Dan’s bullocks died and died, Till only one remained. Then Dan broke down – good Holy Dan – The man who never swore. He knelt beside the latest corpse, And here’s the prayer he prore. "That’s nineteen Thou has taken, Lord, And now You’ll plainly see You’d better take the bloody lot, One’s no damn good to me." The other riders laughed so much They shook the sky around; The lightning flashed, the thunder roared, And Holy Dan was drowned. ~ Anonymous Oceania,

370:Do not make passion an argument for truth! - O you good-natured and even noble enthusiasts, I know you! You want to win your argument against us, but also against yourself, and above all against yourself!and a subtle and tender bad conscience so often incites you against your enthusiasm! How ingenious you then become in the outwitting and deadening of this conscience! How you hate the honest, the simple, the pure, how you avoid their innocent eyes! That knowing better whose representatives they are and whose voice you hear all too loudly within you, how it casts doubt on your belief- how you seek to make it suspect as a bad habit, as a sickness of the age, as neglect and infection of your own spiritual health! You drive yourself to the point of hating criticism, science, reason! You have to falsify history so that it may bear witness for you, you have to deny virtues so that they shall not cast into the shade those of your idols and ideals! Coloured pictures where what is needed is rational grounds! Ardour and power of expression! Silvery mists! Ambrosial nights! You understand how to illuminate and how to obscure, and how to obscure with light! And truly, when your passion rises to the point of frenzy, there comes a moment when you say to yourself: now I have conquered the good conscience, now I am light of heart, courageous, self-denying, magnificent, now I am honest! How you thirst for those moments when your passion bestows on you perfect self-justification and as it were innocence; when in struggle, intoxication, courage, hope, you are beside yourself and beyond all doubting; when you decree: 'he who is not beside himself as we are can in no way know what and where truth is!' How you thirst to discover people of your belief in this condition - it is that of intellectual vice - and ignite your flame at their torch! Oh your deplorable martyrdom! Oh your deplorable victory of the sanctified lie! Must you inflict so much suffering upon yourself? - Must you? ~ Friedrich Nietzsche,

371:No living atom comes at last to naught! Active in each is still the eternal Thought: Hold fast to Being if thou wouldst be blest. Being is without end; for changeless laws Bind that from which the All its glory draws Of living treasures endlessly possessed. Unto the wise of old this truth was known, Such wisdom knit their noble souls in one; Then hold thou still the lore of ancient days! To that high power thou ow'st it, son of man, By whose decree the earth its circuit ran And all the planets went their various ways. Then inward turn at once thy searching eyes; Thence shalt thou see the central truth arise From which no lofty soul goes e'er astray; There shalt thou miss no needful guiding sign-- For conscience lives, and still its light divine Shall be the sun of all thy moral day. Next shalt thou trust thy senses' evidence, And fear from them no treacherous offence While the mind's watchful eye thy road commands: With lively pleasure contemplate the scene And roam securely, teachable, serene, At will throughout a world of fruitful lands. Enjoy in moderation all life gives: Where it rejoices in each thing that lives Let reason be thy guide and make thee see. Then shall the distant past be present still, The future, ere it comes, thy vision fill-- Each single moment touch eternity. Then at the last shalt thou achieve thy quest, And in one final, firm conviction rest: What bears for thee true fruit alone is true. Prove all things, watch the movement of the world As down the various ways its tribes are whirled; Take thou thy stand among the chosen few. Thus hath it been of old; in solitude The artist shaped what thing to him seemed good, The wise man hearkened to his own soul's voice. Thus also shalt thou find thy greatest bliss; To lead where the elect shall follow--this And this alone is worth a hero's choice. ~ Johann Wolfgang von Goethe, A Legacy ,

372:is a sure source of silver, a place where gold is refined. 2Iron is taken from the earth; rock is smelted into copper. 3Humansx put an end to darkness, dig for ore to the farthest depths, into stone in utter darkness, 4open a shaft away from any inhabitant, places forgotten by those on foot, apart from any human they hang and sway. 5Earth--from it comes food-- is turned over below ground as by fire.y 6Its rocks are the source for lapis lazuli; there is gold dust in it. 7A path-- no bird of prey knows it; a hawk's eye hasn't seen it; 8proud beasts haven't trodden on it; a lion hasn't crossed over it. 9Humans thrust their hands into flint, pull up mountains from their roots, 10cut channels into rocks; their eyes see everything precious. 11They dam up the sources of rivers; hidden things come to light. Wisdom's value 12But wisdom, where can it be found; where is the place of understanding? 13Humankind doesn't know its value; it isn't found in the land of the living. 14The Deepz says, "It's not with me"; the Seaa says, "Not alongside me!" 15It can't be bought with gold; its price can't be measured in silver, 16can't be weighed against gold from Ophir, with precious onyx or lapis lazuli. 17Neither gold nor glass can compare with it; she can't be acquired with gold jewelry. 18Coral and jasper shouldn't be mentioned; the price of wisdom is more than rubies. 19Cushite topaz won't compare with her; she can't be set alongside pure gold. 20But wisdom, where does she come from? Where is the place of understanding? 21She's hidden from the eyes of all the living, concealed from birds of the sky. 22Destructionb and Death have said, "We've heard a report of her." 23God understands her way; he knows her place; 24for he looks to the ends of the earth and surveys everything beneath the heavens. 25In order to weigh the wind, to prepare a measure for waters, 26when he made a decree for the rain, a path for thunderbolts, 27then he observed it, spoke of it, established it, searched it out, 28and said to humankind: "Look, the fear of the LORD is wisdom; turning from evil is understanding. ~ Anonymous,

373:Beowulf (Episode 10) THEN Hrothgar went with his hero-train, defence-of-Scyldings, forth from hall; fain would the war-lord Wealhtheow seek, couch of his queen. The King-of-Glory against this Grendel a guard had set, so heroes heard, a hall-defender, who warded the monarch and watched for the monster. In truth, the Geats' prince gladly trusted his mettle, his might, the mercy of God! Cast off then his corselet of iron, helmet from head; to his henchman gave, -choicest of weapons, -- the well-chased sword, bidding him guard the gear of battle. Spake then his Vaunt the valiant man, Beowulf Geat, ere the bed be sought: -"Of force in fight no feebler I count me, in grim war-deeds, than Grendel deems him. Not with the sword, then, to sleep of death his life will I give, though it lie in my power. No skill is his to strike against me, my shield to hew though he hardy be, bold in battle; we both, this night, shall spurn the sword, if he seek me here, unweaponed, for war. Let wisest God, sacred Lord, on which side soever doom decree as he deemeth right." Reclined then the chieftain, and cheek-pillows held the head of the earl, while all about him seamen hardy on hall-beds sank. None of them thought that thence their steps to the folk and fastness that fostered them, to the land they loved, would lead them back! Full well they wist that on warriors many battle-death seized, in the banquet-hall, of Danish clan. But comfort and help, war-weal weaving, to Weder folk the Master gave, that, by might of one, over their enemy all prevailed, by single strength. In sooth 'tis told 104 that highest God o'er human kind hath wielded ever! -- Thro' wan night striding, came the walker-in-shadow. Warriors slept whose hest was to guard the gabled hall, -all save one. 'Twas widely known that against God's will the ghostly ravager him could not hurl to haunts of darkness; wakeful, ready, with warrior's wrath, bold he bided the battle's issue. Beowulf, -- the "one." ~ Anonymous Olde English,

374:The Song Of The Surf White steeds of ocean, that leap with a hollow and wearisome roar On the bar of ironstone steep, not a fathom's length from the shore, Is there never a seer nor sophist can interpret your wild refrain, When speech the harshest and roughest is seldom studied in vain ? My ears are constantly smitten by that dreary monotone, In a hieroglyphic 'tis written—'tis spoken in a tongue unknown ; Gathering, growing, and swelling, and surging, and shivering, say ! What is the tale you are telling ? what is the drift of your lay ? You come, and your crests are hoary with the foam of your countless years ; You break, with a rainbow of glory, through the spray of your glittering tears. Is your song a song of gladness ? a paean of joyous might ? Or a wail of discordant sadness for the wrongs you never can right ? For the empty seat by the ingle ? for children reft of their sire ? For the bride, sitting sad, and single, and pale, by the flickering fire ? For your ravenous pools of suction ? for your shattering billow swell ? For your ceaseless work of destruction ? for your hunger insatiable ? Not far from this very place, on the sand and the shingle dry, He lay, with his batter'd face upturned to the frowning sky. When your waters wash'd and swill'd high over his drowning head, When his nostrils and lungs were filled, when his feet and hands were as lead, When against the rock he was hurl'd, and suck'd again to the sea, On the shores of another world, on the brink of eternity, On the verge of annihilation, did it come to that swimmer strong, The sudden interpretation of your mystical weird-like song ? 'Mortal ! that which thou askest, ask not thou of the waves ; Fool ! thou foolishly taskest us—we are only slaves ; Might, more mighty, impels us—we must our lot fulfil, He who gathers and swells us curbs us, too, at His will. Think'st thou the wave that shatters questioneth His decree ? Little to us matters, and naught it matters to thee. Not thus, murmuring idly, we from our duty would swerve, Over the world spread widely ever we labour and serve. ~ Adam Lindsay Gordon,

375:Thy Justice seems; yet to say truth, too late, I thus contest; then should have been refusd Those terms whatever, when they were propos’d: Thou didst accept them; wilt thou enjoy the good, Then cavil the conditions? and though God Made thee without thy leave, what if thy Son Prove disobedient, and reprov’d, retort, Wherefore didst thou beget me? I sought it not: Wouldst thou admit for his contempt of thee That proud excuse? yet him not thy election, But Natural necessity begot. God made thee of choice his own, and of his own To serve him, thy reward was of his grace, Thy punishment then justly is at his Will. Be it so, for I submit, his doom is fair, That dust I am, and shall to dust returne: O welcom hour whenever! why delayes His hand to execute what his Decree Fixd on this day? why do I overlive, Why am I mockt with death, and length’nd out To deathless pain? how gladly would I meet Mortalitie my sentence, and be Earth Insensible, how glad would lay me down As in my Mothers lap? there I should rest And sleep secure; his dreadful voice no more Would Thunder in my ears, no fear of worse To mee and to my ofspring would torment me With cruel expectation. Yet one doubt Pursues me still, least all I cannot die, Least that pure breath of Life, the Spirit of Man Which God inspir’d, cannot together perish With this corporeal Clod; then in the Grave, Or in some other dismal place, who knows But I shall die a living Death? O thought Horrid, if true! yet why? it was but breath Of Life that sinn’d; what dies but what had life And sin? the Bodie properly hath neither. All of me then shall die: let this appease The doubt, since humane reach no further knows. For though the Lord of all be infinite, Is his wrauth also? be it, man is not so, But mortal doom’d. How can he exercise Wrath without end on Man whom Death must end? Can he make deathless Death? that were to make Strange contradiction, which to God himself Impossible is held, as Argument Of weakness, not of Power. Will he, draw out, For angers sake, finite to infinite In punisht man, to satisfie his rigour Satisfi’d never; that were to extend His Sentence beyond dust and Natures Law, By which all Causes else according still To the reception of thir matter act, Not ~ John Milton,

376:Spring Star I. Over the lamp-lit street, Trodden by hurrying feet, Where mostly pulse and beat Life's throbbing veins, See where the April star, Blue-bright as sapphires are, Hangs in deep heavens far, Waxes and wanes. Strangely alive it seems, Darting keen, dazzling gleams, Veiling anon its beams, Large, clear, and pure. In the broad western sky No orb may shine anigh, No lesser radiancy May there endure. Spring airs are blowing sweet: Low in the dusky street Star-beams and eye-beams meet. Rapt in his dreams, All through the crowded mart Poet with swift-stirred heart, Passing beneath, must start, Thrilled by those gleams. Naught doth he note anear, Fain through Night's veil to peer, Reach that resplendent sphere, Reading her sign. Where point those sharp, thin rays, Guiding his weary maze, Blesseth she or betrays, Who may divine? 'Guard me, celestial light, 194 Lofty, serenely bright: Lead my halt feet aright,' Prayerful he speaks. 'For a new ray hath shone Over my spirit lone. Be this new soul the one whom my soul seeks.' II. Beside her casement oped the maiden sits, Where the mild evening spirit of the Spring Gently between the city's homesteads flits To kiss her brows, and floats on languid wing, Vague longings in her breast awakening. While her heart trembles 'neath those dim, deep skies, As the quick sea that 'neath the globed moon lies. Where her eyes rest the full-orbed evening star Burns with white flame: it beckons, shrinks, dilates. She, dazzled by that shining world afar, May not withdraw her gaze: breathless she waits. Some promised joy from Heaven's very gates Unto her soul seems proffered. When shall be The bright fulfilment of that star's decree? Nor glad nor sad is she: she doth not know That through the city's throng one threads his way, Thrilled likewise by that planet's mystic glow, And hastes to seek her. What sweet change shall sway Her spirit at his coming? What new ray Upon his shadowy life from her shall fall? The silent star burns on, and knoweth all. ~ Emma Lazarus,

377:Nigeria is not alone, either in the prevalence of child marriage or in attempts to end the practice. In September 2008, Moroccan officials closed sixty Koranic schools operated by Sheikh Mohamed Ben Abderrahman Al-Maghraoui, because he issued a decree justifying marriage to girls as young as nine. “The sheikh,” according to Agence France-Presse, “said his decree was based on the fact that the Prophet Mohammed consummated his marriage to his favourite wife when she was that age.”23 It should come as no surprise, then, given the words of the Koran about divorcing prepubescent women and Muhammad’s example in marrying Aisha, that in some areas of the Islamic world the practice of child marriage enjoys the blessing of the law. Time magazine reported in 2001 that “in Iran the legal age for marriage is nine for girls, fourteen for boys,” and notes that “the law has occasionally been exploited by pedophiles, who marry poor young girls from the provinces, use and then abandon them. In 2000 the Iranian Parliament voted to raise the minimum age for girls to fourteen, but this year, a legislative oversight body dominated by traditional clerics vetoed the move.”24 Likewise, the New York Times reported in 2008 that in Yemen, “despite a rising tide of outrage, the fight against the practice is not easy. Hard-line Islamic conservatives, whose influence has grown enormously in the past two decades, defend it, pointing to the Prophet Muhammad’s marriage to a 9-year-old.”25 (The characterization of proponents of Islamic law as “conservatives” is notable—the Times doesn’t seem fazed by the fact that “conservatives” in the U.S. are not typically advocates of child marriage.) And so child marriage remains prevalent in many areas of the Islamic world. In 2007, photographer Stephanie Sinclair won the UNICEF Photo of the Year competition for a wedding photograph of an Afghani couple: the groom was said to be forty years old but looked older; the bride was eleven. UNICEF Patroness Eva Luise Köhler explained, “The UNICEF Photo of the Year 2007 raises awareness about a worldwide problem. Millions of girls are married while they are still under age. Most of theses child brides are forever denied a self-determined life.”26 According to UNICEF, about half the women in Afghanistan are married before they reach the age of eighteen.27 ~ Robert Spencer,

378:Tithonus So when the verdure of his life was shed, With all the grace of ripened manlihead, And on his locks, but now so lovable, Old age like desolating winter fell, Leaving them white and flowerless and forlorn: Then from his bed the Goddess of the Morn Softly withheld, yet cherished him no less With pious works of pitying tenderness; Till when at length with vacant, heedless eyes, And hoary height bent down none otherwise Than burdened willows bend beneath their weight Of snow when winter winds turn temperate, -So bowed with years -- when still he lingered on: Then to the daughter of Hyperion This counsel seemed the best: for she, afar By dove-gray seas under the morning star, Where, on the wide world's uttermost extremes, Her amber-walled, auroral palace gleams, High in an orient chamber bade prepare An everlasting couch, and laid him there, And leaving, closed the shining doors. But he, Deathless by Jove's compassionless decree, Found not, as others find, a dreamless rest. There wakeful, with half-waking dreams oppressed, Still in an aural, visionary haze Float round him vanished forms of happier days; Still at his side he fancies to behold The rosy, radiant thing beloved of old; And oft, as over dewy meads at morn, Far inland from a sunrise coast is borne The drowsy, muffled moaning of the sea, Even so his voice flows on unceasingly, -Lisping sweet names of passion overblown, Breaking with dull, persistent undertone The breathless silence that forever broods Round those colossal, lustrous solitudes. Times change. Man's fortune prospers, or it falls. Change harbors not in those eternal halls And tranquil chamber where Tithonus lies. 122 But through his window there the eastern skies Fall palely fair to the dim ocean's end. There, in blue mist where air and ocean blend, The lazy clouds that sail the wide world o'er Falter and turn where they can sail no more. There singing groves, there spacious gardens blow -Cedars and silver poplars, row on row, Through whose black boughs on her appointed night, Flooding his chamber with enchanted light, Lifts the full moon's immeasurable sphere, Crimson and huge and wonderfully near. ~ Alan Seeger,

379:The Wife's Will SIT still­a word­a breath may break (As light airs stir a sleeping lake,) The glassy calm that soothes my woes, The sweet, the deep, the full repose. O leave me not ! for ever be Thus, more than life itself to me ! Yes, close beside thee, let me kneel­ Give me thy hand that I may feel The friend so true­so tried­so dear, My heart's own chosen­indeed is near; And check me not­this hour divine Belongs to me­is fully mine. 'Tis thy own hearth thou sitt'st beside, After long absence­wandering wide; 'Tis thy own wife reads in thine eyes, A promise clear of stormless skies, For faith and true love light the rays, Which shine responsive to her gaze. Aye,­well that single tear may fall; Ten thousand might mine eyes recall, Which from their lids, ran blinding fast, In hours of grief, yet scarcely past, Well may'st thou speak of love to me; For, oh ! most truly­I love thee ! Yet smile­for we are happy now. Whence, then, that sadness on thy brow ? What say'st thou ? ' We must once again, Ere long, be severed by the main ? ' I knew not this­I deemed no more, Thy step would err from Britain's shore. ' Duty commands ?' 'Tis true­'tis just; Thy slightest word I wholly trust, Nor by request, nor faintest sigh Would I, to turn thy purpose, try; 72 But, William­hear my solemn vow­ Hear and confirm !­with thee I go. ' Distance and suffering,' did'st thou say ? ' Danger by night, and toil by day ?' Oh, idle words, and vain are these; Hear me ! I cross with thee the seas. Such risk as thou must meet and dare, I­thy true wife­will duly share. Passive, at home, I will not pine; Thy toils­thy perils, shall be mine; Grant this­and be hereafter paid By a warm heart's devoted aid: 'Tis granted­with that yielding kiss, Entered my soul unmingled bliss. Thanks, William­thanks ! thy love has joy, Pure­undefiled with base alloy; 'Tis not a passion, false and blind, Inspires, enchains, absorbs my mind; Worthy, I feel, art thou to be Loved with my perfect energy. This evening, now, shall sweetly flow, Lit by our clear fire's happy glow; And parting's peace-embittering fear, Is warned, our hearts to come not near; For fate admits my soul's decree, In bliss or bale­to go with thee ! ~ Charlotte Brontë,

380:Eyes And Tears How wisely Nature did decree, With the same Eyes to weep and see! That, having view'd the object vain, They might be ready to complain. And since the Self-deluding Sight, In a false Angle takes each hight; These Tears which better measure all, Like wat'ry Lines and Plummets fall. Two Tears, which Sorrow long did weigh Within the Scales of either Eye, And then paid out in equal Poise, Are the true price of all my Joyes. What in the World most fair appears, Yea even Laughter, turns to Tears: And all the Jewels which we prize, Melt in these Pendants of the Eyes. I have through every Garden been, Amongst the Red,the White, the Green; And yet, from all the flow'rs I saw, No Hony, but these Tears could draw. So the all-seeing Sun each day Distills the World with Chymick Ray; But finds the Essence only Showers, Which straight in pity back he powers. Yet happy they whom Grief doth bless, That weep the more, and see the less: And, to preserve their Sight more true, Bath still their Eyes in their own Dew. So Magdalen, in Tears more wise Dissolv'd those captivating Eyes, Whose liquid Chains could flowing meet To fetter her Redeemers feet. 55 Not full sailes hasting loaden home, Nor the chast Ladies pregnant Womb, Nor Cynthia Teeming show's so fair, As two Eyes swoln with weeping are. The sparkling Glance that shoots Desire, Drench'd in these Waves, does lose it fire. Yea oft the Thund'rer pitty takes And here the hissing Lightning slakes. The Incense was to Heaven dear, Not as a Perfume, but a Tear. And Stars shew lovely in the Night, But as they seem the Tears of Light. Ope then mine Eyes your double Sluice, And practise so your noblest Use. For others too can see, or sleep; But only humane Eyes can weep. Now like two Clouds dissolving, drop, And at each Tear in distance stop: Now like two Fountains trickle down: Now like two floods o'return and drown. Thus let your Streams o'reflow your Springs, Till Eyes and Tears be the same things: And each the other's difference bears; These weeping Eyes, those seeing Tears. Note: Magdala, lascivos sic quum dimisit Amantes, Fervidaque in castas lumina solvit aquas; Haesit in irriguo lachrymarum compede Christus, Et tenuit sacros uda Catena pedes. ~ Andrew Marvell,

381:On Mr. Milton's Paradise Lost When I beheld the Poet blind, yet bold, In slender Book his vast Design unfold, Messiah Crown'd, Gods Reconcil'd Decree, Rebelling Angels, the Forbidden Tree, Heav'n, Hell, Earth, Chaos, All; the Argument Held me a while misdoubting his Intent, That he would ruine (for I saw him strong) The sacred Truths to Fable and old Song, (So Sampson groap'd the Temples Posts in spight) The World o'rewhelming to revenge his Sight. Yet as I read, soon growing less severe, I lik'd his Project, the success did fear; Through that wide Field how he his way should find O're which lame Faith leads Understanding blind; Lest he perplext the things he would explain, And what was easie he should render vain. Or if a Work so infinite he spann'd, Jealous I was that some less skilful hand (Such as disquiet alwayes what is well, And by ill imitating would excell) Might hence presume the whole Creations day To change in Scenes, and show it in a Play. Pardon me, Mighty Poet, nor despise My causeless, yet not impious, surmise. But I am now convinc'd, and none will dare Within thy Labours to pretend a Share. Thou hast not miss'd one thought that could be fit, And all that was improper dost omit: So that no room is here for Writers left, But to detect their Ignorance or Theft. That Majesty which through thy Work doth Reign Draws the Devout, deterring the Profane. And things divine thou treats of in such state As them preserves, and Thee in violate. At once delight and horrour on us seize, Thou singst with so much gravity and ease; And above humane flight dost soar aloft, With Plume so strong, so equal, and so soft. The Bird nam'd from that Paradise you sing 110 So never Flags, but alwaies keeps on Wing. Where couldst thou Words of such a compass find? Whence furnish such a vast expense of Mind? Just Heav'n Thee, like Tiresias, to requite, Rewards with Prophesie thy loss of Sight. Well might thou scorn thy Readers to allure With tinkling Rhime, of thy own Sense secure; While the Town-Bays writes all the while and spells, And like a Pack-Horse tires without his Bells. Their Fancies like our bushy Points appear, The Poets tag them; we for fashion wear. I too transported by the Mode offend, And while I meant to Praise thee, must Commend. Thy verse created like thy Theme sublime, In Number, Weight, and Measure, needs not Rhime. ~ Andrew Marvell,

382: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 ,

383:The Will To Live SINCE Faith is a veil that has nothing behind it, And Hope wanders lost where no mortal can find it, Since Love is a mirror we break in a minute In snatching the image our soul has cast in it, What is the use of the Summers and Springs, The wave of the woods and the waft of the wings-Since all means nothing, and good things and ill Make madness,--a mirage tormenting us still? Since all the fighting, the ardent endeavour, The heart cast bleeding to feed the Ideal, Are vain, vain, vain, and the one thing real Is that all's vain, for ever and ever; Why then, be a man and stand back from the strife, Fall by the sword, but keep out of the snare; Will but to be--and be willing to bear All that the gods may lay on your of life! In the far East, where light ever dawns first, There has man learned how the Fates may be cheated, How by our craft may their strength be defeated, Though all our best be no match for their worst! Kill the desire that they set in your bosom, Long not for fruit when you gaze on the blossom, Dream not of flowers when you gaze on the bud, Kill all the rebels that shout in your blood. Sorrow and sickness, disease and decay-These toll the hours of Life's desolate day; Hopes unfulfilled and forbidden delight These are the dreams of Life's treacherous night. So let me image an infinite peace Touched with no joy but the ease of release. Out of the eddies I climb and I cease Keeping, in change for this man's soul of me, Something which, by the eternal decree, Is as like Nothing as Something can be! Not to desire, to admit, to adore, Casting the robe of the soul that you wore 417 Just This This This as the soul casts the body's robe down. is man's destiny, this is man's crown. is the splendour, the end of the feast; is the light of the Star in the East. So, Silence reconciles Life's jarring phrases Far in the future, austere and august: Meanwhile, the buds of the poplars are falling, Spring's on the lawn, and a little voice calling: 'Daddy, come out! Daddy darling, you must! Daddy come out and help Molly pick daisies!' And, since one's here, and the Spring's in the garden (How many lives hence will that thought earn pardon?) Since one's a man and man's heart is insistent, And, since Nirvana is doubtful and distant, Though life's a hard road and thorny to travel-Stones in the borders and grass on the gravel, Still there's the wisdom that wise men call folly, Still one can go and pick daisies with Molly! ~ Edith Nesbit,

384:Esther Agrees to Help the Jews ESTHER 4 When Mordecai learned all that had been done, Mordecai tore his clothes  o and put on sackcloth and ashes, and went out into the midst of the city, and he cried out with a loud and bitter cry. 2He went up to the entrance of the king’s gate, for no one was allowed to enter the king’s gate clothed in sackcloth. 3And in every province, wherever the king’s command and his decree reached, there was great mourning among the Jews,  p with fasting and weeping and lamenting, and many of them  q lay in sackcloth and ashes. 4When Esther’s young women and her eunuchs came and told her, the queen was deeply distressed. She sent garments to clothe Mordecai, so that he might take off his sackcloth, but he would not accept them. 5Then Esther called for Hathach, one of the king’s eunuchs, who had been appointed to attend her, and ordered him to go to Mordecai to learn what this was and why it was. 6Hathach went out to Mordecai in the open square of the city in front of the king’s gate, 7and Mordecai told him all that had happened to him,  r and the exact sum of money that Haman had promised to pay into the king’s treasuries for the destruction of the Jews. 8Mordecai also gave him  s a copy of the written decree issued in Susa for their destruction, that he might show it to Esther and explain it to her and command her to go to the king to beg his favor and plead with him on behalf of her people. 9And Hathach went and told Esther what Mordecai had said. 10Then Esther spoke to Hathach and commanded him to go to Mordecai and say, 11“All the king’s servants and the people of the king’s provinces know that if any man or woman goes to the king inside  t the inner court without being called,  u there is but one law—to be put to death, except the one  v to whom the king holds out the golden scepter so that he may live. But as for me, I have not been called to come in to the king these thirty days.” 12And they told Mordecai what Esther had said. 13Then Mordecai told them to reply to Esther, “Do not think to yourself that in the king’s palace you will escape any more than all the other Jews. 14For if you keep silent at this time, relief and deliverance will rise for the Jews from another place, but you and your father’s house will perish. And who knows whether you have not come to the kingdom for such a time as this?” 15Then Esther told them to reply to Mordecai, 16“Go, gather all the Jews to be found in Susa, and hold a fast on my behalf, and do not eat or drink for  w three days, night or day. I and my young women will also fast as you do. Then I will go to the king, though it is against the law,  x and if I perish, I perish.” 17Mordecai then went away and did everything as Esther had ordered him. ~ Anonymous,

385:The Origin Of The Peloponnesian War DICAEOPOLIS Be not surprised, most excellent spectators, If I that am a beggar have presumed To claim an audience upon public matters, Even in a comedy; for comedy Is conversant in all the rules of justice, And can distinguish betwixt right and wrong. The words I speak are bold, but just and true. Cleon at least cannot accuse me now, That I defame the city before strangers, For this is the Lenaean festival, And here we meet, all by ourselves alone; No deputies are arrived as yet with tribute, No strangers or allies: but here we sit A chosen sample, clean as sifted corn, With our own denizens as a kind of chaff. First, I detest the Spartans most extremely; And wish that Neptune, the Taenarian deity, Would bury them in their houses with his earthquakes. For I've had losses--losses, let me tell ye, Like other people; vines cut down and injured. But among friends (for only friends are here), Why should we blame the Spartans for all this? For people of ours, some people of our own,-Some people from among us here, I mean: But not the People (pray, remember that); I never said the People, but a pack Of paltry people, mere pretended citizens, Base counterfeits,--went laying informations, And making a confiscation of the jerkins Imported here from Megara; pigs, moreover, Pumpkins, and pecks of salt, and ropes of onions, Were voted to be merchandise from Megara, Denounced, and seized, and sold upon the spot. Well, these might pass, as petty local matters. 26 But now, behold, some doughty drunken youths Kidnap, and carry away from Megara, The courtesan, Simaetha. Those of Megara, In hot retaliation, seize a brace Of equal strumpets, hurried forth perforce From Dame Aspasia's house of recreation. So this was the beginning of the war, All over Greece, owing to these three strumpets. For Pericles, like an Olympian Jove, With all his thunder and his thunderbolts, Began to storm and lighten dreadfully, Alarming all the neighborhood of Greece; And made decrees, drawn up like drinking songs, In which it was enacted and concluded That the Megarians should remain excluded From every place where commerce was transacted, With all their ware--like 'old Care' in the ballad: And this decree, by land and sea, was valid. Then the Megarians, being all half starved, Desired the Spartans to desire of us Just to repeal those laws: the laws I mentioned, Occasioned by the stealing of those strumpets. And so they begged and prayed us several times; And we refused: and so they went to war. ~ Aristophanes,

386:The Birth Of Man A Legend of the Talmud. I. When angels visit earth, the messengers Of God's decree, they come as lightning, wind: Before the throne, they all are living fire. There stand four rows of angels-to the right The hosts of Michael, Gabriel's to the left, Before, the troop of Ariel, and behind, The ranks of Raphael; all, with one accord, Chanting the glory of the Everlasting. Upon the high and holy throne there rests, Invisible, the Majesty of God. About his brows the crown of mystery Whereon the sacred letters are engraved Of the unutterable Name. He grasps A sceptre of keen fire; the universe Is compassed in His glance; at His right hand Life stands, and at His left hand standeth Death. II. Lo, the divine idea of making man Had spread abroad among the heavenly hosts; And all at once before the immortal throne Pressed troops of angels and of seraphim, With minds opposed, and contradicting cries: 'Fulfill, great Father, thine exalted thought! Create and give unto the earth her king!' 'Cease, cease, Almighty God! create no more!' And suddenly upon the heavenly sphere Deep silence fell; before the immortal throne The angel Mercy knelt, and thus he spoke: 'Fulfill, great Father, thine exalted thought! Create the likeness of thyself on earth. In this new creature I will breathe the spirit Of a divine compassion; he shall be 239 Thy fairest image in the universe.' But to his words the angel Peace replied, With heavy sobs: 'My spirit was outspread, Oh God, on thy creation, and all things Were sweetly bound in gracious harmony. But man, this strange new being, everywhere Shall bring confusion, trouble, discord, war.' 'Avenger of injustice and of crime,' Exclaimed the angel Justice, 'he shall be Subject to me, and peace shall bloom again. Create, oh Lord, create!' 'Father of truth,' Implored with tears the angel Truth, 'Thou bring'st Upon the earth the father of all lies!' And over the celestial faces gloomed A cloud of grief, and stillness deep prevailed. Then from the midst of that abyss of light Whence sprang the eternal throne, these words rang forth: 'Be comforted, my daughter! Thee I send To be companion unto man on earth.' And all the angels cried, lamenting loud: 'Thou robbest heaven of her fairest gem. Truth! seal of all thy thoughts, Almighty God, The richest jewel that adorns thy crown.' From the abyss of glory rang the voice: 'From heaven to earth, from earth once more to heaven, Shall Truth, with constant interchange, alight And soar again, an everlasting link Between the world and sky.' And man was born. ~ Emma Lazarus,

387:Freshen up your attitude A lot of people rely on yesterday’s attitude, or last week’s attitude, or last year’s attitude. That thing is old and stale. Start putting on a fresh new attitude, every morning. Get your mind going in the right direction. Develop the habit of living in a positive mind-set. This is what the Bible’s Daniel did. The scripture says he had an excellent spirit. He was a cut above. He stood out in the crowd. How did he do it? Every morning he got up early, opened his window, and thanked God for the day. He thanked God for His goodness, and thanked Him that he was well able. He was putting on that fresh new attitude, setting his mind for victory. Daniel was serving the king in a foreign land, when the king issued a decree that no one could pray to any God except the king’s God. If they did, they would be thrown into a lion’s den. That threat didn’t stop Daniel. He got up every morning and kept praying to Jehovah. Daniel’s enemies told the king, who had already issued the decree. He loved Daniel, but he couldn’t go back on his word. Daniel said, “Don’t worry, King, I’m going to be fine. The God I serve is well able to deliver me.” That’s what happens when you start the day off in faith, thinking positive thoughts on purpose. When you’re in a difficult situation, you don’t shrink back in fear with thoughts like: “Why is this happening to me?” Instead, you rise up in faith and say, “My God is well able. I’m armed with strength for this battle. I can do all things through Christ. If God be for me, who dare be against me?” The authorities threw Daniel into the lion’s den with more than one hundred hungry lions. Everyone expected Daniel to be eaten in a few minutes. But when you have this attitude of faith, God will fight your battles for you. God sent an angel to close the mouths of the lions. The king came by the next morning, and there was Daniel lying on the grass resting. The king got him out and said, “From now on we’re going to all worship the God of Daniel, the true and living God.” It’s interesting that the scripture says nothing negative about Joseph and Daniel. I’m sure they made mistakes, but you can’t find a record of anything they did wrong. There are stories of other great heroes of faith like Abraham, David, Moses, Paul, and Peter failing and making mistakes. Daniel and Joseph were good people, but they had bad circumstances. Unfair things happened to them. They were mistreated and faced huge obstacles. If you study their lives you’ll find one common denominator: They were always positive. They had this attitude of faith. They didn’t make excuses or say things like “God, why is this happening to me?” They started off each day with their minds going in the right direction, knowing that our God is well able. They both saw favor and blessings in amazing ways. In the same way, you can be a good person and have bad circumstances. ~ Joel Osteen,

388:Rule by decree has conspicuous advantages for the domination of far-flung territories with heterogeneous populations and for a policy of oppression. Its efficiency is superior simply because it ignores all intermediary stages between issuance and application, and because it prevents political reasoning by the people through the withholding of information. It can easily overcome the variety of local customs and need not rely on the necessarily slow process of development of general law. It is most helpful for the establishment of a centralized administration because it overrides automatically all matters of local autonomy. If rule by good laws has sometimes been called the rule of wisdom, rule by appropriate decrees may rightly be called the rule of cleverness. For it is clever to reckon with ulterior motives and aims, and it is wise to understand and create by deduction from generally accepted principles. Government by bureaucracy has to be distinguished from the mere outgrowth and deformation of civil services which frequently accompanied the decline of the nation-state—as, notably, in France. There the administration has survived all changes in regime since the Revolution, entrenched itself like a parasite in the body politic, developed its own class interests, and become a useless organism whose only purpose appears to be chicanery and prevention of normal economic and political development. There are of course many superficial similarities between the two types of bureaucracy, especially if one pays too much attention to the striking psychological similarity of petty officials. But if the French people have made the very serious mistake of accepting their administration as a necessary evil, they have never committed the fatal error of allowing it to rule the country—even though the consequence has been that nobody rules it. The French atmosphere of government has become one of inefficiency and vexation; but it has not created and aura of pseudomysticism. And it is this pseudomysticism that is the stamp of bureaucracy when it becomes a form of government. Since the people it dominates never really know why something is happening, and a rational interpretation of laws does not exist, there remains only one thing that counts, the brutal naked event itself. What happens to one then becomes subject to an interpretation whose possibilities are endless, unlimited by reason and unhampered by knowledge. Within the framework of such endless interpretive speculation, so characteristic of all branches of Russian pre-revolutionary literature, the whole texture of life and world assume a mysterious secrecy and depth. There is a dangerous charm in this aura because of its seemingly inexhaustible richness; interpretation of suffering has a much larger range than that of action for the former goes on in the inwardness of the soul and releases all the possibilities of human imagination, whereas the latter is consistently checked, and possibly led into absurdity, by outward consequence and controllable experience. ~ Hannah Arendt,

389:The Van Nessiad From end to end, thine avenue, Van Ness, Rang with the cries of battle and distress! Brave lungs were thundering with dreadful sound And perspiration smoked along the ground! Sing, heavenly muse, to ears of mortal clay, The meaning, cause and finish of the fray. Great Porter Ashe (invoking first the gods, Who signed their favor with assenting nods That snapped off half their heads-their necks grown dry Since last the nectar cup went circling by) Resolved to build a stable on his lot, His neighbors fiercely swearing he should not. Said he: 'I build that stable!' 'No, you don't,' Said they. 'I can!' 'You can't!' 'I will!' 'You won't!' 'By heaven!' he swore; 'not only will I build, But purchase donkeys till the place is filled!' 'Needless expense,' they sneered in tones of ice 'The owner's self, if lodged there, would suffice.' For three long months the awful war they waged: With women, women, men with men engaged, While roaring babes and shrilling poodles raged! Jove, from Olympus, where he still maintains His ancient session (with rheumatic pains Touched by his long exposure) marked the strife, Interminable but by loss of life; For malediction soon exhausts the breath If not, old age itself is certain death. Lo! he holds high in heaven the fatal beam; A golden pan depends from each, extreme; This feels of Porter's fate the downward stress, That bears the destiny of all Van Ness. Alas! the rusted scales, their life all gone, Deliver judgment neither pro nor con: The dooms hang level and the war goes on. With a divine, contemptuous disesteem Jove dropped the pans and kicked, himself, the beam: Then, to decide the strife, with ready wit, 579 The nickel that he did not care for it Twirled absently, remarking: 'See it spin: Head, Porter loses; tail, the others win.' The conscious nickel, charged with doom, spun round, Portentously and made a ringing sound, Then, staggering beneath its load of fate, Sank rattling, died at last and lay in state. Jove scanned the disk and then, as is his wont, Raised his considering orbs, exclaiming: 'Front!' With leisurely alacrity approached The herald god, to whom his mind he broached: 'In San Francisco two belligerent Powers, Such as contended round great Ilion's towers, Fight for a stable, though in either class There's not a horse, and but a single ass. Achilles Ashe, with formidable jaw Assails a Trojan band with fierce hee-haw, Firing the night with brilliant curses. They With dark vituperation gloom the day. Fate, against which nor gods nor men compete, Decrees their victory and his defeat. With haste, good Mercury, betake thee hence And salivate him till he has no sense!' Sheer downward shot the messenger afar, Trailing a splendor like a falling star! With dimming lustre through the air he burned, Vanished, nor till another sun returned. The sovereign of the gods superior smiled, Beaming benignant, fatherly and mild: 'Is Destiny's decree performed, my lad? And has he now no sense?' 'Ah, sire, he never had.' ~ Ambrose Bierce,

390:Part Of The Fifth Scene In The Second Act Of Athalia Enter, as in the Temple of Jerusalem, ATHALIA, MATHAN, ABNER [Mathan] WHY, to our Wonder, in this Place is seen, Thus discompos'd, and alter'd, Juda's Queen? May we demand, what Terrors seize your Breast, Or, why your Steps are to this House addrest, Where your unguarded Person stands expos'd To secret Foes, within its Walls inclos'd? Can it be thought that you remit that Hate? [Athalia] No more! but Both observe what I relate: Not, that I mean (recalling Times of Blood) To make you Judges of the Paths I trod, When to the empty'd Throne I boldly rose, Treating all Intercepters as my Foes. 'Twas Heav'ns Decree, that I should thus succeed, Whose following Favour justifies the Deed, Extending my unlimited Command From Sea to Sea o'er the obedient Land: Whilst your Jerusalem all Peace enjoys, Nor now the' encroaching Philistine destroys, Nor wandring Arab his Pavilion spreads, Near Jordan's Banks, nor wastes his flow'ry Meads. The great Assyrian, Terror of your Kings, Who bought his Friendship with their holiest Things, Yields that a Sister, of his pow'rful Race, Should sway these Realms, and dignify the Place. Nor need we add the late insulting Foe, The furious Jehu does this Sceptre know, And sinks beneath the Load of conscious Fears, When in Samaria he my Actions hears. Distrest by Foes, which I've against him rais'd, He sees me unmolested, fix'd, and pleas'd; At least, till now thus glorious was my State; But something's threatned from relaxing Fate, 116 And the last Night, which should have brought me Rest, Has all these great Ideas dispossest. A Dream, a Vision, an apparent View Of what, methinks, does still my Steps pursue, Hangs on my pensive Heart, and bears it down More than the weight of an objected Crown, My Mother (be the Name with Rev'rence spoke!) Ere chearful Day thro' horrid Shades had broke, Approach'd my Bed, magnificent her Dress, Her Shape, her Air did Jesabel confess: Nor seem'd her Face to have refus'd that Art, Which, in despight of Age, does Youth impart, And which she practis'd, scorning to decay, Or to be vanquish'd ev'n in Nature's way. Thus all array'd, in such defying Pride As when th' injurious Conqu'ror she descry'd, And did in height of Pow'r for ill-got Pow'r deride. To me she spake, these Accents to me came: "Thou worthy Daughter of my soaring Fame, "Tho' with a more transcendent Spirit fill'd, "Tho' struggling Pow'rs attempt thy Life to shield, "The Hebrew's God (Oh, tremble at the sound!) "Shall Thee and Them, and all their Rights confound. A pitying Groan concludes, no Word of Aid. My Arms I thought to throw about the Shade Of that lov'd Parent, but my troubled Sight No more directed them to aim aright, Nor ought presented, but a heap of Bones, For which fierce Dogs contended on the Stones, With Flakes of mangled Flesh, that quiv'ring still Proclaim'd the Freshness of the suffer'd Ill; Distain'd with Blood the Pavement, and the Wall, Appear'd as in that memorable Fall– [Abner] Oh! just avenging Heaven!– [aside. [Mathan] Sure, Dreams like these are for Prevention given. 117 ~ Anne Kingsmill Finch,

391:I work as fast as I can. Binah will come soon looking for me. It’s Mother, however, who descends the back steps into the yard. Binah and the other house slaves are clumped behind her, moving with cautious, synchronized steps as if they’re a single creature, a centipede crossing an unprotected space. I sense the shadow that hovers over them in the air, some devouring dread, and I crawl back into the green-black gloom of the tree. The slaves stare at Mother’s back, which is straight and without give. She turns and admonishes them. “You are lagging. Quickly now, let us be done with this.” As she speaks, an older slave, Rosetta, is dragged from the cow house, dragged by a man, a yard slave. She fights, clawing at his face. Mother watches, impassive. He ties Rosetta’s hands to the corner column of the kitchen house porch. She looks over her shoulder and begs. Missus, please. Missus. Missus. Please. She begs even as the man lashes her with his whip. Her dress is cotton, a pale yellow color. I stare transfixed as the back of it sprouts blood, blooms of red that open like petals. I cannot reconcile the savagery of the blows with the mellifluous way she keens or the beauty of the roses coiling along the trellis of her spine. Someone counts the lashes—is it Mother? Six, seven. The scourging continues, but Rosetta stops wailing and sinks against the porch rail. Nine, ten. My eyes look away. They follow a black ant traveling the far reaches beneath the tree—the mountainous roots and forested mosses, the endless perils—and in my head I say the words I fashioned earlier. Boy Run. Girl Jump. Sarah Go. Thirteen. Fourteen . . . I bolt from the shadows, past the man who now coils his whip, job well done, past Rosetta hanging by her hands in a heap. As I bound up the back steps into the house, Mother calls to me, and Binah reaches to scoop me up, but I escape them, thrashing along the main passage, out the front door, where I break blindly for the wharves. I don’t remember the rest with clarity, only that I find myself wandering across the gangplank of a sailing vessel, sobbing, stumbling over a turban of rope. A kind man with a beard and a dark cap asks what I want. I plead with him, Sarah Go. Binah chases me, though I’m unaware of her until she pulls me into her arms and coos, “Poor Miss Sarah, poor Miss Sarah.” Like a decree, a proclamation, a prophecy. When I arrive home, I am a muss of snot, tears, yard dirt, and harbor filth. Mother holds me against her, rears back and gives me an incensed shake, then clasps me again. “You must promise never to run away again. Promise me.” I want to. I try to. The words are on my tongue—the rounded lumps of them, shining like the marbles beneath the tree. “Sarah!” she demands. Nothing comes. Not a sound. I remained mute for a week. My words seemed sucked into the cleft between my collar bones. I rescued them by degrees, by praying, bullying and wooing. I came to speak again, but with an odd and mercurial form of stammer. I’d never been a fluid speaker, even my first spoken words had possessed a certain belligerent quality, but now there were ugly, halting gaps between my sentences, endless seconds when the words cowered against my lips and people averted their eyes. Eventually, these horrid pauses began to come and go according to their own mysterious whims. They might plague me for weeks and then remain away months, only to return again as abruptly as they left. ~ Sue Monk Kidd,

392:Chapter 29 Alma desires to cry repentance with angelic zeal—The Lord grants teachers for all nations—Alma glories in the Lord’s work and in the success of Ammon and his brethren. About 76 B.C. 1 O that I were an angel, and could have the wish of mine heart, that I might go forth and speak with the trump of God, with a voice to shake the earth, and cry repentance unto every people! 2 Yea, I would declare unto every soul, as with the voice of thunder, repentance and the plan of redemption, that they should repent and come unto our God, that there might not be more sorrow upon all the face of the earth. 3 But behold, I am a man, and do sin in my wish; for I ought to be content with the things which the Lord hath allotted unto me. 4 I ought not to harrow up in my desires the firm decree of a just God, for I know that he granteth unto men according to their desire, whether it be unto death or unto life; yea, I know that he allotteth unto men, yea, decreeth unto them decrees which are unalterable, according to their wills, whether they be unto salvation or unto destruction. 5 Yea, and I know that good and evil have come before all men; he that knoweth not good from evil is blameless; but he that knoweth good and evil, to him it is given according to his desires, whether he desireth good or evil, life or death, joy or remorse of conscience. 6 Now, seeing that I know these things, why should I desire more than to perform the work to which I have been called? 7 Why should I desire that I were an angel, that I could speak unto all the ends of the earth? 8 For behold, the Lord doth grant unto all nations, of their own nation and tongue, to teach his word, yea, in wisdom, all that he seeth fit that they should have; therefore we see that the Lord doth counsel in wisdom, according to that which is just and true. 9 I know that which the Lord hath commanded me, and I glory in it. I do not glory of myself, but I glory in that which the Lord hath commanded me; yea, and this is my glory, that perhaps I may be an instrument in the hands of God to bring some soul to repentance; and this is my joy. 10 And behold, when I see many of my brethren truly penitent, and coming to the Lord their God, then is my soul filled with joy; then do I remember what the Lord has done for me, yea, even that he hath heard my prayer; yea, then do I remember his merciful arm which he extended towards me. 11 Yea, and I also remember the captivity of my fathers; for I surely do know that the Lord did deliver them out of bondage, and by this did establish his church; yea, the Lord God, the God of Abraham, the God of Isaac, and the God of Jacob, did deliver them out of bondage. 12 Yea, I have always remembered the captivity of my fathers; and that same God who delivered them out of the hands of the Egyptians did deliver them out of bondage. 13 Yea, and that same God did establish his church among them; yea, and that same God hath called me by a holy calling, to preach the word unto this people, and hath given me much success, in the which my joy is full. 14 But I do not joy in my own success alone, but my joy is more full because of the success of my brethren, who have been up to the land of Nephi. 15 Behold, they have labored exceedingly, and have brought forth much fruit; and how great shall be their reward! 16 Now, when I think of the success of these my brethren my soul is carried away, even to the separation of it from the body, as it were, so great is my joy. 17 And now may God grant unto these, my brethren, that they may sit down in the kingdom of God; yea, and also all those who are the fruit of their labors that they may go no more out, but that they may praise him forever. And may God grant that it may be done according to my words, even as I have spoken. Amen. ~ Joseph Smith Jr,

393:Does an arbitrary human convention, a mere custom, decree that man must guide his actions by a set of principles—or is there a fact of reality that demands it? Is ethics the province of whims: of personal emotions, social edicts and mystic revelations—or is it the province of reason? Is ethics a subjective luxury—or an objective necessity? In the sorry record of the history of mankind’s ethics—with a few rare, and unsuccessful, exceptions—moralists have regarded ethics as the province of whims, that is: of the irrational. Some of them did so explicitly, by intention—others implicitly, by default. A “whim” is a desire experienced by a person who does not know and does not care to discover its cause. No philosopher has given a rational, objectively demonstrable, scientific answer to the question of why man needs a code of values. So long as that question remained unanswered, no rational, scientific, objective code of ethics could be discovered or defined. The greatest of all philosophers, Aristotle, did not regard ethics as an exact science; he based his ethical system on observations of what the noble and wise men of his time chose to do, leaving unanswered the questions of: why they chose to do it and why he evaluated them as noble and wise. Most philosophers took the existence of ethics for granted, as the given, as a historical fact, and were not concerned with discovering its metaphysical cause or objective validation. Many of them attempted to break the traditional monopoly of mysticism in the field of ethics and, allegedly, to define a rational, scientific, nonreligious morality. But their attempts consisted of trying to justify them on social grounds, merely substituting society for God. The avowed mystics held the arbitrary, unaccountable “will of God” as the standard of the good and as the validation of their ethics. The neomystics replaced it with “the good of society,” thus collapsing into the circularity of a definition such as “the standard of the good is that which is good for society.” This meant, in logic—and, today, in worldwide practice—that “society” stands above any principles of ethics, since it is the source, standard and criterion of ethics, since “the good” is whatever it wills, whatever it happens to assert as its own welfare and pleasure. This meant that “society” may do anything it pleases, since “the good” is whatever it chooses to do because it chooses to do it. And—since there is no such entity as “society,” since society is only a number of individual men—this meant that some men (the majority or any gang that claims to be its spokesman) are ethically entitled to pursue any whims (or any atrocities) they desire to pursue, while other men are ethically obliged to spend their lives in the service of that gang’s desires. This could hardly be called rational, yet most philosophers have now decided to declare that reason has failed, that ethics is outside the power of reason, that no rational ethics can ever be defined, and that in the field of ethics—in the choice of his values, of his actions, of his pursuits, of his life’s goals—man must be guided by something other than reason. By what? Faith—instinct—intuition—revelation—feeling—taste—urge—wish—whim Today, as in the past, most philosophers agree that the ultimate standard of ethics is whim (they call it “arbitrary postulate” or “subjective choice” or “emotional commitment”)—and the battle is only over the question or whose whim: one’s own or society’s or the dictator’s or God’s. Whatever else they may disagree about, today’s moralists agree that ethics is a subjective issue and that the three things barred from its field are: reason—mind—reality. If you wonder why the world is now collapsing to a lower and ever lower rung of hell, this is the reason. If you want to save civilization, it is this premise of modern ethics—and of all ethical ~ Anonymous,

394:The Blessing When, by a decree of the sovereign power, The poet makes his appearance in a bored world, With fists clenched at the horror, his outraged mother Calls on a pitying God, at whom these curses are hurled: "Why was I not made to litter a brood of vipers Rather than conceive this human mockery? My curses on that night whose ephemeral pleasures Filled my womb with this avenging treachery! Since I must be chosen among all women that are To bear the lifetime's grudge of a sullen husband, And since I cannot get rid of this caricature, --Fling it away like old letters to be burned, On what you have devised for my punishment I will let all your hate of me rebound, I will torture this stunted growth until its bent Branches let fall every blighted bud to the ground!" And so she prepares herself in Hell's pit. A place on the pyre made for a mother's crimes, Blind, in the fury of her foaming hatred, To the meaning and purpose of the eternal designs. Meanwhile, under the care of an unseen angel, The disinherited Child revels in the sun's Bright force; all that he eats and drinks can fill Him with memories of the food that was heaven's. The wind his plaything, any cloud a friend, The Spirit watching can only weep to see How in childhood his way of the cross is lightened With the wild bird-song of his innocent gaiety. Those he would love look at him with suspicion Or else, emboldened by his calm, experiment With various possible methods of exciting derision By trying out their cruelty on his complaint. They mix ashes or unspeakable filth with the bread And the wine of his daily communion, drop Whatever he may have touched with affected dread, 442 And studiously avoid wherever he may step. His mistress, parading her contempt in the street, Cries: "Since he finds my beauty a thing to worship, I will be one of the ancient idols he talks about, And make myself with gold out of the same workshop! I will never have enough of his kneelings and offerings Until I am sure that the choice foods, the wines, The 'nard,' the 'incense,' the 'myrrh' that he brings He brings as other men would to the Virgin's shrines. And when I am sick to death of trying not to laugh At the farce of my black masses, I'll try the force Of the hand he calls 'frail,' my nails will dig a path Like harpies', to the heart that beats for me, of course! Like a nestling trembling and palpitating I will pull that red heart out of his breast And throw it down for my favorite dog's eating --Let him do whatever he likes with the rest!" A serene piety, lifting the poet's gaze, Reveals heaven opening on a shining throne, And the lower vision of the world's ravening rage Is shut off by the sheet lightnings of his brain. "Be blessed, oh my God, who givest suffering As the only divine remedy for our folly, As the highest and purest essence preparing The strong in spirit for ecstasies most holy. I know that among the uplifted legions Of saints, a place awaits the Poet's arrival, And that among the Powers, Virtues, Dominations He too is summoned to Heaven's festival. I know that sorrow is the one human strength On which neither earth nor hell can impose, And that all the universe and all time's length Must be wound into the mystic crown for my brows. But all the treasury of buried Palmyra, The earth's unknown metals, the sea's pearls, Mounted by Thy hand, would be deemed an inferior 443 Glitter, to his diadem that shines without jewels. For Thou knowest it will be made of purest light Drawn from the holy hearth of every primal ray, To which all human eyes, if they were one bright Eye, are only a tarnished mirror's fading day!" ~ Charles Baudelaire,

395:Joy, thou goddess, fair, immortal, Offspring of Elysium, Mad with rapture, to the portal Of thy holy fame we come! Fashion's laws, indeed, may sever, But thy magic joins again; All mankind are brethren ever 'Neath thy mild and gentle reign. CHORUS Welcome, all ye myriad creatures! Brethren, take the kiss of love! Yes, the starry realms above Hide a Father's smiling features! He, that noble prize possessing He that boasts a friend that's true, He whom woman's love is blessing, Let him join the chorus too! Aye, and he who but one spirit On this earth can call his own! He who no such bliss can merit, Let him mourn his fate alone! CHORUS All who Nature's tribes are swelling Homage pay to sympathy; For she guides us up on high, Where the unknown has his dwelling. From the breasts of kindly Nature All of joy imbibe the dew; Good and bad alike, each creature Would her roseate path pursue. 'Tis through her the wine-cup maddens, Love and friends to man she gives! Bliss the meanest reptile gladdens, Near God's throne the cherub lives! CHORUS Bow before him, all creation! Mortals, own the God of love! Seek him high the stars above, Yonder is his habitation! Joy, in Nature's wide dominion, Mightiest cause of all is found; And 'tis joy that moves the pinion, When the wheel of time goes round; From the bud she lures the flower Suns from out their orbs of light; Distant spheres obey her power, Far beyond all mortal sight. CHORUS As through heaven's expanse so glorious In their orbits suns roll on, Brethren, thus your proud race run, Glad as warriors all-victorious! Joy from truth's own glass of fire Sweetly on the searcher smiles; Lest on virtue's steeps he tire, Joy the tedious path beguiles. High on faith's bright hill before us, See her banner proudly wave! Joy, too, swells the angels' chorus, Bursts the bondage of the grave! CHORUS Mortals, meekly wait for heaven Suffer on in patient love! In the starry realms above, Bright rewards by God are given. To the Gods we ne'er can render Praise for every good they grant; Let us, with devotion tender, Minister to grief and want. Quenched be hate and wrath forever, Pardoned be our mortal foe May our tears upbraid him never, No repentance bring him low! CHORUS Sense of wrongs forget to treasure Brethren, live in perfect love! In the starry realms above, God will mete as we may measure. Joy within the goblet flushes, For the golden nectar, wine, Every fierce emotion hushes, Fills the breast with fire divine. Brethren, thus in rapture meeting, Send ye round the brimming cup, Yonder kindly spirit greeting, While the foam to heaven mounts up! CHORUS He whom seraphs worship ever; Whom the stars praise as they roll, Yes to him now drain the bowl Mortal eye can see him never! Courage, ne'er by sorrow broken! Aid where tears of virtue flow; Faith to keep each promise spoken! Truth alike to friend and foe! 'Neath kings' frowns a manly spirit! Brethren, noble is the prize Honor due to every merit! Death to all the brood of lies! CHORUS Draw the sacred circle closer! By this bright wine plight your troth To be faithful to your oath! Swear it by the Star-Disposer! Safety from the tyrant's power! Mercy e'en to traitors base! Hope in death's last solemn hour! Pardon when before His face! Lo, the dead shall rise to heaven! Brethren hail the blest decree; Every sin shall be forgiven, Hell forever cease to be! CHORUS When the golden bowl is broken, Gentle sleep within the tomb! Brethren, may a gracious doom By the Judge of man be spoken! ~ Friedrich Schiller, Hymn To Joy ,

396:A youth, impelled by a burning thirst for knowledge To roam to Sais, in fair Egypt's land, The priesthood's secret learning to explore, Had passed through many a grade with eager haste, And still was hurrying on with fond impatience. Scarce could the Hierophant impose a rein Upon his headlong efforts. "What avails A part without the whole?" the youth exclaimed; "Can there be here a lesser or a greater? The truth thou speak'st of, like mere earthly dross, Is't but a sum that can be held by man In larger or in smaller quantity? Surely 'tis changeless, indivisible; Deprive a harmony of but one note, Deprive the rainbow of one single color, And all that will remain is naught, so long As that one color, that one note, is wanting." While thus they converse held, they chanced to stand Within the precincts of a lonely temple, Where a veiled statue of gigantic size The youth's attention caught. In wonderment He turned him toward his guide, and asked him, saying, "What form is that concealed beneath yon veil?" "Truth!" was the answer. "What!" the young man cried, "When I am striving after truth alone, Seekest thou to hide that very truth from me?" "The Godhead's self alone can answer thee," Replied the Hierophant. "'Let no rash mortal Disturb this veil,' said he, 'till raised by me; For he who dares with sacrilegious hand To move the sacred mystic covering, He'said the Godhead" "Well?""'will see the truth.'" "Strangely oracular, indeed! And thou Hast never ventured, then, to raise the veil?" "I? Truly not! I never even felt The least desire.""Is't possible? If I Were severed from the truth by nothing else Than this thin gauze" "And a divine decree," His guide broke in. "Far heavier than thou thinkest Is this thin gauze, my son. Light to thy hand It may bebut most weighty to thy conscience." The youth now sought his home, absorbed in thought; His burning wish to solve the mystery Banished all sleep; upon his couch he lay, Tossing his feverish limbs. When midnight came, He rose, and toward the temple timidly, Led by a mighty impulse, bent his way. The walls he scaled, and soon one active spring Landed the daring boy beneath the dome. Behold him now, in utter solitude, Welcomed by naught save fearful, deathlike silence, A silence which the echo of his steps Alone disturbs, as through the vaults he paces. Piercing an opening in the cupola, The moon cast down her pale and silvery beams, And, awful as a present deity, Glittering amid the darkness of the pile, In its long veil concealed, the statue stands. With hesitating step, he now draws near His impious hand would fain remove the veil Sudden a burning chill assails his bones And then an unseen arm repulses him. "Unhappy one, what wouldst thou do?" Thus cries A faithful voice within his trembling breast. "Wouldst thou profanely violate the All-Holy?" "'Tis true the oracle declared, 'Let none Venture to raise the veil till raised by me.' But did the oracle itself not add, That he who did so would behold the truth? Whate'er is hid behind, I'll raise the veil." And then he shouted: "Yes! I will behold it!" "Behold it!" Repeats in mocking tone the distant echo. He speaks, and, with the word, lifts up the veil. Would you inquire what form there met his eye? I know not,but, when day appeared, the priests Found him extended senseless, pale as death, Before the pedestal of Isis' statue. What had been seen and heard by him when there He never would disclose, but from that hour His happiness in life had fled forever, And his deep sorrow soon conducted him To an untimely grave. "Woe to that man," He warning said to every questioner, "Woe to that man who wins the truth by guilt, For truth so gained will ne'er reward its owner." ~ Friedrich Schiller, The Veiled Statue At Sais ,

397:Artemis To Actaeon Thou couldst not look on me and live: so runs The mortal legend—thou that couldst not live Nor look on me (so the divine decree)! That saw’st me in the cloud, the wave, the bough, The clod commoved with April, and the shapes Lurking ‘twixt lid and eye-ball in the dark. Mocked I thee not in every guise of life, Hid in girls’ eyes, a naiad in her well, Wooed through their laughter, and like echo fled, Luring thee down the primal silences Where the heart hushes and the flesh is dumb? Nay, was not I the tide that drew thee out Relentlessly from the detaining shore, Forth from the home-lights and the hailing voices, Forth from the last faint headland’s failing line, Till I enveloped thee from verge to verge And hid thee in the hollow of my being? And still, because between us hung the veil, The myriad-tinted veil of sense, thy feet Refused their rest, thy hands the gifts of life, Thy heart its losses, lest some lesser face Should blur mine image in thine upturned soul Ere death had stamped it there. This was thy thought. And mine? The gods, they say, have all: not so! This have they—flocks on every hill, the blue Spirals of incense and the amber drip Of lucid honey-comb on sylvan shrines, First-chosen weanlings, doves immaculate, Twin-cooing in the osier-plaited cage, And ivy-garlands glaucous with the dew: Man’s wealth, man’s servitude, but not himself! And so they pale, for lack of warmth they wane, Freeze to the marble of their images, And, pinnacled on man’s subserviency, Through the thick sacrificial haze discern Unheeding lives and loves, as some cold peak Through icy mists may enviously descry 18 Warm vales unzoned to the all-fruitful sun. So they along an immortality Of endless-envistaed homage strain their gaze, If haply some rash votary, empty-urned, But light of foot, with all-adventuring hand, Break rank, fling past the people and the priest, Up the last step, on to the inmost shrine, And there, the sacred curtain in his clutch, Drop dead of seeing—while the others prayed! Yes, this we wait for, this renews us, this Incarnates us, pale people of your dreams, Who are but what you make us, wood or stone, Or cold chryselephantine hung with gems, Or else the beating purpose of your life, Your sword, your clay, the note your pipe pursues, The face that haunts your pillow, or the light Scarce visible over leagues of labouring sea! O thus through use to reign again, to drink The cup of peradventure to the lees, For one dear instant disimmortalised In giving immortality! So dream the gods upon their listless thrones. Yet sometimes, when the votary appears, With death-affronting forehead and glad eyes, Too young, they rather muse, too frail thou art, And shall we rob some girl of saffron veil And nuptial garland for so slight a thing? And so to their incurious loves return. Not so with thee; for some indeed there are Who would behold the truth and then return To pine among the semblances—but I Divined in thee the questing foot that never Revisits the cold hearth of yesterday Or calls achievement home. I from afar Beheld thee fashioned for one hour’s high use, Nor meant to slake oblivion drop by drop. Long, long hadst thou inhabited my dreams, Surprising me as harts surprise a pool, Stealing to drink at midnight; I divined Thee rash to reach the heart of life, and lie Bosom to bosom in occasion’s arms. 19 And said: Because I love thee thou shalt die! For immortality is not to range Unlimited through vast Olympian days, Or sit in dull dominion over time; But this—to drink fate’s utmost at a draught, Nor feel the wine grow stale upon the lip, To scale the summit of some soaring moment, Nor know the dulness of the long descent, To snatch the crown of life and seal it up Secure forever in the vaults of death! And this was thine: to lose thyself in me, Relive in my renewal, and become The light of other lives, a quenchless torch Passed on from hand to hand, till men are dust And the last garland withers from my shrine. ~ Edith Wharton,

398:On An Old Sepuchral Bas-Relief WHERE IS SEEN A YOUNG MAIDEN, DEAD, IN THE ACT OF DEPARTING, TAKING LEAVE OF HER FAMILY. Where goest thou? Who calls Thee from my dear ones far away? Most lovely maiden, say! Alone, a wanderer, dost thou leave Thy father's roof so soon? Wilt thou unto its threshold e'er return? Wilt thou make glad one day, Those, who now round thee, weeping, mourn? Fearless thine eye, and spirited thy act; And yet thou, too, art sad. If pleasant or unpleasant be the road, If gay or gloomy be the new abode, To which thou journeyest, indeed, In that grave face, how difficult to read! Ah, hard to me the problem still hath seemed; Not hath the world, perhaps, yet understood, If thou beloved, or hated by the gods, If happy, or unhappy shouldst be deemed. Death calls thee; in thy morn of life, Its latest breath. Unto the nest Thou leavest, thou wilt ne'er return; wilt ne'er The faces of thy kindred more behold; And under ground, The place to which thou goest will be found; And for all time will be thy sojourn there. Happy, perhaps, thou art: but he must sigh Who, thoughtful, contemplates thy destiny. Ne'er to have seen the light, e'en at the time, I think; but, born, e'en at the time, When regal beauty all her charms displays, Alike in form and face, And at her feet the admiring world 53 Its distant homage pays; When every hope is in its flower, Long, long ere dreary winter flash His baleful gleams against the joyous brow; Like vapor gathered in the summer cloud, That melting in the evening sky is seen To disappear, as if one ne'er had been; And to exchange the brilliant days to come, For the dark silence of the tomb; The intellect, indeed, May call this, happiness; but still It may the stoutest breasts with pity fill. Thou mother, dreaded and deplored From birth, by all the world that lives, Nature, ungracious miracle, That bringest forth and nourishest, to kill, If death untimely be an evil thing, Why on these innocent heads Wilt thou that evil bring? If good, why, why, Beyond all other misery, To him who goes, to him who must remain, Hast thou such parting crowned with hopeless pain? Wretched, where'er we look, Whichever way we turn, Thy suffering children are! Thee it hath pleased, that youthful hope Should ever be by life beguiled; The current of our years with woes be filled, And death against all ills the only shield: And this inevitable seal, And this immutable decree, Hast thou assigned to human destiny, Why, after such a painful race, Should not the goal, at least, Present to us a cheerful face? Why that, which we in constant view, Must, while we live, forever bear, Sole comfort in our hour of need, Thus dress in weeds of woe, 54 And gird with shadows so, And make the friendly port to us appear More frightful than the tempest drear? If death, indeed, be a calamity, Which thou intendest for us all, Whom thou, against our knowledge and our will, Hast forced to draw this mortal breath, Then, surely, he who dies, A lot more enviable hath Then he who feels his loved one's death. But, if the truth it be, As I most firmly think, That life is the calamity, And death the boon, alas! who ever _could_, What yet he _should_, Desire the dying day of those so dear, That he may linger here, Of his best self deprived, May see across his threshold borne, The form beloved of her, With whom so many years he lived, And say to her farewell, Without the hope of meeting here again; And then alone on earth to dwell, And, looking round, the hours and places all, Of lost companionship recall? Ah, Nature! how, how _couldst_ thou have the heart, From the friend's arms the friend to tear, The brother from the brother part, The father from the child, The lover from his love, And, killing one, the other keep alive? What dire necessity Compels such misery That lover should the loved one e'er survive? But Nature in her cruel dealings still, Pays little heed unto our good or ill. ~ Count Giacomo Leopardi,

399:Summer Afternoon (Bodiam Castle, Sussex) THOU couldst not look on me and live: so runs The mortal legend -- thou that couldst not live Nor look on me (so the divine decree)! That sawst me in the cloud, the wave, the bough, The clod commoved with April, and the shapes Lurking 'twixt lid and eye-ball in the dark. Mocked I thee not in every guise of life, Hid in girls' eyes, a naiad in her well, Wooed through their laughter, and like echo fled, Luring thee down the primal silences Where the heart hushes and the flesh is dumb? Nay, was not I the tide that drew thee out Relentlessly from the detaining shore, Forth from the home-lights and the hailing voices, Forth from the last faint headland's failing line, Till I enveloped thee from verge to verge And hid thee in the hollow of my being? And still, because between us hung the veil, The myriad-tinted veil of sense, thy feet Refused their rest, thy hands the gifts of life, Thy heart its losses, lest some lesser face Should blur mine image in thine upturned soul Ere death had stamped it there. This was thy thought. And mine? The gods, they say, have all: not so! This have they -- flocks on every hill, the blue Spirals of incense and the amber drip Of lucid honey-comb on sylvan shrines, First-chosen weanlings, doves immaculate, Twin-cooing in the osier-plaited cage, And ivy-garlands glaucous with the dew: Man's wealth, man's servitude, but not himself! And so they pale, for lack of warmth they wane, Freeze to the marble of their images, And, pinnacled on man's subserviency, Through the thick sacrificial haze discern Unheeding lives and loves, as some cold peak Through icy mists may enviously descry Warm vales unzoned to the all-fruitful sun. 59 So they along an immortality Of endless-vistaed homage strain their gaze, If haply some rash votary, empty-urned, But light of foot, with all-adventuring hand, Break rank, fling past the people and the priest, Up the last step, on to the inmost shrine, And there, the sacred curtain in his clutch, Drop dead of seeing -- while the others prayed! Yea, this we wait for, this renews us, this Incarnates us, pale people of your dreams, Who are but what you make us, wood or stone, Or cold chryselephantine hung with gems, Or else the beating purpose of your life, Your sword, your clay, the note your pipe pursues, The face that haunts your pillow, or the light Scarce visible over leagues of laboring sea! O thus through use to reign again, to drink The cup of peradventure to the lees, For one dear instant disimmortalized In giving immortality! So dream the gods upon their listless thrones. Yet sometimes, when the votary appears, With death-affronting forehead and glad eyes, Too young, they rather muse, too frail thou art, And shall we rob some girl of saffron veil And nuptial garland for so slight a thing? And so to their incurious loves return. Not so with thee; for some indeed there are Who would behold the truth and then return To pine among the semblances -- but I Divined in thee the questing foot that never Revisits the cold hearth of yesterday Or calls achievement home. I from afar Beheld thee fashioned for one hour's high use, Nor meant to slake oblivion drop by drop. Long, long hadst thou inhabited my dreams, Surprising me as harts surprise a pool, Stealing to drink at midnight; I divined Thee rash to reach the heart of life, and lie Bosom to bosom in occasion's arms, 60 And said: Because I love thee thou shalt die! For immortality is not to range Unlimited through vast Olympian days, Or sit in dull dominion over time; But this -- to drink fate's utmost at a draught, Nor feel the wine grow stale upon the lip, To scale the summit of some soaring moment, Nor know the dulness of the long descent, To snatch the crown of life and seal it up Secure forever in the vaults of death! And this was thine: to lose thyself in me, Relive in my renewal, and become The light of other lives, a quenchless torch Passed on from hand to hand, till men are dust And the last garland withers from my shrine. ~ Edith Wharton,

400:Mary Ambree When captaines couragious, whom death cold not daunte, Did march to the siege of the citty of Gaunt, They mustred their souldiers by two and by three, And the formost in battle was Mary Ambree. When [the] brave sergeant-major was slaine in her sight, Who was her true lover, her joy, and delight, Because he was slaine most treacherouslie Then vowd to revenge him Mary Ambree. She clothed herselfe from the top to the toe In buffe of the bravest, most seemelye to showe; A faire shirt of male then slipped on shee: Was not this a brave bonny lasse, Mary Ambree? A helmett of proofe shee strait did provide, A stronge arminge-sword shee girt by her side, On her hand a goodly faire gauntlett put shee: Was not this a brave bonny lasse, Mary Ambree? Then tooke shee her sworde and her targett in hand, Bidding all such, as wold, [to] bee of her band; To wayte on her person came thousand and three: Was not this a brave bonny lasse, Mary Ambree? 'My soldiers,' she saith, 'soe valliant and bold, Nowe followe your captaine, whom you doe beholde; Still formost in battell myselfe will I bee:' Was not this a brave bonny lasse, Mary Ambree? Then cryed out her souldiers, and loude they did say, 'Soe well thou becomest this gallant array, Thy harte and thy weapons so well do agree, No mayden was ever like Mary Ambree.' She cheared her souldiers, that foughten for life, With ancyent and standard, with drum and with fife, With brave clanging trumpetts, that sounded so free; Was not this a brave bonny lasse, Mary Ambree? 125 'Before I will see the worst of you all To come into danger of death or of thrall, This hand and this life I will venture so free:' Was not this a brave bonny lasse, Mary Ambree? Shee ledd upp her souldiers in battaile array, Gainst three times theyr number by breake of the daye; Seven howers in skirmish continued shee: Was not this a brave bonny lasse, Mary Ambree? She filled the skyes with the smoke of her shott, And her enemyes bodyes with bulletts so hott; For one of her own men a score killed shee: Was not this a brave bonny lasse, Mary Ambree? And when her false gunner, to spoyle her intent, Away all her pellets and powder had sent, Straight with her keen weapon she slasht him in three: Was not this a brave bonny lasse, Mary Ambree? Being falselye betrayed for lucre of hyre, At length she was forced to make a retyre; Then her souldiers into a strong castle drew shee: Was not this a brave bonny lasse, Mary Ambree? Her foes they besett her on everye side, As thinking close siege shee cold never abide; To beate down the walles they all did decree: But stoutlye deffyd them brave Mary Ambree. Then tooke shee her sword and her targett in hand, And mounting the walls all undaunted did stand, There daring their captaines to match any three: O what a brave captaine was Mary Ambree! 'Now saye, English captaine, what woldest thou give To ransome thy selfe, which else must not live? Come yield thy selfe quicklye, or slaine thou must bee:' Then smiled sweetlye brave Mary Ambree. 'Ye captaines couragious, of valour so bold, 126 Whom thinke you before you now you doe behold? 'A knight, sir, of England, and captaine soe free, Who shortlye with us a prisoner must bee.' 'No captaine of England; behold in your sight Two brests in my bosome, and therefore no knight: Noe knight, sirs, of England, nor captaine you see, But a poor simple mayden called Mary Ambree.' 'But art thou a woman, as thou dost declare, Whose valor hath proved so undaunted in warre? If England doth yield such brave maydens as thee, Full well mey they conquer, faire Mary Ambree.' The Prince of Great Parma heard of her renowne, Who long had advanced for England's fair crowne; Hee wooed her and sued her his mistress to bee, And offered rich presents to Mary Ambree. But this virtuous mayden despised them all: ''Ile nere sell my honour for purple nor pall; A maiden of England, sir, never will bee The wench of a monarcke,' quoth Mary Ambree. Then to her owne country shee back did returne, Still holding the foes of rare England in scorne! Therfore English captaines of every degree Sing forth the brave valours of Mary Ambree. ~ Andrew Lang,

401:Mary Ambree When captaines couragious, whom death cold not daunte, Did march to the siege of the citty of Gaunt, They mustred their souldiers by two and by three, And the formost in battle was Mary Ambree. When brave Sir John Major was slaine in her sight, Who was her true lover, her joy, and delight, Because he was slaine most treacherouslie, Then vowd to revenge him Mary Ambree. She clothed herselfe from the top to the toe, In buffe of the bravest, most seemelye to showe; A faire shirt of male then slipped on shee: Was not this a brave bonny lasse, Mary Ambree? A helmett of proofe shee strait did provide, A strong arminge-sword shee girt by her side, On her hand a goodly faire gauntlett put shee: Was not this a brave bonny lasse, Mary Ambree? Then tooke shee her sworde and her targett in hand, Bidding all such, as wold, bee of her band; To wayte on her person came thousand and three: Was not this a brave bonny lasse, Mary Ambree? 'My soldiers,' she saith, 'soe valiant and bold, Nowe followe your captaine, whom you doe beholde; Still formost in battel myselfe will I bee:' Was not this a brave bonny lasse, Mary Ambree? Then cryed out her souldiers, and loude they did say, 'Soe well thou becomest this gallant array, Thy harte and thy weapons soe well do agree, Noe mayden was ever like Mary Ambree.' Shee cheared her souldiers, that foughten for life, With ancyent and standard, with drum and with fife, With brave clanging trumpets, that sounded so free; Was not this a brave bonny lasse, Mary Ambree? 478 'Before I will see the worst of you all To come into danger of death or of thrall, This hand and this life I will venture so free:' Was not this a brave bonny lasse, Mary Ambree? Shee led upp her souldiers in battaile array, Gainst three times theyr number by breake of the daye; Seven howers in skirmish continued shee: Was not this a brave bonny lasse, Mary Ambree? She filled the skyes with the smoke of her shott, And her enemyes bodyes with bullets soe hott; For one of her owne men a score killed shee: Was not this a brave bonny lasse, Mary Ambree? And when her false gunner, to spoyle her intent, Away all her pellets and powder had sent, Straight with her keen weapon shee slasht him in three: Was not this a brave bonny lasse, Mary Ambree? Being falselye betrayed for lucre of hyre, At length she was forced to make a retyre; Then her souldiers into a strong castle drew shee; Was not this a brave bonny lasse, Mary Ambree? Her foes they besett her on everye side, As thinking close siege shee cold never abide; To beate down the walles they all did decree; But stoutlye deffyd them brave Mary Ambree. Then tooke shee her sword and her targett in hand, And mounting the walls all undaunted did stand, There daring their captaines to match any three: O what a brave captaine was Mary Ambree! 'Now saye, English Captaine, what woldest thou give To ransome thy selfe, which else must not live? Come yield thy selfe quicklye, or slaine thou must bee:' Then smiled sweetlye brave Mary Ambree. 'Ye captaines couragious, of valour so bold, 479 Whom thinke you before you now you doe behold?' 'A knight, sir, of England, and captaine soe free, Who shortelye with us a prisoner must bee.' 'No captaine of England; behold in your sight Two brests in my bosome, and therfore no knight: Noe knight, sirs, of England, or captaine you see, But a poor simple mayden called Mary Ambree.' 'But art thou a woman, as thou dost declare, Whose valor hath proved so undaunted in warre? If England doth yield such brave maydens as thee, Full well may they conquer, faire Mary Ambree.' The prince of Great Parma heard of her renowne Who long had advanced for Englands faire crowne; Hee wooed her and sued her his mistress to bee, And offerd rich presents to Mary Ambree. But this virtuous mayden despised them all: 'Ile nere sell my honour for purple nor pall; A mayden of England, sir, never will bee The whore of a monarcke,' quoth Mary Ambree. Then to her owne country shee backe did returne, Still holding the foes of faire England in scorne; Therfore English captaines of every degree Sing forth the brave valours of Mary Ambree. ~ Anonymous Olde English,

402:Theseus Blue shadows wreathed the galley's prow that bore Twice seven Attic youth, a glorious train For Theseus, captain of the brunt of war, Over the Cretan main. The North wind filled the shining sails above, Thanks to the bucklered Goddess of the Fight; But Minos' heart was sore with pains of Love, Love brow-bound with delight. Sweet Eriboea! he refrained no more His hands, he touched her cheek of virgin white: 'Son of Pandion, save!' Her cries implore The brazen-armoured knight. Theseus had seen; beneath his frowning brow Dark rolls the sudden anger of his eyes; Hard in his heart the stab of grief: 'How now! Son of great Zeus,' he cries, 'No more thine unpermitted humour's course Within thyself thou governest aright; Hold, Prince, I charge thee, thy presuming force! Not against Fate we fight: 'All that the God's appointment and decree, All that the scales of Justice shall require, We will fulfil whene'er the hour may be; Stay but thy fell desire. 'What thought the princess of the lovely name Bedded to Zeus in Ida gave thee birth, To be the first of all the world in fame? Am I as nothing worth? '-I whom the child of treasured Pittheus bare To one whose reign doth all the seas enfold? Nymphs of the deep with violet-coloured hair Gave her a veil of gold. 10 'Therefore, great Captain of the Cnosian men, Forfend the grievous quarrel! Yon dear light Of day I would not choose to see again, Should'st thou do rude despite 'To one of these:-Oh, better combat's chanceA challenge!-God shall judge the issue true!' So said the valiant master of the lance: Fear fell on all the crew, Fear for the overboldness of the man. Then in his soul the son-in-law of the Sun Was angry, and he schemed an evil plan, And prayed, 'Most Mighty One, 'Hear, Father Zeus! If thou'rt my sire indeed, Of the white-wristed Tyrian's child true sire, Give me a visible sign! Send down with speed The lightning's tress of fire! 'Prince, if Troezenian Aethra mothered thee Got by Poseidon, Shaker of the Earth, Cast thyself boldly down into the sea, His home who gave thee birth! 'Fetch me this golden jewel from my hand Out of the deep! Soon shalt thou be aware Whether the Lord of Thunder, whose command Rules all, will hear my prayer.' Zeus to that high And with peculiar His son, and give Did lighten in the request his ear inclined, praise to magnify a sign to all mankind, sky. Then at the welcome sign the Warrior-King Spreading his palms to hallowed heaven-wide, 'Theseus, the grace of God is in this thing 'Made manifest,' he cried. 'Go, get thee down into the sounding swell! 11 Surely the God thy father shall upraise In all the wooded earth for thee as well Exceeding glory and praise.' But Theseus at the word, no whit unmanned, Turnèd not back in spirit: on deck he stood Poised for a leap, and passed within the bland Sanctuary of the flood. The son of Zeus was merry in his mind; The tight ship to the breeze he bade them lay; Fast flew the keel, the strong North drove behind: But Fate ruled not the way. All the Athenians trembled when the first Knight of their number seaward sprang, the tear Ran down smooth faces, waiting for the worst In heavy hopeless fear. But quick the dolphin-people of the deep Down to his father's vasty dwelling steered; He saw the state the Gods of Ocean keep, And at the sight he feared: The daughters of the blessed Nereus there Beamed from their radiant limbs a fiery blaze, Ribbons of golden web reeled round their hair, All dancing in a maze Of fluent feet for pleasure; and he saw His father's wife the Lady Amphitrite, Eyed like an ox-a Goddess throned for awe In chambers of delight. She flung about him purple raiment brave, Over his curls a perfect wreath she laid, The wedding-gift that cozening Venus gave, Thick roses in a braid. The thing God wills, the wise man never deems Beyond belief. Close by the slender stern The Prince appeared, and O the world of schemes 12 He slit by that return, Miraculous from the deep! Bright maids arow Sang for surprise and joy-Upon his limbs Shone gifts of Gods!-laud sang the lads also The sea was loud with hymns. We came from Ceos with a song and dance: Lord God of Delos be well pleased this day, Send us the conduct of thy lucky chance To help us on our way. ~ Bacchylides,

403:Dominions Of The Boundary The Survival Of The Gods 1 Twilight The gods of Nature abdicate When man intrudes too far: The Dryad leaves her woodland state, And Jove his thunder-car: No more Apollo reins the sun Or Neptune rides the sea, The race of Oread is run, And Pan has ceased to be: The formless Winds are roaming through Druidic grove and vale: Deserted Asgard and Meru For Thor and Indra wail: Majestic Forms oblivion 'scape As kelpie, sylph, and gnome, Astarte hides in gentler shape, And Vestals hearthless roam: Thrones, Dominions, Virtues, Powers, Fall from Their Mystic Tree, And sacrilegious Time devours Each Principality. 2 Sceptic: Whatever dramas of the Vast About our drama play, Or necromancies from the past Project their gloom to-day, We seem to hear the Uncreate Slowly let this be knownThat man has fashioned all his fate And stands, on earth, alone: 17 That all he needs was in him stored, Material and plan; That ne'er was deity adored But first was made by man. 3 The Abiding Gods: But tho' we mumble sceptic saw, Or sweet old prayers forget; And tho' we dream of Higher Law, The gods are living yet: For they who will no Monitor, Save One Unnamed, allow, Allegiance deep to Love or War, Or Chance or Wind avow: Avow by no mere cult of names, No pattering of creeds, But by the sacrificial flames Of lifelong thoughts and deeds. When mediaeval hurricane The gods in exile drove, 'Thrice-greatest' Hermes and his train Usurped the seats of Jove: Where still their Wisdom rules the spheres Of yet uncharted Law, By building in our nerves the fears Our sires in Nature saw: In other garments everywhere, Behold, the prophetess, Clairaudient interpreter, Clairvoyant Pythoness! Suburban Delphis for the rich, The Gnosis for the staid! Perennial by the road, the witch Of Endor plies her trade! 18 4 Mystic: All is not daylight in the day, Or knowledge in the known; The life we are, the prayer we pray, From deep, to deep, is blown. Though Reason claim omniscient worth And lush her dogmas thrive: Our present home is more than earth, Our senses more than five. And the mystic who sees the star-folk throng, Where we but the noonday blue, Knows no religion yet was wrong And never a myth untrue. The wrong road now was the old high way Of young Truth's caravan; To-morrow is not to-day, to-day, Or the baby yet a man. Though mountain watchmen daily see Horizons widen far, Dominions of the Boundary Have ever ruled, and are. 5 Heracleitic: The lines of godhood all converge At last to unity: And the images of all emerge From every god we see. So Hermes here and Venus there Are Memory, are Fate; And all are Winds; and the Sirens fair Mute in the Wisdoms wait. All life is a stream and mortals stand On a heaving and passing earth: And the land of gods is a changing land As the land that gave it birth. 19 Life is a stream: through a gorge we go 'Tween a deep and a living deep: Form is the gorge, and change is the flow, And the source and the mouth are sleep. 6 Historic: Torrential barbarisms need Charioteers of Pain: And wise gods sleep when men recede To callow youth again. But in that age-long sleep have waned A myriad gods, or fled: Olympic altars are disdained And Gnostic Wisdom dead. For what to Vandals or to Huns, When Rome's red lips were ripe, Were calm Hellenic Shining Ones, Or Gnostic Archetype? Yet Time matured to mellow wine The Roman-Gothic must, For Mercy and a Maid Divine Subdued the hate and lust: Till Hedonist and Stoic hold Antique debates anew: And hither return the virtues old (Alas! and old vice too!). Marooned no more, we sail the sea, Ere sad gods were, we knew: And from Platonic prows decree'The gods are Me, are You!' 7 Omni-Benevolence: Yet, shaping slowly through the storm And bidding darkness fade, Evolving eyes discern a Form No clay-creator made: 20 A Symbol Form that mirrors ours, That is, yet is not, we, That seems to hint of Higher Powers Than Fate or Memory: That takes the image as we gaze Of the Holiest Ones that were: For here It looks from Jesus' face, And from Mohammed's, there: 'Tis Moses, yea, 'tis Krishna's form; 'Tis fire, 'tis star, 'tis sun: A myriad now Its faces swarm, Now, All and It are One: The Chinese 'Way' one watcher sees, And one a Brooding Dove, One Baldur, Buddh or SocratesBut always It is Love. ~ Bernard O'Dowd,

404:Love And Death Children of Fate, in the same breath Created were they, Love and Death. Such fair creations ne'er were seen, Or here below, or in the heaven serene. The first, the source of happiness, The fount whence flows the greatest bliss That in the sea of being e'er is found; The last each sorrow gently lulls, Each harsh decree of Fate annuls. Fair child with beauty crowned, Sweet to behold, not such As cowards paint her in their fright, She in young Love's companionship Doth often take delight, As they o'er mortal paths together fly, Chief comforters of every loyal heart. Nor ever is the heart more wise Than when Love smites it, nor defies More scornfully life's misery, And for no other lord Will it all dangers face so readily. When thou thy aid dost lend, O Love, is courage born, or it revives; And wise in deeds the race of man becomes, And not, as it is prone, In fruitless thought alone. And when first in our being's depth This passion deep is born, Though happy, we are still forlorn; A languor strange doth o'er us steal; A strange desire of death we feel. I know not why, but such we ever prove The first effect of true and potent love. It may be, that this wilderness Then first appals our sight; And earth henceforth to us a dreary waste Appears, without that new, supreme delight, That in our thought is fondly traced; 45 And yet our hearts, foreboding, feel the storm Within, that it may cause, the misery. We long for rest, we long to flee, Hoping some friendly haven may be found Of refuge from the fierce desire, That raging, roaring, darkens all around. And when this formidable power Hath his whole soul possessed, And raging care will give his heart no rest, How many times implored With most intense desire, Art thou, O Death, by the poor wretch, forlorn! How oft at eve, how oft at dawn, His weary frame upon the couch he throws, Too happy, if he never rose, In hopeless conflict with his pain, Nor e'er beheld the bitter light again! And oft, at sound of funeral bell, And solemn chant, that guides Departed souls unto eternal rest, With sighs most ardent from his inmost breast, How hath he envied him, Who with the dead has gone to dwell! The very humblest of his kind, The simple, rustic hind, who knows No charm that knowledge gives; The lowliest country lass that lives, Who, at the very thought of death, Doth feel her hair in horror rise, Will calmly face its agonies, Upon the terrors of the tomb will gaze With fixed, undaunted look, Will o'er the steel and poison brood, In meditative mood, And in her narrow mind, The kindly charm of dying comprehend: So much the discipline of Love Hath unto Death all hearts inclined! Full often when this inward woe Such pass has reached as mortal strength No longer can endure, 46 The feeble body yields at length, To its fierce blows, and timely, then, Benignant Death her friendly power doth show: Or else Love drives her hapless victims so, Alike the simple clown, And tender country lass, That on themselves their desperate hands they lay, And so are borne unto the shades below. The world but laughs at their distress, Whom heaven with peace and length of days doth bless. To fervid, happy, restless souls May fate the one or other still concede, Sweet sovereigns, friendly to our race, Whose power, throughout the universe, Such miracles hath wrought, As naught resembles, nor can aught, Save that of Fate itself, exceed. And thou, whom from my earliest years, Still honored I invoke, O lovely Death! the only friend Of sufferers in this vale of tears, If I have ever sought Thy princely state to vindicate From the affronts of the ungrateful crowd, Do not delay, incline thy ear Unto thy weary suppliant here! These sad eyes close forever to the light, And let me rest in peace serene, O thou, of all the ages Queen! Me surely wilt thou find, whate'er the hour, When thou thy wings unfoldest to my prayer, With front erect, the cruel power Defying still, of Fate; Nor will I praise, in fulsome mood, The scourging hand, that with my blood, The blood of innocence, is stained. Nor bless it, as the human race Is wont, through custom old and base: Each empty hope, with which the world Itself and children would beguile, I'll cast aside, each comfort false and vile; In thee alone my hope I'll place, 47 Thou welcome minister of grace! In that sole thought supremely blest, That day, when my unconscious head May on thy virgin bosom rest. ~ Count Giacomo Leopardi,

405:Victoria The lark went up, the mower whet his scythe, On golden meads kine ruminating lay, And all the world felt young again and blithe, Just as to-day. The partridge shook her covey from her wings, And limped along the grass; on leaf and lawn Shimmered the dew, and every throat that sings Chanted the dawn. The doe was followed by her new-dropped fawn, And, folding all her feathers on her breast, The swan within the reedmace deep withdrawn Dreamed on her nest. In the green wheat the poppy burst aflame, Wildrose and woodbine garlanded the glade, And, twin with maiden Summer, forth there came A summer Maid. Her face was as the face of mid-June when Blossoms the meadowsweet, the bindweed blows: Pale as a lily first She blenched, and then Blushed like a rose. They placed a Crown upon her fair young brow, They put a Sceptre in her girlish hand, Saying, ``Behold! You are Sovereign Lady now Of this great Land!'' Silent She gazed, as one who doth not know The meaning of a message. When She broke The hush of awe around her, 'twas as though Her soul that spoke. ``With this dread summons, since 'tis Heaven's decree, I would not palter, even if I could; But, being a woman only, I can be Not great, but good. 592 ``I cannot don the breastplate and the helm, To my weak waist the sword I cannot gird, Nor in the discords that distract a Realm Be seen or heard. ``But in my People's wisdom will I share, And in their valour play a helpful part, Lending them still, in all they do or dare, My woman's heart. ``And haply it may be that, by God's grace, And unarmed Love's invulnerable might, I may, though woman, lead a manly race To higher height; ``If wise will curb disorderly desire, The Present hold the parent Past in awe, Religion hallowing with its sacred fire Freedom and Law. ``Never be broken, long as I shall reign, The solemn covenant 'twixt them and me, To keep this Kingdom, moated by the main, Loyal yet free.'' Thus with grave utterance and majestic mien She with her eighteen summers filled the Throne Where Alfred sate: a girl, withal a Queen, Aloft, alone! But Love that hath the power to force apart The bolts and baulk the sentinels of Kings, Came o'er the sea, and in her April heart Folded his wings. Thenceforth more dear than diadem She owned A princely helpmate, sharer in her trust, If not her Sceptre:-since, withal, enthroned By Time the just. Scorner of wrong, and lover of the right, 593 Compounded all of nobleness he seemed, And was indeed the perfect gentle Knight The poet dreamed. So when the storm of wrath arose that drave Scared Rulers from their realms, Her Throne, deep laid In liberty and trust, calm shelter gave To Kings dismayed. And stronger grew the bond of love and grace Betwixt Her and her People, while that She Reigned the glad Mother of a Royal race, Rulers to be. But Death that deepens love in darkening life Turned to a pall the purple of her Throne. Then, more than once the maid, the widowed wife Reigned all alone! ``Leave me awhile to linger with the dead,'' Weeping, She sued. ``But doubt not that I still Am nuptialled to my People, and have wed Their deathless will. ``Their thoughts shall be my thoughts, their aim my aim, Their free-lent loyalty my right divine; Mine will I make their triumphs, mine their fame, Their sorrows mine. ``And I will be the bond to link them all In patriot purpose till my days be done, So that, in mind and might, whate'er befall, They still keep One.'' Then to the winds yet wider was unfurled The Flag that tyrants never could enslave, Till its strong wisdom governed half the world, And all the wave! And, panoplied alike for War or Peace, Victoria's England furroweth still the foam To harvest Empire, wiser than was Greece, 594 Wider than Rome! Therefore with glowing hearts and proud glad tears, The children of her Island Realm to-day Recall her sixty venerable years Of virtuous sway. Now too from where Saint-Lawrence winds, adown 'Twixt forests felled and plains that feel the plough, And Ganges jewels the Imperial Crown That girds her brow; From Afric's Cape, where loyal watchdogs bark, And Britain's Sceptre ne'er shall be withdrawn, And that young Continent that greets the dark When we the dawn; From steel-capped promontories stern and strong, And lone isles mounting guard upon the main, Hither her subjects wend to hail her long Resplendent Reign. And ever when mid-June's musk-roses blow, Our Race will celebrate Victoria's name, And even England's greatness gain a glow From Her pure fame. ~ Alfred Austin,

406:Ovid To His Wife MY aged head now stoops its honours low, Bow'd with the load of fifty winters' snow; And for the raven's glossy black assumes The downy whiteness of the cygnet's plumes: Loose scatter'd hairs around my temples stray, And spread the mournful shade of sickly grey: I bend beneath the weight of broken years, Averse to change, and chill'd with causeless fears. The season now invites me to retire To the dear lares of my household fire; To homely scenes of calm domestic peace, A poet's leisure, and an old man's ease; To wear the remnant of uncertain life In the fond bosom of a faithful wife; In safe repose my last few hours to spend, Nor fearful nor impatient of their end. Thus a safe port the wave-worn vessels gain, Nor tempt again the dangers of the main; Thus the proud steed, when youthful glory fades, And creeping age his stiffening limbs invades, Lies stretch'd at ease on the luxuriant plain, And dreams his morning triumphs o'er again: The hardy veteren from the camp retires, His joints unstrung, and feeds his household fires, Satiate with same enjoys well-earn'd repose, And sees his stormy day serenely close. Not such my lot: Severer fates decree My shatter'd bark must plough an unknown sea. Forc'd from my native seats and sacred home, Friendless, alone, thro' Scythian wilds to roam; With trembling knees o'er unknown hills I go, Stiff with blue ice and heap'd with drifted snow: Pale suns there strike their feeble rays in vain, Which faintly glance against the marble plain; Red Ister there, which madly lash'd the shore, 104 His idle urn seal'd up, forgets to roar; Stern winter in eternal tr umph reigns, Shuts up the bounteous year and starves the plains. My failing eyes the weary waste explore, The savage mountains and the dreary shore, And vainly look for scenes of old delight; No lov'd familiar objects meet my fight; No long remember'd streams, or conscious bowers, Wake the gay memory of youthful hours. I fondly hop'd, content with learned ease, To walk amidst cotemporary trees; In every scene some fav'rite spot to trace, And meet in all some kind domestic face; To stretch my limbs upon my native soil, With long vacation from unquiet toil; Resign my breath where first that breath I drew, And sink into the spot from whence I grew. But if my feeble age is doom'd to try Unusual seasons and a foreign sky, To some more genial clime let me repair, And taste the healing balm of milder air; Near to the glowing sun's directer ray, And pitch my tent beneath the eye of day. Could not the winter in my veins suffice, Without the added rage of Scythian skies? The snow of time my vital heat exhaust, And hoary age, without Sarmatian frost? Ye tuneful maids! who once, in happier days, Beneath the myrtle grove inspir'd my lays, How shall I now your wonted aid implore; Where seek your footsteps on this savage shore, Whose ruder echoes ne'er were taught to bear The poet's numbers or the lover's care? Yet storm and tempest are of ills the least Which this inhospitable land infest: Society than solitude is worse, And man to man is still the greatest curse. A savage race my fearful steps surround, Practis'd in blood and disciplin'd to wound; 105 Unknown alike to pity as to fear, Hard as their soil, and as their skies severe. Skill'd in each mystery of direst art, They arm with double death the poison'd dart: Uncomb'd and horrid grows their spiky hair; Uncouth their vesture, terrible their air: The lurking dagger at their side hung low, Leaps in quick vengeance on the hapless foe: No stedfast faith is here, no sure repose; An armed truce is all this nation knows: The rage of battle works, when battles cease; And wars are brooding in the lap of peace. Since CÆSAR wills, and I a wretch must be, Let me be safe at least in misery! To my sad grave in calm oblivion steal, Nor add the woes I fear to all I feel ! Yet here, forever here, your bard must dwell, Who sung of sports and tender loves so well. Here must he live: but when he yields his breath O let him not be exil'd even in death! Lest mix'd with Scythian shades, a Roman ghost Wander on this inhospitable coast. CÆSAR no more shall urge a wretch's doom; The bolt of JOVE pursues not in the tomb. To thee, dear wife, some friend with pious care All that of OVID then remains shall bear; Then wilt thou weep to see me so return, And with fond passion clasp my silent urn. O check thy grief, that tender bosom spare, Hurt not thy cheeks, nor soil thy flowing hair. Press the pale marble with thy lips, and give One precious tear, and bid my memory live: The silent dust shall glow at thy command, And the warm ashes feel thy pious hand. ~ Anna Laetitia Barbauld,

407:Visy Recycling Memorandum, 2003. (i) This unwanted cornucopia - nickel-plated pears, bananas, grapes, apples, kitsch relic from some neo-classical age, saved from Terminator meltdown its metallic semiotics stalled on the conveyor belts’ rubber-suited fascism. Universal bowerbird plucked from sexual obscurity - what a piece of work! (ii) All labour history is corrupt. Some American Vietnam War text claimed that no foreign journalist recorded the fall of Saigon; ditto Neil Davis’ footage of the NVA’s T-72 smashing Palace gates was doco-illusionary. Neil loved the East, Asian women & died in some shitty Thai coup. (iii) Next was coughed up a crouching brass cat. Sexless? Time-neutered. Sleek in its full metal jacket fur. Did someone switch over to dogs? 48 “Bob” (“Gollum”) a famous cricket cat, farm-surrendered, now lives in the ginger generations doorstop mewling around my mother’s feet. (iv) Why try to marry sex & Nazism? Partisans assassinated blond poster crew-cut boy Heydrich (the original Tommy Finland?) almost botched it, grenades destroyed his motorcades’ armoured genitals, Third Reich’s proto-Eminem. How many times can you say ‘motherfucker’ textually? (v) The head of a Roman centurion rolled out next. Plaster, nose-smashed by visygothic policies; modern archaeology’s Liverpool kiss. Transference of sexual magnetism – Roman army defeats Macedonians at the “Dog’s Heads”, Thessaly 197 B.C. & the rise of Russell Crowe’s rough trade. (vi) 49 Then a statue of Dionysus, one horn snapped off, poetry books under arm mop head beard sadhu fixed to a hard face, sunburn plaster peeling white skin. His own dishevelled Dionysian nature got him expelled from his gnomeland, ostracized forever from some Heidelberg courtyard, the tyranny of fallen chic. (vii) Murray quoted, “I came from a hard culture”, looking a bit like the jolly Buddha sculpture that humped down the waste stream, Eastern & Western burning want - striped woollen jumpers unpicking themselves: get knotted his thin red line of religion spake: the closer you are to Caesar the greater the fear. (viii) Tyring to explain my personal ontology, the great man tranced through me, two brothers jumped ship South Brisbane wharves 1886, Baltic, Isle of Reugen. Dinnies used to be our name but it changed six generations ago, no one knew 50 why but Fredy Murray had been there; more literary Proteus than genealogist. (ix) The casualisation of Australia & 2.5 million workers suspicious rockabilly minds. Strong magnetic fields pull artists into poverty, a labour hire shuffle & sucking up to team leaders, Herr gruppenfuhrer gave needle-stuck Stacey her marching orders, refused to climb down into a pit waist deep in glass; group signatures against porn. (x) On the phone the Manager said to her, “I can picture what you look like naked.” This, after she’d signed his declaration; harassment is any unwelcome, uninvited behaviour, whether verbal, written or physical, against another person. Harassment offends, humiliates or intimidates your workmates & colleagues. All faces are the same man, one big self. 51 (xi) Then it was my turn down the pit & I knew why Stacey had rebuked her job satisfaction – part tunnel rat, part miner we dug out wine bottle shrapnel from sewerage water, Hien, Alfred, Hussan; Vietnamese, German, Turk & Australian all in the same trench, huddling from wage concussion; post-war economic boom. (xii) Makes one think of Fredy Murray’s artistic dilemma. How he only worked the land in his head, his hands ploughing with a pen after he’d famously chucked in his public service job with the revolutionary decree – I’m going home forever! Who could blame him? Canberra in the 70’s - a political climate polluted by staffers dancing on bits of paper! (xiii) 52 In 8 Mile, Eminem or ‘Rabbit’ as he’s monikered faces his own art versus employment indecision. Garbled American obscenities mask his attempts to break dance on stubs of bus tickets, slammin’ at the Shelter, the Nuremberg Rally in his mind enhanced by the Detroit car plant’s ubermensch ethos; all rap lyrics are the same song, one big opera. (xiv) Notice to all staff. The Manager called everyone in for a rasp over the knuckles, man of few words off the telephone pissed that someone had left a porno mag on top of a needle bin, blocking access to the final come down of addiction; casuals poring over Jill Kelly’s physical assets than VISY’s on paper profit; imagination lost in the waste stream. (xv) That’s why I collected trophies; cornucopias, statues, sculptures, columns - my finger on 53 the end game of guilt, lust, greed, consumerism. Someone else’s abject reality bound for China’s paper tigers, apathy’s landfill. Davis, Murray, Heydrich & Eminem so screwed up by jobs & sex, history’s artery hardening; outside my factory gate work will set you free. ~ B. R. Dionysius,

408:Spring - The First Pastoral ; Or Damon First in these fields I try the sylvan strains, Nor blush to sport on Windsor's blissful plains: Fair Thames, flow gently from thy sacred spring, While on thy banks Sicilian Muses sing; Let vernal airs tho' trembling osiers play, And Albion's cliffs resound the rural lay. You, that too wise for pride, too good for pow'r, Enjoy the glory to be great no more, And carrying with you all the world can boast, To all the world illustriously are lost! O let my Muse her slender reed inspire, Till in your native shades you tune the lyre: So when the Nightingale to rest removes, The Thrush may chant to the forsaken groves, But, charm'd to silence, listens while she sings, And all th' aerial audience clap their wings. Soon as the flocks shook off the nightly dews, Two Swains, whom Love kept wakeful, and the Muse Pour'd o'er the whitening vale their fleecy care, Fresh as the morn, and as the season fair: The dawn now blushing on the mountain's side, Thus Daphnis spoke, and Strephon thus reply'd. Daphnis. Hear how the birds, on ev'ry bloomy spray, With joyous musick wake the dawning day! Why sit we mute when early linnets sing, When warbling Philomel salutes the spring? Why sit we sad when Phosphor shines so clear, And lavish nature paints the purple Year? Strephon. Sing, then, and Damon shall attend the strain, While yon' slow oxen turn the furrow'd Plain. Here the bright crocus and blue vi'let glow; Here western winds on breathing roses blow. I'll stake yon' lamb, that near the fountain plays, And from the brink his dancing shade surveys. 158 Daphnis. And I this bowl, where wanton Ivy twines, And swelling clusters bend the curling vines: Four figures rising from the work appear, The various seasons of the rolling year; And what is that, which binds the radiant sky, Where twelve fair Signs in beauteous order lie? Damon. Then sing by turns, by turns the Muses sing, Now hawthorns blossom, now the daisies spring, Now leaves the trees, and flow'rs adorn the ground, Begin, the vales shall ev'ry note rebound. Inspire me, Phoebus, in my Delia's praise With Waller's strains, or Granville's moving lays! A milk-white bull shall at your altars stand, That threats a fight, and spurns the rising sand. Daphnis. O Love! for Sylvia let me gain the prize, And make my tongue victorious as her eyes; No lambs or sheep for victims I'll impart, Thy victim, Love, shall be the shepherd's heart. Strephon. Me gentle Delia beckons from the plain, Then hid in shades, eludes her eager swain; But feigns a laugh, to see me search around, And by that laugh the willing fair is found. Daphnis. The sprightly Sylvia trips along the green, She runs, but hopes she does not run unseen; While a kind glance at her pursuer flies, How much at variance are her feet and eyes! Strephon. O'er golden sands let rich Pactolus flow, And trees weep amber on the banks of Po; Blest Thames's shores the brightest beauties yield, Feed here my lambs, I'll seek no distant field. 159 Daphnis. Celestial Venus haunts Idalia's groves; Diana Cynthus, Ceres Hybla loves; If Windsor-shades delight the matchless maid, Cynthus and Hybla yield to Windsor-shade. Strephon. All nature mourns, the Skies relent in show'rs, Hush'd are the birds, and clos'd the drooping flow'rs; If Delia smile, the flow'rs begin to spring, The skies to brighten, and the birds to sing. Daphnis. All nature laughs, the groves are fresh and fair, The Sun's mild lustre warms the vital air; If Sylvia smiles, new glories gild the shore, And vanquish'd nature seems to charm no more. Strephon. In spring the fields, in autumn hills I love, At morn the plains, at noon the shady grove, But Delia always; absent from her sight, Nor plains at morn, nor groves at noon delight. Daphnis. Sylvia's like autumn ripe, yet mild as May, More bright than noon, yet fresh as early day; Ev'n spring displeases, when she shines not here; But blest with her, 'tis spring throughout the year. Strephon. Say, Daphnis, say, in what glad soil appears, A wond'rous Tree that sacred Monarchs bears: Tell me but this, and I'll disclaim the prize, And give the conquest to thy Sylvia's eyes. Daphnis. Nay tell me first, in what more happy fields The Thistle springs, to which the Lily yields: And then a nobler prize I will resign; For Sylvia, charming Sylvia, shall be thine. 160 Damon. Cease to contend, for, Daphnis, I decree, The bowl to Strephon, and the lamb to thee: Blest Swains, whose Nymphs in ev'ry grace excel; Blest Nymphs, whose Swains those graces sing so well! Now rise, and haste to yonder woodbine bow'rs, A soft retreat from sudden vernal show'rs, The turf with rural dainties shall be crown'd, While op'ning blooms diffuse their sweets around. For see! the gath'ring flocks to shelter tend, And from the Pleiads fruitful show'rs descend. ~ Alexander Pope,

409:Priam's castle-walls had sunk, Troy in dust and ashes lay, And each Greek, with triumph drunk, Richly laden with his prey, Sat upon his ship's high prow, On the Hellespontic strand, Starting on his journey now, Bound for Greece, his own fair land. Raise the glad exulting shout! Toward the land that gave them birth Turn they now the ships about, As they seek their native earth. And in rows, all mournfully, Sat the Trojan women there, Beat their breasts in agony, Pallid, with dishevelled hair. In the feast of joy so glad Mingled they the song of woe, Weeping o'er their fortunes sad, In their country's overthrow. "Land beloved, oh, fare thee well! By our foreign masters led, Far from home we're doomed to dwell, Ah, how happy are the dead!" Soon the blood by Calchas spilt On the altar heavenward smokes; Pallas, by whom towns are built And destroyed, the priest invokes; Neptune, too, who all the earth With his billowy girdle laves, Zeus, who gives to terror birth, Who the dreaded Aegis waves. Now the weary fight is done, Ne'er again to be renewed; Time's wide circuit now is run, And the mighty town subdued! Atreus' son, the army's head, Told the people's numbers o'er, Whom he, as their captain, led To Scamander's vale of yore. Sorrow's black and heavy clouds Passed across the monarch's brow: Of those vast and valiant crowds, Oh, how few were left him now! Joyful songs let each one raise, Who will see his home again, In whose veins the life-blood plays, For, alas! not all remain! "All who homeward wend their way, Will not there find peace of mind; On their household altars, they Murder foul perchance may find. Many fall by false friend's stroke, Who in fight immortal proved:" So Ulysses warning spoke, By Athene's spirit moved. Happy he, whose faithful spouse Guards his home with honor true! Woman ofttimes breaks her vows, Ever loves she what is new. And Atrides glories there In the prize he won in fight, And around her body fair Twines his arms with fond delight. Evil works must punished be. Vengeance follows after crime, For Kronion's just decree Rules the heavenly courts sublime. Evil must in evil end; Zeus will on the impious band Woe for broken guest-rights send, Weighing with impartial hand. "It may well the glad befit," Cried Olleus' valiant son, "To extol the Gods who sit On Olympus' lofty throne! Fortune all her gifts supplies, Blindly, and no justice knows, For Patroclus buried lies, And Thersites homeward goes! Since she blindly throws away Each lot in her wheel contained, Let him shout with joy to-day Who the prize of life has gained." "Ay, the wars the best devour! Brother, we will think of thee, In the fight a very tower, When we join in revelry! When the Grecian ships were fired, By thine arm was safety brought; Yet the man by craft inspired Won the spoils thy valor sought. Peace be to thine ashes blest! Thou wert vanquished not in fight: Anger 'tis destroys the best, Ajax fell by Ajax' might!" Neoptolemus poured then, To his sire renowned the wine "'Mongst the lots of earthly men, Mighty father, prize I thine! Of the goods that life supplies, Greatest far of all is fame; Though to dust the body flies, Yet still lives a noble name. Valiant one, thy glory's ray Will immortal be in song; For, though life may pass away, To all time the dead belong!" "Since the voice of minstrelsy Speaks not of the vanquished man, I will Hector's witness be," Tydeus' noble son began: "Fighting bravely in defence Of his household-gods he fell. Great the victor's glory thence, He in purpose did excel! Battling for his altars dear, Sank that rock, no more to rise; E'en the foemen will revere One whose honored name ne'er dies." Nestor, joyous reveller old, Who three generations saw, Now the leaf-crowned cup of gold Gave to weeping Hecuba. "Drain the goblet's draught so cool, And forget each painful smart! Bacchus' gifts are wonderful, Balsam for a broken heart. Drain the goblet's draught so cool, And forget each painful smart! Bacchus' gifts are wonderful, Balsam for a broken heart. "E'en to Niobe, whom Heaven Loved in wrath to persecute, Respite from her pangs was given, Tasting of the corn's ripe fruit. Whilst the thirsty lip we lave In the foaming, living spring, Buried deep in Lethe's wave Lies all grief, all sorrowing! Whilst the thirsty lip we lave In the foaming, living spring, Swallowed up in Lethe's wave Is all grief, all sorrowing!" And the Prophetess inspired By her God, upstarted now, Toward the smoke of homesteads fired, Looking from the lofty prow. "Smoke is each thing here below; Every worldly greatness dies, As the vapory columns go, None are fixed but Deities! Cares behind the horseman sit Round about the vessel play; Lest the morrow hinder it, Let us, therefore, live to-day." ~ Friedrich Schiller, Feast Of Victory ,

410: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,

411:The Angel In The House. Book Ii. Canto Vi. Preludes. I Love's Perversity How strange a thing a lover seems To animals that do not love! Lo, where he walks and talks in dreams, And flouts us with his Lady's glove; How foreign is the garb he wears; And how his great devotion mocks Our poor propriety, and scares The undevout with paradox! His soul, through scorn of worldly care, And great extremes of sweet and gall, And musing much on all that's fair, Grows witty and fantastical; He sobs his joy and sings his grief, And evermore finds such delight In simply picturing his relief, That 'plaining seems to cure his plight; He makes his sorrow, when there's none; His fancy blows both cold and hot; Next to the wish that she'll be won, His first hope is that she may not; He sues, yet deprecates consent; Would she be captured she must fly; She looks too happy and content, For whose least pleasure he would die. Oh, cruelty, she cannot care For one to whom she's always kind! He says he's nought, but, oh, despair, If he's not Jove to her fond mind! He's jealous if she pets a dove, She must be his with all her soul; Yet 'tis a postulate in love That part is greater than the whole; And all his apprehension's stress, When he's with her, regards her hair, Her hand, a ribbon of her dress, As if his life were only there; 151 Because she's constant, he will change, And kindest glances coldly meet, And, all the time he seems so strange, His soul is fawning at her feet; Of smiles and simple heaven grown tired, He wickedly provokes her tears, And when she weeps, as he desired, Falls slain with ecstasies of fears; He blames her, though she has no fault, Except the folly to be his; He worships her, the more to exalt The profanation of a kiss; Health's his disease; he's never well But when his paleness shames her rose; His faith's a rock-built citadel, Its sign a flag that each way blows; His o'erfed fancy frets and fumes; And Love, in him, is fierce, like Hate, And ruffles his ambrosial plumes Against the bars of time and fate. II The Power of Love Samson the Mighty, Solomon The Wise, and Holy David all Must doff their crowns to Love, for none But fell as Love would scorn to fall! And what may fallen spirits win, When stripes and precepts cannot move? Only the sadness of all sin, When look'd at in the light of Love. The Love-Letters. ‘You ask, Will admiration halt, ‘Should spots appear within my Sun? ‘Oh, how I wish I knew your fault, ‘For Love's tired gaze to rest upon! ‘Your graces, which have made me great, ‘Will I so loftily admire, 152 ‘Yourself yourself shall emulate, ‘And be yourself your own desire. ‘I'll nobly mirror you too fair, ‘And, when you're false to me your glass, ‘What's wanting you'll by that repair, ‘So bring yourself through me to pass. ‘O Dearest, tell me how to prove ‘Goodwill which cannot be express'd; ‘The beneficial heart of love ‘Is labour in an idle breast. ‘Name in the world your chosen part, ‘And here I vow, with all the bent ‘And application of my heart ‘To give myself to your content. ‘Would you live on, home-worshipp'd, thus, ‘Not proudly high nor poorly low? ‘Indeed the lines are fall'n to us ‘In pleasant places! Be it so. ‘But would you others heav'nward move, ‘By sight not faith, while you they admire? ‘I'll help with zeal as I approve ‘That just and merciful desire. ‘High as the lonely moon to view ‘I'll lift your light; do you decree ‘Your place, I'll win it; for from you ‘Command inspires capacity. ‘Or, unseen, would you sway the world ‘More surely? Then in gracious rhyme ‘I'll raise your emblem, fair unfurl'd ‘With blessing in the breeze of time. ‘Faith removes mountains, much more love; ‘Let your contempt abolish me ‘If ought of your devisal prove ‘Too hard or high to do or be.’ II I ended. ‘From your Sweet-Heart, Sir,’ Said Nurse, ‘The Dean's man brings it down.’ I could have kiss'd both him and her! ‘Nurse, give him that, with half-a-crown.’ How beat my heart, how paused my breath. 153 When with perversely fond delay, I broke the seal, that bore a wreath Of roses link'd with one of bay. III ‘I found your note. How very kind ‘To leave it there! I cannot tell ‘How pleased I was, or how you find ‘Words to express your thoughts so well. ‘The Girls are going to the Ball ‘At Wilton. If you can, do come; ‘And any day this week you call ‘Papa and I shall be at home. ‘You said to Mary once—I hope ‘In jest—that women should be vain: ‘On Saturday your friend (her Pope), ‘The Bishop dined with us again. ‘She put the question, if they ought? ‘He turn'd it cleverly away ‘(For giddy Mildred cried, she thought ‘We must), with 'What we must we may.' ‘Dear papa laugh'd, and said 'twas sad ‘To think how vain his girls would be, ‘Above all Mary, now she had ‘Episcopal authority. ‘But I was very dull, dear friend, ‘And went upstairs at last, and cried. ‘Be sure to come to-day, or send ‘A rose-leaf kiss'd on either side. ‘Adieu! I am not well. Last night ‘My dreams were wild: I often woke, ‘The summer-lightning was so bright; ‘And when it flash'd I thought you spoke.’ ~ Coventry Patmore,

412:The Basset-Table : An Eclogue Cardelia. Smilinda. Cardelia. The Basset-Table spread, the Tallier come; Why stays Smilinda in the Dressing-Room? Rise, pensive Nymph, the Tallier waits for you: Smilinda. Ah, Madam, since my Sharper is untrue, I joyless make my once ador'd Alpeu I saw him stand behind Ombrelia's Chair, And whisper with that soft, deluding air, And those feign'd sighs which cheat the list'ning Fair. Cardelia. Is this the cause of your Romantic strains? A mightier grief my heavy heart sustains. As You by Love, so I by Fortune cross'd; One, one bad Deal , Three Septleva's have lost. Smilinda. Is that the grief, which you compare with mine? With ease, the smiles of Fortune I resign: Would all my gold in one bad Deal were gone, Were lovely Sharper mine, and mine alone. Cardelia. A Lover is lost, is but a common care; And prudent Nymphs against that change prepare: The Knave of Clubs thrice lost: Oh! who could guess This fatal stroke, this unforeseen Distress? Smilinda. 163 See Betty Lovet! very a propos She all the cares of Love and Play does know: Dear Betty shall th' important point decide; Betty, who oft the pain of each has try'd; Impartial, she shall say who suffers most, By Cards' Ill Usage , or by Lover's lost Lovet. Tell, tell your griefs; attentive will I stay, Tho' Time is precious, and I want some Tea. Cardelia. Behold this Equipage, by Mathers wrought, With Fifty Guineas (a great Pen'worth) bought. See, on the Tooth-pick, Mars and Cupid strive; And both the struggling figures seem alive. Upon the bottom shines the Queen's bright Face; A Myrtle Foliage round the Thimble-Case. Jove, Jove himself, does on the Scissors shine; The Metal, and the Workmanship, divine! Smilinda. This Snuff-Box, - once the pledge of Sharper's love, When rival beauties for the Present strove; At Corticelli's he the Raffle won; Then first his Passion was in public shown: Hazardia blush'd, and turn'd her Head aside, A Rival's envy (all in vain) to hide. This Snuff-Box,- on the Hinge see Brilliants shine: This Snuff-Box will I stake; the Prize is mine. Cardelia. 164 Alas! far lesser losses than I bear, Have made a Soldier sigh, a Lover swear. And Oh! what makes the disappointment hard, 'Twas my own Lord that drew the fatal Card. In complaisance, I took the Queen he gave; Tho' my own secret wish was for the Knave. The Knave won Sonica, which I had chose; And, the next Pull, my Septleva I lose. Smilinda. But ah! what aggravates the killing smart, The cruel thought, that stabs me to the heart; This curs'd Ombrelia, this undoing Fair, By whose vile arts this heavy grief I bear; She, at whose name I shed these spiteful tears, She owes to me the very charms she wears. An awkward Thing, when first she came to Town; Her Shape unfashion'd, and her Face unknown: She was my friend; I taught her first to spread Upon her sallow cheeks enliv'ning red: I introduc'd her to the Park and Plays; And, by my int'rest, Cozens made her Stays. Ungrateful wretch, with mimic airs grown pert, She dares to steal my Fav'rite Lover's heart. Cardelia. Wretch that I was, how often have I swore, When Winnall tally'd, I would punt no more? I know the Bite, yet to my Ruin run; And see the Folly, which I cannot shun. Smilinda. How many Maids have Sharper's vows deceiv'd? How many curs'd the moment they believ'd? Yet his known Falsehoods could no Warning prove: Ah! what is warning to a Maid in Love? Cardelia. But of what marble must that breast be form'd, To gaze on Basset, and remain unwarm'd? When Kings, Queens, Knaves, are set in decent rank; Expos'd in glorious heaps the tempting Bank, 165 Guineas, Half-Guineas, all the shining train; The Winner's pleasure, and the Loser's pain: In bright Confusion open Rouleaux lie, They strike the Soul, and glitter in the Eye. Fir'd by the sight, all Reason I disdain; My Passions rise, and will not bear the rein. Look upon Basset, you who Reason boast; And see if Reason must not there be lost. Smilinda. What more than marble must that heart compose, Can hearken coldly to my Sharper's Vows? Then, when he trembles! when his Blushes rise! When awful Love seems melting in his Eyes! With eager beats his Mechlin Cravat moves: 'He Loves,' - I whisper to myself, 'He Loves!' Such unfeign'd Passion in his Looks appears, I lose all Mem'ry of my former Fears; My panting heart confesses all his charms, I yield at once, and sink into his arms: Think of that moment, you who Prudence boast; For such a moment, Prudence well were lost. Cardelia. At the Groom-Porter's, batter'd Bullies play, Some Dukes at Mary-Bone bowl Time away. But who the Bowl, or ratt'ling Dice compares To Basset's heav'nly Joys, and pleasing Cares? Smilinda. Soft Simplicetta doats upon a Beau; Prudina likes a Man, and laughs at Show. Their several graces in my Sharper meet; Strong as the Footman, as the Master sweet. Lovet. Cease your contention, which has been too long; I grow impatient, and the Tea's too strong. 166 Attend, and yield to what I now decide; The Equipage shall grace Smilinda's Side: The Snuff-Box to Cardelia I decree, Now leave complaining, and begin your Tea. ~ Alexander Pope,

413:The tyrant Dionys to seek, Stern Moerus with his poniard crept; The watchful guard upon him swept; The grim king marked his changeless cheek: "What wouldst thou with thy poniard? Speak!" "The city from the tyrant free!" "The death-cross shall thy guerdon be." "I am prepared for death, nor pray," Replied that haughty man, "I to live; Enough, if thou one grace wilt give For three brief suns the death delay To wed my sisterleagues away; I boast one friend whose life for mine, If I should fail the cross, is thine." The tyrant mused,and smiled,and said With gloomy craft, "So let it be; Three days I will vouchsafe to thee. But markif, when the time be sped, Thou fail'stthy surety dies instead. His life shall buy thine own release; Thy guilt atoned, my wrath shall cease." He sought his friend"The king's decree Ordains my life the cross upon Shall pay the deed I would have done; Yet grants three days' delay to me, My sister's marriage-rites to see; If thou, the hostage, wilt remain Till Iset freereturn again!" His friend embracedNo word he said, But silent to the tyrant strode The other went upon his road. Ere the third sun in heaven was red, The rite was o'er, the sister wed; And back, with anxious heart unquailing, He hastes to hold the pledge unfailing. Down the great rains unending bore, Down from the hills the torrents rushed, In one broad stream the brooklets gushed. The wanderer halts beside the shore, The bridge was swept the tides before The shattered arches o'er and under Went the tumultuous waves in thunder. Dismayed he takes his idle stand Dismayed, he strays and shouts around; His voice awakes no answering sound. No boat will leave the sheltering strand, To bear him to the wished-for land; No boatman will Death's pilot be; The wild stream gathers to a sea! Sunk by the banks, awhile he weeps, Then raised his arms to Jove, and cried, "Stay thou, oh stay the maddening tide; Midway behold the swift sun sweeps, And, ere he sinks adown the deeps, If I should fail, his beams will see My friend's last anguishslain for me!" More fierce it runs, more broad it flows, And wave on wave succeeds and dies And hour on hour remorseless flies; Despair at last to daring grows Amidst the flood his form he throws; With vigorous arms the roaring waves Cleavesand a God that pities, saves. He wins the bankhe scours the strand, He thanks the God in breathless prayer; When from the forest's gloomy lair, With ragged club in ruthless hand, And breathing murderrushed the band That find, in woods, their savage den, And savage prey in wandering men. "What," cried he, pale with generous fear; "What think to gain ye by the strife? All I bear with me is my life I take it to the king!"and here He snatched the club from him most near: And thrice he smote, and thrice his blows Dealt deathbefore him fly the foes! The sun is glowing as a brand; And faint before the parching heat, The strength forsakes the feeble feet: "Thou hast saved me from the robbers' hand, Through wild floods given the blessed land; And shall the weak limbs fail me now? And he!Divine one, nerve me, thou!" Hark! like some gracious murmur by, Babbles low music, silver-clear The wanderer holds his breath to hear; And from the rock, before his eye, Laughs forth the spring delightedly; Now the sweet waves he bends him o'er, And the sweet waves his strength restore. Through the green boughs the sun gleams dying, O'er fields that drink the rosy beam, The trees' huge shadows giant seem. Two strangers on the road are hieing; And as they fleet beside him flying, These muttered words his ear dismay: "Nownow the cross has claimed its prey!" Despair his winged path pursues, The anxious terrors hound him on There, reddening in the evening sun, From far, the domes of Syracuse! When towards him comes Philostratus (His leal and trusty herdsman he), And to the master bends his knee. "Backthou canst aid thy friend no more, The ****rd time already flown His life is forfeitsave thine own! Hour after hour in hope he bore, Nor might his soul its faith give o'er; Nor could the tyrant's scorn deriding, Steal from that faith one thought confiding!" "Too late! what horror hast thou spoken! Vain life, since it cannot requite him! But death with me can yet unite him; No boast the tyrant's scorn shall make How friend to friend can faith forsake. But from the double death shall know, That truth and love yet live below!" The sun sinks downthe gate's in view, The cross looms dismal on the ground The eager crowd gape murmuring round. His friend is bound the cross unto. . . . Crowdguardsall bursts he breathless through: "Me! Doomsman, me!" he shouts, "alone! His life is rescuedlo, mine own!" Amazement seized the circling ring! Linked in each other's arms the pair Weeping for joyyet anguish there! Moist every eye that gazed;they bring The wondrous tidings to the king His breast man's heart at last hath known, And the friends stand before his throne. Long silent, he, and wondering long, Gazed on the pair"In peace depart, Victors, ye have subdued my heart! Truth is no dream!its power is strong. Give grace to him who owns his wrong! 'Tis mine your suppliant now to be, Ah, let the band of lovebe three!" ~ Friedrich Schiller, The Hostage ,

414:Podas Okus Am I waking ? Was I sleeping ? Dearest, are you watching yet ? Traces on your cheeks of weeping Glitter, 'tis in vain you fret ; Drifting ever ! drifting onward ! In the glass the bright sand runs Steadily and slowly downward ; Hushed are all the Myrmidons. Has Automedon been banish'd From his post beside my bed ? Where has Agamemnon vanished ? Where is warlike Diomed ? Where is Nestor ? where Ulysses ? Menelaus, where is he ? Call them not, more dear your kisses Than their prosings are to me. Daylight fades and night must follow, Low, where sea and sky combine, Droops the orb of great Apollo, Hostile god to me and mine. Through the tent's wide entrance streaming, In a flood of glory rare, Glides the golden sunset, gleaming On your golden, gleaming hair. Chide him not, the leech who tarries, Surest aid were all too late ; Surer far the shaft of Paris, Winged by Phoebus and by fate ; When he crouch'd behind the gable, Had I once his features scann'd, Phoebus' self had scarce been able To have nerved his trembling hand. Blue-eyed maiden ! dear Athena ! Goddess chaste, and wise, and brave, From the snares of Polyxena 228 Thou wouldst fain thy favourite save. Tell me, is it not far better That it should be as it is ? Jove's behest we cannot fetter, Fate's decrees are always his. Many seek for peace and riches, Length of days and life of ease ; I have sought for one thing, which is Fairer unto me than these. Often, too, I've heard the story, In my boyhood, of the doom Which the fates assigned me—Glory, Coupled with an early tomb. Swift assault and sudden sally Underneath the Trojan wall ; Charge, and countercharge, and rally, War-cry loud, and trumpet call ; Doubtful strain of desp'rate battle, Cut and thrust and grapple fierce Swords that ring on shields that rattle, Blades that gash and darts that pierce ;— I have done with these for ever ; By the loud resounding sea, Where the reedy jav'lins quiver, There is now no place for me. Day by day our ranks diminish, We are falling day by day ; But our sons the strife will finish, Where man tarries man must slay. Life, 'tis said, to all men sweet is, Death to all must bitter be ; Wherefore thus, oh, mother Thetis ? None can baffle Jove's decree ? I am ready, I am willing, To resign my stormy life ; Weary of this long blood-spilling, Sated with this ceaseless strife. 229 Shorter doom I've pictured dimly, On a bed of crimson sand ; Fighting hard and dying grimly, Silent lips, and striking hand ; But the toughest lives are brittle, And the bravest and the best Lightly fall—it matters little ; Now I only long for rest. I have seen enough of slaughter, Seen Scamander's torrent red, Seen hot blood poured out like water, Seen the champaign heaped with dead. Men will call me unrelenting, Pitiless, vindictive, stern ; Few will raise a voice dissenting, Few will better things discern. Speak ! the fires of life are reeling, Like the wildfires on the marsh, Was I to a friend unfeeling ? Was I to a mistress harsh ? Was there naught save bloodshed throbbing In this heart and on this brow ? Whisper ! girl, in silence sobbing ! Dead Patroclus ! answer thou ! Dry those violet orbs that glisten, Darling, I have had my day ; Place your hand in mine and listen, Ere the strong soul cleaves its way Through the death mist hovering o'er me, As the stout ship cleaves the wave, To my fathers gone before me, To the gods who love the brave ! Courage, we must part for certain ; Shades that sink and shades that rise, Blending in a shroud-like curtain, Gather o'er these weary eyes. O'er the fields we used to roam, in Brighter days and lighter cheer, 230 Gathers thus the quiet gloaming— Now, I ween, the end is near. For the hand that clasps your fingers, Closing in the death-grip tight, Scarcely feels the warmth that lingers, Scarcely heeds the pressure light ; While the failing pulse that alters, Changing 'neath a death chill damp, Flickers, flutters, flags, and falters, Feebly, like a waning lamp. Think'st thou, love, 'twill chafe my ghost in Hades' realm, where heroes shine, Should I hear the shepherd boasting To his Argive concubine ? Let him boast, the girlish victor Let him brag ; not thus, I trow, Were the laurels torn from Hector, Not so very long ago. Does my voice sound thick and husky ? Is my hand no longer warm ? Round that neck where pearls look dusky Let me once more wind my arm ; Rest my head upon that shoulder, Where it rested oft of yore ; Warm and white, yet seeming colder Now than e'er it seem'd before. 'Twas the fraud of Priam's daughter, Not the force of Priam's son, Slew me—ask not why I sought her, 'Twas my doom—her work is done ! Fairer far than she, and dearer, By a thousand-fold thou art ; Come, my own one, nestle nearer, Cheating death of half his smart. Slowly, while your amber tresses Shower down their golden rain, Let me drink those last caresses, 231 Never to be felt again ; Yet th' Elysian halls are spacious, Somewhere near me I may keep Room—who knows ?—The gods are gracious ; Lay me lower—let me sleep ! Lower yet, my senses wander, And my spirit seems to roll With the tide of swift Scamander Rushing to a viewless goal. In my ears, like distant washing Of the surf upon the shore, Drones a murmur, faintly splashing, 'Tis the splash of Charon's oar. Lower yet, my own Briseis, Denser shadows veil the light ; Hush, what is to be, to be is, Close my eyes, and say good-night. Lightly lay your red lips, kissing, On this cold mouth, while your thumbs Lie on these cold eyelids pressing— Pallas ! thus thy soldier comes. ~ Adam Lindsay Gordon,

415:A Woman’s Apology In the green darkness of a summer wood, Wherethro' ran winding ways, a lady stood, Carved from the air in curving womanhood. A maiden's form crowned by a matron's mien, As, about Lammas, wheat-stems may be seen, The ear all golden, but the stalk still green. There as she stood, waiting for sight or sound, Down a dim alley without break or bound, Slowly he came, his gaze upon the ground. Nor ever once he lifted up his eyes Till he no more her presence could disguise; Then he her face saluted silentwise. And silentwise no less she turned, as though She was the leaf and he the current's flow, And where he went, there she perforce must go. And both kept speechless as the dumb or dead, Nor did the earth so much as speak their tread, So soft by last year's leaves 'twas carpeted. And not a sound moved all the greenwood through, Save when some quest with fluttering wings outflew, Ruffling the leaves; then silence was anew. And when the track they followed forked in twain, They never doubted which one should be ta'en, But chose as though obeying secret rein. Until they came where boughs no longer screened The sky, and soon abruptly intervened A rustic gate, and over it they leaned. Leaned over it, and green before them lay A meadow ribbed with drying swathes of hay, From which the hinds had lately gone away. 122 Beyond it, yet more woods, these too at rest, Smooth-dipping down to shore, unseen, but guessed; For lo! the Sea, with nothing on its breast. ``I was sure you would come,'' she said, with a voice like a broken wing That flutters, and fails, then flags, while it nurses the failure's sting; ``You could not refuse me that, 'tis but such a little thing. ``Do I remember the words, the farewell words that you spoke, Answering soft with hard, ere we parted under the oak? Remember them? Can I forget? For each of them cut like a stroke. ``True-were they true? You think so, or they had never been said; But somehow, like lightning flashes, they flickered about my head, Flickered but touched me not. They ought to have stricken me dead. ``What do I want with you now? What I always wanted, you know; A voice to be heard in the darkness, a flower to be seen in the snow, And a bond linking each fresh future with a lengthening long-ago. ``Is it too much? Too little! Well, little or much, 'tis all That rescues my life from the nothing it seems to be when I call For a life to reply, and my voice comes back like a voice from the wall. ``If one played sweet on a lute, yea so soft that you scarce could hear, Would you clang all the chords with your hand that the octaves might ring out clear? Lo! asunder the strings are snapped, and the music shrinks silent for fear. ``See! the earth through the infinite spaces goes silently round and round, And the moon moveth on through the heavens and never maketh a sound, And the wheels of eternity traverse their journey in stillness profound. ``'Tis only the barren breakers that bellow on barren shore; 'Tis only the braggart thunders that rumble and rage and roar; Like a wave is the love that babbles; but silent love loves evermore. ``Feeble, shadowy, shallow? Is ocean then shallow that keeps Its harvest of shell and seaweed that none or garners or reaps, That the diver may sound a moment, but never drag from its deeps? 123 ``Cowardice? Yes, we are cowards; cowards from cradle to bier, And the terror of life grows upon us as we grow year by year; Our smiles are but trembling ripples urged on by a subtide of fear. ``And hence, or at substance or shadow we start, though we scarce know why. Life seems like a haunted wood, where we tremble and crouch and cry. Beast, or robber, or ghost,-our courage is still to fly. ``So we look around for a guide, and to place all our fears in his hand, That his courage may keep us brave, that his grandeur may make us grand: But, remember, a guide, not an ambush. Oh, tell me you understand! ``Still silent, still unpersuaded. Ah! I know what your thoughts repeat. We are all alike, and we love to keep passion aglow at our feet, Like one that sitteth in shade and complacently smiles at the heat. ``You think so? Then come into shade. Rise up, take the seat at my side; Or, see, I will kneel, not you. What is humble, if this be pride? What seems cold now will chance feel warm when the fierce glare of noon hath died. ``Have you never, when waves were breaking, watched children at sport on the beach, With their little feet tempting the foam-fringe, till with stronger and further reach Than they dreamed of, a billow comes bursting, how they turn and scamper and screech! ``Are we more than timider children? With its blending of terror and glee, To us life-call it love, if you will-is a deep mysterious sea, That we play with till it grows earnest; then straight we tremble and flee. ``Oh, never the pale east flushes with ripples of rising day, Never, never, the birds awakening sing loud upon gable and spray, But afresh you dawn on my life, and my soul chants its matin lay. ``When the scent of the elder is wafted from the hedge in the cottage lane, Up the walk, and over the terrace, and in at the open pane, You are there, and my life seems perfumed like a garden after rain. ``The nightingale brings you nearer, the woodpecker borrows your voice; The flower where the bees cling and cluster seems the flower of the flowers of your choice. 124 I am sad with the cloud of your sadness, with the joy of your joy I rejoice. ``What dearer, what nearer would you? Once heart is betrothed to heart, No closeness can bring them closer, no parting can put them apart. Oh! take all the balm, leave the bitter, give the sweetness with none of its smart.'' The blue sea now had saddened into gray; Solid and close the darkening woodlands lay, And twilight's floating dews clung heavy with the hay. One with all these, he neither stirred nor spake, Though for a sound the silence seemed to ache, Waiting and wondering when his voice the pain would break. Then since the words hope forced despair to say Seemed to have vanished with the vanished day, She turned her from the gate, and slowly moved away. And he too turned; but pacing side by side, This mocking nearness did them more divide, Than if betwixt them moaned the round of ocean wide. But when o'erhead boughs once more met and spanned, She halted, laid upon his arm her hand, And questioned blank his face, his heart to understand. Had trust or tenderness been hovering there, She would have known it in the duskiest air; But face and form alike of every trace was bare. Her touch he neither welcomed nor repelled; Pulses that once had quickened straight seemed quelled; He stood like one that is by courteous bondage held. One hand thus foiled, the other rescuing came, And in the darkness sheltered against shame, She fawned on him with both, and trembled out his name. Then as a reaper, when the days are meet, His sickle curves about the bending wheat, He hollowed out his arms, and harvested his sweet. 125 ``Now what shall I cling to?'' she murmured, ``Behold! I am weak, you are strong. Brief, brief is the bridal of summer, the mourning of winter is long; Never leave me unloved to discover love's right was but rapturous wrong!'' Again was silence. Then she slowly felt The clasp of cruel fondness round her melt, And heard a voice that seemed the voice of one that knelt. ``The long, long mourning of the winter days Waits sure for them that bask in summer rays; One must depart, then life is death to one that stays. ``This fixed decree we can nor change nor cheat; For I must either leave or lose you, sweet, And all love's triumphs end in death and dark defeat. ``Death is unconscious change, change conscious death. Better to die outright than gasp for breath. Life, dead, hath done with pain; Love, lingering, suffereth. ``The only loss-and this may you be spared!For which who stake on love must be prepared, Is still that, though life may, yet death can not be shared. ``No other pain shall come to you from me. What love withholds, love needs must ask. But, see! Since you embrace love's chains, love's self doth set you free.'' So free they wandered, drinking with delight The scented silence of the summer night, And in the darkness saw what ne'er is seen in light. Hushed deep in slumber seemed all earthy jars, And, looking up, they saw, 'twixt leafy bars, The untrod fields of Heaven glistening with dewy stars. ~ Alfred Austin,

416:"My friend, why are the Great Gods in conference? (In my dream) Anu, Enlil, and Shamash held a council, and Anu spoke to Enlil: 'Because they killed the Bull of Heaven and have also slain Humbaba, the one of them who pulled up the Cedar of the Mountain must die!' Enlil said:'Let Enkidu die, but Gilgamesh must not die!' Bur the Sun God of Heavenl replied to valiant Enlil: 'Was it not at my command that they killed the Bull of Heaven and Humbaba! Should now innocent Enkidu die!' Then Enlil became angry at Shamash, saying: 'it is you who are responsible because you traveled daily with them as their friend!"' Enkidu was lying (sick) in front of Gilgamesh. His tears flowing like canals, he (Gilgamesh) said: "O brother, dear brother, why are they absolving me instead of my brother)" Then Enkidu said "So now must 1 become a ghost, to sit with the ghosts of the dead, to see my dear brother nevermore!" In the Cedar Forest where the Great (Gods dwell, I did not kill the Cedar." Enkidu addressed Gilgamesh, saying to Gilgamesh, his Friend: "Come, Friend, The door Enkidu raised his eyes,and spoke to the door as if it were human: "You stupid wooden door, with no ability to understand ! Already at 10 leagues I selected the wood for you, until I saw the towering Cedar Your wood was without compare in my eyes. Seventy-two cubits was your height, 14 cubits your width, one cubit your thickness, your door post, pivot stone, and post cap I fashioned you, and I carried you; to Nippur Had I known, O door, that this would he your gratitude and this your gratitude, I would have taken an axe and chopped you up, and lashed your planks into in its I erected the and in Urukthey heard But yet, O door, I fashioned you, and I carried you to Nippur! May a king who comes after me reject you, may the god may he remove my name and set his own name there!" He ripped out.., threw down. He(Gilgamesh) kept listening to his words, and retorted quickly, Gilgamcsh listened to the words of Enkidu, his Friend, and his tears flowed. Gilgamesh addressed Enkidu, raying: 'Frend, the gods have given you a mind broad and Though it behooves you to be sensible, you keep uttering improper things! Why, my Friend, does your mind utter improper things? The dream is important but very frightening, your lips are buzzing like flies. Though there is much fear, the dream is very important. To the living they (the gods) leave sorrow, to the living the dream leaves pain. I will pray, and beseech the Great Gods, I will seek, and appeal to your god. Enlil, the Father of the Gods, Enlil the Counseloryou. I will fashion a statue of you of gold without measure, do nor worry, gold What Enlil says is not What he has said cannot go back, cannot, What he has laid down cannot go back, cannot My friend, of fate goes to mankind." a lust as dawn hegan to glow, Enkidu raised his head and cried out to Shamash, at the (first) gleam of the sun his tears poured forth. "I appeal to you, O Shamash, on behalf of my precious life (?), because of that notorious trapper who did not let me attain the same as my friend May the trapper not get enough to feed himself . May his profit be slashed, and his wages decrease, may be his share before you, may he not enter but go our of it like vapor(?)!" After he had cursed the trapper to his satisfaction, his heart prompted him to curse the Harlot. "Come now, Harlot, I am going to decree your fate, a fate that will never come to an end for eternity! I will curse you with a Great Curse, may my curses overwhelm you suddenly, in an instant! May you not be able to make a household, and not be able to love a child of your own (?)! May you not dwell in the of girls, may dregs of beer (?) stain your beautiful lap, may a drunk soil your festal robe with vomit(?), the beautiful (?) of the potter. May you never acquire anything of bright alabaster, may the judge. .. may shining silver(?), man's delight, not be cast into your house, may a gateway be where you rake your pleasure,' may a crossroad be your home may a wasteland be your sleeping place, may the shadow of the city wall be your place to stand, may the thorns and briars skin your feet, may both the drunk and the dry slap you on the cheek, in your city's streets (?), may owls nest in the cracks of your walls! may no parties take place present(?). and your filthy "lap" may.., be his(?) Because of me while I, blameless, you have against me. When Shamash heard what his mouth had uttered, he suddenly called out to him from the sky: "Enkidu, why are you cursing the harlot, Shamhat, she who fed you bread fit for a god, she who gave you wine fit for a king, she who dressed you in grand garments, and she who allowed you to make beautiful Gilgamesh your comrade! Now Gilgamesh is your beloved brother-friend! He will have you lie on a grand couch, will have you lie on a couch of honor. He will seat you in the seat of ease, the seat at his left, so that the princes of the world kiss your feet. He will have the people of Uruk go into mourning and moaning over you, will fill the happy people with woe over you. And after you he will let his body bear a filthy mat of hair, will don the skin of a lion and roam the wilderness." As soon as Enkidu heard the words of valiant Shamash, his agitated heart grew calm, his anger abated. Enkidu spoke to the harlot, saying: "Come, Shamhat, I will decree your fate for you. Let my mouth which has cursed you, now turn to bless you! May governors and nobles love you, May he who is one league away bite his lip (in anticipation of you), may he who is two leagues away shake our his locks (in preparation)! May the soldier not refuse you, but undo his buckle for you, may he give you rock crystal(!), lapis lazuli, and gold, may his gift to you be earrings of filigree(?). May his supplies be heaped up. May he bring you into the of the gods. May the wife, the mother of seven (children), be abandoned because of you!" Enkidu's innards were churning, lying there so alone. He spoke everything he felt, saying to his friend: "Listen, my friend, to the dream that I had last night. The heavens cried out and the earth replied, and I was standing between them. There appeared a man of dark visage his face resembled the Anzu," his hands were the paws of a lion, his nails the talons of an eagle! he seized me by my hair and overpowered me. I struck him a blow, but he skipped about like a jump rope, and then he struck me and capsizcd me like a raft, and trampled on me like a wild bull. He encircled my whole body in a clamp. 'Help me, my friend" (I cried), but you did not rescue me, you were afraid and did not.. ." "Then he and turned me into a dove, so that my arms were feathered like a bird. Seizing me, he led me down to the House of Darkness, the dwelling of Irkalla, to the house where those who enter do not come out, along the road of no return, to the house where those who dwell, do without light, where dirt is their drink, their food is of clay, where, like a bird, they wear garments of feathers, and light cannot be seen, they dwell in the dark, and upon the door and bolt, there lies dust. On entering the House of Dust, everywhere I looked there were royal crowns gathered in heaps, everywhere I listened, it was the bearers of crowns, who, in the past, had ruled the land, but who now served Anu and Enlil cooked meats, served confections, and poured cool water from waterskins. In the house of Dust that I entered there sat the high priest and acolyte, there sat the purification priest and ecstatic, there sat the anointed priests of the Great Gods. There sat Etana, there sat Sumukan, there sat Ereshkigal, the Queen of the Netherworld. Beletseri, the Scribe of the Netherworld, knelt before her, she was holding the tablet and was reading it out to her Ereshkigal. She raised her head when she saw me 'Who has taken this man?' [50 lines are missing here] I (?) who went through every difficulty, remember me and forget(?) not all that I went through with you. "My friend has had a dream that bodes ill?" The day he had the dream came to an end. Enkidu lies down a first day, a second day, that Enkidu in his bed; a third day and fourth day, that Enkidu in his bed; a fifth, a sixth, and seventh, that Enkidu in his bed; an eighth, a ninth, a tenth, that Enkidu in his bed. Enkidu's illness grew ever worse. Enkidu drew up from his bed, and called out to Gilgamesh: "My friend hates me while he talked with me in Uruk as I was afraid of the battle he encouraged me. My friend who saved me in battle has now abandoned me! I and you [About 20 lines are missing] At his noises Gilgamesh was roused Like a dove he moaned "May he not be held, in death O preeminent among men" To his friend "I will mourn him (?) I at his side" ~ Anonymous, The Epic of Gilgamesh Tablet VII ,

417:By what arrangements all things come to pass Through the blue regions of the mighty world,- How we can know what energy and cause Started the various courses of the sun And the moon's goings, and by what far means They can succumb, the while with thwarted light, And veil with shade the unsuspecting lands, When, as it were, they blink, and then again With open eye survey all regions wide, Resplendent with white radiance- I do now Return unto the world's primeval age And tell what first the soft young fields of earth With earliest parturition had decreed To raise in air unto the shores of light And to entrust unto the wayward winds. In the beginning, earth gave forth, around The hills and over all the length of plains, The race of grasses and the shining green; The flowery meadows sparkled all aglow With greening colour, and thereafter, lo, Unto the divers kinds of trees was given An emulous impulse mightily to shoot, With a free rein, aloft into the air. As feathers and hairs and bristles are begot The first on members of the four-foot breeds And on the bodies of the strong-y-winged, Thus then the new Earth first of all put forth Grasses and shrubs, and afterward begat The mortal generations, there upsprung- Innumerable in modes innumerable- After diverging fashions. For from sky These breathing-creatures never can have dropped, Nor the land-dwellers ever have come up Out of sea-pools of salt. How true remains, How merited is that adopted name Of earth- "The Mother!"- since from out the earth Are all begotten. And even now arise From out the loams how many living things- Concreted by the rains and heat of the sun. Wherefore 'tis less a marvel, if they sprang In Long Ago more many, and more big, Matured of those days in the fresh young years Of earth and ether. First of all, the race Of the winged ones and parti-coloured birds, Hatched out in spring-time, left their eggs behind; As now-a-days in summer tree-crickets Do leave their shiny husks of own accord, Seeking their food and living. Then it was This earth of thine first gave unto the day The mortal generations; for prevailed Among the fields abounding hot and wet. And hence, where any fitting spot was given, There 'gan to grow womb-cavities, by roots Affixed to earth. And when in ripened time The age of the young within (that sought the air And fled earth's damps) had burst these wombs, O then Would Nature thither turn the pores of earth And make her spurt from open veins a juice Like unto milk; even as a woman now Is filled, at child-bearing, with the sweet milk, Because all that swift stream of aliment Is thither turned unto the mother-breasts. There earth would furnish to the children food; Warmth was their swaddling cloth, the grass their bed Abounding in soft down. Earth's newness then Would rouse no dour spells of the bitter cold, Nor extreme heats nor winds of mighty powers- For all things grow and gather strength through time In like proportions; and then earth was young. Wherefore, again, again, how merited Is that adopted name of Earth- The Mother!- Since she herself begat the human race, And at one well-nigh fixed time brought forth Each breast that ranges raving round about Upon the mighty mountains and all birds Aerial with many a varied shape. But, lo, because her bearing years must end, She ceased, like to a woman worn by eld. For lapsing aeons change the nature of The whole wide world, and all things needs must take One status after other, nor aught persists Forever like itself. All things depart; Nature she changeth all, compelleth all To transformation. Lo, this moulders down, A-slack with weary eld, and that, again, Prospers in glory, issuing from contempt. In suchwise, then, the lapsing aeons change The nature of the whole wide world, and earth Taketh one status after other. And what She bore of old, she now can bear no longer, And what she never bore, she can to-day. In those days also the telluric world Strove to beget the monsters that upsprung With their astounding visages and limbs- The Man-woman- a thing betwixt the twain, Yet neither, and from either sex remote- Some gruesome Boggles orphaned of the feet, Some widowed of the hands, dumb Horrors too Without a mouth, or blind Ones of no eye, Or Bulks all shackled by their legs and arms Cleaving unto the body fore and aft, Thuswise, that never could they do or go, Nor shun disaster, nor take the good they would. And other prodigies and monsters earth Was then begetting of this sort- in vain, Since Nature banned with horror their increase, And powerless were they to reach unto The coveted flower of fair maturity, Or to find aliment, or to intertwine In works of Venus. For we see there must Concur in life conditions manifold, If life is ever by begetting life To forge the generations one by one: First, foods must be; and, next, a path whereby The seeds of impregnation in the frame May ooze, released from the members all; Last, the possession of those instruments Whereby the male with female can unite, The one with other in mutual ravishments. And in the ages after monsters died, Perforce there perished many a stock, unable By propagation to forge a progeny. For whatsoever creatures thou beholdest Breathing the breath of life, the same have been Even from their earliest age preserved alive By cunning, or by valour, or at least By speed of foot or wing. And many a stock Remaineth yet, because of use to man, And so committed to man's guardianship. Valour hath saved alive fierce lion-breeds And many another terrorizing race, Cunning the foxes, flight the antlered stags. Light-sleeping dogs with faithful heart in breast, However, and every kind begot from seed Of beasts of draft, as, too, the woolly flocks And horned cattle, all, my Memmius, Have been committed to guardianship of men. For anxiously they fled the savage beasts, And peace they sought and their abundant foods, Obtained with never labours of their own, Which we secure to them as fit rewards For their good service. But those beasts to whom Nature has granted naught of these same things- Beasts quite unfit by own free will to thrive And vain for any service unto us In thanks for which we should permit their kind To feed and be in our protection safe- Those, of a truth, were wont to be exposed, Enshackled in the gruesome bonds of doom, As prey and booty for the rest, until Nature reduced that stock to utter death. But Centaurs ne'er have been, nor can there be Creatures of twofold stock and double frame, Compact of members alien in kind, Yet formed with equal function, equal force In every bodily part- a fact thou mayst, However dull thy wits, well learn from this: The horse, when his three years have rolled away, Flowers in his prime of vigour; but the boy Not so, for oft even then he gropes in sleep After the milky nipples of the breasts, An infant still. And later, when at last The lusty powers of horses and stout limbs, Now weak through lapsing life, do fail with age, Lo, only then doth youth with flowering years Begin for boys, and clothe their ruddy cheeks With the soft down. So never deem, percase, That from a man and from the seed of horse, The beast of draft, can Centaurs be composed Or e'er exist alive, nor Scyllas be- The half-fish bodies girdled with mad dogs- Nor others of this sort, in whom we mark Members discordant each with each; for ne'er At one same time they reach their flower of age Or gain and lose full vigour of their frame, And never burn with one same lust of love, And never in their habits they agree, Nor find the same foods equally delightsome- Sooth, as one oft may see the bearded goats Batten upon the hemlock which to man Is violent poison. Once again, since flame Is wont to scorch and burn the tawny bulks Of the great lions as much as other kinds Of flesh and blood existing in the lands, How could it be that she, Chimaera lone, With triple body- fore, a lion she; And aft, a dragon; and betwixt, a goat- Might at the mouth from out the body belch Infuriate flame? Wherefore, the man who feigns Such beings could have been engendered When earth was new and the young sky was fresh (Basing his empty argument on new) May babble with like reason many whims Into our ears: he'll say, perhaps, that then Rivers of gold through every landscape flowed, That trees were wont with precious stones to flower, Or that in those far aeons man was born With such gigantic length and lift of limbs As to be able, based upon his feet, Deep oceans to bestride; or with his hands To whirl the firmament around his head. For though in earth were many seeds of things In the old time when this telluric world First poured the breeds of animals abroad, Still that is nothing of a sign that then Such hybrid creatures could have been begot And limbs of all beasts heterogeneous Have been together knit; because, indeed, The divers kinds of grasses and the grains And the delightsome trees- which even now Spring up abounding from within the earth- Can still ne'er be begotten with their stems Begrafted into one; but each sole thing Proceeds according to its proper wont And all conserve their own distinctions based In Nature's fixed decree. author class:Lucretius ~ to what remains!- Since I've resolved, Origins Of Vegetable And Animal Life ,

418:Self Communion 'The mist is resting on the hill; The smoke is hanging in the air; The very clouds are standing still: A breathless calm broods everywhere. Thou pilgrim through this vale of tears, Thou, too, a little moment cease Thy anxious toil and fluttering fears, And rest thee, for a while, in peace.' 'I would, but Time keeps working still And moving on for good or ill: He will not rest or stay. In pain or ease, in smiles or tears, He still keeps adding to my years And stealing life away. His footsteps in the ceaseless sound Of yonder clock I seem to hear, That through this stillness so profound Distinctly strikes the vacant ear. For ever striding on and on, He pauses not by night or day; And all my life will soon be gone As these past years have slipped away. He took my childhood long ago, And then my early youth; and lo, He steals away my prime! I cannot see how fast it goes, But well my inward spirit knows The wasting power of time.' 'Time steals thy moments, drinks thy breath, Changes and wastes thy mortal frame; But though he gives the clay to death, He cannot touch the inward flame. Nay, though he steals thy years away, Their memory is left thee still, And every month and every day Leaves some effect of good or ill. The wise will find in Memory's store 82 A help for that which lies before To guide their course aright; Then, hush thy plaints and calm thy fears; Look back on these departed years, And, say, what meets thy sight?' 'I see, far back, a helpless child, Feeble and full of causeless fears, Simple and easily beguiled To credit all it hears. More timid than the wild wood-dove, Yet trusting to another's care, And finding in protecting love Its only refuge from despair, -­ Its only balm for every woe, The only bliss its soul can know; -­ Still hiding in its breast. A tender heart too prone to weep, A love so earnest, strong, and deep It could not be expressed. Poor helpless thing! what can it do Life's stormy cares and toils among; -­ How tread this weary desert through That awes the brave and tires the strong? Where shall it centre so much trust Where truth maintains so little sway, Where seeming fruit is bitter dust, And kisses oft to death betray? How oft must sin and falsehood grieve A heart so ready to believe, And willing to admire! With strength so feeble, fears so strong, Amid this selfish bustling throng, How will it faint and tire! That tender love so warm and deep, How can it flourish here below? What bitter floods of tears must steep The stony soil where it would grow! O earth! a rocky breast is thine ­ A hard soil and a cruel clime, 83 Where tender plants must droop and pine, Or alter with transforming time. That soul, that clings to sympathy, As ivy clasps the forest tree, How can it stand alone? That heart so prone to overflow E'en at the thought of others' woe, How will it bear its own? How, if a sparrow's death can wring Such bitter tear-floods from the eye, Will it behold the suffering Of struggling, lost humanity? The torturing pain, the pining grief, The sin-degraded misery, The anguish that defies relief?' 'Look back again ­- What dost thou see?' 'I see one kneeling on the sod, With infant hands upraised to Heaven, A young heart feeling after God, Oft baffled, never backward driven. Mistaken oft, and oft astray, It strives to find the narrow way, But gropes and toils alone: That inner life of strife and tears, Of kindling hopes and lowering fears To none but God is known. 'Tis better thus; for man would scorn Those childish prayers, those artless cries, That darkling spirit tossed and torn, But God will not despise! We may regret such waste of tears Such darkly toiling misery, Such 'wildering doubts and harrowing fears, Where joy and thankfulness should be; But wait, and Heaven will send relief. Let patience have her perfect work: Lo, strength and wisdom spring from grief, And joys behind afflictions lurk! 84 It asked for light, and it is heard; God grants that struggling soul repose And, guided by His holy word, It wiser than its teachers grows. It gains the upward path at length, And passes on from strength to strength, Leaning on Heaven the while: Night's shades departing one by one, It sees at last the rising sun, And feels his cheering smile. In all its darkness and distress For light it sought, to God it cried; And through the pathless wilderness, He was its comfort and its guide.' 'So was it, and so will it be: Thy God will guide and strengthen thee; His goodness cannot fail. The sun that on thy morning rose Will light thee to the evening's close, Whatever storms assail.' 'God alters not; but Time on me A wide and wondrous change has wrought: And in these parted years I see Cause for grave care and saddening thought. I see that time, and toil, and truth, An inward hardness can impart, -­ Can freeze the generous blood of youth, And steel full fast the tender heart.' 'Bless God for that divine decree! -­ That hardness comes with misery, And suffering deadens pain; That at the frequent sight of woe E'en Pity's tears forget to flow, If reason still remain! Reason, with conscience by her side, But gathers strength from toil and truth; And she will prove a surer guide Than those sweet instincts of our youth. Thou that hast known such anguish sore 85 In weeping where thou couldst not bless, Canst thou that softness so deplore -­ That suffering, shrinking tenderness? Thou that hast felt what cankering care A loving heart is doomed to bear, Say, how canst thou regret That fires unfed must fall away, Long droughts can dry the softest clay, And cold will cold beget?' 'Nay, but 'tis hard to feel that chill Come creeping o'er the shuddering heart. Love may be full of pain, but still, 'Tis sad to see it so depart, -­ To watch that fire whose genial glow Was formed to comfort and to cheer, For want of fuel, fading so, Sinking to embers dull and drear, -­ To see the soft soil turned to stone For lack of kindly showers, -­ To see those yearnings of the breast, Pining to bless and to be blessed, Drop withered, frozen one by one, Till, centred in itself alone, It wastes its blighted powers. Oh, I have known a wondrous joy In early friendship's pure delight, -­ A genial bliss that could not cloy -­ My sun by day, my moon by night. Absence, indeed, was sore distress, And thought of death was anguish keen, And there was cruel bitterness When jarring discords rose between; And sometimes it was grief to know My fondness was but half returned. But this was nothing to the woe With which another truth was learned: -­ That I must check, or nurse apart, Full many an impulse of the heart And many a darling thought: What my soul worshipped, sought, and prized, 86 Were slighted, questioned, or despised; -­ This pained me more than aught. And as my love the warmer glowed The deeper would that anguish sink, That this dark stream between us flowed, Though both stood bending o'er its brink; Until, as last, I learned to bear A colder heart within my breast; To share such thoughts as I could share, And calmly keep the rest. I saw that they were sundered now, The trees that at the root were one: They yet might mingle leaf and bough, But still the stems must stand alone. O love is sweet of every kind! 'Tis sweet the helpless to befriend, To watch the young unfolding mind, To guide, to shelter, and defend: To lavish tender toil and care, And ask for nothing back again, But that our smiles a blessing bear And all our toil be not in vain. And sweeter far than words can tell Their love whose ardent bosoms swell With thoughts they need not hide; Where fortune frowns not on their joy, And Prudence seeks not to destroy, Nor Reason to deride. Whose love may freely gush and flow, Unchecked, unchilled by doubt or fear, For in their inmost hearts they know It is not vainly nourished there. They know that in a kindred breast Their long desires have found a home, Where heart and soul may kindly rest, Weary and lorn no more to roam. Their dreams of bliss were not in vain, As they love they are loved again, And they can bless as they are blessed. 87 O vainly might I seek to show The joys from happy love that flow! The warmest words are all too cold The secret transports to unfold Of simplest word or softest sigh, Or from the glancing of an eye To say what rapture beams; One look that bids our fears depart, And well assures the trusting heart. It beats not in the world alone -­ Such speechless rapture I have known, But only in my dreams. My life has been a morning sky Where Hope her rainbow glories cast O'er kindling vapours far and nigh: And, if the colours faded fast, Ere one bright hue had died away Another o'er its ashes gleamed; And if the lower clouds were grey, The mists above more brightly beamed. But not for long; ­- at length behold, Those tints less warm, less radiant grew; Till but one streak of paly gold Glimmered through clouds of saddening hue. And I am calmly waiting, now, To see that also pass away, And leave, above the dark hill's brow, A rayless arch of sombre grey.' 'So must it fare with all thy race Who seek in earthly things their joy: So fading hopes lost hopes shall chase Till Disappointment all destroy. But they that fix their hopes on high Shall, in the blue-refulgent sky, The sun's transcendent light, Behold a purer, deeper glow Than these uncertain gleams can show, However fair or bright. O weak of heart! why thus deplore That Truth will Fancy's dreams destroy? 88 Did I not tell thee, years before, Life was for labour, not for joy? Cease, selfish spirit, to repine; O'er thine own ills no longer grieve; Lo, there are sufferings worse than thine, Which thou mayst labour to relieve. If Time indeed too swiftly flies, Gird on thine armour, haste, arise, For thou hast much to do; ­To lighten woe, to trample sin, And foes without and foes within To combat and subdue. Earth hath too much of sin and pain: The bitter cup -­ the binding chain Dost thou indeed lament? Let not thy weary spirit sink; But strive -­ not by one drop or link The evil to augment. Strive rather thou, by peace and joy, The bitter poison to destroy, The cruel chain to break. O strive! and if thy strength be small, Strive yet the more, and spend it all For Love and Wisdom's sake!' 'O I have striven both hard and long But many are my foes and strong. My gains are light -­ my progress slow; For hard's the way I have to go, And my worst enemies, I know, Are these within my breast; And it is hard to toil for aye, -­ Through sultry noon and twilight grey To toil and never rest.' 'There is a rest beyond the grave, A lasting rest from pain and sin, Where dwell the faithful and the brave; But they must strive who seek to win.' "Show me that rest -­ I ask no more. Oh, drive these misty doubts away; And let me see that sunny shore, 89 However far away! However wide this rolling sea, However wild my passage be, Howe'er my bark be tempest tossed, May it but reach that haven fair, May I but land and wander there, With those that I have loved and lost: With such a glorious hope in view, I'll gladly toil and suffer too. Rest without toil I would not ask; I would not shun the hardest task: Toil is my glory -­ Grief my gain, If God's approval they obtain. Could I but hear my Saviour say, -­ "I know thy patience and thy love; How thou hast held the narrow way, For my sake laboured night and day, And watched, and striven with them that strove; And still hast borne, and didst not faint," -­ Oh, this would be reward indeed!' 'Press forward, then, without complaint; Labour and love -­ and such shall be thy meed.' ~ Anne Brontë,

419:I. Hamlin Town's in Brunswick, By famous Hanover city; The river Weser, deep and wide, Washes its wall on the southern side; A pleasanter spot you never spied; But, when begins my ditty, Almost five hundred years ago, To see the townsfolk suffer so From vermin, was a pity. II. Rats! They fought the dogs and killed the cats, And bit the babies in the cradles, And ate the cheeses out of the vats, And licked the soup from the cooks' own ladles, Split open the kegs of salted sprats, Made nests inside men's Sunday hats, And even spoiled the women's chats   By drowning their speaking   With shrieking and squeaking In fifty different sharps and flats. III. At last the people in a body To the Town Hall came flocking: ``'Tis clear,'' cried they, ``our Mayor's a noddy; ``And as for our Corporation-sh ocking. ``To think we buy gowns lined with ermine ``For dolts that can't or won't determine ``What's best to rid us of our vermin! ``You hope, because you're old and obese, ``To find in the furry civic robe ease? ``Rouse up, sirs! Give your brains a racking ``To find the remedy we're lacking, ``Or, sure as fate, we'll send you packing!'' At this the Mayor and Corporation Quaked with a mighty consternation. IV. An hour they sat in council, At length the Mayor broke silence: ``For a guilder I'd my ermine gown sell, ``I wish I were a mile hence! ``It's easy to bid one rack one's brain- ``I'm sure my poor head aches again, ``I've scratched it so, and all in vain. ``Oh for a trap, a trap, a trap!'' Just as he said this, what should hap At the chamber door but a gentle tap? ``Bless us,'' cried the Mayor, ``what's that?'' (With the Corporation as he sat, Looking little though wondrous fat; Nor brighter was his eye, nor moister Than a too-long-opened oyster, Save when at noon his paunch grew mutinous For a plate of turtle green and glutinous) ``Only a scraping of shoes on the mat? ``Anything like the sound of a rat ``Makes my heart go pit-a-pat!'' V. ``Come in!''-the Mayor cried, looking bigger: And in did come the strangest figure! His queer long coat from heel to head Was half of yellow and half of red, And he himself was tall and thin, With sharp blue eyes, each like a pin, And light loose hair, yet swarthy skin, No tuft on cheek nor beard on chin, But lips where smiles went out and in; There was no guessing his kith and kin: And nobody could enough admire The tall man and his quaint attire. Quoth one: ``It's as my great-grandsire, ``Starting up at the Trump of Doom's tone, ``Had walked this way from his painted tombstone!'' VI. He advanced to the council-table And, ``Please your honours,'' said he, ``I'm able, ``By means of a secret charm, to draw ``All creatures living beneath the sun, ``That creep or swim or fly or run, ``After me so as you never saw! ``And I chiefly use my charm ``On creatures that do people harm, ``The mole and toad and newt and viper; ``And people call me the Pied Piper.'' (And here they noticed round his neck A scarf of red and yellow stripe, To match with his coat of the self-same cheque; And at the scarf's end hung a pipe; And his fingers, they noticed, were ever straying As if impatient to be playing Upon this pipe, as low it dangled Over his vesture so old-fangled.) ``Yet,'' said he, ``poor piper as I am, ``In Tartary I freed the Cham, ``Last June, from his huge swarms of gnats; ``I eased in Asia the Nizam ``Of a monstrous brood of vampyre-bats: ``And as for what your brain bewilders, ``If I can rid your town of rats ``Will you give me a thousand guilders?'' ``One? fifty thousand!''-wa s the exclamation Of the astonished Mayor and Corporation. VII. Into the street the Piper stept, Smiling first a little smile, As if he knew what magic slept In his quiet pipe the while; Then, like a musical adept, To blow the pipe his lips he wrinkled, And green and blue his sharp eyes twinkled, Like a candle-flame where salt is sprinkled; And ere three shrill notes the pipe uttered, You heard as if an army muttered; And the muttering grew to a grumbling; And the grumbling grew to a mighty rumbling; And out of the houses the rats came tumbling. Great rats, small rats, lean rats, brawny rats, Brown rats, black rats, grey rats, tawny rats, Grave old plodders, gay young friskers, Fathers, mothers, uncles, cousins, Cocking tails and pricking whiskers, Families by tens and dozens, Brothers, sisters, husbands, wives- Followed the Piper for their lives. From street to street he piped advancing, And step for step they followed dancing, Until they came to the river Weser, Wherein all plunged and perished! -Save one who, stout as Julius Csar, Swam across and lived to carry (As he, the manuscript he cherished) To Rat-land home his commentary: Which was, ``At the first shrill notes of the pipe, ``I heard a sound as of scraping tripe, ``And putting apples, wondrous ripe, ``Into a cider-press's gripe: ``And a moving away of pickle-tub-board s, ``And a leaving ajar of conserve-cupboar ds, ``And a drawing the corks of train-oil-flasks , ``And a breaking the hoops of butter-casks: ``And it seemed as if a voice ``(Sweeter far than b harp or b psaltery ``Is breathed) called out, `Oh rats, rejoice! `` `The world is grown to one vast drysaltery! `` `So munch on, crunch on, take your nuncheon, `` `Breakfast, supper, dinner, luncheon!' ``And just as a bulky sugar-puncheon, ``All ready staved, like a great sun shone ``Glorious scarce an inch before me, ``Just as methought it said, `Come, bore me!' ``-I found the Weser rolling o'er me.'' VIII. You should have heard the Hamelin people ringing the bells till they rocked the steeple. ``Go,'' cried the Mayor, ``and get long poles, ``Poke out the nests and block up the holes! ``Consult with carpenters and builders, ``And leave in our town not even a trace ``Of the rats!''-when suddenly, up the face Of the Piper perked in the market-place, With a, ``First, if you please, my thousand guilders!'' IX. A thousand guilders! The Mayor looked blue; So did the Corporation too. For council dinners made rare havoc With Claret, Moselle, Vin-de-Grave, Hock; And half the money would replenish Their cellar's biggest butt with Rhenish. To pay this sum to a wandering fellow With a gipsy coat of red and yellow! ``Beside,'' quoth the Mayor with a knowing wink, ``Our business was done at the river's brink; ``We saw with our eyes the vermin sink, ``And what's dead can't come to life, I think. ``So, friend, we're not the folks to shrink ``From the duty of giving you something for drink, ``And a matter of money to put in your poke; ``But as for the guilders, what we spoke ``Of them, as you very well know, was in joke. ``Beside, our losses have made us thrifty. ``A thousand guilders! Come, take fifty!'' X. The Piper's face fell, and he cried ``No trifling! I can't wait, beside! ``I've promised to visit by dinnertime ``Bagdat, and accept the prime ``Of the Head-Cook's pottage, all he's rich in, ``For having left, in the Caliph's kitchen, ``Of a nest of scorpions no survivor: ``With him I proved no bargain-driver, ``With you, don't think I'll bate a stiver! ``And folks who put me in a passion ``May find me pipe after another fashion.'' XI. ``How?'' cried the Mayor, ``d'ye think I brook ``Being worse treated than a Cook? ``Insulted by a lazy ribald ``With idle pipe and vesture piebald? ``You threaten us, fellow? Do your worst, ``Blow your pipe there till you burst!'' XII. Once more he stept into the street And to his lips again Laid his long pipe of smooth straight cane; And ere he blew three notes (such sweet Soft notes as yet musician's cunning Never gave the enraptured air) There was a rustling that seemed like a bustling Of merry crowds justling at pitching and hustling, Small feet were pattering, wooden shoes clattering, Little hands clapping and little tongues chattering, And, like fowls in a farm-yard when barley is scattering, Out came the children running. All the little boys and girls, With rosy cheeks and flaxen curls, And sparkling eyes and teeth like pearls, Tripping and skipping, ran merrily after The wonderful music with shouting and laughter. XIII. The Mayor was dumb, and the Council stood As if they were changed into blocks of wood, Unable to move a step, or cry To the children merrily skipping by, -Could only follow with the eye That joyous crowd at the Piper's back. But how the Mayor was on the rack, And the wretched Council's bosoms beat, As the Piper turned from the High Street To where the Weser rolled its waters Right in the way of their sons and daughters! However be turned from South to West, And to Koppelberg Hill his steps addressed, And after him the children pressed; Great was the joy in every breast. ``He never can cross that mighty top! ``He's forced to let the piping drop, ``And we shall see our children stop!'' When, lo, as they reached the mountain-side, A wondrous portal opened wide, As if a cavern was suddenly hollowed; And the Piper advanced and the children followed, And when all were in to the very last, The door in the mountain-side shut fast. Did I say, all? No! One was lame, And could not dance the whole of the way; And in after years, if you would blame His sadness, he was used to say,- ``It's dull in our town since my playmates left! ``I can't forget that I'm bereft ``Of all the pleasant sights they see, ``Which the Piper also promised me. ``For he led us, he said, to a joyous land, ``Joining the town and just at hand, ``Where waters gushed and fruit-trees grew ``And flowers put forth a fairer hue, ``And everything was strange and new; ``The sparrows were brighter than peacocks here, ``And their dogs outran our fallow deer, ``And honey-bees had lost their stings, ``And horses were born with eagles' wings: ``And just as I became assured ``My lame foot would be speedily cured, ``The music stopped and I stood still, ``And found myself outside the hill, ``Left alone against my will, ``To go now limping as before, ``And never hear of that country more!'' XIV. Alas, alas for Hamelin! There came into many a burgher's pate A text which says that heaven's gate Opes to the rich at as easy rate As the needle's eye takes a camel in! The mayor sent East, West, North and South, To offer the Piper, by word of mouth, Wherever it was men's lot to find him, Silver and gold to his heart's content, If he'd only return the way he went, And bring the children behind him. But when they saw 'twas a lost endeavour, And Piper and dancers were gone for ever, They made a decree that lawyers never Should think their records dated duly If, after the day of the month and year, These words did not as well appear, ``And so long after what happened here ``On the Twenty-second of July, ``Thirteen hundred and seventy-six:'' And the better in memory to fix The place of the children's last retreat, They called it, the Pied Piper's Street- Where any one playing on pipe or tabor Was sure for the future to lose his labour. Nor suffered they hostelry or tavern To shock with mirth a street so solemn; But opposite the place of the cavern They wrote the story on a column, And on the great church-window painted The same, to make the world acquainted How their children were stolen away, And there it stands to this very day. And I must not omit to say That in Transylvania there's a tribe Of alien people who ascribe The outlandish ways and dress On which their neighbours lay such stress, To their fathers and mothers having risen Out of some subterraneous prison Into which they were trepanned Long time ago in a mighty band Out of Hamelin town in Brunswick land, But how or why, they don't understand. XV. So, Willy, let me and you be wipers Of scores out with all men-especially pipers! And, whether they pipe us free frm rats or frm mice, If we've promised them aught, let us keep our promise! A CHILD'S STORY. ( Written for, and inscribed to, W. M. the Younger. ) ~ Robert Browning, The Pied Piper Of Hamelin ,

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

421:An Hymne Of Heavenly Love Love, lift me up upon thy golden wings From this base world unto thy heavens hight, Where I may see those admirable things Which there thou workest by thy soveraine might, Farre above feeble reach of earthly sight, That I thereof an heavenly hymne may sing Unto the God of Love, high heavens king. Many lewd layes (ah! woe is me the more!) In praise of that mad fit which fooles call Love, I have in th'heat of youth made heretofore, That in light wits did loose affection move; But all those follies now I do reprove, And turned have the tenor of my string, The heavenly prayses of true Love to sing. And ye that wont with greedy vaine desire To reade my fault, and, wondring at my flame, To warme your selves at my wide sparckling fire, Sith now that heat is quenched, quench my blame, And in her ashes shrowd my dying shame; For who my passed follies now pursewes, Beginnes his owne, and my old fault renewes. BEFORE THIS WORLDS GREAT FRAME, in which al things Are now containd, found any being-place, Ere flitting Time could wag his eyas wings About that mightie bound which doth embrace The rolling spheres, and parts their houres by space, That high eternall Powre, which now doth move In all these things, mov'd in it selfe by love. It lovd it selfe, because it selfe was faire; (For fair is lov'd); and of it self begot Like to it selfe his eldest Sonne and Heire, Eternall, pure, and voide of sinfull blot, The firstling of his ioy, in whom no iot Of loves dislike or pride was to be found, Whom he therefore with equall honour crownd. 61 With him he raignd, before all time prescribed, In endlesse glorie and immortall might, Together with that Third from them derived, Most wise, most holy, most almightie Spright! Whose kingdomes throne no thoughts of earthly wight Can comprehend, much lesse my trembling verse With equall words can hope it to reherse. Yet, O most blessed Spirit! pure lampe of light, Eternall spring of grace and wisedom trew, Vouchsafe to shed into my barren spright Some little drop of thy celestiall dew, That may my rymes with sweet infuse embrew, And give me words equall unto my thought, To tell the marveiles by thy mercie wrought. Yet being pregnant still with powrefull grace, And full of fruitfull Love, that loves to get Things like himselfe and to enlarge his race, His second brood, though not of powre so great, Yet full of beautie, next he did beget, An infinite increase of angels bright, All glistring glorious in their Makers light. To them the heavens illimitable hight (Not this round heaven which we from hence behold, Adornd with thousand lamps of burning light, And with ten thousand gemmes of shyning gold) He gave as their inheritance to hold, That they might serve him in eternall blis, And be partakers of those ioyes of his. There they in their trinall triplicities About him wait, and on his will depend, Either with nimble wings to cut the skies, When he them on his messages doth send, Or on his owne dread presence to attend, Where they behold the glorie of his light, And caroll hymnes of love both day and night. Both day and night is unto them all one; 62 For he his beames doth unto them extend, That darknesse there appeareth never none; Ne hath their day, ne hath their blisse, an end, But there their termelesse time in pleasure spend; Ne ever should their happinesse decay, Had not they dar'd their Lord to disobay. But pride, impatient of long resting peace, Did puffe them up with greedy bold ambition, That they gan cast their state how to increase Above the fortune of their first condition, And sit in Gods own seat without commission: The brightest angel, even the Child of Light, Drew millions more against their God to fight. Th'Almighty, seeing their so bold assay, Kindled the flame of his consuming yre, And with his onely breath them blew away From heavens hight, to which they did aspyre, To deepest hell, and lake of damned fyre, Where they in darknesse and dread horror dwell, Hating the happie light from which they fell. So that next off-spring of the Makers love, Next to himselfe in glorious degree, Degendering to hate, fell from above Through pride; (for pride and love may ill agree); And now of sinne to all ensample bee: How then can sinfull flesh it selfe assure, Sith purest angels fell to be impure? But that Eternall Fount of love and grace, Still flowing forth his goodnesse unto all, Now seeing left a waste and emptie place In his wyde pallace through those angels fall, Cast to supply the same, and to enstall A new unknowen colony therein, Whose root from earths base groundworke should begin. Therefore of clay, base, vile, and nest to nought, Yet form'd by wondrous skill, and by his might According to an heavenly patterne wrought, 63 Which he had fashiond in his wise foresight, He man did make, and breathd a living spright Into his face, most beautifull and fayre, Endewd with wisedomes riches, heavenly, rare. Such he him made, that he resemble might Himselfe, as mortall thing immortall could; Him to be lord of every living wight He made by love out of his owne like mould, In whom he might his mightie selfe behould; For Love doth love the thing belov'd to see, That like it selfe in lovely shape may bee. But man, forgetfull of his Makers grace No lesse than angels, whom he did ensew, Fell from the hope of promist heavenly place, Into the mouth of Death, to sinners dew, And all his off-spring into thraldome threw, Where they for ever should in bonds remaine Of never-dead, yet ever-dying paine; Till that great Lord of Love, which him at first Made of meere love, and after liked well, Seeing him lie like creature long accurst In that deep horor of despeyred hell, Him, wretch, in doole would let no lenger dwell, But cast out of that bondage to redeeme, And pay the price, all@ were his debt extreeme. Out of the bosome of eternall blisse, In which he reigned with his glorious Syre, He downe descended, like a most demisse And abiect thrall, in fleshes fraile attyre, That he for him might pay sinnes deadly hyre, And him restore unto that happie state In which he stood before his haplesse fate. In flesh at first the guilt committed was, Therefore in flesh it must be satisfyde; Nor spirit, nor angel, though they man surpas, Could make amends to God for mans misguyde, But onely man himselfe, who selfe did slyde: 64 So, taking flesh of sacred virgins wombe, For mans deare sake he did a man become. And that most blessed bodie, which was borne Without all blemish or reprochfull blame, He freely gave to be both rent and torne Of cruell hands, who with despightfull shame Revyling him, (that them most vile became,) At length him nayled on a gallow-tree, And slew the iust by most uniust decree. O huge and most unspeakeable impression Of Loves deep wound, that pierst the piteous hart Of that deare Lord with so entyre affection, And, sharply launcing every inner part, Dolours of death into his soule did dart, Doing him die that never it deserved, To free his foes, that from his heast had swerved! What hart can feel least touch of so sore launch, Or thought can think the depth of so deare wound? Whose bleeding sourse their streames yet never staunch, But stil do flow, and freshly still redownd, To heale the sores of sinfull soules unsound, And clense the guilt of that infected cryme, Which was enrooted in all fleshly slyme. O blessed Well of Love! O Floure of Grace! O glorious Morning-Starre! O Lampe of Light! Most lively image of thy Fathers face, Eternal King of Glorie, Lord of Might, Meeke Lambe of God, before all worlds behight, How can we thee requite for all this good? Or what can prize** that thy most precious blood? Yet nought thou ask'st in lieu of all this love But love of us, for guerdon of thy paine: Ay me! what can us lesse than that behove? Had he required life for us againe, Had it beene wrong to ask his owne with game? He gave us life, he it restored lost; Then life were least, that us so little cost. 65 But he our life hath left unto us free, Free that was thrall, and blessed that was band; Ne ought demaunds but that we loving bee, As he himselfe hath lov'd us afore-hand, And bound therto with an eternall band; Him first to love that was so dearely bought, And next our brethren, to his image wrought. Him first to love great right and reason is, Who first to us our life and being gave, And after, when we fared had amisse, Us wretches from the second death did save; And last, the food of life, which now we have, Even he himselfe, in his dear sacrament, To feede our hungry soules, unto us lent. Then next, to love our brethren, that were made Of that selfe* mould and that self Maker's hand That we, and to the same againe shall fade, Where they shall have like heritage of land, However here on higher steps we stand, Which also were with selfe-same price redeemed That we, however of us light esteemed. And were they not, yet since that loving Lord Commaunded us to love them for his sake, Even for his sake, and for his sacred word Which in his last bequest he to us spake, We should them love, and with their needs partake; Knowing that whatsoere to them we give We give to him by whom we all doe live. Such mercy he by his most holy reede Unto us taught, and, to approve it trew, Ensampled it by his most righteous deede, Shewing us mercie, miserable crew! That we the like should to the wretches shew, And love our brethren; thereby to approve How much himselfe that loved us we love. Then rouze thy selfe, O Earth! out of thy soyle, 66 In which thou wallowest like to filthy swyne, And doest thy mynd in durty pleasures moyle, Unmindfull of that dearest Lord of thyne; Lift up to him thy heavie clouded eyne, That thou this soveraine bountie mayst behold, And read, through love, his mercies manifold. Beginne from first, where he encradled was In simple cratch*, wrapt in a wad of hay, Betweene the toylfull oxe and humble asse, And in what rags, and in how base aray, The glory of our heavenly riches lay, When him the silly shepheards came to see, Whom greatest princes sought on lowest knee. From thence reade on the storie of his life, His humble carriage, his unfaulty wayes, His cancred foes, his fights, his toyle, his strife, His paines, his povertie, his sharpe assayes, Through which he past his miserable dayes, Offending none, and doing good to all, Yet being malist both by great and small. And look at last, how of most wretched wights He taken was, betrayd, and false accused; How with most scornfull taunts and fell despights, He was revyld, disgrast, and foule abused; How scourgd, how crownd, how buffeted, how brused; And, lastly, how twixt robbers crucifyde, With bitter wounds through hands, through feet, and syde! Then let thy flinty hart, that feeles no paine, Empierced he with pittifull remorse, And let thy bowels bleede in every vaine, At sight of his most sacred heavenly corse, So torne and mangled with malicious forse; And let thy soule, whose sins his sorrows wrought, Melt into teares, and grone in grieved thought. With sence whereof whilest so thy softened spirit Is inly toucht, and humbled with meeke zeale Through meditation of his endlesse merit, 67 Lift up thy mind to th'author of thy weale, And to his soveraine mercie doe appeale; Learne him to love that loved thee so deare, And in thy brest his blessed image beare. With all thy hart, with all thy soule and mind, Thou must him love, and his beheasts embrace; All other loves, with which the world doth blind Weake fancies, and stirre up affections base, Thou must renounce and utterly displace, And give thy self unto him full and free, That full and freely gave himselfe to thee. Then shalt thou feele thy spirit so possest, And ravisht with devouring great desire Of his dear selfe, that shall thy feeble brest Inflame with love, and set thee all on fire With burning zeale, through every part entire, That in no earthly thing thou shalt delight, But in his sweet and amiable sight. Thenceforth all worlds desire will in thee dye, And all earthes glorie, on which men do gaze, Seeme durt and drosse in thy pure-sighted eye, Compar'd to that celestiall beauties blaze, Whose glorious beames all fleshly sense doth daze With admiration of their passing light, Blinding the eyes, and lumining the spright. Then shall thy ravisht soul inspired bee With heavenly thoughts, farre above humane skil, And thy bright radiant eyes shall plainely see Th'idee of his pure glorie present still Before thy face, that all thy spirits shall fill With sweete enragement of celestiall love, Kindled through sight of those faire things above. ~ Edmund Spenser,

422:Gilbert I. THE GARDEN. ABOVE the city hung the moon, Right o'er a plot of ground Where flowers and orchard-trees were fenced With lofty walls around: 'Twas Gilbert's garden­there, to-night Awhile he walked alone; And, tired with sedentary toil, Mused where the moonlight shone. This garden, in a city-heart, Lay still as houseless wild, Though many-windowed mansion fronts Were round it closely piled; But thick their walls, and those within Lived lives by noise unstirred; Like wafting of an angel's wing, Time's flight by them was heard. Some soft piano-notes alone Were sweet as faintly given, Where ladies, doubtless, cheered the hearth With song, that winter-even. The city's many-mingled sounds Rose like the hum of ocean; They rather lulled the heart than roused Its pulse to faster motion. Gilbert has paced the single walk An hour, yet is not weary; And, though it be a winter night, He feels nor cold nor dreary. The prime of life is in his veins, And sends his blood fast flowing, And Fancy's fervour warms the thoughts Now in his bosom glowing. Those thoughts recur to early love, 19 Or what he love would name, Though haply Gilbert's secret deeds Might other title claim. Such theme not oft his mind absorbs, He to the world clings fast, And too much for the present lives, To linger o'er the past. But now the evening's deep repose Has glided to his soul; That moonlight falls on Memory, And shows her fading scroll. One name appears in every line The gentle rays shine o'er, And still he smiles and still repeats That one name­Elinor. There is no sorrow in his smile, No kindness in his tone; The triumph of a selfish heart Speaks coldly there alone; He says: ' She loved me more than life; And truly it was sweet To see so fair a woman kneel, In bondage, at my feet. There was a sort of quiet bliss To be so deeply loved, To gaze on trembling eagerness And sit myself unmoved. And when it pleased my pride to grant, At last some rare caress, To feel the fever of that hand My fingers deigned to press. 'Twas sweet to see her strive to hide What every glance revealed; Endowed, the while, with despot-might Her destiny to wield. I knew myself no perfect man, Nor, as she deemed, divine; I knew that I was glorious­but 20 By her reflected shine; Her youth, her native energy, Her powers new-born and fresh, 'Twas these with Godhead sanctified My sensual frame of flesh. Yet, like a god did I descend At last, to meet her love; And, like a god, I then withdrew To my own heaven above. And never more could she invoke My presence to her sphere; No prayer, no plaint, no cry of hers Could win my awful ear. I knew her blinded constancy Would ne'er my deeds betray, And, calm in conscience, whole in heart, I went my tranquil way. Yet, sometimes, I still feel a wish, The fond and flattering pain Of passion's anguish to create, In her young breast again. Bright was the lustre of her eyes, When they caught fire from mine; If I had power­this very hour, Again I 'd light their shine. But where she is, or how she lives, I have no clue to know; I 've heard she long my absence pined, And left her home in woe. But busied, then, in gathering gold, As I am busied now, I could not turn from such pursuit, To weep a broken vow. Nor could I give to fatal risk The fame I ever prized; Even now, I fear, that precious fame Is too much compromised.' 21 An inward trouble dims his eye, Some riddle he would solve; Some method to unloose a knot, His anxious thoughts revolve. He, pensive, leans against a tree, A leafy evergreen, The boughs, the moonlight, intercept, And hide him like a screen; He starts­the tree shakes with his tremor, Yet nothing near him pass'd, He hurries up the garden alley, In strangely sudden haste. With shaking hand, he lifts the latchet, Steps o'er the threshold stone; The heavy door slips from his fingers, It shuts, and he is gone. What touched, transfixed, appalled, his soul ? A nervous thought, no more; 'Twill sink like stone in placid pool, And calm close smoothly o'er. II. THE PARLOUR. WARM is the parlour atmosphere, Serene the lamp's soft light; The vivid embers, red and clear, Proclaim a frosty night. Books, varied, on the table lie, Three children o'er them bend, And all, with curious, eager eye, The turning leaf attend. Picture and tale alternately Their simple hearts delight, And interest deep, and tempered glee, Illume their aspects bright; The parents, from their fireside place, Behold that pleasant scene, And joy is on the mother's face, 22 Pride, in the father's mien. As Gilbert sees his blooming wife, Beholds his children fair, No thought has he of transient strife, Or past, though piercing fear. The voice of happy infancy Lisps sweetly in his ear, His wife, with pleased and peaceful eye, Sits, kindly smiling, near. The fire glows on her silken dress, And shows its ample grace, And warmly tints each hazel tress, Curled soft around her face. The beauty that in youth he wooed, Is beauty still, unfaded, The brow of ever placid mood No churlish grief has shaded. Prosperity, in Gilbert's home, Abides, the guest of years; There Want or Discord never come, And seldom Toil or Tears. The carpets bear the peaceful print Of comfort's velvet tread, And golden gleams from plenty sent, In every nook are shed. The very silken spaniel seems Of quiet ease to tell, As near its mistress' feet it dreams, Sunk in a cushion's swell; And smiles seem native to the eyes Of those sweet children, three; They have but looked on tranquil skies, And know not misery. Alas ! that misery should come In such an hour as this; Why could she not so calm a home A little longer miss ? 23 But she is now within the door, Her steps advancing glide; Her sullen shade has crossed the floor, She stands at Gilbert's side. She lays her hand upon his heart, It bounds with agony; His fireside chair shakes with the start That shook the garden tree. His wife towards the children looks, She does not mark his mien; The children, bending o'er their books, His terror have not seen. In his own home, by his own hearth, He sits in solitude, And circled round with light and mirth, Cold horror chills his blood. His mind would hold with desperate clutch The scene that round him lies; No­changed, as by some wizard's touch, The present prospect flies. A tumult vague­a viewless strife His futile struggles crush; 'Twixt him and his, an unknown life And unknown feelings rush. He sees­but scarce can language paint The tissue Fancy weaves; For words oft give but echo faint Of thoughts the mind conceives. Noise, tumult strange, and darkness dim, Efface both light and quiet; No shape is in those shadows grim, No voice in that wild riot. Sustained and strong, a wondrous blast Above and round him blows; A greenish gloom, dense overcast, Each moment denser grows. He nothing knows­nor clearly sees, 24 Resistance checks his breath, The high, impetuous, ceaseless breeze Blows on him. cold as death. And still the undulating gloom Mocks sight with formless motion; Was such sensation Jonah's doom, Gulphed in the depths of ocean ? Streaking the air, the nameless vision, Fast-driven, deep-sounding, flows; Oh ! whence its source, and what its mission ? How will its terrors close ? Long-sweeping, rushing, vast and void, The Universe it swallows; And still the dark, devouring tide, A Typhoon tempest follows. More slow it rolls; its furious race Sinks to a solemn gliding; The stunning roar, the wind's wild chase, To stillness are subsiding. And, slowly borne along, a form The shapeless chaos varies; Poised in the eddy to the storm, Before the eye it tarries. A woman drowned­sunk in the deep, On a long wave reclining; The circling waters' crystal sweep, Like glass, her shape enshrining; Her pale dead face, to Gilbert turned, Seems as in sleep reposing; A feeble light, now first discerned, The features well disclosing. No effort from the haunted air The ghastly scene could banish; That hovering wave, arrested there, Rolled­throbbed­but did not vanish. If Gilbert upward turned his gaze, He saw the ocean-shadow; If he looked down, the endless seas 25 Lay green as summer meadow. And straight before, the pale corpse lay, Upborne by air or billow, So near, he could have touched the spray That churned around its pillow. The hollow anguish of the face Had moved a fiend to sorrow; Not Death's fixed calm could rase the trace Of suffering's deep-worn furrow. All moved; a strong returning blast, The mass of waters raising, Bore wave and passive carcase past, While Gilbert yet was gazing. Deep in her isle-conceiving womb, It seemed the Ocean thundered, And soon, by realms of rushing gloom, Were seer and phantom sundered. Then swept some timbers from a wreck, On following surges riding; Then sea-weed, in the turbid rack Uptorn, went slowly gliding. The horrid shade, by slow degrees, A beam of light defeated, And then the roar of raving seas, Fast, far, and faint, retreated. And all was gone­gone like a mist, Corse, billows, tempest, wreck; Three children close to Gilbert prest And clung around his neck. Good night ! good night ! the prattlers said And kissed their father's cheek; 'Twas now the hour their quiet bed And placid rest to seek. The mother with her offspring goes To hear their evening prayer; She nought of Gilbert's vision knows, And nought of his despair. 26 Yet, pitying God, abridge the time Of anguish, now his fate ! Though, haply, great has been his crime, Thy mercy, too, is great. Gilbert, at length, uplifts his head, Bent for some moments low, And there is neither grief nor dread Upon his subtle brow. For well can he his feelings task, And well his looks command; His features well his heart can mask, With smiles and smoothness bland. Gilbert has reasoned with his mind­ He says 'twas all a dream; He strives his inward sight to blind Against truth's inward beam. He pitied not that shadowy thing, When it was flesh and blood; Nor now can pity's balmy spring Refresh his arid mood. ' And if that dream has spoken truth,' Thus musingly he says; ' If Elinor be dead, in sooth, Such chance the shock repays: A net was woven round my feet, I scarce could further go, Are Shame had forced a fast retreat, Dishonour brought me low. ' ' Conceal her, then, deep, silent Sea, Give her a secret grave ! She sleeps in peace, and I am free, No longer Terror's slave: And homage still, from all the world, Shall greet my spotless name, Since surges break and waves are curled Above its threatened shame.' 27 III. THE WELCOME HOME ABOVE the city hangs the moon, Some clouds are boding rain, Gilbert, erewhile on journey gone, To-night comes home again. Ten years have passed above his head, Each year has brought him gain; His prosperous life has smoothly sped, Without or tear or stain. 'Tis somewhat late­the city clocks Twelve deep vibrations toll, As Gilbert at the portal knocks, Which is his journey's goal. The street is still and desolate, The moon hid by a cloud; Gilbert, impatient, will not wait,­ His second knock peals loud. The clocks are hushed; there's not a light In any window nigh, And not a single planet bright Looks from the clouded sky; The air is raw, the rain descends, A bitter north-wind blows; His cloak the traveller scarce defends­ Will not the door unclose ? He knocks the third time, and the last; His summons now they hear, Within, a footstep, hurrying fast, Is heard approaching near. The bolt is drawn, the clanking chain Falls to the floor of stone; And Gilbert to his heart will strain His wife and children soon. The hand that lifts the latchet, holds A candle to his sight, And Gilbert, on the step, beholds A woman, clad in white. 28 Lo ! water from her dripping dress Runs on the streaming floor; From every dark and clinging tress, The drops incessant pour. There's none but her to welcome him; She holds the candle high, And, motionless in form and limb, Stands cold and silent nigh; There's sand and sea-weed on her robe, Her hollow eyes are blind; No pulse in such a frame can throb, No life is there defined. Gilbert turned ashy-white, but still His lips vouchsafed no cry; He spurred his strength and master-will To pass the figure by,­ But, moving slow, it faced him straight, It would not flinch nor quail: Then first did Gilbert's strength abate, His stony firmness quail. He sank upon his knees and prayed; The shape stood rigid there; He called aloud for human aid, No human aid was near. An accent strange did thus repeat Heaven's stern but just decree: ' The measure thou to her didst mete, To thee shall measured be !' Gilbert sprang from his bended knees, By the pale spectre pushed, And, wild as one whom demons seize, Up the hall-staircase rushed; Entered his chamber­near the bed Sheathed steel and fire-arms hung­ Impelled by maniac purpose dread, He chose those stores among. Across his throat, a keen-edged knife 29 With vigorous hand he drew; The wound was wide­his outraged life Rushed rash and redly through. And thus died, by a shameful death, A wise and worldly man, Who never drew but selfish breath Since first his life began. ~ Charlotte Brontë,

423:Epochs 'The epochs of our life are not in the facts, but in the silent thought by the wayside as we walk.'-Emerson I. Youth. Sweet empty sky of June without a stain, Faint, gray-blue dewy mists on far-off hills, Warm, yellow sunlight flooding mead and plain, That each dark copse and hollow overfills; The rippling laugh of unseen, rain-fed rills, Weeds delicate-flowered, white and pink and gold, A murmur and a singing manifold. The gray, austere old earth renews her youth With dew-lines, sunshine, gossamer, and haze. How still she lies and dreams, and veils the truth, While all is fresh as in the early days! What simple things be these the soul to raise To bounding joy, and make young pulses beat, With nameless pleasure finding life so sweet. On such a golden morning forth there floats, Between the soft earth and the softer sky, In the warm air adust with glistening motes, The mystic winged and flickering butterfly, A human soul, that hovers giddily Among the gardens of earth's paradise, Nor dreams of fairer fields or loftier skies. II. Regret. Thin summer rain on grass and bush and hedge, Reddening the road and deepening the green On wide, blurred lawn, and in close-tangled sedge; Veiling in gray the landscape stretched between These low broad meadows and the pale hills seen But dimly on the far horizon's edge. 63 In these transparent-clouded, gentle skies, Wherethrough the moist beams of the soft June sun Might any moment break, no sorrow lies, No note of grief in swollen brooks that run, No hint of woe in this subdued, calm tone Of all the prospect unto dreamy eyes. Only a tender, unnamed half-regret For the lost beauty of the gracious morn; A yearning aspiration, fainter yet, For brighter suns in joyous days unborn, Now while brief showers ruffle grass and corn, And all the earth lies shadowed, grave, and wet; Space for the happy soul to pause again From pure content of all unbroken bliss, To dream the future void of grief and pain, And muse upon the past, in reveries More sweet for knowledge that the present is Not all complete, with mist and clouds and rain. III. Longing. Look westward o'er the steaming rain-washed slopes, Now satisfied with sunshine, and behold Those lustrous clouds, as glorious as our hopes, Softened with feathery fleece of downy gold, In all fantastic, huddled shapes uprolled, Floating like dreams, and melting silently, In the blue upper regions of pure sky. The eye is filled with beauty, and the heart Rejoiced with sense of life and peace renewed; And yet at such an hour as this, upstart Vague myriad longing, restless, unsubdued, And causeless tears from melancholy mood, Strange discontent with earth's and nature's best, Desires and yearnings that may find no rest. 64 IV. Storm. Serene was morning with clear, winnowed air, But threatening soon the low, blue mass of cloud Rose in the west, with mutterings faint and rare At first, but waxing frequent and more loud. Thick sultry mists the distant hill-tops shroud; The sunshine dies; athwart black skies of lead Flash noiselessly thin threads of lightning red. Breathless the earth seems waiting some wild blow, Dreaded, but far too close to ward or shun. Scared birds aloft fly aimless, and below Naught stirs in fields whence light and life are gone, Save floating leaves, with wisps of straw and down, Upon the heavy air; 'neath blue-black skies, Livid and yellow the green landscape lies. And all the while the dreadful thunder breaks, Within the hollow circle of the hills, With gathering might, that angry echoes wakes, And earth and heaven with unused clamor fills. O'erhead still flame those strange electric thrills. A moment more,-behold! yon bolt struck home, And over ruined fields the storm hath come! V. Surprise. When the stunned soul can first lift tired eyes On her changed world of ruin, waste and wrack, Ah, what a pang of aching sharp surprise Brings all sweet memories of the lost past back, With wild self-pitying grief of one betrayed, Duped in a land of dreams where Truth is dead! Are these the heavens that she deemed were kind? Is this the world that yesterday was fair? What painted images of folk half-blind Be these who pass her by, as vague as air? What go they seeking? there is naught to find. Let them come nigh and hearken her despair. 65 A mocking lie is all she once believed, And where her heart throbbed, is a cold dead stone. This is a doom we never preconceived, Yet now she cannot fancy it undone. Part of herself, part of the whole hard scheme, All else is but the shadow of a dream. VI. Grief. There is a hungry longing in the soul, A craving sense of emptiness and pain, She may not satisfy nor yet control, For all the teeming world looks void and vain. No compensation in eternal spheres, She knows the loneliness of all her years. There is no comfort looking forth nor back, The present gives the lie to all her past. Will cruel time restore what she doth lack? Why was no shadow of this doom forecast? Ah! she hath played with many a keen-edged thing; Naught is too small and soft to turn and sting. In the unnatural glory of the hour, Exalted over time, and death, and fate, No earthly task appears beyond her power, No possible endurance seemeth great. She knows her misery and her majesty, And recks not if she be to live or die. VII. Acceptance. Yea, she hath looked Truth grimly face to face, And drained unto the lees the proffered cup. This silence is not patience, nor the grace Of recognition, meekly offered up, But mere acceptance fraught with keenest pain, Seeing that all her struggles must be vain. 66 Her future clear and terrible outlies,This burden to be borne through all her days, This crown of thorns pressed down above her eyes, This weight of trouble she may never raise. No reconcilement doth she ask nor wait; Knowing such things are, she endures her fate. No brave endeavor of the broken will To cling to such poor stays as will abide (Although the waves be wild and angry still) After the lapsing of the swollen tide. No fear of further loss, no hope of gain, Naught but the apathy of weary pain. VIII. Loneliness. All stupor of surprise hath passed away; She sees, with clearer vision than before, A world far off of light and laughter gay, Herself alone and lonely evermore. Folk come and go, and reach her in no wise, Mere flitting phantoms to her heavy eyes. All outward things, that once seemed part of her, Fall from her, like the leaves in autumn shed. She feels as one embalmed in spice and myrrh, With the heart eaten out, a long time dead; Unchanged without, the features and the form; Within, devoured by the thin red worm. By her own prowess she must stand or fall, This grief is to be conquered day by day. Who could befriend her? who could make this small, Or her strength great? she meets it as she may. A weary struggle and a constant pain, She dreams not they may ever cease nor wane. IX. Sympathy. It comes not in such wise as she had deemed, 67 Else might she still have clung to her despair. More tender, grateful than she could have dreamed, Fond hands passed pitying over brows and hair, And gentle words borne softly through the air, Calming her weary sense and wildered mind, By welcome, dear communion with her kind. Ah! she forswore all words as empty lies; What speech could help, encourage, or repair? Yet when she meets these grave, indulgent eyes, Fulfilled with pity, simplest words are fair, Caressing, meaningless, that do not dare To compensate or mend, but merely soothe With hopeful visions after bitter Truth. One who through conquered trouble had grown wise, To read the grief unspoken, unexpressed, The misery of the blank and heavy eyes,Or through youth's infinite compassion guessed The heavy burden,-such a one brought rest, And bade her lay aside her doubts and fears, While the hard pain dissolved in blessed tears. X. Patience. The passion of despair is quelled at last; The cruel sense of undeserved wrong, The wild self-pity, these are also past; She knows not what may come, but she is strong; She feels she hath not aught to lose nor gain, Her patience is the essence of all pain. As one who sits beside a lapsing stream, She sees the flow of changeless day by day, Too sick and tired to think, too sad to dream, Nor cares how soon the waters slip away, Nor where they lead; at the wise God's decree, She will depart or bide indifferently. There is deeper pathos in the mild And settled sorrow of the quiet eyes, 68 Than in the tumults of the anguish wild, That made her curse all things beneath the skies; No question, no reproaches, no complaint, Hers is the holy calm of some meek saint. XI. Hope. Her languid pulses thrill with sudden hope, That will not be forgot nor cast aside, And life in statelier vistas seems to ope, Illimitably lofty, long, and wide. What doth she know? She is subdued and mild, Quiet and docile 'as a weaned child.' If grief came in such unimagined wise, How may joy dawn? In what undreamed-of hour, May the light break with splendor of surprise, Disclosing all the mercy and the power? A baseless hope, yet vivid, keen, and bright, As the wild lightning in the starless night. She knows not whence it came, nor where it passed, But it revealed, in one brief flash of flame, A heaven so high, a world so rich and vast, That, full of meek contrition and mute shame, In patient silence hopefully withdrawn, She bows her head, and bides the certain dawn. XII. Compensation. 'T is not alone that black and yawning void That makes her heart ache with this hungry pain, But the glad sense of life hath been destroyed, The lost delight may never come again. Yet myriad serious blessings with grave grace Arise on every side to fill their place. For much abides in her so lonely life,The dear companionship of her own kind, Love where least looked for, quiet after strife, 69 Whispers of promise upon every wind, A quickened insight, in awakened eyes, For the new meaning of the earth and skies. The nameless charm about all things hath died, Subtle as aureole round a shadow's head, Cast on the dewy grass at morning-tide; Yet though the glory and the joy be fled, 'T is much her own endurance to have weighed, And wrestled with God's angels, unafraid. XIII. Faith. She feels outwearied, as though o'er her head A storm of mighty billows broke and passed. Whose hand upheld her? Who her footsteps led To this green haven of sweet rest at last? What strength was hers, unreckoned and unknown? What love sustained when she was most alone? Unutterably pathetic her desire, To reach, with groping arms outstretched in prayer, Something to cling to, to uplift her higher From this low world of coward fear and care, Above disaster, that her will may be At one with God's, accepting his decree. Though by no reasons she be justified, Yet strangely brave in Evil's very face, She deems this want must needs be satisfied, Though here all slips from out her weak embrace. And in blind ecstasy of perfect faith, With her own dream her prayer she answereth. XIV. Work. Yet life is not a vision nor a prayer, But stubborn work; she may not shun her task. After the first compassion, none will spare Her portion and her work achieved, to ask. 70 She pleads for respite,-she will come ere long When, resting by the roadside, she is strong. Nay, for the hurrying throng of passers-by Will crush her with their onward-rolling stream. Much must be done before the brief light die; She may not loiter, rapt in the vain dream. With unused trembling hands, and faltering feet, She staggers forth, her lot assigned to meet. But when she fills her days with duties done, Strange vigor comes, she is restored to health. New aims, new interests rise with each new sun, And life still holds for her unbounded wealth. All that seemed hard and toilsome now proves small, And naught may daunt her,-she hath strength for all. XV. Victory. How strange, in some brief interval of rest, Backward to look on her far-stretching past. To see how much is conquered and repressed, How much is gained in victory at last! The shadow is not lifted,-but her faith, Strong from life's miracles, now turns toward death. Though much be dark where once rare splendor shone, Yet the new light has touched high peaks unguessed In her gold, mist-bathed dawn, and one by one New outlooks loom from many a mountain crest. She breathes a loftier, purer atmosphere, And life's entangled paths grow straight and clear. Nor will Death prove an all-unwelcome guest; The struggle has been toilsome to this end, Sleep will be sweet, and after labor rest, And all will be atoned with him to friend. Much must be reconciled, much justified, And yet she feels she will be satisfied. 71 XVI. Peace. The calm outgoing of a long, rich day, Checkered with storm and sunshine, gloom and light, Now passing in pure, cloudless skies away, Withdrawing into silence of blank night. Thick shadows settle on the landscape bright, Like the weird cloud of death that falls apace On the still features of the passive face. Soothing and gentle as a mother's kiss, The touch that stopped the beating of the heart. A look so blissfully serene as this, Not all the joy of living could impart. With dauntless faith and courage therewithal, The Master found her ready at his call. On such a golden evening forth there floats, Between the grave earth and the glowing sky In the clear air, unvexed with hazy motes, The mystic-winged and flickering butterfly, A human soul, that drifts at liberty, Ah! who can tell to what strange paradise, To what undreamed-of fields and lofty skies.! ~ Emma Lazarus,

424:Sacred And Profane Love In the dark shadow of the windless pines Whose gloomy glory lines the obsequies Of the gaunt Claudian Aqueduct along The lone Campagna to sepulchral Rome, A Northern youth, companionless, reclined, Pondering on records of the Roman Past, Kingdom, Republic, Empire, longwhile gone. Hard-by, through marble tomb revivified, Rippled and bubbled water crystalline, Inwelling from the far-off Sabine hills. When lo! upon the tomb's deep-dinted rim Slowly there broadened on his gaze two shapes, Material embodiment of those The great Venetian in resplendent hues Upon the canvas lastingly portrayed, Christened by fame Profane and Sacred Love. One was in rich habiliments arrayed, With dimpling folds about her rounded limbs, And heaving corset of embossed brocade, Compressing beaker for her brimming breasts. Jewels were in her hair, jewels entwined Themselves round her columnar throat, and thus On him she gazed unshrinkingly, and seemed Sensuous seduction irresistible. The other in nude innocency clad, All save veined vineleaf cincture round her waist, Sate with her gaze averted, and beheld Only her image trembling in the wave. Her had he fain accosted, but the dread Of violating her aloofness checked The movement of his mind, and held him mute. So to the One resplendently enrobed, Familiarly fearless as herself, He turned, albeit his thought was otherwhere, As elsewhere his desire, and boldly said: ``If with your earthly seeming be conjoined Gift and capacity of earthly speech, Speak to me, earthly, an you will, and break The all too spacious silence with your voice.'' 383 Her curving lips, whose fulness seemed to pledge Intoxicating kisses, drooped apart, And to her orbs upsurged volcanic fire, As she with prompt unhesitating voice, Commanding more than musical, rejoined. Whereat that Other ever and anon Would for a moment turn to him her face, To note the interpretation of his heart And wavering of his will, and then once more Her look averted to the Sabine hills, And cloudless vault of overarching Heaven. Profane Love speaks ``I am the Goddess mortals call Profane, Yet worship me as though I were divine; Over their lives, unrecognised, I reign, For all their thoughts are mine. ``I was coeval with the peopled Earth, And, while it lasts, I likewise shall endure, For Destiny endowed me at my birth With every mundane lure. ``Men rear no marble temple to my name, No statues mould in Minster or in mart, Yet in their longings silently proclaim My throne is on their heart. ``Unto the phantom Deities of air They pay lip homage, carven altars raise, To these bow down with ceremonial prayer, And sycophantic praise. ``With them I kneel, but neither praise nor pray, While tapers burn, hymns float, and organ rolls, Because I know that there too can I sway And stupefy their souls. ``Their pompous flatteries are not for me, My panegyric is the secret sigh: Wherefore should mortals monuments decree To Me who cannot die? 384 ``I am the fountain of wealth, titles, power, 'Tis I ordain the pedestal and bust, When there doth toll the inevitable hour, The hour of death and dust. ``Ruby, and pearl, and diamond, and the ore Torn from the entrails of the Earth, are mine; Mine are the cargoes shipped from shore to shore, Spices, and silks, and wine: ``Wherewith men buy what crafty barter brings,Greater the gain, more hazardous the risks,Toil from the many, coronets from Kings, And lust from odalisques. ``If such content not, since your hopes aspire On heights of popularity to tower, I can conduct you on yet swifter tire To winning-peak of Power. ``Then without scruple, pity, or restraint, Cleave you your conquering way; for there is nought, Of all that worldlings crave and hirelings paint, But can be seized or bought. ``Myriads from mine and furrow, quay and loom, Shall congregate to hear you pledge and prate, Hailing you heaven-sent warder-off of gloom, And Saviour of the State. ``And lissom sirens, temptingly attired, With heartless hearts, self-seeking as your own, By your sonorous phrases will be fired, And gather round your throne. ``Platform and Senate, Cabinet and Court, You shall cajole, convert, or overawe; Whithersoe'er you speciously disport, Your wordy Will be law. ``But many and many a worshipper have I, 385 So cannot grant monopoly of power: Others there be who fain would climb as high As you, and have their hour. ``Then their ambition with your own will shock, And they awhile on foremost seat may reign: Men's favour is a quicksand, not a rock, And veers like gust and vane. ``Then must you with invectives fume and rage All through the land, denouncing evil times, With histrionic passion; 'tis a stage For mountebanks and mimes``Slandering the foes who slander you, and so, If thousands hate, thousands will hail, your name, Till you in notoriety shall grow, The herd confound with Fame. ``Them that o'erwhelm, vindictiveness o'erwhelms, So nought shall you from Fortune's wheel entice, Gambling for Self's predominance with Realms And Empires for your dice. ``If with the years male energy should wane, Orders and honours on you shall be shed: Thus will you still in man's remembrance reign, A halo round your head. ``And when at length the End of all life's ends Doth with the little lay the mighty down, And domination finally descends Graveward without its Crown, ``Processions populous, bedizened hearse, And mourners ermined shall your dust convey To pompous tomb, and vying prose and verse Protract your little day. ``What though your name grow faint, as time recedes, Like scarce-heard wave upon a far-off shore, And wax the record of your words and deeds 386 A voice and nothing more, ``You will have drained all that the world can give, All boons and blandishments of Love Profane, Success and homage, for which sane men live, And all the rest is vain.'' She ceased; and, as she ceased, then Sacred Love, That ever and anon meanwhile had bent On him her look, and smilingly surmised, From his vague gaze and inattentive ears, That he was only waiting for Her voice, Like to the moon fleeting through fleecy clouds, Her undissembled beauty on him bared, And with a voice like sylvan rivulet That haunts the woodlands, muffled half by leaves, Serene and slow with silvery clearness spake. ``In the unseen first-fostering of breath Whose secret is by Science vainly sought, Uncertain borderland 'twixt Life and Death, I share the silence of the Mother's thought. ``Her love is not more anxious than is mine, Together we await the human cry, For even then I, Sacred Love, divine If it will grow to voice that may not die. ``And I its foster-mother am, and feed Its suckling dreams, and watch it waxing strong, Giving it for its plaything moorland reed, That it may grow and ripen into Song. ``For Love Profane doth sleeplessly await Its coming, to mislead it on its way, Whispering, `Become what Greatness deemeth great, Till mighty Rulers recognise your sway.' ``I listened tremblingly while Love Profane Strove to entice you to the worldling's throne, Along the worldling's way, but strove in vain. Now hath She gone, and we are here alone.'' 387 His gaze that had on Her who thuswise spake Fastened, since indivisibly intent Upon the cadence of her voice, quick turned At these last words, to look for Love Profane. But lo! its effigy from marble rim Had vanished, like the face of Roman sway, Kingship, Republic, Empire; and the flow Of water welling through the rifled tomb Was the sole sound he heard, until her voice Melodiously measured, spake once more. ``Rise and come near to me, and take my hand, And lay your cheek against my cheek, for sign That you henceforth will know and understand That all the children of the Muse are mine. ``Your parent am I, though I seem so young, It is my birthright never to grow old; Young shall I keep so long as songs are sung, By such fresh offspring gladdened and consoled. ``I was beside the font when you were brought Into the granite-pillared House of Prayer; Smiled at your loneliness when first you sought To sing away your load of childish care. ``Rapture maternal fluttered in my heart When you yourself disdainfully denied What worldlings prize, and chose the better part, Wending where now I find you at my side. ``I know your present sorrow, since you fear I have forsaken you and left you lone, And Rome has silenced what you held so dear. Wait! from the unseen seed the flower is grown. ``Rome is the tomb of Heroes, and of Kings, Consuls, and conquerors, and world-wide sway: What wonder, should it silence him that sings Before he learns what he must sing and say? 388 ``But you may live and die, a Voice unheard: I promise not what I can not fulfil: Only,-in the Beginning was the Word, It was with God, and it is godlike still. ``But unto you, as unto all my line, Or strong or weak, resounding or obscure, I pledge the gifts inalienably mine, Gifts that content and pleasures that endure: ``Companionship of woodlands, hills, and streams, And gentle womenkind, to whom you owe Youth in your heart, and shaping of your dreams, And these will teach what more you need to know. ``Nature's still fresh society will keep Your feelings young, as you each April follow Coy maiden Spring, when she awakes from sleep In windflower dell and primrose pillowed hollow: ``Watch Autumn wax in splendour day by day, Then, slowly yielding unto Time's assault, Her moribund magnificence decay, To sleep entombed in Winter's icy vault; ``And when the boughs stretch bare and fallows hoar, And plovers wheel about the moorland wide, Hear the pinched wind wailing through chink and door, With piteous prayer to share the warm fireside. ``Nature's capriciousness leaves just the same Her inmost self; she does nor change nor veer; Just as the seasons lend, with varying name, Their contrast to the oneness of the year. ``The Poet's love no base-bred difference knows Of high and low, the peasant and the peer, Save that his tenderness more heed bestows On humble sorrow than luxurious tear. ``Childhood's keen questioning, Youth's gropings blind, Manhood's ambition, Age's graver part, 389 Alike can move his understanding mind, And rouse his promptly sympathising heart. ``Here, 'mid the ruins that you now behold, You will imbibe the meaning of the Past, Learning to weigh the new by what is old, The things that perish, and the things that last. ``Instructed thus, keep severed in your mind The Passing from the Permanent, and prize Only the precious heirlooms of Mankind, Thought that ennobles, Art that vivifies. ``Vex not your mind with riddles that beguile The unwise to wrangle over things unknown. 'Tis not for Song to enrage, but reconcile, So to the Tower of Babel add no stone. ``But while from futile feuds you dwell apart, Never forget to render what is due, In hour of need, from manly hand and heart, To the male Land whose soil engendered you. ``Should opulence, and ease, and base desire Deaden effeminate ears to just alarms, Sound all the clanging octaves of the lyre, And rouse a nation's manhood unto arms, ``Save only then, no clamorous crowds must mar The musing silence of secluded days, Whose course should journey quiet as a star, That moves alone along Heaven's trackless ways. ``Then will you 'mid deserted Abbey walls Hear both the matin and the vesper bell, The girdled Brothers chanting in their stalls, And see the Prior praying in his cell. ``The Present and the Past shall seem but one, Kingdoms, and Creeds, and Sceptres, passed away, Stand out, in retrospection's noonday sun, As Kingdoms, Creeds, and Sceptres, of to-day. 390 ``In the fair hospitable Tuscan Land, Where Raphael and Donatello wrought, Sojourn, and ponder till you understand The masculine restraint themselves were taught``Taught by the disentombed Minervan mind That, in the days still governing if gone, Within the rugged Parian block divined Majestic calmness of the Parthenon. ``And when, departing hence, you wandering wend Where the brief Attic splendour dawned and shone, Pray to Athene she to you will lend The golden curb she lent Bellerophon. ``Nor be the Hill Hellenic sculptors trod Your one sole haunt, but, let who will condemn, Kneel at all altars `To the Unknown God,' Alike at Athens or Jerusalem. ``Siren and seraph, athlete, anchorite, Saints of the cloister, satyrs of the grove, In one and all seek meaning and delight, Reigning Jehovah, abdicated Jove. ``Deem not the Oracles to-day are dumb; They from their graves the World's course still forecast, From things long gone expound the things to come, And prophesy the Future from the Past. ``And not from Gothic shrine and classic urn, From dome, or spire, or portico alone, Study the mystery of Art, but learn From each in turn to apprehend your own. ``Not least from its loved twin, melodious sound, The universal unseen soul of things, Whose utterance men invoke when words are found Powerless to frame their vague imaginings. ``And, when the riper Youth that men call Age 391 Welcomes the closing dispensation, death, Song that soothes sorrow and makes suffering sage, Shall linger with you till your farewell breath. ``Not crowded aisle and ceremonial nave Claim those that have from me life's lesson learned. Who best have loved them bear them to their grave, Where they near home lie `quietly inurned.''' Then, like the cadence of a closing song, Her soft voice sank to silence, and he felt Her arms fold round him, and so widened his, Eager to share in privileged embrace: When, lo! the vision vanished with the voice, And all he saw were the calm Sabine hills, And all he heard, the lisping of the wave Clear-welling through the rifled marble tomb. But all She had said sank deep into his heart, And what She said is truly written here. ~ Alfred Austin,

425:A Poem Upon The Death Of O.C. That Providence which had so long the care Of Cromwell's head, and numbred ev'ry hair, Now in its self (the Glass where all appears) Had seen the period of his golden Years: And thenceforth onely did attend to trace, What death might least so sair a Life deface. The People, which what most they fear esteem, Death when more horrid so more noble deem; And blame the last Act, like Spectators vain, Unless the Prince whom they applaud be slain. Nor Fate indeed can well refuse that right To those that liv'd in War, to dye in Fight. But long his Valour none had left that could Indanger him, or Clemency that would. And he whom Nature all for Peace had made, But angry Heaven unto War had sway'd, And so less useful where he most desir'd, For what he least affected was admir'd, Deserved yet an End whose ev'ry part Should speak the wondrous softness of his Heart. To Love and Grief the fatal Writ was sign'd; (Those nobler weaknesses of humane Mind, From which those Powers that issu'd the Decree, Although immortal, found they were not free.) That they, to whom his Breast still open lyes, In gentle Passions should his Death disguise: And leave succeeding Ages cause to mourn, As long as Grief shall weep, or Love shall burn. Streight does a slow and languishing Disease Eliza, Natures and his darling, seize. Her when an infant, taken with her Charms, He oft would flourish in his mighty Arms; And, lest their force the tender burthen wrong, Slacken the vigour of his Muscles strong; Then to the Mothers brest her softly move, Which while she drain'd of Milk she fill'd with Love: But as with riper Years her Virtue grew, And ev'ry minute adds a Lustre new; When with meridian height her Beauty shin'd, 15 And thorough that sparkled her fairer Mind; When She with Smiles serene and Words discreet His hidden Soul at ev'ry turn could meet; Then might y' ha' daily his Affection spy'd, Doubling that knot which Destiny had ty'd: While they by sence, not knowing, comprehend How on each other both their Fates depend. With her each day the pleasing Hours he shares, And at her Aspect calms her growing Cares; Or with a Grandsire's joy her Children sees Hanging about her neck or at his knees. Hold fast dear Infants, hold them both or none; This will not stay when once the other's gone. A silent fire now wasts those Limbs of Wax, And him with his tortur'd Image racks. So the Flowr with'ring which the Garden crown'd, The sad Root pines in secret under ground. Each Groan he doubled and each Sigh he sigh'd, Repeated over to the restless Night. No trembling String compos'd to numbers new, Answers the touch in Notes more sad more true. She lest He grieve hides what She can her pains, And He to lessen hers his Sorrow feigns: Yet both perceiv'd, yet both conceal'd their Skills, And so diminishing increast their ills: That whether by each others grief they fell, Or on their own redoubled, none can tell. And now Eliza's purple Locks were shorn, Where she so long her Fathers fate had worn: And frequent lightning to her Soul that flyes, Devides the Air, and opens all the Skyes: And now his Life, suspended by her breath, Ran out impetuously to hasting Death. Like polish'd Mirrours, so his steely Brest Had ev'ry figure of her woes exprest; And with the damp of her last Gasps obscur'd, Had drawn such staines as were not to be cur'd. Fate could not either reach with single stroke, But the dear Image fled the Mirrour broke. Who now shall tell us more of mournful Swans, Of Halcyons kind, or bleeding Pelicans? No downy breast did ere so gently beat, 16 Or fan with airy plumes so soft an heat. For he no duty by his height excus'd, Nor though a Prince to be a Man refus'd: But rather then in his Eliza's pain Not love, not grieve, would neither live nor reign. And in himself so oft immortal try'd, Yet in compassion of another dy'd. So have I seen a Vine, whose lasting Age Of many a Winter hath surviv'd the rage. Under whose shady tent Men ev'ry year At its rich bloods expence their Sorrows chear, If some dear branch where it extends its life Chance to be prun'd by an untimely knife, The Parent-Tree unto the Grief succeeds, And through the Wound its vital humour bleeds; Trickling in watry drops, whose flowing shape Weeps that it falls ere fix'd into a Grape. So the dry Stock, no more that spreading Vine, Frustrates the Autumn and the hopes of Wine. A secret Cause does sure those Signs ordain Fore boding Princes falls, and seldom vain. Whether some Kinder Pow'rs, that wish us well, What they above cannot prevent, foretell; Or the great World do by consent presage, As hollow Seas with future Tempests rage: Or rather Heav'n, which us so long fore sees, Their fun'rals celebrate while it decrees. But never yet was any humane Fate By nature solemniz'd with so much state. He unconcern'd the dreadful passage crost; But oh what pangs that Death did Nature cost! First the great Thunder was shot off, and sent The Signal from the starry Battlement. The Winds receive it, and its force out-do, As practising how they could thunder too: Out of the Binders Hand the Sheaves they tore, And thrash'd the Harvest in the airy floore; Or of huge Trees, whose growth with his did rise, The deep foundations open'd to the Skyes. Then heavy Showres the winged Tempests dead, And pour the Deluge ore the Chaos head. The Race of warlike Horses at his Tomb 17 Offer themselves in many an Hecatomb; With pensive head towards the ground they fall, And helpless languish at the tainted Stall. Numbers of Men decrease with pains unknown, And hasten not to see his Death their own. Such Tortures all the Elements unfix'd, Troubled to part where so exactly mix'd. And as through Air his wasting Spirits flow'd, The Universe labour'd beneath their load. Nature it seem'd with him would Nature vye; He with Eliza, It with him would dye. He without noise still travell'd to his End, As silent Suns to meet the Night descend. The Stars that for him fought had only pow'r Left to determine now his fatal Hour, Which, since they might not hinder, yet they cast To chuse it worthy of his Glories past. No part of time but bore his mark away Of honour; all the Year was Cromwell's day But this, of all the most auspicious found, Twice had in open field him Victor crown'd When up the armed Mountains of Dunbar He march'd, and through deep Severn ending war. What day should him eternize but the same That had before immortaliz'd his Name? That so who ere would at his Death have joy'd, In their own Griefs might find themselves imploy'd; But those that sadly his departure griev'd, Yet joy'd remembring what he once atcheiv'd. And the last minute his victorious Ghost Gave chase to Ligny on the Belgick Coast. Here ended all his mortal toyles: He lay'd And slept in Peace under the Lawrel Shade. O Cromwell, Heavens Favourite! To none Have such high honours from above been shown: For whom the Elements we Mourners see, And Heav'n it self would the great Herald be; Which with more Care set forth his Obsequies Then those of Moses hid from humane Eyes; As jealous only here lest all be less, That we could to his Memory express. Then let us to our course of Mourning keep: 18 Where Heaven leads, 'tis Piety to weep. Stand back ye Seas, and shrunk beneath the vail Of your Abysse, with cover'd Head bewail Your Monarch: We demand not your supplies To compass in our Isle; our Tears suffice; Since him away the dismal Tempest rent, Who once more joyn'd us to the Continent; Who planted England on the Flandrick shoar, And stretch'd our frontire to the Indian Ore; Whose greater Truths obscure the Fables old, Whether of British Saints or Worthy's told; And in a valour less'ning Arthur's deeds, For Holyness the Confessor exceeds. He first put Armes into Religions hand, And tim'rous Conscience unto Courage man'd: The Souldier taught that inward Mail to wear, And fearing God how they should nothing fear. Those Strokes he said will pierce through all below Where those that strike from Heaven fetch their Blow. Note: The remainder is supplied from Ms .d.49 Astonish'd armyes did their flight prepare: And Cityes strong were stormed by his prayer. Of that for ever Prestons field shall tell The Story, and impregnable Clonmell. And where the sandy mountain Fenwick scald The Sea between yet henee his pray'r prevail'd. What man was ever so in Heav'n obey'd Since the commanded Sun ore Gibeon stayd. In all his warrs needs must he triumph, when He conquer'd God still ere he fought with men. Hence though in battle none so brave or fierce Yet him the adverse steel could never pierce: Pitty it seem'd to hurt him more that felt Each wound himself which he to others delt, Danger it self refusing to offend So loose an enemy so fast a freind. Friendship that sacred versue long das claime The first foundation of his house and name. But within one its narrow limitts fall His tendernesse extended unto all: And that deep soule through every chanell flows 19 Where kindly nature loves it self to lose. More strong affections never reason serv'd Yet still affected most what best deservd. If he Eliza lov'd to that degree (Though who more worstly to be lov'd then she) If so indulgent to his own, how deare To him the children of the Highest were? For her he once did natures tribute pay: For these his life adventur'd every day. And it would be found could we his thoughts have Their griefs struck deepest if Eliza's last. What prudence more then humane did he need To keep so deare, so diff'ring mindes agreed? The worser sort as conscious of their ill, Lye weak and easy to the rulers will: But to the good (too many or too few). All law is uselesse all reward is due. Oh ill advis'd if not for love for shame. Spare yet your own if you neglect his fame. Least others dare to think your reale a maske And you to govern only Heavens taske. Valour, Religion, Friendship, Prudence dy'd At once with him and all that's good beside: And rue deaths refuse natures dreg's confin'd To loathsome life Alas are left behinde: Where we (so once we us'd) shall now no more To fetch day presse about his chamber door; From which he issu'd with that awfull state It seem'd Mars broke through Janus double gate: Yet alwayes temper'd with an Aire so mild No Aprill suns that ere so gently smil'd: No more shall heare that powerfull language charm. Whose force oft spar'd the labour of his arm: No more shall follow where he spent the dayes In warres in counsell, or in pray'r, and praise, Whose meanest acts he would himself advance As ungirt David to the Arks did dance. All All is gone of ours or his delight In horses fierce wild deer or armour bright. Francisca faire can nothing now but weep Nor with soft notes shall sing his cares asleep. I saw him dead, a leaden slumber lyes 20 And mortall sleep over those wakefull eys: Those gentle Rayes under the lidds were fled Which through his lookes that piercing sweetnesse she That port which so Majestique was and strong, Loose and depriv'd of vigour stretch'd along: All wither'd, all discolour'd, pale and wan, How much another thing, no more thatman? Oh humane glory vaine, Oh death, Oh wings, Oh worthlesse worth. Oh transitory things. Yet dwelt that greatnesse in his shape decay'd That still though dead greater than death he lay'd. And in his alter'd face you something faigne That threatens death he yet will live againe. Not much unlike the saired Oake which shoots To heav'n its branches and through earth its roots: Whose spacious boughs are hung with Trophees row And honour'd wreaths have oft the Victour crown When angry Jove darts lightning through the Aire At mortalls sins, nor his own plant will spare (It groanes and bruses all below that stood So many yeares the shelter of the wood) The tree ere while foreshorten'd to our view When foln shews taller yet then as it grew. So shall his praise to after times increase When truth shall be allow'd and faction cease. And his own shadow with him fall. The Eye Detracts from objects then it selfe more high: But when death takes them from that envy'd seate Seing how little we confesse how greate. Thee many ages hence in martiall verse Shall th' English souldier ere he charge rehearse: Singing of thee influme themselves to fight And with the name of Cromwell armyes fright. As long as rivers to the seas shall runne. As long as Cynthia shall relieve the sunne, While staggs shall fly unto the forests thick, While sheep delight the grassy downs to pick, As long as future time succeeds the past, Always thy honour, praise and name shall last. Thou in a pitch how farre, beyond the sphere Of humane glory towr'st, and raigning there Despoyld of mortall robes, in seas of cliyse 21 Plunging dost bathe, and tread the bright Abysse: There thy greate soule yet once a world das see Spacious enough and pure enough for thee. How soon thou Moses hast and Josua found And David for the Sword, and harpe renown'd? How streight canst to each happy Mansion goe? (Farr Better known above then here below) And in those joyes dost spend the endlesse day Which in expressing we our selves betray. For we since thou art gone with heavy doome Wander like ghosts about thy loved tombe: And lost in tears have neither sight nor minde To guide us upward through this Region blinde Since thou art gone who best that way could'st fearn Onely our sighs perhaps may thither reach. And Richard yet where his great Parent led Beats on the rugged track: He vertue dead Revives, and by his milder beams assures; And yet how much of them his griefe obscures? He as his rather long was kept from sight In private to be view'd by better light: But open'd once, what splendour dos he throw A Cromwell in an houre a Prince will grow. How he becomes that seat, how strongly streins How gently winds at once the ruling Reins? Heav'n to this choise prepar'd a Diadem Richer then any Eastern silk or gemme: A pearly rainbow; where the Sun inchas'd His brows like an Imperiall Jewell grac'd. We find already what those Omens mean. Earth nere more glad, nor Heaven more serene: Cease now our griefs, Calme peace succeeds a war Rainbows to storms, Richard to Oliver. Tempt not his clemency to try his pow'r He threats no Deluge, yet fore tells a showre. ~ Andrew Marvell,

426:The Death Of Cromwell A Poem upon the Death of His Late Highness the Lord Protector That Providence which had so long the care Of Cromwell's head, and numbered every hair, Now in itself (the glass where all appears) Had seen the period of his golden years: And thenceforh only did attend to trace What death might least so fair a life deface. The people, which what most they fear esteem, Death when more horrid, so more noble deem, And blame the last act, like spectators vain, Unless the prince whom they applaud be slain. Nor fate indeed can well refuse that right To those that lived in war, to die in fight. But long his valour none had left that could Endanger him, or clemency that would. And he whom Nature all for peace had made, But angry heaven unto war had swayed, And so less useful where he most desired, For what he least affected was admired, Deservèd yet an end whose every part, Should speak the wondrous softness of his heart. To Love and Grief the fatal writ was 'signed; (Those nobler weaknesses of human kind, From which those powers that issued the decree, Although immortal, found they were not free), That they, to whom his breast still open lies, In gentle passions should his death disguise: And leave succeeding ages cause to mourn, As long as Grief shall weep, or Love shall burn. Straight does a slow and languishing disease Eliza, Nature's and his darling, seize. Her when an infant, taken with her charms, He oft would flourish in his mighty arms, And, lest their force the tender burden wrong, 125 Slacken the vigour of his muscles strong; Then to the Mother's breast her softly move, Which while she drained of milk, she filled with love. But as with riper years her virtue grew, And every minute adds a lustre new, When with meridian height her beauty shined, And thorough that sparkled her fairer mind, When she with smiles serene in words discreet His hidden soul at ever turn could meet; Then might y'ha' daily his affection spied, Doubling that knot which destiny had tied, While they by sense, not knowing, comprehend How on each other both their fates depend. With her each day the pleasing hours he shares, And at her aspect calms his growing cares; Or with a grandsire's joy her children sees Hanging about her neck or at his knees. Hold fast, dear infants, hold them both or none; This will not stay when once the other's gone. A silent fire now wastes those limbs of wax, And him within his tortured image racks. So the flower withering which the garden crowned, The sad root pines in secret under ground. Each groan he doubled and each sigh he sighed, Repeated over to the restless night. No trembling string composed to numbers new, Answers the touch in notes more sad, more true. She, lest he grieve, hides what she can her pains, And he to lessen hers his sorrow feigns: Yet both perceived, yet both concealed their skills, And so diminishing increased their ills: That whether by each other's grief they fell, Or on their own redoubled, none can tell. And now Eliza's purple locks were shorn, Where she so long her Father's fate had worn: And frequent lightning to her soul that flies, Divides the air, and opens all the skies: And now his life, suspended by her breath, Ran out impetuously to hasting death. Like polished mirrors, so his steely breast 126 Had every figure of her woes expressed, And with the damp of her last gasp obscured, Had drawn such stains as were not to be cured. Fate could not either reach with single stroke, But the dear image fled, the mirror broke. Who now shall tell us more of mournful swans, Of halcyons kind, or bleeding pelicans? No downy breast did e'er so gently beat, Or fan with airy plumes so soft an heat. For he no duty by his height excused, Nor, though a prince, to be a man refused: But rather than in his Eliza's pain Not love, not grieve, would neither live nor reign: And in himself so oft immortal tried, Yet in compassion of another died. So have I seen a vine, whose lasting age Of many a winter hath survived the rage, Under whose shady tent men every year At its rich blood's expense their sorrow cheer, If some dear branch where it extends its life Chance to be pruned by an untimely knife, The parent-tree unto the grief succeeds, And through the wound its vital humour bleeds, Trickling in watery drops, whose flowing shape Weeps that it falls ere fixed into a grape. So the dry stock, no more that spreading vine, Frustrates the autumn and the hopes of wine. A secret cause does sure those signs ordain Foreboding princes' falls, and seldom vain. Whether some kinder powers that wish us well, What they above cannot prevent foretell; Or the great world do by consent presage, As hollow seas with future tempests rage; Or rather heaven, which us so long foresees, Their funerals celebrates while it decrees. But never yet was any human fate By Nature solemnized with so much state. He unconcerned the dreadful passage crossed; But, oh, what pangs that death did Nature cost! 127 First the great thunder was shot off, and sent The signal from the starry battlement. The winds receive it, and its force outdo, As practising how they could thunder too; Out of the binder's hand the sheaves they tore, And thrashed the harvest in the airy floor; Or of huge trees, whose growth with his did rise, The deep foundations opened to the skies. Then heavy show'rs the wingèd tempests lead, And pour the deluge o'er the chaos' head. The race of warlike horses at his tomb Offer themselves in many a hecatomb; With pensive head towards the ground they fall, And helpless languish at the tainted stall. Numbers of men decrease with pains unknown, And hasten, not to see his death, their own. Such tortures all the elements unfixed, Troubled to part where so exactly mixed. And as through air his wasting spirits flowed, The universe laboured beneath their load. Nature, it seemed with him would Nature vie; He with Eliza. It with him would die, He without noise still travelled to his end, As silent suns to meet the night descend. The stars that for him fought had only power Left to determine now his final hour, Which, since they might not hinder, yet they cast To choose it worthy of his glories past. No part of time but bare his mark away Of honour; all the year was Cromwell's day: But this, of all the most ausicious found, Twice had in open field him victor crowned: When up the armèd mountains of Dunbar He marched, and through deep Severn ending war. What day should him eternize but the same That had before immortalized his name? That so who ere would at his death have joyed, In their own griefs might find themselves employed; But those that sadly his departure grieved, 128 Yet joyed, remebering what he once achieved. And the last minute his victorious ghost Gave chase to Ligny on the Belgic coast. Here ended all his mortal toils: he laid And slept in place under the laurel shade. O Cromwell, Heaven's Favourite! To none Have such high honours from above been shown: For whom the elements we mourners see, And heaven itself would the great herald be, Which with more care set forth his obsequies Than those of Moses hid from human eyes, As jealous only here lest all be less, That we could to his memory express. Then let us to our course of mourning keep: Where heaven leads, 'tis piety to weep. Stand back, ye seas, and shrunk beneath the veil Of your abyss, with covered head bewail Your Monarch: we demand not your supplies To compass in our isle; our tears suffice: Since him away the dismal tempest rent, Who once more joined us to the continent; Who planted England on the Flandric shore, And stretched our frontier to the Indian ore; Whose greater truths obscure the fables old, Whether of British saints or Worthies told; And in a valour lessening Arthur's deeds, For holiness the Confessor exceeds. He first put arms into Religion's hand, And timorous Conscience unto Courage manned: The soldier taught that inward mail to wear, And fearing God how they should nothing fear. `Those strokes,' he said, `will pierce through all below Where those that strike from heaven fetch their blow.' Astonished armies did their flight prepare, And cities strong were stormèd by his prayer; Of that, forever Preston's field shall tell The story, and impregnable Clonmel. And where the sandy mountain Fenwick scaled, The sea between, yet hence his prayer prevailed. What man was ever so in heaven obeyed 129 Since the commanded sun o'er Gideon stayed? In all his wars needs must he triumph when He conquered God still ere he fought with men: Hence, though in battle none so brave or fierce, Yet him the adverse steel could never pierce. Pity it seemed to hurt him more that felt Each wound himself which he to others dealt; Danger itself refusing to offend So loose an enemy, so fast a friend. Friendship, that sacred virtue, long does claim The first foundation of his house and name: But within one its narrow limits fall, His tenderness extended unto all. And that deep soul through every channel flows, Where kindly nature loves itself to lose. More strong affections never reason served, Yet still affected most what best deserved. If he Eliza loved to that degree, (Though who more worthy to be loved than she?) If so indulgent to his own, how dear To him the children of the highest were? For her he once did nature's tribute pay: For these his life adventured every day: And 'twould be found, could we his thoughts have cast, Their griefs struck deepest, if Eliza's last. What prudence more than human did he need To keep so dear, so differing minds agreed? The worser sort, as conscious of their ill, Lie weak and easy to the ruler's will; But to the good (too many or too few) All law is useless, all reward is due. Oh ill-advised, if not for love, for shame, Spare yet your own, if you neglect his fame; Lest others dare to think your zeal a mask, And you to govern, only heaven's task. Valour, religion, friendship, prudence died At once with him, and all that's good beside; And we death's refuse, nature's dregs, confined 130 To loathsome life, alas! are left behind. Where we (so once we used) shall now no more To fetch the day, press about his chamber door-From which he issued with that awful state, It seemd Mars broke through Janus' double gate, Yet always tempered with an air so mild, No April suns that e'er so gently smiled-No more shall hear that powerful language charm, Whose force oft spared the labour of his arm: No more shall follow where he spent the days In war, in counsel, or in prayer and praise, Whose meanest acts he would himself advance, As ungirt David to the ark did dance. All, all is gone of our or his delight In horses fierce, wild deer, or armour bright; Francisca fair can nothing now but weep, Nor with soft notes shall sing his cares asleep. I saw him dead. A leaden slumber lies And mortal sleep over those wakeful eyes: Those gentle rays under the lids were fled, Which through his looks that piercing sweetness shed; That port which so majestic was and strong, Loose and deprived of vigour, stretched along: All withered, all discoloured, pale and wan-How much another thing, nor more that man? Oh human glory vain, oh death, oh wings, Oh worthless world, oh transitory things! Yet dwelt that greatnesss in his shape decayed, That still through dead, greater than death he laid: And in his altered face you something feign That threatens death he yet will live again. Not much unlike the sacred oak which shoots To heaven its branches and through earth its roots, Whose spacious bought are hung with trophies round, And honoured wreaths have oft the victor crowned. When angry Jove darts lightning through the air, At mortals' sins, nor his own plant will spare, (It groans, and bruises all below, that stood So many years the shelter of the wood.) 131 The tree erewhile foreshortened to our view, When fall'n shows taller yet than as it grew: So shall his praise to after times increase, When truth shall be allowed, and faction cease, And his own shadows with him fall. The eye Detracts from object than itself more high: But when death takes them from that envied seat, Seeing how little, we confess how great. Thee, many ages hence in martial verse Shall the English soldier, ere he charge, rehearse, Singing of thee, inflame themselves to fight, And with the name of Cromwell, armies fright. As long as rivers to the seas shall run, As long as Cynthia shall relieve the sun, While stags shall fly unto the firests thick, While sheep delight the grassy downs to pick, As long as future times succeeds the past, Always they honour, praise, and name shall last. Thou in a pitch how far beyond the sphere Of human glory tower'st, and reigning there Despoiled of mortal robes, in seas of bliss, Plunging dost bathe, and tread the bright abyss: There thy great soul yet once a world does see, Spacious enough, and pure enough for thee. How soon thou Moses hast, and Joshua found, And David for the sword and harp renowned? How straight canst to each happy mansion go? (Far better known above than here below) And in those joys dost spend the endless day, Which in expressing we ourselves betray. For we, since thou art gone, with heavy doom, Wander like ghosts about thy lovèd tomb; And lost in tears, have neither sight nor mind To guide us upward through this region blind. Since thou art gone, who best that way couldst teach, Only our sighs, perhaps, may thither reach. And Richard yet, where his great parent led, 132 Beats on the rugged track: he, virtue dead, Revives, and by his milder beams assures; And yet how much of them his grief obscures? He, as his father, long was kept from sight In private, to be viewed by better light; But opened once, what splendour does he throw? A Cromwell in an hour a prince will grow. How he becomes that seat, how strongly strains, How gently winds at once the ruling reins? Heaven to this choice prepared a diadem, Richer than any Easter silk or gem; A pearly rainbow, where the sun enchased His brows, like an imperial jewel graced. We find already what those omens mean, Earth ne'er more glad, nor heaven more serene. Cease now our griefs, calm peace succeeds a war, Rainbows to storms, Richard to Oliver. Tempt not his clemency to try his power, He threats no deluge, yet foretells a shower. ~ Andrew Marvell,

427:A Poem On The Last Day - Book Iii The book unfolding, the resplendent seat Of saints and angels, the tremendous fate Of guilty souls, the gloomy realms of woe, And all the horrors of the world below, I next presume to sing. What yet remains Demands my last, but most exalted, strains. And let the Muse or now affect the sky, Or in inglorious shades for ever lie. She kindles, she's inflamed so near the goal; She mounts, she gains upon the starry pole; The world grows less as she pursues her flight, And the sun darkens to her distant sight. Heaven, opening, all its sacred pomp displays, And overwhelms her with the rushing blaze! The triumph rings! archangels shout around! And echoing Nature lengthens out the sound! Ten thousand trumpets now at once advance; Now deepest silence lulls the vast expanse; So deep the silence, and so strong the blast, As Nature died when she had groan'd her last. Nor man nor angel moves: the Judge on high Looks round, and with His glory fills the sky: Then on the fatal book His hand He lays, Which high to view supporting seraphs raise; In solemn form the rituals are prepared, The seal is broken, and a groan is heard. And thou, my soul, (O fall to sudden prayer, And let the thought sink deep!) shalt thou be there? See on the left, (for by the great command The throng divided falls on either hand,) How weak, how pale, how haggard, how obscene! What more than death in every face and mien! With what distress, and glarings of affright, They shock the heart, and turn away the sight! In gloomy orbs their trembling eye-balls roll, And tell the horrid secrets of the soul. 25 Each gesture mourns, each look is black with care, And every groan is loaden with despair. Reader, if guilty, spare the Muse, and find A truer image pictured in thy mind. Shouldst thou behold thy brother, father, wife, And all the soft companions of thy life, Whose blended interests levell'd at one aim, Whose mix'd desires sent up one common flame, Divided far; thy wretched self alone Cast on the left, of all whom thou hast known; How would it wound! What millions wouldst thou give For one more trial, one day more to live! Flung back in time an hour, a moment's space, To grasp with eagerness the means of grace; Contend for mercy with a pious rage, And in that moment to redeem an age! Drive back the tide, suspend a storm in air, Arrest the sun; but still of this despair. Mark, on the right, how amiable a grace! Their Maker's image fresh in every face! What purple bloom my ravish'd soul admires, And their eyes sparkling with immortal fires! Triumphant beauty! charms that rise above This world, and in bless'd angels kindle love! To the great Judge with holy pride they turn, And dare behold the' Almighty's anger burn; Its flash sustain, against its terror rise, And on the dread tribunal fix their eyes. Are these the forms that moulder'd in the dust? O the transcendent glory of the just! Yet still some thin remains of fear and doubt The' infected brightness of their joy pollute. Thus the chaste bridegroom, when the priest draws nigh, Beholds his blessing with a trembling eye, Feels doubtful passions throb in every vein, And in his cheeks are mingled joy and pain, Lest still some intervening chance should rise, Leap forth at once, and snatch the golden prize; 26 Inflame his woe by bringing it so late, And stab him in the crisis of his fate. Since Adam's family, from first to last, Now into one distinct survey is cast; Look round, vain-glorious Muse, and you whoe'er Devote yourselves to Fame, and think her fair; Look round, and seek the lights of human race, Whose shining acts Time's brightest annals grace; Who founded sects; crowns conquer'd, or resign'd; Gave names to nations, or famed empires join'd; Who raised the vale, and laid the mountain low, And taught obedient rivers where to flow; Who with vast fleets, as with a mighty chain, Could bind the madness of the roaring main: All lost! all undistinguish'd! nowhere found! How will this truth in Bourbon's palace sound? That hour, on which the' Almighty King on high From all eternity has fix'd His eye, Whether His right hand favour'd, or annoy'd, Continued, alter'd, threaten'd, or destroy'd; Southern or eastern sceptre downward hurl'd, Gave north or west dominion o'er the world; The point of time, for which the world was built, For which the blood of God Himself was spilt, That dreadful moment is arrived. Aloft, the seats of bliss their pomp display, Brighter than brightness this distinguish'd day; Less glorious, when of old the' eternal Son From realms of night return'd with trophies won; Through heaven's high gates when He triumphant rode, And shouting angels hail'd the victor God. Horrors, beneath, darkness in darkness, hell Of hell, where torments behind torments dwell; A furnace formidable, deep, and wide, O'er-boiling with a mad sulphureous tide, Expands its jaws, most dreadful to survey, And roars outrageous for the destined prey. The sons of light scarce unappall'd look down, 27 And nearer press Heaven's everlasting throne. Such is the scene; and one short moment's space Concludes the hopes and fears of human race. Proceed who dares!-I tremble as I write; The whole creation swims before my sight: I see, I see, the Judge's frowning brow: Say not, 'tis distant; I behold it now. I faint, my tardy blood forgets to flow, My soul recoils at the stupendous woe; That woe, those pangs, which from the guilty breast, In these, or words like these, shall be express'd:``Who burst the barriers of my peaceful grave? Ah, cruel Death! that would no longer save, But grudged me e'en that narrow dark abode, And cast me out into the wrath of God; Where shrieks, the roaring flame, the rattling chain, And all the dreadful eloquence of pain, Our only song; black fire's malignant light, The sole refreshment of the blasted sight. ``Must all those powers Heaven gave me to supply My soul with pleasure, and bring-in my joy, Rise up in arms against me, join the foe, Sense, Reason, Memory, increase my woe? And shall my voice, ordain'd on hymns to dwell, Corrupt to groans, and blow the fires of hell? O! must I look with terror on my gain, And with existence only measure pain? What! no reprieve, no least indulgence given, No beam of hope from any point of heaven? Ah, Mercy! Mercy! art thou dead above? Is love extinguish'd in the Source of Love? ``Bold that I am! did Heaven stoop down to hell? The' expiring Lord of Life my ransom seal? Have not I been industrious to provoke? From His embraces obstinately broke? Pursued, and panted for His mortal hate, Earn'd my destruction, labour'd out my fate? And dare I on extinguish'd love exclaim? 28 Take, take full vengeance, rouse the slackening flame; Just is my lot-but O! must it transcend The reach of time, despair a distant end? With dreadful growth shoot forward, and arise, Where Thought can't follow, and bold Fancy dies? ``NEVER! Where falls the soul at that dread sound? Down an abyss how dark, and how profound! Down, down, (I still am falling,-horrid pain!) Ten thousand thousand fathoms still remain; My plunge but still begun.-And this for sin? Could I offend, if I had never been, But still increased the senseless happy mass, Flow'd in the stream, or shiver'd in the grass? ``Father of Mercies! why from silent earth Didst Thou awake, and curse me into birth? Tear me from quiet, ravish me from night, And make a thankless present of Thy light? Push into being a reverse of Thee, And animate a clod with misery? ``The beasts are happy; they come forth, and keep Short watch on earth, and then lie down to sleep. Pain is for man; and O! how vast a pain, For crimes which made the Godhead bleed in vain, Annull'd His groans, as far as in them lay, And flung His agonies and death away! As our dire punishment for ever strong, Our constitution too for ever young; Cursed with returns of vigour, still the same, Powerful to bear and satisfy the flame; Still to be caught, and still to be pursued; To perish still, and still to be renew'd! ``And this, my Help! my God! at Thy decree? Nature is changed, and hell should succour me. And canst Thou, then, look down from perfect bliss, And see me plunging in the dark abyss? Calling Thee Father in a sea of fire? Or pouring blasphemies at Thy desire? With mortals' anguish wilt Thou raise Thy name, 29 And by my pangs Omnipotence proclaim? ``Thou, who canst toss the planets to and fro, Contract not Thy great vengeance to my woe; Crush worlds; in hotter flames fallen angels lay: On me Almighty wrath is cast away. Call back Thy thunders, Lord, hold-in Thy rage, Nor with a speck of wretchedness engage: Forget me quite, nor stoop a worm to blame; But lose me in the greatness of Thy name. Thou art all love, all mercy, all Divine; And shall I make those glories cease to shine? Shall sinful man grow great by his offence, And from its course turn back Omnipotence? ``Forbid it! and O! grant, great God, at least This one, this slender, almost no request: When I have wept a thousand lives away, When torment is grown weary of its prey, When I have raved ten thousand years in fire, Ten thousand thousand, let me then expire.'' Deep anguish, but too late! The hopeless soul, Bound to the bottom of the burning pool, Though loath, and ever loud blaspheming, owns, He's justly doom'd to pour eternal groans; Enclosed with horrors, and transfix'd with pain, Rolling in vengeance, struggling with his chain; To talk to fiery tempests; to implore The raging flame to give its burnings o'er; To toss, to writhe, to pant beneath his load, And bear the weight of an offended God. The favour'd of their Judge in triumph move To take possession of their thrones above; Satan's accursed desertion to supply, And fill the vacant stations of the sky; Again to kindle long-extinguish'd rays, And with new lights dilate the heavenly blaze; To crop the roses of immortal youth, And drink the fountain-head of sacred truth; 30 To swim in seas of bliss, to strike the string, And lift the voice to their Almighty King; To lose eternity in grateful lays, And fill heaven's wide circumference with praise. But I attempt the wondrous height in vain, And leave unfinish'd the too lofty strain; What boldly I begin, let others end; My strength exhausted, fainting I descend, And choose a less, but no ignoble, theme,Dissolving elements, and worlds in flame. The fatal period, the great hour, is come, And Nature shrinks at her approaching doom; Loud peals of thunder give the sign, and all Heaven's terrors in array surround the ball; Sharp lightnings with the meteors' blaze conspire, And, darted downward, set the world on fire; Black rising clouds the thicken'd ether choke, And spiry flames dart through the rolling smoke, With keen vibrations cut the sullen night, And strike the darken'd sky with dreadful light; From heaven's four regions, with immortal force, Angels drive-on the wind's impetuous course To' enrage the flame: it spreads, it soars on high, Swells in the storm, and billows through the sky: Here winding pyramids of fire ascend, Cities and deserts in one ruin blend; Here blazing volumes, wafted, overwhelm The spacious face of a far-distant realm; There, undermined, down rush eternal hills, The neighbouring vales the vast destruction fills. Hear'st thou that dreadful crack? that sound which broke Like peals of thunder, and the centre shook? What wonders must that groan of Nature tell! Olympus there, and mightier Atlas, fell; Which seem'd above the reach of fate to stand, A towering monument of God's right hand; Now dust and smoke, whose brow so lately spread O'er shelter'd countries its diffusive shade. 31 Show me that celebrated spot, where all The various rulers of the sever'd ball Have humbly sought wealth, honour, and redress, That land which Heaven seem'd diligent to bless, Once call'd Britannia: can her glories end? And can't surrounding seas her realms defend? Alas! in flames behold surrounding seas! Like oil, their waters but augment the blaze. Some angel say, Where ran proud Asia's bound? Or where with fruits was fair Europa crown'd? Where stretch'd waste Libya? Where did India's store Sparkle in diamonds, and her golden ore? Each lost in each, their mingling kingdoms glow, And all, dissolved, one fiery deluge flow: Thus earth's contending monarchies are join'd, And a full period of ambition find. And now whate'er or swims, or walks, or flies, Inhabitants of sea, or earth, or skies; All on whom Adam's wisdom fix'd a name; All plunge and perish in the conquering flame. This globe alone would but defraud the fire, Starve its devouring rage: the flakes aspire, And catch the clouds, and make the heavens their prey; The sun, the moon, the stars, all melt away; All, all is lost; no monument, no sign, Where once so proudly blazed the gay machine. So bubbles on the foaming stream expire, So sparks that scatter from the kindling fire. The devastations of one dreadful hour The great Creator's six days' work devour. A mighty, mighty ruin! yet one soul Has more to boast, and far outweighs the whole; Exalted in superior excellence, Casts down to nothing such a vast expense. Have you not seen the' eternal mountains nod, An earth dissolving, a descending God? What strange surprises through all nature ran! For whom these revolutions, but for man? 32 For him, Omnipotence new measures takes, For him, through all eternity awakes; Pours on him gifts sufficient to supply Heaven's loss, and with fresh glories fill the sky. Think deeply then, O man, how great thou art; Pay thyself homage with a trembling heart. What angels guard, no longer dare neglect; Slighting thyself, affront not God's respect. Enter the sacred temple of thy breast, And gaze, and wander there, a ravish'd guest; Gaze on those hidden treasures thou shalt find, Wander through all the glories of thy mind. Of perfect knowledge, see, the dawning light Foretells a noon most exquisitely bright! Here springs of endless joy are breaking forth! There buds the promise of celestial worth! Worth, which must ripen in a happier clime, And brighter sun, beyond the bounds of time. Thou, minor, canst not guess thy vast estate, What stores, on foreign coasts, thy landing wait: Lose not thy claim: let virtue's path be trod; Thus glad all heaven, and please that bounteous God, Who, to light thee to pleasures, hung on high Yon radiant orb, proud regent of the sky; That service done, its beams shall fade away, And God shine forth in one eternal day. ~ Edward Young,

428:A Poem On The Last Day - Book Ii Now man awakes, and from his silent bed, Where he has slept for ages, lifts his head; Shakes off the slumber of ten thousand years, And on the borders of new worlds appears. Whate'er the bold, the rash adventure cost, In wide Eternity I dare be lost. The Muse is wont in narrow bounds to sing, To teach the swain, or celebrate the king. I grasp the whole, no more to parts confined, I lift my voice, and sing to human kind: I sing to men and angels; angels join, While such the theme, their sacred songs with mine. Again the trumpet's intermitted sound Rolls the wide circuit of creation round, An universal concourse to prepare Of all that ever breathed the vital air; In some wide field, which active whirlwinds sweep, Drive cities, forests, mountains to the deep, To smooth and lengthen out the' unbounded space, And spread an area for all human race. Now monuments prove faithful to their trust, And render back their long committed dust. Now charnels rattle; scatter'd limbs, and all The various bones, obsequious to the call, Self-moved, advance; the neck perhaps to meet The distant head; the distant legs, the feet. Dreadful to view, see through the dusky sky Fragments of bodies in confusion fly, To distant regions journeying, there to claim Deserted members, and complete the frame. When the world bow'd to Rome's almighty sword, Rome bow'd to Pompey, and confess'd her lord. Yet, one day lost, this deity below Became the scorn and pity of his foe. His blood a traitor's sacrifice was made, 14 And smoked indignant on a ruffian's blade. No trumpet's sound, no gasping army's yell, Bid, with due horror, his great soul farewell. Obscure his fall: all weltering in his gore, His trunk was cast to perish on the shore! While Julius frown'd the bloody monster dead, Who brought the world in his great rival's head. This sever'd head and trunk shall join once more, Though realms now rise between, and oceans roar. The trumpet's sound each vagrant-mote shall hear, Or fix'd in earth, or if afloat in air, Obey the signal wafted in the wind, And not one sleeping atom lag behind. So swarming bees, that, on a summer's day, In airy rings and wild meanders play, Charm'd with the brasen sound, their wanderings end, And, gently circling, on a bough descend. The body thus renew'd, the conscious soul, Which has perhaps been fluttering near the pole, Or midst the burning planets wondering stray'd, Or hover'd o'er where her pale corpse was laid; Or rather coasted on her final state, And fear'd or wish'd for her appointed fate: This soul, returning with a constant flame, Now weds for ever her immortal frame. Life, which ran down before, so high is wound, The springs maintain an everlasting round. Thus a frail model of the work design'd First takes a copy of the builder's mind, Before the structure firm with lasting oak, And marble bowels of the solid rock, Turns the strong arch, and bids the columns rise, And bear the lofty palace to the skies; The wrongs of Time enabled to surpass, With bars of adamant, and ribs of brass. That ancient, sacred, and illustrious dome, Where soon or late fair Albion's heroes come, From camps and courts, though great, or wise, or just, 15 To feed the worm, and moulder into dust; That solemn mansion of the royal dead, Where passing slaves o'er sleeping monarchs tread, Now populous o'erflows: a numerous race Of rising kings fill all the' extended space. A life well-spent, not the victorious sword, Awards the crown, and styles the greater lord. Nor monuments alone, and burial earth, Labour with man to this his second birth; But where gay palaces in pomp arise, And gilded theatres invade the skies, Nations shall wake, whose unrespected bones Support the pride of their luxurious sons. The most magnificent and costly dome Is but an upper chamber to a tomb. No spot on earth but has supplied a grave, And human skulls the spacious ocean pave. All's full of man; and at this dreadful turn, The swarm shall issue, and the hive shall burn. Not all at once, nor in like manner, rise: Some lift with pain their slow unwilling eyes; Shrink backward from the terror of the light, And bless the grave, and call for lasting night. Others, whose long-attempted virtue stood Fix'd as a rock, and broke the rushing flood; Whose firm resolve nor beauty could melt down, Nor raging tyrants from their posture frown:Such, in this day of horrors, shall be seen To face the thunders with a godlike mien: The planets drop, their thoughts are fix'd above; The centre shakes, their hearts disdain to move: An earth dissolving, and a heaven thrown wide, A yawning gulf, and fiends on every side, Serene they view, impatient of delay, And bless the dawn of everlasting day. Here greatness prostrate falls; there strength gives place: Here lazars smile; there beauty hides her face. Christians, and Jews, and Turks, and Pagans stand, A blended throng, one undistinguish'd band. 16 Some who, perhaps, by mutual wounds expired, With zeal for their distinct persuasions fired, In mutual friendship their long slumber break, And hand in hand their Saviour's love partake. But none are flush'd with brighter joy, or, warm With juster confidence, enjoy the storm, Than those whose pious bounties, unconfined, Have made them public fathers of mankind. In that illustrious rank, what shining light With such distinguish'd glory fills my sight? Bend down, my grateful Muse, that homage show Which to such worthies thou art proud to owe. Wykeham, Fox, Chicheley! hail, illustrious names, Who to far-distant times dispense your beams! Beneath your shades, and near your crystal springs, I first presumed to touch the trembling strings. All hail, thrice-honour'd! 'Twas your great renown To bless a people, and oblige a crown. And now you rise, eternally to shine, Eternally to drink the rays Divine. Indulgent God! O how shall mortal raise His soul to due returns of grateful praise, For bounty so profuse to human kind, Thy wondrous gift of an eternal mind? Shall I, who, some few years ago, was less Than worm, or mite, or shadow can express,Was nothing; shall I live, when every fire And every star shall languish and expire? When earth's no more, shall I survive above, And through the radiant files of angels move? Or, as before the throne of God I stand, See new worlds rolling from His spacious hand, Where our adventures shall perhaps be taught, As we now tell how Michael sung or fought? All that has being in full concert join, And celebrate the depths of Love Divine! But O! before this blissful state, before The' aspiring soul this wondrous height can soar, 17 The Judge, descending, thunders from afar, And all mankind is summon'd to the bar. This mighty scene I next presume to draw: Attend, great Anna, with religious awe. Expect not here the known successful arts To win attention, and command our hearts: Fiction, be far away; let no machine Descending here, no fabled God, be seen: Behold the God of gods indeed descend, And worlds unnumber'd His approach attend! Lo! the wide theatre, whose ample space Must entertain the whole of human race, At Heaven's all-powerful edict is prepared, And fenced around with an immortal guard. Tribes, provinces, dominions, worlds o'erflow The mighty plain, and deluge all below: And every age and nation pours along; Nimrod and Bourbon mingle in the throng; Adam salutes his youngest son; no sign Of all those ages which their births disjoin. How empty learning, and how vain is art, But as it mends the life, and guides the heart! What volumes have been swell'd, what time been spent, To fix a hero's birth-day or descent! What joy must it now yield, what rapture raise, To see the glorious race of ancient days! To greet those worthies who perhaps have stood Illustrious on record before the flood! Alas! a nearer care your soul demands, Caesar unnoted in your presence stands. How vast the concourse! not in number more The waves that break on the resounding shore, The leaves that tremble in the shady grove, The lamps that gild the spangled vault above. Those overwhelming armies, whose command Said to one empire, ``Fall;'' another, ``Stand;'' Whose rear lay wrapp'd in night, while breaking dawn Roused the broad front, and call'd the battle on: 18 Great Xerxes' world in arms, proud Cannae's field, Where Carthage taught victorious Rome to yield; (Another blow had broke the Fates' decree, And earth had wanted her fourth monarchy Immortal Blenheim, famed Ramillia's host:They all are here, and here they all are lost: Their millions swell to be discern'd in vain, Lost as a billow in the' unbounded main. This echoing voice now rends the yielding air, For judgment, judgment, sons of men, prepare! Earth shakes anew; I hear her groans profound; And hell through all her trembling realms resound. Whoe'er thou art, thou greatest power of earth, Bless'd with most equal planets at thy birth: Whose valour drew the most successful sword, Most realms united in one common lord; Who, on the day of triumph, saidst, ``Be Thine The skies, Jehovah: all this world is mine:'' Dare not to lift thine eye.-Alas! my Muse, How art thou lost! what numbers canst thou choose? A sudden blush inflames the waving sky, And now the crimson curtains open fly; Lo! far within, and far above all height, Where heaven's great Sovereign reigns in worlds of light; Whence Nature He informs, and, with one ray Shot from His eye, does all her works survey, Creates, supports, confounds! where time, and place, Matter, and form, and fortune, life, and grace, Wait humbly at the footstool of their God, And move obedient at His awful nod; Whence He beholds us vagrant emmets crawl At random on this air-suspended ball: (Speck of creation!) if He pour one breath, The bubble breaks, and 'tis eternal death. Thence issuing I behold, (but mortal sight Sustains not such a rushing sea of light!) I see, on an empyreal flying throne Sublimely raised, Heaven's everlasting Son; 19 Crown'd with that majesty which form'd the world, And the grand rebel flaming downward hurl'd Virtue, Dominion, Praise, Omnipotence, Support the train of their triumphant Prince. A zone, beyond the thought of angels bright, Around Him, like the zodiac, winds its light. Night shades the solemn arches of His brows, And in His cheek the purple morning glows. Where'er serene He turns propitious eyes, Or we expect, or find, a Paradise: But if resentment reddens their mild beams, The Eden kindles, and the world's in flames. On one hand, Knowledge shines in purest light; On one, the sword of Justice, fiercely bright. Now bend the knee in sport, present the reed; Now tell the scourged impostor He shall bleed! Thus glorious through the courts of heaven the Source Of life and death eternal bends His course; Loud thunders round Him roll, and lightnings play; The' angelic host is ranged in bright array: Some touch the string, some strike the sounding shell, And mingling voices in rich concert swell; Voices seraphic! bless'd with such a strain, Could Satan hear, he were a god again. Triumphant King of Glory! Soul of Bliss! What a stupendous turn of fate is this! O whither art thou raised above the scorn And indigence of Him in Bethlem born! A needless, helpless, unaccounted guest, And but a second to the fodder'd beast! How changed from Him who, meekly prostrate laid, Vouchsafed to wash the feet Himself had made! From Him who was betray'd, forsook, denied, Wept, languish'd, pray'd, bled, thirsted, groan'd, and died; Hung pierced and bare, insulted by the foe, All heaven in tears above, earth unconcern'd below! And was't enough to bid the sun retire? Why did not Nature at Thy groan expire? I see, I hear, I feel, the pangs Divine; 20 The world is vanish'd,-I am wholly Thine. Mistaken Caiaphas! Ah! which blasphemed,Thou, or thy Prisoner? which shall be condemn'd? Well mightst thou rend thy garments, well exclaim; Deep are the horrors of eternal flame! But God is good! 'Tis wondrous all! E'en He Thou gavest to death, shame, torture, died for thee. Now the descending triumph stops its flight From earth full twice a planetary height. There all the clouds, condensed, two columns raise Distinct with orient veins, and golden blaze: One fix'd on earth, and one in sea, and round Its ample foot the swelling billows sound. These an immeasurable arch support, The grand tribunal of this awful court. Sheets of bright azure, from the purest sky, Stream from the crystal arch, and round the columns fly. Death, wrapp'd in chains, low at the basis lies, And on the point of his own arrow dies. Here high-enthroned the' eternal Judge is placed, With all the grandeur of His Godhead graced; Stars on His robes in beauteous order meet, And the sun burns beneath His awful feet. Now an archangel eminently bright, From off his silver staff of wondrous height, Unfurls the Christian flag, which waving flies, And shuts and opens more than half the skies: The cross so strong a red, it sheds a stain, Where'er it floats, on earth, and air, and main; Flushes the hill, and sets on fire the wood, And turns the deep-dyed ocean into blood. O formidable Glory! dreadful bright! Refulgent torture to the guilty sight. Ah, turn, unwary Muse, nor dare reveal What horrid thoughts with the polluted dwell. Say not, (to make the Sun shrink in his beam,) Dare not affirm, they wish it all a dream; 21 Wish, or their souls may with their limbs decay, Or God be spoil'd of His eternal sway. But rather, if thou know'st the means, unfold How they with transport might the scene behold. Ah how, but by repentance, by a mind Quick and severe its own offence to find; By tears, and groans, and never-ceasing care, And all the pious violence of prayer? Thus then, with fervency till now unknown, I cast my heart before the' eternal throne, In this great temple, which the skies surround, For homage to its Lord a narrow bound:``O Thou! whose balance does the mountains weigh, Whose will the wild tumultuous seas obey, Whose breath can turn those watery worlds to flame, That flame to tempest, and that tempest tame; Earth's meanest son, all trembling, prostrate falls, And on the Boundless of Thy goodness calls. ``O give the winds all past offence to sweep, To scatter wide, or bury in the deep! Thy power, my weakness, may I ever see, And wholly dedicate my soul to Thee. Reign o'er my will; my passions ebb and flow At Thy command, nor human motive know. If anger boil, let anger be my praise, And sin the graceful indignation raise. My love be warm to succour the distress'd, And lift the burden from the soul oppress'd. O may my understanding ever read This glorious volume, which Thy wisdom made! Who decks the maiden Spring with flowery pride? Who calls forth Summer, like a sparkling bride? Who joys the mother Autumn's bed to crown, And bids old Winter lay her honours down? Not the great Ottoman, or greater Czar, Not Europe's arbitress of peace and war. May sea and land, and earth and heaven, be join'd, To bring the' eternal Author to my mind! When oceans roar, or awful thunders roll, 22 May thoughts of Thy dread vengeance shake my soul! When earth's in bloom, or planets proudly shine, Adore, my heart, the Majesty Divine! ``Through every scene of life, or peace or war, Plenty or want, Thy glory be my care! Shine we in arms? or sing beneath our vine? Thine is the vintage, and the conquest Thine: Thy pleasure points the shaft, and bends the bow; The cluster blasts, or bids it brightly glow: 'Tis Thou that lead'st our powerful armies forth, And giv'st great Anne Thy sceptre o'er the north. ``Grant I may ever, at the morning ray, Open with prayer the consecrated day; Tune Thy great praise, and bid my soul arise, And with the mounting sun ascend the skies: As that advances, let my zeal improve, And glow with ardour of consummate love; Nor cease at eve, but with the setting sun My endless worship shall be still begun. ``And O! permit the gloom of solemn night To sacred thought may forcibly invite. When this world's shut, and awful planets rise, Call on our minds, and raise them to the skies; Compose our souls with a less dazzling sight, And show all nature in a milder light; How every boisterous thought in calms subsides! How the smooth'd spirit into goodness glides! O how Divine! to tread the Milky Way, To the bright palace of the Lord of Day; His court admire, or for His favour sue, Or leagues of friendship with His saints renew; Pleased to look down, and see the world asleep, While I long vigils to its Founder keep! ``Canst Thou not shake the centre? O control, Subdue by force, the rebel in my soul! Thou, who canst still the raging of the flood, Restrain the various tumults of my blood; Teach me, with equal firmness, to sustain 23 Alluring pleasure, and assaulting pain. O may I pant for Thee in each desire! And with strong faith foment the holy fire! Stretch out my soul in hope, and grasp the prize Which in Eternity's deep bosom lies! At the great day of recompence behold, Devoid of fear, the fatal book unfold! Then, wafted upward to the blissful seat, From age to age my grateful song repeat; My Light, my Life, my God, my Saviour see, And rival angels in the praise of Thee!'' ~ Edward Young,

429:Bénédiction (Benediction) Lorsque, par un décret des puissances suprêmes, Le Poète apparaît en ce monde ennuyé, Sa mère épouvantée et pleine de blasphèmes Crispe ses poings vers Dieu, qui la prend en pitié: — «Ah! que n'ai-je mis bas tout un noeud de vipères, Plutôt que de nourrir cette dérision! Maudite soit la nuit aux plaisirs éphémères Où mon ventre a conçu mon expiation! Puisque tu m'as choisie entre toutes les femmes Pour être le dégoût de mon triste mari, Et que je ne puis pas rejeter dans les flammes, Comme un billet d'amour, ce monstre rabougri, Je ferai rejaillir ta haine qui m'accable Sur l'instrument maudit de tes méchancetés, Et je tordrai si bien cet arbre misérable, Qu'il ne pourra pousser ses boutons empestés!» Elle ravale ainsi l'écume de sa haine, Et, ne comprenant pas les desseins éternels, Elle-même prépare au fond de la Géhenne Les bûchers consacrés aux crimes maternels. Pourtant, sous la tutelle invisible d'un Ange, L'Enfant déshérité s'enivre de soleil Et dans tout ce qu'il boit et dans tout ce qu'il mange Retrouve l'ambroisie et le nectar vermeil. II joue avec le vent, cause avec le nuage, Et s'enivre en chantant du chemin de la croix; Et l'Esprit qui le suit dans son pèlerinage Pleure de le voir gai comme un oiseau des bois. Tous ceux qu'il veut aimer l'observent avec crainte, Ou bien, s'enhardissant de sa tranquillité, Cherchent à qui saura lui tirer une plainte, Et font sur lui l'essai de leur férocité. 35 Dans le pain et le vin destinés à sa bouche Ils mêlent de la cendre avec d'impurs crachats; Avec hypocrisie ils jettent ce qu'il touche, Et s'accusent d'avoir mis leurs pieds dans ses pas. Sa femme va criant sur les places publiques: «Puisqu'il me trouve assez belle pour m'adorer, Je ferai le métier des idoles antiques, Et comme elles je veux me faire redorer; Et je me soûlerai de nard, d'encens, de myrrhe, De génuflexions, de viandes et de vins, Pour savoir si je puis dans un coeur qui m'admire Usurper en riant les hommages divins! Et, quand je m'ennuierai de ces farces impies, Je poserai sur lui ma frêle et forte main; Et mes ongles, pareils aux ongles des harpies, Sauront jusqu'à son coeur se frayer un chemin. Comme un tout jeune oiseau qui tremble et qui palpite, J'arracherai ce coeur tout rouge de son sein, Et, pour rassasier ma bête favorite Je le lui jetterai par terre avec dédain!» Vers le Ciel, où son oeil voit un trône splendide, Le Poète serein lève ses bras pieux Et les vastes éclairs de son esprit lucide Lui dérobent l'aspect des peuples furieux: — «Soyez béni, mon Dieu, qui donnez la souffrance Comme un divin remède à nos impuretés Et comme la meilleure et la plus pure essence Qui prépare les forts aux saintes voluptés! Je sais que vous gardez une place au Poète Dans les rangs bienheureux des saintes Légions, Et que vous l'invitez à l'éternelle fête Des Trônes, des Vertus, des Dominations. Je sais que la douleur est la noblesse unique 36 Où ne mordront jamais la terre et les enfers, Et qu'il faut pour tresser ma couronne mystique Imposer tous les temps et tous les univers. Mais les bijoux perdus de l'antique Palmyre, Les métaux inconnus, les perles de la mer, Par votre main montés, ne pourraient pas suffire A ce beau diadème éblouissant et clair; Car il ne sera fait que de pure lumière, Puisée au foyer saint des rayons primitifs, Et dont les yeux mortels, dans leur splendeur entière, Ne sont que des miroirs obscurcis et plaintifs!» Benediction When, after a decree of the supreme powers, The Poet is brought forth in this wearisome world, His mother terrified and full of blasphemies Raises her clenched fist to God, who pities her: — 'Ah! would that I had spawned a whole knot of vipers Rather than to have fed this derisive object! Accursed be the night of ephemeral joy When my belly conceived this, my expiation! Since of all women You have chosen me To be repugnant to my sorry spouse, And since I cannot cast this misshapen monster Into the flames, like an old love letter, I shall spew the hatred with which you crush me down On the cursed instrument of your malevolence, And twist so hard this wretched tree That it cannot put forth its pestilential buds!' Thus she gulps down the froth of her hatred, And not understanding the eternal designs, Herself prepares deep down in Gehenna The pyre reserved for a mother's crimes. 37 However, protected by an unseen Angel, The outcast child is enrapt by the sun, And in all that he eats, in everything he drinks, He finds sweet ambrosia and rubiate nectar. He cavorts with the wind, converses with the clouds, And singing, transported, goes the way of the cross; And the Angel who follows him on pilgrimage Weeps to see him as carefree as a bird. All those whom he would love watch him with fear, Or, emboldened by his tranquility, Emulously attempt to wring a groan from him And test on him their inhumanity. With the bread and the wine intended for his mouth They mix ashes and foul spittle, And, hypocrites, cast away what he touches And feel guilty if they have trod in his footprints. His wife goes about the market-places Crying: 'Since he finds me fair enough to adore, I shall imitate the idols of old, And like them I want to be regilded; I shall get drunk with spikenard, incense, myrrh, And with genuflections, viands and wine, To see if laughingly I can usurp In an admiring heart the homage due to God! And when I tire of these impious jokes, I shall lay upon him my strong, my dainty hand; And my nails, like harpies' talons, Will cut a path straight to his heart. That heart which flutters like a fledgling bird I'll tear, all bloody, from his breast, And scornfully I'll throw it in the dust To sate the hunger of my favorite hound!' To Heav'n, where his eye sees a radiant throne, Piously, the Poet, serene, raises his arms, 38 And the dazzling brightness of his illumined mind Hides from his sight the raging mob: — 'Praise be to You, O God, who send us suffering As a divine remedy for our impurities And as the best and the purest essence To prepare the strong for holy ecstasies! I know that you reserve a place for the Poet Within the blessed ranks of the holy Legions, And that you invite him to the eternal feast Of the Thrones, the Virtues, and the Dominations. I know that suffering is the sole nobility Which earth and hell shall never mar, And that to weave my mystic crown, You must tax every age and every universe. But the lost jewels of ancient Palmyra, The unfound metals, the pearls of the sea, Set by Your own hand, would not be adequate For that diadem of dazzling splendor, For that crown will be made of nothing but pure light Drawn from the holy source of primal rays, Whereof our mortal eyes, in their fullest brightness, Are no more than tarnished, mournful mirrors!' — Translated by William Aggeler Benediction When by an edict of the powers supreme A poet's born into this world's drab space, His mother starts, in horror, to blaspheme Clenching her fists at God, who grants her grace. 'Would that a nest of vipers I'd aborted Rather than this absurd abomination. Cursed be the night of pleasures vainly sported On which my womb conceived my expiation. 39 Since of all women I am picked by You To be my Mate's aversion and his shame: And since I cannot, like a billet-doux, Consign this stunted monster to the flame, I'll turn the hatred, which You load on me, On the curst tool through which You work your spite, And twist and stunt this miserable tree Until it cannot burgeon for the blight.' She swallows down the white froth of her ire And, knowing naught of schemes that are sublime, Deep in Gehenna, starts to lay the pyre That's consecrated to maternal crime. Yet with an unseen Angel for protector The outcast waif grows drunken with the sun, And finds ambrosia, too, and rosy nectar In all he eats or drinks, suspecting none. He sings upon his Via Crucis, plays With winds, and with the clouds exchanges words: The Spirit following his pilgrim-ways Weeps to behold him gayer than the birds. Those he would love avoid him as in fear, Or, growing bold to see one so resigned, Compete to draw from him a cry or tear, And test on him the fierceness of their kind. In food or drink that's destined for his taste They mix saliva foul with cinders black, Drop what he's touched with hypocrite distaste, And blame themselves for walking in his track. His wife goes crying in the public way — 'Since fair enough he finds me to adore, The part of ancient idols I will play And gild myself with coats of molten ore. I will get drunk on incense, myrrh, and nard, 40 On genuflexions, meat, and beady wine, Out of his crazed and wondering regard, I'll laugh to steal prerogatives divine. When by such impious farces bored at length, I'll place my frail strong hand on him, and start, With nails like those of harpies in their strength, To plough myself a pathway to his heart. Like a young bird that trembles palpitating, I'll wrench his heart, all crimson, from his chest, And to my favourite beast, his hunger sating, Will fling it in the gutter with a jest.' Skyward, to where he sees a Throne blaze splendid, The pious Poet lifts his arms on high, And the vast lightnings of his soul extended Blot out the crowds and tumults from his eye. 'Blessèd be You, O God, who give us pain, As cure for our impurity and wrong — Essence that primes the stalwart to sustain Seraphic raptures that were else too strong. I know that for the Poet You've a post, Where the blest Legions take their ranks and stations, Invited to the revels with the host Of Virtues, Powers, and Thrones, and Dominations That grief's the sole nobility, I know it, Where neither Earth nor Hell can make attacks, And that, to deck my mystic crown of poet, All times and universes paid their tax. But all the gems from old Palmyra lost, The ores unmixed, the pearls of the abyss, Set by Your hand, could not suffice the cost Of such a blazing diadem as this. Because it will be only made of light, Drawn from the hearth of the essential rays, To which our mortal eyes, when burning bright, 41 Are but the tarnished mirrors that they glaze.' — Translated by Roy Campbell Benediction When by decree of the almighty powers, The Poet walks the world's wearisome sod, His mother, blasphemous and fearful, cowers, Clenching her fist against a pitying God: — 'Ah, would whole knots of vipers were my spawn Rather than this woeful abomination! Cursed be the sweet swift night and evil dawn Wherein my womb conceived my expiation! Since of all women Thou hast chosen me To be my sorry husband's shame of shames, Since I may not toss this monstrosity Like an old billet-doux into the flames, Thy heavy hatred I shall vomit back On the damned tool of your malevolence, Twisting this wretched tree until it crack, Never to sprout in buds of pestilence!' Thus she gulps down the froth of her despair, Nor knowing the eternal paradigms, Sinks deep into Gehenna to prepare, Herself, the pyre set for a mother's crimes. Yet guarded by an unseen Angel's favors, The outcast child is fired by radiant suns, In all he eats and all he drinks he savors Ambrosial gifts and nectared benisons, He sports with winds, he talks with clouds, he keeps Singing along the road to Calvary, While the bright Angel in his traces weeps, Beholding him as free as birds are free. 42 All those whom he would love watch him with fear, Or else, made bold by his serenity, Wring groans from him that float sweet on the ear Making him touchstone of their cruelty. With his due bread and wine, hypocrites, they, Mix ashes and fat gobs of spittle; grim, What he has touched, these humbugs cast away, Deeming it guilty but to follow him. His wife cries in the market place: 'Behold Since he adores me, I am fair, and fain, As idols did, and images of old, To be regilded and adored again. I shall be drunk with spikenard, incense, myrrh, With genuflections, viands and wine to see If, as a glad usurper, I may stir His heart to pay God's homages to me! Tired of these impious japes and of their butt, My strong lithe hand's caress with subtle art And my sharp nails like harpy claws shall cut A mortal path straight to his quivering heart. That heart which flutters like a fledgling bird, I shall tear, bleeding, from his breast, to pitch It blandly in the dust without a word To slake the hunger of my favorite bitch.' To Heaven where he spies a splendent throne, Serene, the Poet lifts rapt arms; and bright Luminous thoughts that shine through him alone Conceal the furious rabble from his sight: — 'Blessèd, O God, who send woe for a cure, A balm divine for our impurities, Of essences the noblest and most pure To school the strong for holy ecstasies! I know the Poet has his place above 43 Amid God's saintly hosts and congregations, Guest at the everlasting banquet of The Thrones, the Virtues and the Dominations. Sorrow alone is noble and august, A force nor earth nor hell shall ever mar, To weave my mystic crown I know you must Tax every age and universe that are. Old Tadmor's vanished gems beyond all price, Metals unknown, pearls from the richest sea, Set by Thy holy hand, cannot suffice To match this dazzling chapter's splendency; This diadem shall be of sheerest light, Drawn from the sacred source of primal rays, Whereof our mortal eyes, however bright, Serve but as piteous mirrors dull with glaze.' — Translated by Jacques LeClercq Benediction When, on a certain day, into this harassed world The Poet, by decree of the high powers, was born, His mother, overwhelmed by shame and fury, hurled These blasphemies at God, clenching her fists in scorn: 'Would I had whelped a knot of vipers — at the worst 'Twere better than this runt that whines and snivels there! Oh, cursèd be that night of pleasure, thrice accurst My womb, that has conceived and nourished my despair! 'Since, of all mortal women, it would seem my fate To be my saddened husband's horror and disgust; And since I may not toss this monster in the grate — Like any crumpled letter, reeking of stale lust — 'Upon his helpless form, whereby Thou humblest me, I shall divert Thy hatred in one raging flood; 44 And I shall twist so well this miserable tree That it shall not put forth one pestilential bud!' Thus did she foam with anger, railing, swallowing froth; And, unaware of what the mighty powers had willed, She set about to draw Gehenna on them both, Eyeing the fire, considering how he might be killed. Meantime, above the child an unseen angel beats His wings, and the poor waif runs laughing in the sun; And everything he drinks and everything he eats Are nectar and ambrosia to this hapless one. Companioned by the wind, conversing with the cloud, Along the highway to the Cross his song is heard; And the bright Spirit, following him, weeps aloud To see him hop so gaily, like a little bird. Those whom he longs to love observe him with constraint And fear, as he grows up; or, seeing how calm he is, Grow bold, and seek to draw from him some sharp complaint, Wreaking on him all day their dull ferocities. Cinders are in his bread, are gritty in his teeth; Spittle is in his wine. Where his footprints are seen They hesitate to set their shoes, mincing beneath Hypocrisy; all things he touched, they call unclean. His wife in public places cries, 'Since after all He loves me so, that he's the laughingstock of men, I'll make a business of it, be an idol, call For gold, to have myself regilded now and then! 'And some day, when I'm drunk with frankincense, rich food, Flattery, genuflexions, spikenard, beady wine, I'll get from him (while laughing in his face, I could!) That homage he has kept, so far, for things divine. 'And, when my pleasure in these impious farces fails, My dainty, terrible hands shall tear his breast apart, And these long nails of mine, so like to harpies' nails, Shall dig till they have dug a tunnel to his heart. 45 'Then, like a young bird, caught and fluttering to be freed, ('Twill make a tasty morsel for my favorite hound) I'll wrench his heart out, warm and bleeding — let it bleed! — And drop it, with contempt and loathing, to the ground.' Meanwhile toward Heaven, the goal of his mature desire, The Poet, oblivious, lifts up his arms in prayer; His lucid essence flames with lightnings — veiled by fire Is all the furious world, all the lewd conflict there. 'Be praised, Almighty God, that givest to faulty me This suffering, to purge my spirit of its sin, To fortify my puny strength, to bid me see Pure Faith, and what voluptuous blisses dwell therein. 'I know that in those ranks on ranks of happy blest The Poet shall have some place among Thy Seraphim; And that Thou wilt at length to the eternal feast Of Virtues, Thrones and Dominations, summon him. 'I know, Pain is the one nobility we have Which not the hungry ground nor hell shall ever gnaw; I know that space and time, beyond the temporal grave, Weave me a mystic crown, free from all earthly flaw. 'Not emeralds, not all the pearls of the deep sea, All the rare metals, every lost and buried gem Antique Palmyra hides, could ever seem to me So beautiful as that clear glittering diadem. 'Of Light, of Light alone, it will be fashioned, Light Drawn from the holy fount, rays primitive and pure, Whereof the eyes of mortal men, so starry bright, Are but the mirrors, mirrors cloudy and obscure.' — Translated by Edna St. Vincent Millay ~ Charles Baudelaire,

430:Dante At Verona Behold, even I, even I am Beatrice. (Div. Com. Purg. xxx.) OF Florence and of Beatrice Servant and singer from of old, O'er Dante's heart in youth had toll'd The knell that gave his Lady peace; And now in manhood flew the dart Wherewith his City pierced his heart. Yet if his Lady's home above Was Heaven, on earth she filled his soul; And if his City held control To cast the body forth to rove, The soul could soar from earth's vain throng, And Heaven and Hell fulfil the song. Follow his feet's appointed way;— But little light we find that clears The darkness of the exiled years. Follow his spirit's journey:—nay, What fires are blent, what winds are blown On paths his feet may tread alone? Yet of the twofold life he led In chainless thought and fettered will Some glimpses reach us,—somewhat still Of the steep stairs and bitter bread,— Of the soul's quest whose stern avow For years had made him haggard now. Alas! the Sacred Song whereto Both heaven and earth had set their hand Not only at Fame's gate did stand Knocking to claim the passage through, But toiled to ope that heavier door Which Florence shut for evermore. Shall not his birth's baptismal Town One last high presage yet fulfil, And at that font in Florence still His forehead take the laurel-crown? O God! or shall dead souls deny The undying soul its prophecy? Aye, 'tis their hour. Not yet forgot 69 The bitter words he spoke that day When for some great charge far away Her rulers his acceptance sought. “And if I go, who stays?”—so rose His scorn:—“and if I stay, who goes?” “Lo! thou art gone now, and we stay” (The curled lips mutter): “and no star Is from thy mortal path so far As streets where childhood knew the way. To Heaven and Hell thy feet may win, But thine own house they come not in.” Therefore, the loftier rose the song To touch the secret things of God, The deeper pierced the hate that trod On base men's track who wrought the wrong; Till the soul's effluence came to be Its own exceeding agony. Arriving only to depart, From court to court, from land to land, Like flame within the naked hand His body bore his burning heart That still on Florence strove to bring God's fire for a burnt offering. Even such was Dante's mood, when now, Mocked for long years with Fortune's sport, He dwelt at yet another court, There where Verona's knee did bow And her voice hailed with all acclaim Can Grande della Scala's name. As that lord's kingly guest awhile His life we follow; through the days Which walked in exile's barren ways,— The nights which still beneath one smile Heard through all spheres one song increase,— “Even I, even I am Beatrice.” At Can La Scala's court, no doubt, Due reverence did his steps attend; The ushers on his path would bend At ingoing as at going out; The penmen waited on his call At council-board, the grooms in hall. And pages hushed their laughter down, 70 And gay squires stilled the merry stir, When he passed up the dais-chamber With set brows lordlier than a frown; And tire-maids hidden among these Drew close their loosened bodices. Perhaps the priests, (exact to span All God's circumference,) if at whiles They found him wandering in their aisles, Grudged ghostly greeting to the man By whom, though not of ghostly guild, With Heaven and Hell men's hearts were fill'd. And the court-poets (he, forsooth, A whole world's poet strayed to court!) Had for his scorn their hate's retort. He'd meet them flushed with easy youth, Hot on their errands. Like noon-flies They vexed him in the ears and eyes. But at this court, peace still must wrench Her chaplet from the teeth of war: By day they held high watch afar, At night they cried across the trench; And still, in Dante's path, the fierce Gaunt soldiers wrangled o'er their spears. But vain seemed all the strength to him, As golden convoys sunk at sea Whose wealth might root out penury: Because it was not, limb with limb, Knit like his heart-strings round the wall Of Florence, that ill pride might fall. Yet in the tiltyard, when the dust Cleared from the sundered press of knights Ere yet again it swoops and smites, He almost deemed his longing must Find force to yield that multitude And hurl that strength the way he would. How should he move them,—fame and gain On all hands calling them at strife? He still might find but his one life To give, by Florence counted vain; One heart the false hearts made her doubt, One voice she heard once and cast out. Oh! if his Florence could but come, 71 A lily-sceptred damsel fair, As her own Giotto painted her On many shields and gates at home,— A lady crowned, at a soft pace Riding the lists round to the dais: Till where Can Grande rules the lists, As young as Truth, as calm as Force, She draws her rein now, while her horse Bows at the turn of the white wrists; And when each knight within his stall Gives ear, she speaks and tells them all: All the foul tale,—truth sworn untrue And falsehood's triumph. All the tale? Great God! and must she not prevail To fire them ere they heard it through,— And hand achieve ere heart could rest That high adventure of her quest? How would his Florence lead them forth, Her bridle ringing as she went; And at the last within her tent, 'Neath golden lilies worship-worth, How queenly would she bend the while And thank the victors with her smile! Also her lips should turn his way And murmur: “O thou tried and true, With whom I wept the long years through! What shall it profit if I say, Thee I remember? Nay, through thee All ages shall remember me.” Peace, Dante, peace! The task is long, The time wears short to compass it. Within thine heart such hopes may flit And find a voice in deathless song: But lo! as children of man's earth, Those hopes are dead before their birth. Fame tells us that Verona's court Was a fair place. The feet might still Wander for ever at their will In many ways of sweet resort; And still in many a heart around The Poet's name due honour found. Watch we his steps. He comes upon 72 The women at their palm-playing. The conduits round the gardens sing And meet in scoops of milk-white stone, Where wearied damsels rest and hold Their hands in the wet spurt of gold. One of whom, knowing well that he, By some found stern, was mild with them, Would run and pluck his garment's hem, Saying, “Messer Dante, pardon me,”— Praying that they might hear the song Which first of all he made, when young. “Donne che avete” . . . Thereunto Thus would he murmur, having first Drawn near the fountain, while she nurs'd His hand against her side: a few Sweet words, and scarcely those, half said: Then turned, and changed, and bowed his head. For then the voice said in his heart, “Even I, even I am Beatrice”; And his whole life would yearn to cease: Till having reached his room, apart Beyond vast lengths of palace-floor, He drew the arras round his door. At such times, Dante, thou hast set Thy forehead to the painted pane Full oft, I know; and if the rain Smote it outside, her fingers met Thy brow; and if the sun fell there, Her breath was on thy face and hair. Then, weeping, I think certainly Thou hast beheld, past sight of eyne,— Within another room of thine Where now thy body may not be But where in thought thou still remain'st,— A window often wept against: The window thou, a youth, hast sought, Flushed in the limpid eventime, Ending with daylight the day's rhyme Of her; where oftenwhiles her thought Held thee—the lamp untrimmed to write— In joy through the blue lapse of night. At Can La Scala's court, no doubt, 73 Guests seldom wept. It was brave sport, No doubt, at Can La Scala's court, Within the palace and without; Where music, set to madrigals, Loitered all day through groves and halls. Because Can Grande of his life Had not had six-and-twenty years As yet. And when the chroniclers Tell you of that Vicenza strife And of strifes elsewhere,—you must not Conceive for church-sooth he had got Just nothing in his wits but war: Though doubtless 'twas the young man's joy (Grown with his growth from a mere boy,) To mark his “Viva Cane!” scare The foe's shut front, till it would reel All blind with shaken points of steel. But there were places—held too sweet For eyes that had not the due veil Of lashes and clear lids—as well In favour as his saddle-seat: Breath of low speech he scorned not there Nor light cool fingers in his hair. Yet if the child whom the sire's plan Made free of a deep treasure-chest Scoffed it with ill-conditioned jest,— We may be sure too that the man Was not mere thews, nor all content With lewdness swathed in sentiment. So you may read and marvel not That such a man as Dante—one Who, while Can Grande's deeds were done, Had drawn his robe round him and thought— Now at the same guest-table far'd Where keen Uguccio wiped his beard. Through leaves and trellis-work the sun Left the wine cool within the glass,— They feasting where no sun could pass: And when the women, all as one, Rose up with brightened cheeks to go, It was a comely thing, we know. But Dante recked not of the wine; 74 Whether the women stayed or went, His visage held one stern intent: And when the music had its sign To breathe upon them for more ease, Sometimes he turned and bade it cease. And as he spared not to rebuke The mirth, so oft in council he To bitter truth bore testimony: And when the crafty balance shook Well poised to make the wrong prevail, Then Dante's hand would turn the scale. And if some envoy from afar Sailed to Verona's sovereign port For aid or peace, and all the court Fawned on its lord, “the Mars of war, Sole arbiter of life and death,”— Be sure that Dante saved his breath. And Can La Scala marked askance These things, accepting them for shame And scorn, till Dante's guestship came To be a peevish sufferance: His host sought ways to make his days Hateful; and such have many ways. There was a Jester, a foul lout Whom the court loved for graceless arts; Sworn scholiast of the bestial parts Of speech; a ribald mouth to shout In Folly's horny tympanum Such things as make the wise man dumb. Much loved, him Dante loathed. And so, One day when Dante felt perplexed If any day that could come next Were worth the waiting for or no, And mute he sat amid their din,— Can Grande called the Jester in. Rank words, with such, are wit's best wealth. Lords mouthed approval; ladies kept Twittering with clustered heads, except Some few that took their trains by stealth And went. Can Grande shook his hair And smote his thighs and laughed i' the air. Then, facing on his guest, he cried,— 75 “Say, Messer Dante, how it is I get out of a clown like this More than your wisdom can provide.” And Dante: “'Tis man's ancient whim That still his like seems good to him.” Also a tale is told, how once, At clearing tables after meat, Piled for a jest at Dante's feet Were found the dinner's well-picked bones; So laid, to please the banquet's lord, By one who crouched beneath the board. Then smiled Can Grande to the rest:— “Our Dante's tuneful mouth indeed Lacks not the gift on flesh to feed!” “Fair host of mine,” replied the guest, “So many bones you'd not descry If so it chanced the dog were I.” But wherefore should we turn the grout In a drained cup, or be at strife From the worn garment of a life To rip the twisted ravel out? Good needs expounding; but of ill Each hath enough to guess his fill. They named him Justicer-at-Law: Each month to bear the tale in mind Of hues a wench might wear unfin'd And of the load an ox might draw; To cavil in the weight of bread And to see purse-thieves gibbeted. And when his spirit wove the spell (From under even to over-noon In converse with itself alone,) As high as Heaven, as low as Hell,— He would be summoned and must go: For had not Gian stabbed Giacomo? Therefore the bread he had to eat Seemed brackish, less like corn than tares; And the rush-strown accustomed stairs Each day were steeper to his feet; And when the night-vigil was done, His brows would ache to feel the sun. Nevertheless, when from his kin 76 There came the tidings how at last In Florence a decree was pass'd Whereby all banished folk might win Free pardon, so a fine were paid And act of public penance made,— This Dante writ in answer thus, Words such as these: “That clearly they In Florence must not have to say,— The man abode aloof from us Nigh fifteen years, yet lastly skulk'd Hither to candleshrift and mulct. “That he was one the Heavens forbid To traffic in God's justice sold By market-weight of earthly gold, Or to bow down over the lid Of steaming censers, and so be Made clean of manhood's obloquy. “That since no gate led, by God's will, To Florence, but the one whereat The priests and money-changers sat, He still would wander; for that still, Even through the body's prison-bars, His soul possessed the sun and stars.” Such were his words. It is indeed For ever well our singers should Utter good words and know them good Not through song only; with close heed Lest, having spent for the work's sake Six days, the man be left to make. Months o'er Verona, till the feast Was come for Florence the Free Town: And at the shrine of Baptist John The exiles, girt with many a priest And carrying candles as they went, Were held to mercy of the saint. On the high seats in sober state,— Gold neck-chains range o'er range below Gold screen-work where the lilies grow,— The Heads of the Republic sate, Marking the humbled face go by Each one of his house-enemy. And as each proscript rose and stood 77 From kneeling in the ashen dust On the shrine-steps, some magnate thrust A beard into the velvet hood Of his front colleague's gown, to see The cinders stuck in the bare knee. Tosinghi passed, Manelli passed, Rinucci passed, each in his place; But not an Alighieri's face Went by that day from first to last In the Republic's triumph; nor A foot came home to Dante's door. (RESPUBLICA—a public thing: A shameful shameless prostitute, Whose lust with one lord may not suit, So takes by turn its revelling A night with each, till each at morn Is stripped and beaten forth forlorn, And leaves her, cursing her. If she, Indeed, have not some spice-draught, hid In scent under a silver lid, To drench his open throat with—he Once hard asleep; and thrust him not At dawn beneath the stairs to rot. Such this Republic!—not the Maid He yearned for; she who yet should stand With Heaven's accepted hand in hand, Invulnerable and unbetray'd: To whom, even as to God, should be Obeisance one with Liberty.) Years filled out their twelve moons, and ceased One in another; and alway There were the whole twelve hours each day And each night as the years increased; And rising moon and setting sun Beheld that Dante's work was done. What of his work for Florence? Well It was, he knew, and well must be. Yet evermore her hate's decree Dwelt in his thought intolerable:— His body to be burned,*—his soul To beat its wings at hope's vain goal. What of his work for Beatrice? 78 Now well-nigh was the third song writ,— The stars a third time sealing it With sudden music of pure peace: For echoing thrice the threefold song, The unnumbered stars the tone prolong.† Each hour, as then the Vision pass'd, He heard the utter harmony Of the nine trembling spheres, till she Bowed her eyes towards him in the last, So that all ended with her eyes, Hell, Purgatory, Paradise. “It is my trust, as the years fall, To write more worthily of her Who now, being made God's minister, Looks on His visage and knows all.” Such was the hope that love dar'd blend With grief's slow fires, to make an end Of the “New Life,” his youth's dear book: Adding thereunto: “In such trust I labour, and believe I must Accomplish this which my soul took In charge, if God, my Lord and hers, Leave my life with me a few years.” The trust which he had borne in youth Was all at length accomplished. He At length had written worthily— Yea even of her; no rhymes uncouth 'Twixt tongue and tongue; but by God's aid The first words Italy had said. Ah! haply now the heavenly guide Was not the last form seen by him: But there that Beatrice stood slim And bowed in passing at his side, For whom in youth his heart made moan Then when the city sat alone Quomodo sedet sola civitas! —The words quoted by Dante in the Vita Nuova when he speaks of the death of Beatrice. Clearly herself: the same whom he Met, not past girlhood, in the street, Low-bosomed and with hidden feet; And then as woman perfectly, In years that followed, many an once,— 79 And now at last among the suns In that high vision. But indeed It may be memory might recall Last to him then the first of all,— The child his boyhood bore in heed Nine years. At length the voice brought peace,— “Even I, even I am Beatrice.” All this, being there, we had not seen. Seen only was the shadow wrought On the strong features bound in thought; The vagueness gaining gait and mien; The white streaks gathering clear to view In the burnt beard the women knew. For a tale tells that on his track, As through Verona's streets he went, This saying certain women sent:— “Lo, he that strolls to Hell and back At will! Behold him, how Hell's reek Has crisped his beard and singed his cheek.” “Whereat” (Boccaccio's words) “he smiled For pride in fame.” It might be so: Nevertheless we cannot know If haply he were not beguiled To bitterer mirth, who scarce could tell If he indeed were back from Hell. So the day came, after a space, When Dante felt assured that there The sunshine must lie sicklier Even than in any other place, Save only Florence. When that day Had come, he rose and went his way. He went and turned not. From his shoes It may be that he shook the dust, As every righteous dealer must Once and again ere life can close: And unaccomplished destiny Struck cold his forehead, it may be. No book keeps record how the Prince Sunned himself out of Dante's reach, Nor how the Jester stank in speech: While courtiers, used to cringe and wince, Poets and harlots, all the throng, 80 Let loose their scandal and their song. No book keeps record if the seat Which Dante held at his host's board Were sat in next by clerk or lord,— If leman lolled with dainty feet At ease, or hostage brooded there, Or priest lacked silence for his prayer. Eat and wash hands, Can Grande;—scarce We know their deeds now: hands which fed Our Dante with that bitter bread; And thou the watch-dog of those stairs Which, of all paths his feet knew well, Were steeper found than Heaven or Hell. ~ Dante Gabriel Rossetti,

431:Ruins Of Rome, By Bellay Ye heavenly spirits, whose ashy cinders lie Under deep ruins, with huge walls opprest, But not your praise, the which shall never die Through your fair verses, ne in ashes rest; If so be shrilling voice of wight alive May reach from hence to depth of darkest hell, Then let those deep Abysses open rive, That ye may understand my shreiking yell. Thrice having seen under the heavens' vail Your tomb's devoted compass over all, Thrice unto you with loud voice I appeal, And for your antique fury here do call, The whiles that I with sacred horror sing, Your glory, fairest of all earthly thing. Great Babylon her haughty walls will praise, And sharpèd steeples high shot up in air; Greece will the old Ephesian buildings blaze; And Nylus' nurslings their Pyramids fair; The same yet vaunting Greece will tell the story Of Jove's great image in Olympus placed, Mausolus' work will be the Carian's glory, And Crete will boast the Labybrinth, now 'rased; The antique Rhodian will likewise set forth The great Colosse, erect to Memory; And what else in the world is of like worth, Some greater learnèd wit will magnify. But I will sing above all monuments Seven Roman Hills, the world's seven wonderments. Thou stranger, which for Rome in Rome here seekest, 170 And nought of Rome in Rome perceiv'st at all, These same old walls, old arches, which thou seest, Old Palaces, is that which Rome men call. Behold what wreak, what ruin, and what waste, And how that she, which with her mighty power Tam'd all the world, hath tam'd herself at last, The prey of time, which all things doth devour. Rome now of Rome is th' only funeral, And only Rome of Rome hath victory; Ne ought save Tyber hastening to his fall Remains of all: O world's inconstancy. That which is firm doth flit and fall away, And that is flitting, doth abide and stay. She, whose high top above the stars did soar, One foot on Thetis, th' other on the Morning, One hand on Scythia, th' other on the Moor, Both heaven and earth in roundness compassing, Jove fearing, lest if she should greater grow, The old Giants should once again uprise, Her whelm'd with hills, these seven hills, which be now Tombs of her greatness, which did threat the skies: Upon her head he heaped Mount Saturnal, Upon her belly th' antique Palatine, Upon her stomach laid Mount Quirinal, On her left hand the noisome Esquiline, And Cælian on the right; but both her feet Mount Viminall and Aventine do meet. Who lists to see, what ever nature, art, And heaven could do, O Rome, thee let him see, In case thy greatness he can guess in heart, By that which but the picture is of thee. Rome is no more: but if the shade of Rome May of the body yield a seeming sight, It's like a corse drawn forth out of the tomb 171 By Magick skill out of eternal night: The corpse of Rome in ashes is entombed, And her great sprite rejoinèd to the sprite Of this great mass, is in the same enwombed; But her brave writings, which her famous merit In spite of time, out of the dust doth rear, Do make her idol through the world appear. Such as the Berecynthian Goddess bright In her swift chariot with high turrets crowned, Proud that so many Gods she brought to light; Such was this City in her good days found: This city, more than the great Phrygian mother Renowned for fruit of famous progeny, Whose greatness by the greatness of none other, But by herself her equal match could see: Rome only might to Rome comparèd be, And only Rome could make great Rome to tremble: So did the Gods by heavenly doom decree, That other deathly power should not resemble Her that did match the whole earth's puissaunce, And did her courage to the heavens advance. Ye sacred ruins, and ye tragic sights, Which only do the name of Rome retain, Old monuments, which of so famous sprites The honour yet in ashes do maintain: Triumphant arcs, spires neighbors to the sky, That you to see doth th' heaven itself appall, Alas, by little ye to nothing fly, The people's fable, and the spoil of all: And though your frames do for a time make war 'Gainst time, yet time in time shall ruinate Your works and names, and your last relics mar. My sad desires, rest therefore moderate: For if that time make ends of things so sure, 172 It also will end the pain, which I endure. Through arms and vassals Rome the world subdued, That one would ween, that one sole City's strength Both land and sea in roundess had surview'd, To be the measure of her breadth and length: This people's virtue yet so fruitful was Of virtuous nephews that posterity Striving in power their grandfathers to pass, The lowest earth join'd to the heaven high; To th' end that having all parts in their power Nought from the Roman Empire might be 'quite, And that though time doth Commonwealths devour, Yet no time should so low embase their height, That her head earth'd in her foundations deep, Should not her name and endless honour keep. Ye cruel stars, and eke ye Gods unkind, Heaven envious, and bitter stepdame Nature, Be it by fortune, or by course of kind That ye do weld th' affairs of earthly creature: Why have your hands long sithence troubled To frame this world, that doth endure so long? Or why were not these Roman palaces Made of some matter no less firm and strong? I say not, as the common voice doth say, That all things which beneath the moon have being Are temporal, and subject to decay: But I say rather, though not all agreeing With some, that ween the contrary in thought: That all this whole shall one day come to nought. 10 As that brave son of Aeson, which by charms 173 Achieved the golden fleece in Colchid land, Out of the earth engendered men of arms Of Dragons' teetch, sown in the sacred sand; So this brave town, that in her youthly days An Hydra was of warriors glorious, Did fill with her renownéd nurslings praise The firey sun's both one and other house: But they at last, there being then not living An Hercules, so rank seed to repress,; Amongst themselves with cruel fury striving, Mow'd down themselves with slaughter merciless; Renewing in themselves that rage unkind, Which whilom did those searthborn brethren blind. 11 Mars shaming to have given so great head To his off-spring, that mortal puissance Puffed up with pride of Roman hardy head, Seem'd above heaven's power itself to advance; Cooling again his former kindled heat, With which he had those Roman spirits filled; Did blow new fire, and with enflaméd breath, Into the Gothic cold hot rage instill'd: Then 'gan that Nation, th' earth's new Giant brood, To dart abroad the thunder bolts of war, And beating down these walls with furious mood Into her mother's bosom, all did mar; To th' end that none, all were if Jove his sire Should boast himself of the Roman Empire. 12 Like as whilome the children of the earth Heaped hills on hills, to scale the starry sky, And fight against the Gods of heavenly birth, Whilst Jove at them his thunderbolts let fly; All suddenly with lightning overthrown, The furious squadrons down the ground did fall, That th' earth under her children's weight did groan, 174 And th' heavens in glory triumphed over all: So did that haughty front which heapéd was On these seven Roman hills, itself uprear Over the world, and lift her lofty face Against the heaven, that 'gan her force to fear. But now these scorned fields bemoan her fall, And Gods secure fear not her force at all. 13 Nor the swift fury of the flames aspiring, Nor the deep wounds of victor's raging blade, Nor ruthless spoil of soldiers blood-desiring, The which so oft thee, Rome, their conquest made; Ne stroke on stroke of fortune variable, Ne rust of age hating continuance, Nor wrath of Gods, nor spite of men unstable, Nor thou oppos'd against thine own puissance; Nor th' horrible uproar of winds high blowing, Nor swelling streams of that God snaky-paced, Which hath so often with his overflowing Thee drenched, have thy pride so much abased; But that this nothing, which they have thee left, Makes the world wonder, what they from thee reft. 14 As men in summer fearless pass the ford, Which is in winter lord of all the plain, And with his tumbling streams doth bear aboard The plowman's hope, and shepherd's labor vain; And as the coward beasts use to despise The noble lion after his life's end Whetting their teeth, and with vain foolhardise Daring the foe, that cannot him defend: And as at Troy most dastards of the Greeks Did brave about the corpse of Hector cold; So those which whilome wont with pallid cheeks The Roman triumphs glory to behold, Now on these ashy tombs show boldness vain, 175 And conquer'd dare the Conqueror disdain. 15 Ye pallid spirits, and ye ashy ghosts, Which joying in the brightness of your day, Brought forth those signs of your premptuous boasts Which now their dusty relics do bewray; Tell me ye spirits (sith the darksome river Of Styx not passable to souls returning, Enclosing you in thrice three wards forever, Do not restrain your images still mourning) Tell me then (for perhaps some one of you Yet here above him secretly doth hide) Do ye not feel your torments to accrue, When ye sometimes behold the ruin'd pride Of these old Roman works built with your hands, Now to become nought else, but heaped sands? 16 Like as ye see the wrathful sea from far, In a great mountain heap'd with hideous noise, Eftsoons of thousand bilows shouldered narre, Against a rock to break with dreadful poise; Like as ye see fell Boreas with sharp blast, Tossing huge tempests through the troubled sky, Eftsoons having his wide wings spent in vast, To stop his wearie carrier suddenly; And as ye see huge flames spread diversly, Gathered in one up to the heavens to spire, Eftsoons consum'd to fall down feebily: So whilom did this Monarchy aspire As waves, as wind, as fire spread over all, Till it by fatal doom adown did fall. 17 So long as Jove's great bird did make his flight, 176 Bearing the fire with which heaven doth us fray, Heaven had not fear of that presumptuous might, With which the Giants did the Gods assay. But all so soon, as scorching Sun had brent His wings, which wont to the earth to overspread, The earth out of her massy womb forth sent That antique horror, which made heaven adread. Then was the German raven in disguise That Roman eagle seen to cleave asunder, And towards heaven freshly to arise Out of these mountains, not consum'd to powder. In which the fowl that serves to bear the lightning, Is now no more seen flying, nor alighting. 18 These heaps of stones, these old walls which ye see, Were first enclosures but of savage soil; And these brave palaces which mastered be Of time, were shepherds cottages somewhile. Then took the shepherd kingly ornamnets And the stout hynde arm'd his right hand with steel: Eftsoones their rule of yearly presidents Grew great, and six months greater a great deal; Which made perpetual, rose to so great might, That thence th' imperial Eagle rooting took, Till th' heaven itself opposing 'gainst her might, Her power to Peter's successor betook; Who shepherdlike, (as fates the same forseeing) Doth show, that all things turn to their first being. 19 All that is perfect, which th' heaven beautifies; All that's imperfect, born below the moon; All that doth feed our spriits and our eyes; And all that doth consume our pleasures soon; All the mishap, the which our days outwears, All the good hap of th' oldest times afore, Rome in the time of her great ancesters, 177 Like a Pandora, locked long in store. But destiny this huge Chaos turmoiling, In which all good and evil was enclosed, Their heavenly virtues from these woes absolving, Carried to heaven, from sinful bondage loosed: But their great sins, the causers of their pain, Under these antique ruins yet remain. 20 No otherwise than rainy cloud, first fed With earthly vapors gathered in the air, Eftsoones in compass arch'd, to steep his head, Doth plunge himself in Tethys' bosom fair; And mounting up again, from whence he came, With his great belly spreads the dimmed world, Till at last the last dissolving his moist frame, In rain, or snow, or hail he forth is hurl'd; This City, which was first but shepherds' shade, Uprising by degrees, grew to such height, That queen of land and sea herself she made. At last not able to bear so great weight. Her power dispers'd, through all the world did vade; To show that all in th' end to nought shall fade. 21 The same which Pyrrhus, and the puissance Of Afric could not tame, that same brave city, Which with stout courage arm'd against mischance, Sustain'd the shock of common enmity; Long as her ship tossed with so many freaks, Had all the world in arms against her bent, Was never seen, that any fortune's wreaks Could break her course begun with brave intent. But when the object of her virtue failed, Her power itself agains itself did arm; As he that having long in tempest sailed, Fain would arrive, but cannot for the storm, If too great wind against the port him drive, 178 Doth in the port itself his vessel rive. 22 When that brave honour of the Latin name, Which bound her rule with Africa, and Byze, With Thames' inhabitants of noble fame, And they which see the dawning day arise; Her nurslings did with mutinous uproar Hearten against herself, her conquer'd spoil, Which she had won from all the world afore, Of all the world was spoil'd within a while. So when the compass'd course of the universe In six and thirty thousand years is run, The bands of th' elements shall back reverse To their first discord, and be quite undone: The seeds, of which all things at first were bred, Shall in great Chaos' womb again be hid. 23 O wary wisdom of the man, that would That Carthage towers from spoil should be forborn, To th' end that his victorious people should With cankering leisure not be overworn; He well foresaw, how that the Roman courage, Impatient of pleasure's faint desires, Through idleness would turn to civil rage, And be herself the matter of her fires. For in a people given all to ease, Ambition is engend'red easily; As in a vicious body, gross disease Soon grows through humours' superfluity. That came to pass, when swoll'n with plentious pride, Nor prince, nor peer, nor kin they would abide. 24 If the blind fury, which wars breedeth oft, 179 Wonts not t' enrage the hearts of equal beasts, Whether they fare on foot, or fly aloft, Or arméd be with claws, or scaly crests; What fell Erynnis with hot burning tongs, Did grip your hearts, with noisome rage imbew'd, That each to other working cruel wrongs, You blades in your own bowels you embrew'd? Was this (ye Romans) your hard destiny? Or some old sin, whose unappeased guilt Power'd vengeance forth on you eternally? Or brother's blood, the which at first was spilt Upon your walls, that God might not endure, Upon the same to set foundation sure? 25 O that I had the Thracian Poet's harp, For to awake out of th' infernal shade Those antique Cæsars, sleeping long in dark, The which this ancient City whilome made: Or that I had Amphion's instrument, To quicken with his vital note's accord, The stony joints of these old walls now rent, By which th' Ausonian light might be restor'd: Or that at least I could with pencil fine, Fashion the portraits of these palaces, By pattern of great Virgil's spirit divine; I would assay with that which in me is, To build with level of my lofty style, That which no hands can evermore compile. 26 Who list the Roman greatness forth to figure, Him needeth not to seek for usage right Of line, or lead, or rule, or square, to measure Her length, her breadth, her deepness, or her height: But him behooves to view in compass round All that the ocean grasps in his long arms; Be it where the yearly star doth scorch the ground, 180 Or where cold Boreas blows his bitter storms. Rome was th' whole world, and all the world was Rome, And if things nam'd their names do equalize, When land and sea ye name, then name ye Rome; And naming Rome ye land and sea comprise: For th' ancient plot of Rome displayéd plain, The map of all the wide world doth contain. 27 Thou that at Rome astonish'd dost behold The antique pride, which menaced the sky, These haughty heaps, these palaces of old, These walls, these arcs, these baths, these temples hie; Judge by these ample ruins' view, the rest The which injurious time hath quite outworne, Since of all workmen held in reck'ning best, Yet these old fragments are for patterns born: Then also mark, how Rome from day to day, Repairing her decayéd fashion, Renews herself with buildings rich and gay; That one would judge, that the Roman dæmon Doth yet himself with fatal hand enforce, Again on foot to rear her pouldred corse. 28 He that hath seen a great oak dry and dead, Yet clad with relics of some trophies old, Lifting to heaven her agéd hoary head, Whose foot in ground hath left but feeble hold; But half disbowel'd lies above the ground, Showing her wreathéd roots, and naked arms, And on her trunk all rotten and unsound Only supports herself for meat of worms; And though she owe her fall to the first wind, Yet of the devout people is ador'd, And many young plants spring out of her rind; Who such an oak hath seen let him record That such this city's honor was of yore, 181 And 'mongst all cities flourishéd much more. 29 All that which Egypt whilome did devise, All that which Greece their temples to embrave, After th' Ionic, Attic, Doric guise, Or Corinth skill'd in curious works to 'grave; All that Lysippus' practick art could form, Appeles' wit, or Phidias his skill, Was wont this ancient city to adorn, And the heaven itself with her wide wonders fill; All that which Athens ever brought forth wise, All that which Africa ever brought forth strange, All that which Asia ever had of prize, Was here to see. O marvelous great change: Rome living, was the world's sole ornament, And dead, is now the world's sole monument. 30 Like as the seeded field green grass first shows, Then from green grass into a stalk doth spring, And from a stalk into an ear forth grows, Which ear the fruitfull grain doth shortly bring; And as in season due the husband mows The waving locks of those fair yellow hairs, Which bound in sheaves, and laid in comely rows, Upon the naked fields in stacks he rears: So grew the Roman Empire by degree, Till that barbarian hands it quite did spill, And left of it but these old marks to see, Of which all passersby do somewhat pill: As they which glean, the relics use to gather, Which th' husbandman behind him chanced to scatter. 31 That same is now nought but a campion wide, 182 Where all this world's pride once was situate. No blame to thee, whosoever dost abide By Nile, or Ganges, or Tigris, or Euphrate, Ne Africa thereof guilty is, nor Spain, Nor the bold people by the Thame's brinks, Nor the brave, warlike brood of Alemagne, Nor the born soldier which Rhine running drinks; Thou only cause, O civil fury, art Which sowing in the Aemathian fields thy spite, Didst arm thy hand against thy proper heart; To th' end that when thou wast in greatest height To greatness grown, through long prosperity, Thou then adown might'st fall more horribly. 32 Hope ye, my verses, that posterity Of age ensuing shall you ever read? Hope ye that ever immortality So mean harp's work may challenge for her mead? If under heaven any endurance were, These monuments, which not in paper writ, Put in porphyry and marble do appear, Might well have hop'd to have obtained it. Na th' less my lute, whom Phoebus deigned to give, Cease not to sound these old antiquities: For if that time do let thy glory live, Well mayst thou boast, how ever base thou be, That thou art first, which of thy Nation sung Th' old nonor of the people gowné long. L' Envoi Bellay, first garland of free Poesy That France brought forth, though fruitful of brave wits, Well worthy thou of immorality, That long hast travail'd by thy learned writs, Old Rome out of her ashes to revive, And give a second life to dead decays: Needs must he all eternity survive, 183 That can to other give eternal days. Thy days therefore are endless, and thy praise Excelling all, that ever went before; And after thee, 'gins Bartas high to raise His heavenly Muse, th' Almighty to adore. Live, happy spirits, th' honour of your name, And fill the world with never dying fame. ~ Edmund Spenser,

432:Resignation Pt 1 The days how few, how short the years Of man's too rapid race! Each leaving, as it swiftly flies, A shorter in its place. They who the longest lease enjoy, Have told us with a sigh, That to be born seems little more Than to begin to die. Numbers there are who feel this truth With fears alarm'd; and yet, In life's delusions lull'd asleep, This weighty truth forget: And am not I to these akin? Age slumbers o'er the quill; Its honour blots, whate'er it writes, And am I writing still? Conscious of nature in decline, And languor in my thoughts; To soften censure, and abate Its rigour on my faults Permit me, madam! ere to you The promis'd verse I pay, To touch on felt infirmity, Sad sister of decay. One world deceas'd, another born, Like Noah they behold, O'er whose white hairs, and furrow'd brows, Too many suns have roll'd: Happy the patriarch! he rejoic'd His second world to see: My second world, though gay the scene, Can boast no charms for me. 48 To me this brilliant age appears With desolation spread; Near all with whom I liv'd, and smil'd, Whilst life was life, are dead; And with them died my joys; the grave Has broken nature's laws; And clos'd, against this feeble frame, Its partial cruel jaws; Cruel to spare! condemn'd to life! A cloud impairs my sight; My weak hand disobeys my will, And trembles as I write. What shall I write? Thalia, tell; Say, long abandon'd muse! What field of fancy shall I range? What subject shall I choose? A choice of moment high inspire, And rescue me from shame, For doting on thy charms so late, By grandeur in my theme. Beyond Which Beyond Bright the themes, which most admire, dazzle, or amaze, renown'd exploits of war, charms, or empire's blaze, Are themes, which, in a world of woe Can best appease our pain; And, in an age of gaudy guilt, Gay folly's flood restrain; Amidst the storms of life support A calm, unshaken mind; And with unfading laurels crown The brow of the resign'd. O resignation! yet unsung, 49 Untouch'd by former strains; Though claiming every muse's smile, And every poet's pains, Beneath life's evening, solemn shade, I dedicate my page To thee, thou safest guard of youth! Thou sole support of age! All other duties crescents are Of virtue faintly bright, The glorious consummation, thou! Which fills her orb with light: How rarely fill'd! the love divine In evils to discern, This the first lesson which we want, The latest, which we learn; A melancholy truth! for know, Could our proud hearts resign, The distance greatly would decrease 'Twixt human and divine. But though full noble is my theme, Full urgent is my call To soften sorrow, and forbid The bursting tear to fall: The task I dread; dare I to leave Of humble prose the shore, And put to sea? a dangerous sea? What throngs have sunk before! How proud the poet's billow swells! The God! the God! his boast: A boast how vain! What wrecks abound! Dead bards stench every coast. What then am I? Shall I presume, On such a moulten wing, Above the general wreck to rise, 50 And in my winter, sing; When nightingales, when sweetest bards Confine their charming song To summer's animating heats, Content to warble young? Yet write I must; a lady(49) sues; How shameful her request! My brain in labour for dull rhyme! Hers teeming with the best! But you a stranger will excuse, Nor scorn his feeble strain; To you a stranger, but, through fate, No stranger to your pain. The ghost of grief deceas'd ascends, His old wound bleeds anew; His sorrows are recall'd to life By those he sees in you; Too well he knows the twisting strings Of ardent hearts combin'd When rent asunder, how they bleed, How hard to be resign'd: Those tears you pour, his eyes have shed; The pang you feel, he felt; Thus nature, loud as virtue, bids His heart at yours to melt. But what can heart, or head, suggest? What sad experience say? Through truths austere, to peace we work Our rugged, gloomy way: What are we? whence? for what? and whither? Who know not, needs must mourn; But thought, bright daughter of the skies! Can tears to triumph turn. 51 Thought is our armour, 'tis the mind's Impenetrable shield, When, sent by fate, we meet our foes, In sore affliction's field; It plucks the frightful mask from ills, Forbids pale fear to hide, Beneath that dark disguise, a friend, Which turns affection's tide. Affection frail! train'd up by sense, From reason's channel strays: And whilst it blindly points at peace, Our peace to pain betrays. Thought winds its fond, erroneous stream From daily dying flowers, To nourish rich immortal blooms, In amaranthine bowers; Whence throngs, in ecstasy, look down On what once shock'd their sight; And thank the terrors of the past For ages of delight. All withers here; who most possess Are losers by their gain, Stung by full proof, that, bad at best, Life's idle all is vain: Vain, in its course, life's murmuring stream; Did not its course offend, But murmur cease; life, then, would seem Still vainer, from its end. How wretched! who, through cruel fate, Have nothing to lament! With the poor alms this world affords Deplorably content! Had not the Greek his world mistook, His wish had been most wise; 52 To be content with but one world, Like him, we should despise. Of earth's revenue would you state A full account and fair? We hope; and hope; and hope; then cast The total up--_Despair._ Since vain all here, all future, vast, Embrace the lot assign'd; Heaven wounds to heal; its frowns are friends; Its stroke severe, most kind. But in laps'd nature rooted deep, Blind error domineers; And on fools' errands, in the dark, Sends out our hopes and fears; Bids us for ever pains deplore, Our pleasures overprize; These oft persuade us to be weak; Those urge us to be wise. From virtue's rugged path to right By pleasure are we brought, To flowery fields of wrong, and there Pain chides us for our fault: Yet whilst it chides, it speaks of peace If folly is withstood; And says, time pays an easy price, For our eternal good. In earth's dark cot, and in an hour, And in delusion great, What an economist is man To spend his whole estate, And beggar an eternity! For which as he was born, More worlds than one against it weigh'd, 53 As feathers he should scorn. Say not, your loss in triumph leads Religion's feeble strife; Joys future amply reimburse Joys bankrupts of this life. But not deferr'd your joy so long, It bears an early date; Affliction's ready pay in hand, Befriends our present state; What are the tears, which trickle down Her melancholy face, Like liquid pearl? Like pearls of price, They purchase lasting peace. Grief softens hearts, and curbs the will, Impetuous passion tames, And keeps insatiate, keen desire From launching in extremes. Through time's dark womb, our judgment right, If our dim eye was thrown, Clear should we see, the will divine Has but forestall'd our own; At variance with our future wish, Self-sever'd we complain; If so, the wounded, not the wound, Must answer for the pain: The day shall come, and swift of wing, Though you may think it slow, When, in the list of fortune's smiles, You'll enter frowns of woe. For mark the path of Providence; This course it has pursued'Pain is the parent, woe the womb, Of sound, important good:' 54 Our hearts are fasten'd to this world By strong and endless ties: And every sorrow cuts a string, And urges us to rise: 'Twill sound severe-Yet rest assur'd I'm studious of your peace; Though I should dare to give you joyYes, joy of his decease: An hour shall come, (you question this,) An hour, when you shall bless, Beyond the brightest beams of life, Dark days of your distress. Hear then without surprise a truth, A daughter truth to this, Swift turns of fortune often tie A bleeding heart to bliss: Esteem you this a paradox? My sacred motto read; A glorious truth! divinely sung By one, whose heart had bled; To resignation swift he flew, In her a friend he found, A friend, which bless'd him with a smile When gasping with his wound. On earth nought precious is obtain'd But what is painful too; By travel, and to travel born, Our sabbaths are but few: To real joy we work our way, Encountering many a shock, Ere found what truly charms; as found A Venus in the block. In some disaster, some severe Appointment for our sins, 55 That mother blessing, (not so call'd,) True happiness, begins. No martyr e'er defied the flames, By stings of life unvext; First rose some quarrel with this world, Then passion for the next. You see, then, pangs are parent pangs, The pangs of happy birth; Pangs, by which only can be born True happiness on earth. The peopled earth look all around, Or through time's records run! And say, what is a man unstruck? It is a man undone. This moment, am I deeply stungMy bold pretence is tried; When vain man boasts, heaven puts to proof The vauntings of his pride; Now need I, madam! your support.How exquisite the smart; How critically tim'd the news(50) Which strikes me to the heart! The pangs of which I spoke, I feel: If worth like thine is born, O long-belov'd! I bless the blow, And triumph, whilst I mourn. Nor mourn I long; by grief subdued, By reason's empire shown; Deep anguish comes by heaven's decree, Continues by our own; And when continued past its point, Indulg'd in length of time, Grief is disgrac'd, and, what was fate, Corrupts into a crime: 56 And shall I, criminally mean, Myself and subject wrong? No; my example shall support The subject of my song. Madam! I grant your loss is great; Nor little is your gain? Let that be weigh'd; when weigh'd aright, It richly pays your pain: When heaven would kindly set us free, And earth's enchantment end; It takes the most effectual means, And robs us of a friend. But such a friend! and sigh no more? 'Tis prudent; but severe: Heaven aid my weakness, and I drop All sorrow-with this tear. Perhaps your settled grief to soothe, I should not vainly strive, But with soft balm your pain assuage, Had he been still alive; Whose frequent aid brought kind relief, In my distress of thought, Ting'd with his beams my cloudy page, And beautified a fault: To touch our passions' secret springs Was his peculiar care; And deep his happy genius div'd In bosoms of the fair; Nature, which favours to the few, All art beyond, imparts, To him presented, at his birth, The key of human hearts. But not to me by him bequeath'd 57 His gentle, smooth address; His tender hand to touch the wound In throbbing of distress; Howe'er, proceed I must, unbless'd With Esculapian art: Know, love sometimes, mistaken love! Plays disaffection's part: Nor lands, nor seas, nor suns, nor stars, Can soul from soul divide; They correspond from distant worlds, Though transports are denied: Are you not, then, unkindly kind? Is not your love severe? O! stop that crystal source of woe; Nor wound him with a tear. As those above from human bliss Receive increase of joy; May not a stroke from human woe, In part, their peace destroy? He lives in those he left;-to what? Your, now, paternal care, Clear from its cloud your brighten'd eye, It will discern him there; In features, not of form alone, But those, I trust, of mind; Auspicious to the public weal, And to their fate resign'd. Think on the tempests he sustain'd; Revolve his battles won; And let those prophesy your joy From such a father's son: Is consolation what you seek? Fan, then, his martial fire: And animate to flame the sparks 58 Bequeath'd him by his sire: As nothing great is born in haste, Wise nature's time allow; His father's laurels may descend, And flourish on his brow. Nor, madam! be surpris'd to hear That laurels may be due Not more to heroes of the field, (Proud boasters!) than to you: Tender as is the female frame, Like that brave man you mourn, You are a soldier, and to fight Superior battles born; Beneath a banner nobler far Than ever was unfurl'd In fields of blood; a banner bright! High wav'd o'er all the world. It, like a streaming meteor, casts A universal light; Sheds day, sheds more, eternal day On nations whelm'd in night. Beneath that banner, what exploit Can mount our glory higher, Than to sustain the dreadful blow, When those we love expire? Go forth a moral Amazon; Arm'd with undaunted thought; The battle won, though costing dear, You'll think it cheaply bought: The passive hero, who sits down Unactive, and can smile Beneath affliction's galling load, Out-acts a Caesar's toil: 59 The billows stain'd by slaughter'd foes Inferior praise afford; Reason's a bloodless conqueror, More glorious than the sword. Nor can the thunders of huzzas, From shouting nations, cause Such sweet delight, as from your heart Soft whispers of applause: The dear deceas'd so fam'd in arms, With what delight he'll view His triumphs on the main outdone, Thus conquer'd, twice, by you. Share his delight; take heed to shun Of bosoms most diseas'd That odd distemper, an absurd Reluctance to be pleas'd: Some seem in love with sorrow's charms, And that foul fiend embrace: This temper let me justly brand, And stamp it with disgrace: Sorrow! of horrid parentage! Thou second-born of hell! Against heaven's endless mercies pour'd How dar'st thou to rebel? From black and noxious vapours bred, And nurs'd by want of thought, And to the door of phrensy's self By perseverance brought, Thy most inglorious, coward tears From brutal eyes have ran: Smiles, incommunicable smiles! Are radiant marks of man; They cast a sudden glory round Th' illumin'd human face; 60 And light in sons of honest joy Some beams of Moses' face: Is resignation's lesson hard? Examine, we shall find That duty gives up little more Than anguish of the mind; Resign; and all the load of life That moment you remove, Its heavy tax, ten thousand cares Devolve on one above; Who bids us lay our burthen down On his almighty hand, Softens our duty to relief, To blessing a command. For joy what cause! how every sense Is courted from above The year around, with presents rich, The growth of endless love! But most o'erlook the blessings pour'd, Forget the wonders done, And terminate, wrapp'd up in sense, Their prospect at the sun; From that, their final point of view, From that their radiant goal, On travel infinite of thought, Sets out the nobler soul, Broke loose from time's tenacious ties, And earth's involving gloom, To range at last its vast domain, And talk with worlds to come: They let unmark'd, and unemploy'd, Life's idle moments run; And doing nothing for themselves, Imagine nothing done; 61 Fatal mistake! their fate goes on, Their dread account proceeds, And their not doing is set down Amongst their darkest deeds; Though man sits still, and takes his ease; God is at work on man; No means, no moment unemployed, To bless him, if he can. But man consents not, boldly bent To fashion his own fate; Man, a mere bungler in the trade, Repents his crime too late; Hence loud laments: let me thy cause, Indulgent father! plead; Of all the wretches we deplore, Not one by thee was made. What is thy whole creation fair? Of love divine the child; Love brought it forth; and, from its birth, Has o'er it fondly smil'd: Now, and through periods distant far, Long ere the world began, Heaven is, and has in travail been, Its birth the good of man; Man holds in constant service bound The blustering winds and seas; Nor suns disdain to travel hard Their master, man, to please: To final good the worst events Through secret channels run; Finish for man their destin'd course, As 'twas for man begun. One point (observ'd, perhaps, by few) 62 Has often smote, and smites My mind, as demonstration strong; That heaven in man delights: What's known to man of things unseen, Of future worlds, or fates? So much, nor more, than what to man's Sublime affairs relates; What's revelation then? a list, An inventory just Of that poor insect's goods, so late Call'd out of night and dust. What various motives to rejoice! To render joy sincere, Has this no weight? our joy is felt Beyond this narrow sphere: Would we in heaven new heaven create, And double its delight? A smiling world, when heaven looks down, How pleasing in its sight! Angels stoop forward from their thrones To hear its joyful lays; As incense sweet enjoy, and join, Its aromatic praise: Have we no cause to fear the stroke Of heaven's avenging rod, When we presume to counteract A sympathetic God? If we resign, our patience makes His rod an armless wand; If not, it darts a serpent's sting, Like that in Moses' hand; Like that, it swallows up whate'er Earth's vain magicians bring, Whose baffled arts would boast below 63 Of joys a rival spring. Consummate love! the list how large Of blessings from thy hand! To banish sorrow, and be blest, Is thy supreme command. Are such commands but ill obey'd? Of bliss, shall we complain? The man, who dares to be a wretch, Deserves still greater pain. Joy is our duty, glory, health; The sunshine of the soul; Our best encomium on the power Who sweetly plans the whole: Joy is our Eden still possess'd: Begone, ignoble grief! 'Tis joy makes gods, and men exalts, Their nature, our relief; Relief, for man to that must stoop, And his due distance know; Transport's the language of the sides, Content the style below. Content is joy, and joy in pain Is joy and virtue too; Thus, whilst good present we possess, More precious we pursue: Of joy the more we have in hand, The more have we to come; Joy, like our money, interest bears, Which daily swells the sum. 'But how to smile; to stem the tide Of nature in our veins; Is it not hard to weep in joy? What then to smile in pains?' 64 Victorious joy! which breaks the clouds, And struggles through a storm; Proclaims the mind as great, as good And bids it doubly charm: If doubly charming in our sex, A sex, by nature, bold; What then in yours? 'tis diamond there Triumphant o'er our gold. And should not this complaint repress, And check the rising sigh? Yet farther opiate to your pain I labour to supply. Since spirits greatly damp'd distort Ideas of delight, Look through the medium of a friend, To set your notions right: As tears the sight, grief dims the soul; Its object dark appears; True friendship, like a rising sun, The soul's horizon clears. A friend's an optic to the mind With sorrow clouded o'er; And gives it strength of sight to see Redress unseen before. Reason is somewhat rough in man; Extremely smooth and fair, When she, to grace her manly strength, Assumes a female air: A friend(51) you have, and I the same, Whose prudent, soft address Will bring to life those healing thoughts Which died in your distress; That friend, the spirit of my theme Extracting for your ease, 65 Will leave to me the dreg, in thoughts Too common; such as these: Let those lament to whom full bowls Of sparkling joys are given; That triple bane inebriates life, Imbitters death, and hazards heaven: Woe to the soul at perfect ease! 'Tis brewing perfect pains; Lull'd reason sleeps, the pulse is king; Despotic body reigns; Have you(52) ne'er pitied joy's gay scenes, And deem'd their glory dark? Alas! poor envy! she's stone-blind, And quite mistakes her mark: Her mark lies hid in sorrow's shades, But sorrow well subdu'd; And in proud fortune's frown defied By meek, unborrow'd good. By resignation; all in that A double friend may find, A wing to heaven, and, while on earth, The pillow of mankind: On pillows void of down, for rest Our restless hopes we place; When hopes of heaven lie warm at heart, Our hearts repose in peace: The peace, which resignation yields, Who feel alone can guess; 'Tis disbeliev'd by murmuring minds, They must conclude it less: The loss, or gain, of that alone Have we to hope or fear; That fate controls, and can invert The seasons of the year: 66 O! the dark days, the year around, Of an impatient mind! Thro' clouds, and storms, a summer breaks, To shine on the resign'd: While man by that of every grace, And virtue, is possess'd; Foul vice her pandaemonium builds In the rebellious breast; By resignation we defeat The worst that can annoy; And suffer, with far more repose, Than worldlings can enjoy. From small experience this I speak; O! grant to those I love Experience fuller far, ye powers, Who form our fates above! My love were due, if not to those Who, leaving grandeur, came To shine on age in mean recess, And light me to my theme! A theme themselves! A theme, how rare! The charms, which they display, To triumph over captive heads, Are set in bright array: With his own arms proud man's o'ercome, His boasted laurels die: Learning and genius, wiser grown, To female bosoms fly. This revolution, fix'd by fate, In fable was foretold; The dark prediction puzzled wits, Nor could the learn'd unfold: But as those ladies'(53) works I read, 67 They darted such a ray, The latent sense burst out at once, And shone in open day: So burst, full ripe, distended fruits, When strongly strikes the sun; And from the purple grape unpress'd Spontaneous nectars run. Pallas, ('tis said,) when Jove grew dull, Forsook his drowsy brain; And sprightly leap'd into the throne Of wisdom's brighter reign; Her helmet took; that is, shot rays Of formidable wit; And lance,-or, genius most acute, Which lines immortal writ; And gorgon shield,-or, power to fright Man's folly, dreadful shone, And many a blockhead (easy change!) Turn'd, instantly, to stone. Our authors male, as, then, did Jove, Now scratch a damag'd head, And call for what once quarter'd there, But find the goddess fled. The fruit of knowledge, golden fruit! That once forbidden tree, Hedg'd-in by surly man, is now To Britain's daughters free: In Eve (we know) of fruit so fair The noble thirst began; And they, like her, have caus'd a fall, A fall of fame in man: And since of genius in our sex, O Addison! with thee The sun is set; how I rejoice 68 This sister lamp to see! It sheds, like Cynthia, silver beams On man's nocturnal state; His lessen'd light, and languid powers, I show, whilst I relate. ~ Edward Young,

433: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,

434:Virgils Gnat Wrong'd, yet not daring to expresse my paine, To you (great Lord) the causer of my care, In clowdie teares my case I thus complaine Vnto yourselfe, that onely priuie are: But if that any Oedipus vnware Shall chaunce, through power of some diuining spright, To reade the secrete of this riddle rare, And know the purporte of my euill plight, Let him rest pleased with his owne insight, Ne further seeke to glose vpon the text: For griefe enough it is to grieued wight To feele his fault, and not be further vext. But what so by my selfe may not be showen, May by this Gnatts complaint be easily knowen. We now haue playde (Augustus) wantonly, Tuning our song vnto a tender Muse, And like a cobweb weauing slenderly, Haue onely playde: let thus much then excuse This Gnats small Poeme, that th' whole history Is but a jest, though envie it abuse: But who such sports and sweet delights doth blame, Shall lighter seeme than this Gnats idle name. Hereafter, when as season more secure Shall bring forth fruit, this Muse shall speak to thee In bigger notes, that may thy sense allure, And for thy worth frame some fit Poesie, The golden offspring of Latona pure, And ornament of great Ioues progenie, Phoebus shall be the author of my song, Playing on iuorie harp with siluer strong. He shall inspire my verse with gentle mood Of Poets Prince, whether he woon beside Faire Xanthus sprincled with Chimæras blood; Or in the woods of Astery abide; Or whereas mount Parnasse, the Muses brood, 433 Doth his broad forhead like two hornes diuide, And the sweete waues of sounding Castaly With liquid foote doth slide downe easily. Wherefore ye Sisters which the glorie bee Of the Pierian streames, fayre Naiades, Go too, and dauncing all in companie, Adorne that God: and thou holie Pales, To whome the honest care of husbandrie Returneth by continuall successe, Haue care for to pursue his footing light; Throgh the wide woods, & groues, with green leaues dight. Professing thee I lifted am aloft Betwixt the forrest wide and starrie sky: And thou most dread (Octauius) which oft To learned wits giuest courage worthily, O come (thou sacred childe) come sliding soft, And fauour my beginnings graciously: For not these leaues do sing that dreadfull stound, When Giants bloud did staine Phlegræan ground. Nor how th' halfe horsy people, Centaures hight, Fought with the bloudie Lapithaes at bord, Nor how the East with tyranous despight Burnt th Attick towres, and people slew with sword; Was digged downe, nor yron bands abord The Pontick sea by their huge Nauy cast, My volume shall renowne, so long since past. Nor Hellespont trampled with horses feete, When flocking Persians did the Greeks affray; But my soft Muse, as for her power more meete, Delights (with Phoebus friendly leaue) to play An easie running verse with tender feete. And thou (dread sacred child) to thee alway, Let euerlasting lightsome glory striue, Through the worlds endles ages to suruiue. And let an happie roome remaine for thee Mongst heauenly ranks, where blessed soules do rest; And let long lasting life with ioyous glee, 434 As thy due meede that thou deseruest best, Hereafter many yeares remembred be Amongst good men, of whom thou oft are blest; Liue thou for euer in all happinesse: But let us turne to our first businesse. The fiery sun was mounted now on hight Vp to the heauenly towers, and shot each where Out of his golden Charet glistering light; And fayre Aurora with her rosie heare, The hatefull darknes now had put to flight, When as the shepheard seeing day appeare, His little Goats gan driue out of their stalls, To feede abroad, where pasture best befalls. To an high mountaines top he with them went, Where thickest grasse did cloath the open hills: They now amongst the woods and thickets ment, Now in the valleies wandring at their wills, Spread themselues farre abroad through each descent; Some on the soft greene grasse feeding their fills; Some clambring through the hollow cliffes on hy, Nibble the bushie shrubs, which growe thereby. Others the vtmost boughs of trees doe crop, And brouze the woodbine twigges, that freshly bud This with full bit doth catch the vtmost top Of some soft Willow, or new growen stud; This with sharpe teeth the brambles leaues doth lop, And chaw the tender prickles in her Cud; The whiles another high doth ouerlooke Her owne like image in christall brooke. O the great happines, which shepheards haue, Who so loathes not too much the poor estate, With minde that ill vse doth before depraue, Ne measures all things by the costly rate Of riotise, and semblants outward braue; No such sad cares, as wont to macerate And rend the greedie mindes of couetous men, Do euer creepe into the shepheards den. 435 Ne cares he if the fleece, which him arayes, Be not twice steeped in Assyrian dye, Ne glistering of golde, which vnderlayes The summer beames, doe blinde his gazing eye. Ne pictures beautie, nor the glauncing rayes Of precious stones, whence no good commeth by; Of Bætus or of Alcons vanity. Ne ought the whelky pearles esteemeth hee, Which are from Indian seas brought far away: But with pure brest from carefull sorrow free, On the soft grasse his limbs doth oft display, In sweete spring time, when flowres varietie With sundrie colours paints the sprincled lay; There lyin all at ease, from guile or spight, With pype of fennie reedes doth him delight. There he, Lord of himselfe, with palme bedight, His looser locks doth wrap in wreath of vine: There his milk dropping Goats be his delight, And fruitful Pales, and the forrest greene, And darkesome caues in pleasaunt vallies pight, Whereas continuall shade is to be seene, And where fresh sprining wells, as christall neate, Do alwayes flow, to quench his thirstie heate. O who can lead them to a more happie life, Than he, that with cleane minde and heart sincere, No greedy riches knowes nor bloudie strife, No deadly fight of warlick fleete doth feare, Ne runs in perill of foes cruell knife, That in the sacred temples he may reare, A trophee of his glittering spoyels and treasure, Or may abound in riches aboue measure. Of him his God is worshipt with his sythe, And not with skill of craftsman polished: He ioyes in groues, and makes himselfe full blythe, With sundrie flowers in wilde fieldes gathered; Ne frankincens he from Panchæa buyth, Sweete quiet harbours in his harmeles head, And perfect pleasure builds her iouyous bowre, 436 Free from sad cares, that rich mens hearts deuowre. This all his care, this all his whole indeuour, To this his minde and senses he doth bend, How he may flow in quiets matchles treasour, Content with any food that God doth send; And how his limbs, resolu'd through idle leisour, Vnto sweete sleepe he may securely lend, In some coole shadow from the scorching heate, The whiles his flock their chawed cuds do eate. O flocks, O Faunes, and O ye pleasaunt springs Of Tempe, where the countrey Nymphs are rife, Through whose not costly care each shepheard sings As merrie notes vpon his rusticke Fife, As that Ascræan bard, whose fame now rings Through the wide world, and leads as ioyfull life. Free from all troubles and from worldly toyle, In which fond men doe all their dayes turmoyle. In such delights whilst thus his carelesse time This shepheard driues, vpleaning on his batt, And on shrill reedes chaunting his rustick rime, Hyperion throwing foorth his beames full hott, Into the highest top of heauen gan clime, And the world parting by an equall lott, Did shed his whirling flames on either side, As the great Ocean doth himselfe diuide. Then gan the shepheard gather into one His stragling Goates, and draue them to a foord, Whose cærule streame, rombling in Pible stone, Crept vnder mosse as greene as any goord. Now had the Sun halfe heauen ouergone, When he heard back from that water foord, Draue from the force of Phoebus boyling ray, Into thick shadowes, there themselues to lay. Soone as he them plac'd in thy sacred wood (O Delian Goddesse) saw, to which of yore Came the bad daughter of old Cadmus brood, Cruell Agaue, flying vengeance sore 437 Of king Nictilus for the guiltie blood, Which she with cursed hands had shed before; There she halfe frantick hauing slaine her sonne, Did shrowd her selfe like punishment to shonne. Here also playing on the grassy greene, Woodgods, and Satyres, and swift Dryades, With many Fairies oft were dauncing seene. Not so much did Dan Orpheus represse, The streames of Hebrus with his songs I weene, As that faire troupe of woodie Goddesses Staied thee, (O Peneus) powring foorth to thee, From cheereful lookes great mirth & gladsome glee. The verie nature of the place, resounding With gentle murmure of the breathing ayre, A pleasant bowre with all delight abounding In the fresh shadowe did for them prepayre, To rest their limbs with wearines redounding. For first the high Plaine trees with braunches faire, Out of the lowly vallies did arise, And high shoote vp their heads into the skyes. And them amongst the wicked Lotos grew, Wicked, for holding guilefully away Vlysses men, whom rapt with sweetnes new, Taking to hoste, it quite from him did stay, And eke those trees, in whose transformed hew The Sunnes sad daughters waylde the rash decay Of Phaeton, whose limbs with lightning rent, They gathering vp, with sweete teares did lament. And that same tree, in which Demophoon, By his disloyalty lamented sore, Eternall hurte left vnto many one: Whom als accompanied the Oke, of yore Through fatall charmes transformd to such an one: The Oke, whose Acornes were our foode, before That Ceres seede of mortall men were knowne, Which first Triptoleme taught how to be sowne. Here also grew the rougher rinded Pine, 438 The great Argoan ships braue ornament Whom golden Fleece did make an heauenly signe; Which coueting, with his high tops extent, To make the mountaines touch the starres diuine, Decks all the forrest with embellishment, And the blacke Holme that loues the watrie vale, And the sweete Cypresse signe of deadly bale. Emongst the rest the clambring Yuie grew, Knitting his wanton armes with grasping hold, Least that the Poplar happely should rew Her brothers strokes, whose boughes she doth enfold With her lythe twigs, till they the top survew, And paint with pallid greene her buds of gold. Next did the Myrtle tree to her approach, Not yet vnmindfull of her olde reproach. But the small Birds in their wide boughs embowring, Chaunted their sundrie tunes with sweete consent, And vnder them a siluer Spring forth powring His trickling streames, a gentle murmure sent; Thereto the frogs, bred in the slimie scowring Of the moist moores, their iarring voyces bent; And shrill grashoppers chirped them around: All which the ayrie Echo did resound. In this so pleasant place this Shepheards flocke Lay euerie where, their wearie limbs to rest, On euerie bush, and euerie hollow rocke Where breathe on them the whistling wind mote best; The whiles the Shepheard self tending his stocke, Sate by the fountaine side, in shade to rest, Where gentle slumbring sleep opressed him, Displaid on ground, and seized euerie lim. Of trecherie or traines nought tooke he keep, But looslie on the grassie greene dispredd, His dearest life did trust to careles sleep; Which weighing down his drouping drowsie hedd, In quiet rest his molten heart did steep, Deuoid of care, and feare of all falsehedd: Had not inconstant fortune, bent to ill, 439 Bid strange mischance his quietnes to spill. For at his wonted time in that same place An huge great Serpent all with speckles pide, To drench himselfe in moorish slime did trace, There from the boyling heate himselfe to hide: He passing by with rolling wreathed pace, With brandisht tongue the emptie aire did gride, And wrapt his scalie boughts with fell despight, That all things seem'd appalled at his sight. Now more and more hauing himself enrolde, His glittering breast he lifteth vp on hie, And with proud vaunt his head aloft doth holde; His creste aboue spotted with purple die, On euerie side did shine like scalie golde, And his bright eyes glauncing full dreadfullie, Did seeme to flame out flakes of flashing fyre, And with sterne lookes to threaten kindled yre. Thus wise long time he did himselfe dispace There round about, when as at last he spide Lying along before him in that place, That flocks grand Captaine, and most trustie guide: Eftsoones more fierce in visage, and in pace, Throwing his firie eyes on euerie side, He commeth on, and all things in his way Full stearnly rends, that might his passage stay. Much he disdaines, that anie one should dare To come vnto his haunt; for which intent He inly burns, and gins straight to prepare The weapons, which Nature to him hath lent: Fellie he hisseth, and doth fiercely stare, And hath his iawes with angrie spirits rent, That all his tract with bloudie drops is stained, And all his foldes are now in length outstrained. Whom thus at point prepared, to preuent, A little noursling of the humid ayre, A Gnat vnto the sleepie Shepheard went, And marking where his ey-lids twinckling rare, 440 Shewd the two pearles, which sight vnto him lent, Through their thin couerings appearing fayre, His little needle there infixing deep, Warnd him awake, from death himselfe to keep. Wherewith enrag'd, he fiecely gan vpstart, And with his hand him rashly bruzing, slewe As in auengement of his heedles smart, That streight the sprite out of his senses flew, And life out of his members did depart: When suddenly casting aside his vew, He spide his foe with felonous intent, And feruent eyes to his destruction bent. All suddenly dismaid, and hartles quight, He fled abacke, and catching hastie holde Of a yong alder hard beside him pight, It rent, and streight about him gan beholde, What God or Fortune would assist his might. But whether God or Fortune made him bold Its hard to read: yet hardie will he had To ouercome, that made him lesse adrad. The scalie backe of that most hideous snake Enwrapped round, oft faining to retire, And oft him to assaile, he fiercely strake Whereas his temples did his creast front tyre; And for he was but slowe, did slowth off shake, And gazing ghastly on (for feare and yre Had blent so much his sense, that lesse he feard Yet when he saw him slaine, himself he cheard. By this the night forth from the darksome bowre Of Herebus her teemed steedes gan call, And laesie Vesper in his timelie howre From golden Oeta gan proceede withall; Whenas the Shepheard after this sharpe stowre, Seeing the doubled shadowes low to fall, Gathering his straying flocke, does homeward fare, And vnto rest his wearie ioynts prepare. Into whose sense so soone as lighter sleepe 441 Was entered, and now loosing euerie lim, Sweete slumbring deaw in carelessenesse did steepe, The Image of that Gnat appeard to him, And in sad tearmes gan sorrowfully weepe, With greislie countenaunce and visage grim, Wailing the wrong which he had done of late, In steed of good hastning his cruell fate. Said he, what haue I wretch deseru'd, that thus Into this bitter bale I am outcast, Whilest that thy life more deare and precious Was than mine owne, so long as it did last? I now in lieu of paines so gracious, am tost in th' ayre with euerie windie blast: Thou safe deliuered from sad decay, Thy careles limbs in loose sleep dost display. So liuest thou, but my poore wretched ghost Is forst to ferrie ouer Lethes Riuer, And spoyld of Charon too and fro am tost. Seest thou, how all places quake and quiuer Lightned with deadly lamps on euerie post? Tisiphone each where doth shake and shiuer Her flaming fire brond, encountring me, Whose lockes vncombed cruell adders be. And Cerberus, whose many mouthes doo bay, And barke out flames, as if on fire he fed; Adowne whose necke in terrible array, Ten thousand snakes cralling about his hed Doo hang in heapes, that horribly affray, And bloodie eyes do glister firie red; He oftentimes me dreadfullie doth threaten, With painfull torments to be sorely beaten. Ay me, that thankes so much should faile of meed, For that I thee restor'd to life againe, Euen from the doore of death and deadlie dreed. Where then is now the guerdon of my paine? Where the reward of my so piteous deed? The praise of pitie vanisht is in vaine, And th' antique faith of Iustice long agone 442 Out of the land is fled away and gone. I saw anothers fate approaching fast, And left mine owne his safetie to tender; Into the same mishap I now am cast, And shun'd destruction doth destruction render; Not vnto him that neuer hath trespast, But punishment is due to the offender. Yet long destruction be the punishment, So long as thankfull will may it relent. I carried am into waste wildernesse, Waste wildernes, amongst Cymerian shades, Where endles paines and hideous heauinesse Is round about me heapt in darksome glades. For there huge Othos sits in sad distresse, Fast bound with serpents that him oft inuades; Far of beholding Ephialtes tide, Which once assai'd to burne this world so wide. And there is mournfull Tityus mindefull yet Of thy displeasure, O Latona faire; Displeasure too implacable was it, That made him meat for wild foules of the ayre: Much do I feare among such fiends to sit; Much do I feare back to them to repayre, To the black shadowes of the Stygian shore, Where wretched ghosts sit wailing euermore. There next the vtmost brinck doth he abide, That did the bankets of the Gods bewray, Whose throat through thirst to nought nigh being dride His sense to seeke for ease turnes euery way: And he that in auengement of his pride, For scorning to the sacred Gods to pray, Against a mountaine rolls a mighty stone, Calling in vaine for rest, and can haue none. Go ye with them, go cursed damosells, Whose bridale torches foule Erynnis tynde, And Hymen at your Spousalls sad, foretells Tydings of death and massacre vnkinde: 443 With them that cruell Colchid mother dwells, The which conceiu'd in her reuengefull minde, With bitter woundes her owne deere babes to slay, And murdred troupes vpon great heapes to lay. There also those two Pandionian maides, Calling on Itis, Itis euermore, Whom wretched boy they slew with guiltie blades; For whome the Thracian king lamenting sore, Turn'd to a Lapwing, fowlie them vpbraydes, And fluttering round about them still does sore; There now they all eternally complaine Of others wrong, and suffer endles paine. But the two brethren borne of Cadmus blood, Whilst each does for the Soueraignty contend, Blinde through ambition, and with vengeance wood Each doth against the others bodie bend His cursed steele, of neither well withstood, And with wide wounds their carcases doth rend; That yet they both doe mortall foes remaine, Sith each with brothers bloudie hands was slaine. Ah (waladay) there is no end of paine, Nor chaunge of labour may intreated bee: Yet I beyond all these am carried faine, Where others powers farre different I see, And must passe ouer to th' Elisian plaine: There grim Persephone encountring mee, Doth vrge her fellowFuries earnestly, With their bright firebronds me to terrifie. There chast Alceste liues inuiolate, Free from all care, for that her husbands daies She did prolong by changing fate for fate, Lo there liues also the immortall praise Of womankinde, most faithfull to her mate, Penelope: and from her farre awayes A rulesse rout of yongmen, which her woo'd All slaine with darts, lie wallowed in their blood. And sad Eurydice thence now no more 444 Must turne to life, but there detained bee, For looking back, being forbid before: Yet was the guilt thereof, Orpheus, in thee. Bold sure he was, and worthie spirite bore, That durst those lowest shadowes goe to see, And could beleeue that anie thing could please Fell Cerberus, or Stygian powres appease. Ne feard the burning waues of Phlegeton, Nor those same mournfull kingdomes compassed With rustie horrour and fowle fashion, And deep digd vawtes, and Tartar couered With bloodie night, and darke confusion, And iudgement seates, whose Iudge is deadlie dred, A iudge, that after death doth punish sore The faults, which life hath trespassed before. But valiant fortune made Dan Orpheus bolde: For the swift running riuers still did stand, And the wilde beasts their furie did withhold, To follow Orpheus musicke through the land: And th' Okes deep grounded in the earthly molde Did moue, as if they could him vnderstand; And the shrill woods, which were of sense bereau'd, Through their hard barke his siluer sound receau'd. And eke the Moone her hastie steedes did stay, Drawing in teemes along the starrie skie, And didst (ô monthly Virgin) thou delay Thy nightly course, to heare his melodie? The same was able with like louely lay The Queene of hell to moue as easily, To yeeld Eurydice vnto her fere, Backe to be borne, though it vnlawfull were. She (Ladie) hauing well before approoued, The feends to be too cruell and seuere, Obseru'd th' appointed way, as her behooued, Ne euer did her ey-sight turne arere, Ne euer spake, ne cause of speaking mooued: But cruell Orpheus thou much crueller, Seeking to kisse her, brok'st the Gods decree, 445 And thereby mad'st her euer damn'd to be. Ah but sweete loue of pardon worthie is, And doth deserue to haue small faults remitted; If Hell at least things lightly done amis Knew how to pardon, when ought is omitted: Yet are ye both receiued into blis, And to the seates of happie soules admitted. And you, beside the honourable band Of great heroës doo in order stand. There be the two stout sonnes of Aeacus, Fierce Peleus, and the hardie Telamon. Both seeming now full glad and ioyeous Through their Syres dreadfull iurisdiction, Being the Iudge of all that horrid hous: And both of them by strange occasion, Renown'd in choyce of happie marriage Through Venus grace, and vertues cariage. For th'one was rauisht of his owne bondmaide, The faire Ixione captiu'd from Troy: But th' other was with Thetis loue assaid, Great Nereus his daughter, and his ioy. On this side them there is a yongman layd, Their match in glorie, mightie, fierce and coy; That from th' Argolick ships, with furious yre, Bett back the furie of the Troian fyre. O who would not recount the strong diuorces Of that great warre, which Troianes oft behelde, And oft beheld the warlike Greekish forces, When Teucrian soyle with bloodie riuers swelde, And wide Sigæan shores were spred with corses, And Simois and Xanthus blood out welde, Whilst Hector raged with outragious minde, Flames, weapons, wounds, in Greeks fleete to haue tynde. For Ida selfe, in ayde of that fierce fight, Out of her mountaines ministred supplies, And like a kindly nourse, did yeeld (for spight) Store of firebronds out of her nourseries, 446 Vnto her foster children that they might Inflame the Nauie of their enemies, And all the Rhætean shore to ashes turne, Where lay the ships, which they did seeke to burne. Gainst which the noble sonne of Telamon Opposd' himselfe, and thwarting his huge shield, Them battell bad, gainst whom appeard anon Hector, the glorie of the Troian field: Both fierce and furious in contention Encountred, that their mightie strokes so shrild, As the great clap of thunder, which doth ryue The ratling heauens, and cloudes asunder dryue. So th' one with fire and weapons did contend To cut the ships, from turning home againe To Argos, th' other stroue for to defend The force of Vulcane with his might and maine. Thus th'one Aecide did his fame extend: But th' other ioy'd, that on the Phrygian playne Hauing the blood of vanquisht Hector shedd, He compast Troy thrice with his bodie dedd. Againe great dole on either partie grewe, That him to death vnfaithfull Paris sent, And also him that false Vlysses slewe, Drawne into danger through close ambushment: Therefore from him Laërtes sonne his vewe Doth turne aside, and boasts his good euent In working of Strymonian Rhæsus fall, And efte in Dolonsslye surprysall. Againe the dreadfull Cycones him dismay, And blacke Læstrigones, a people stout: Then greedie Scilla, vnder whom there bay Manie great bandogs, which her gird about: Then doo the Aetnean Cyclops him affray, And deep Charybdis gulphing in and out: Lastly the squalid lakes of Tartarie, And griesly Feends of hell him terrifie. There also goodly Agamemnon bosts, 447 The glorie of the stock of Tantalus, And famous light of all the Greekish hosts, Vnder whose conduct most victorious, The Dorick flames consum'd the Iliack posts. Ah but the Greekes themselues more dolorous, To thee, ô Troy, paid penaunce for thy fall, In th' Hellespont being nigh drowned all. Well may appeare by proofe of their mischaunce, The chaungefull turning of mens slipperie state, That none, whom fortune freely doth aduaunce, Himselfe therefore to heauen should eleuate: For loftie type of honour through the glaunce Of enuies dart, is downe in dust prostrate; And all that vaunts in worldly vanitie, Shall fall through fortunes mutabilitie. Th' Argolicke power returning home againe, Enricht with spoyes of th' Ericthonian towre, Did happie winde and weather entertaine, And with good speed the fomie billowes scowre: No signe of storme, no feare of future paine, Which soone ensued them with heauie stowre. Nereïs to the Seas a token gaue, The whiles their crooked keeles the surges claue. Suddenly, whether through the Gods decree, Or haplesse rising of some froward starre, The heauens on euerie side enclowded bee: Black stormes and fogs are blowen vp from farre, That now the Pylote can no loadstarre see, But skies and seas doo make most dreadfull warre; The billowes striuing to the heauens to reach, And th' heauens striuing them for to impeach. And in auengement of their bold attempt, Both Sun and starres and all the heauenly powres Conspire in one to wreake their rash contempt, And downe on them to fall from highest towres: The skie in pieces seeming to be rent, Throwes lightning forth, & haile, & harmful showres That death on euerie side to them appeares 448 In thousand formes, to worke more ghastly feares. Some in the greedie flouds are sunke and drent, Some on the rocks of Caphareus are throwne; Some on th' Euboick Cliffs in pieces rent; Some scattred on the Hercæan shores vnknowne; And manie lost, of whom no moniment Remaines, nor memorie is to be showne: Whilst all the purchase of the Phrigian pray Tost on salt billowes, round about doth stray. Here manie other like Heroës bee, Equall in honour to the former crue, Whom ye in goodly seates may placed see, Descended all from Rome by linage due, From Rome, that holds the world in souereigntie, And doth all Nations vnto her subdue: Here Fabij and Decij doo dwell, Horatij that in vertue did excell. And here the antique fame of stout Camill Doth euer liue, and constant Curtius, Who stifly bent his vowed life to spill For Countreyes health, a gulph most hideous Amidst the Towne with his owne corps did fill, T' appease the powers; and prudent Mutius, Who in his flesh endur'd the scorching flame, To daunt his foe by ensample of the same. And here wise Curius, companion Of noble vertues, liues in endles rest; And stout Flaminius, whose deuotion Taught him the fires scorn'd furie to detest; And here the praise of either Scipion Abides in highest place aboue the best, To whom the ruin'd walls of Carthage vow'd, Trembling their forces, sound their praises lowd. Liue they for euer through their lasting praise: But I poore wretch am forced to retourne To the sad lakes, that Phoebus sunnie rayes 449 Doo neuer see, where soules doo alwaies mourne, And by the wayling shores to waste my dayes, Where Phlegeton with quenchles flames doth burne; By which iust Minos righteous soules doth seuer From wicked ones, to liue in blisse for euer. Me therefore thus the cruell fiends of hell Girt with long snakes, and thousand yron chaynes, Through doome of that their cruell Iudge, compell With bitter torture and impatient paines, Cause of my death, and iust complaint to tell. For thou art he, whom my poore ghost complaines To be the author of her ill vnwares, That careles hear'st my intollerable cares. Them therefore as bequeathing to the winde, I now depart, returning to thee neuer, And leaue this lamentable plaint behinde. But doo thou haunt the soft downe rolling riuer, And wilde greene woods, and fruitful pastures minde, And let the flitting aire my vaine words seuer. Thus hauing said, he heauily departed With piteous crie, that anie would haue smarted. Now, when the sloathful fit of lifes sweete rest Had left the heauie Shepheard, wondrous cares His inly grieued minde full sore opprest; That balefull sorrow he no longer beares, For that Gnats death, which deeply was imprest: But bends what euer power his aged yeares Him lent, yet being such, as through their might He lately slue his dreadfull foe in fight. By that same Riuer lurking vnder greene, Eftsoones he gins to fashion forth a place, And squaring it in compasse well beseene, There plotteth out a tombe by measured space: His yron headed spade tho making cleene, To dig vp sods out of the flowrie grasse, His worke he shortly to good purpose brought, Like as he had conceiu'd it in his thought. 450 An heape of earth he hoorded vp on hie, Enclosing it with banks on euerie side, And thereupon did raise full busily A little mount, of greene turffs edifide; And on the top of all, that passers by Might it behold, the toomb he did provide Of smoothest marble stone in order set, That neuer might his luckie scape forget. And round about he taught sweete flowres to growe, The Rose engrained in pure scarlet die, The Lilly fresh, and Violet belowe, The Marigolde, and cherefull Rosemarie, The Spartan Mirtle, whence sweet gumb does flowe, The purple Hyacinthe, and fresh Costmarie, And Saffron sought for in Cilician soyle, And Lawrell th' ornament of Phoebus toyle. Fresh Rhododaphne, and the Sabine flowre Matching the wealth of th' auncient Frankincence, And pallid Yuie, building of his owne bowre, And Box yet mindfull of his olde offence, Red Amaranthus, lucklesse Paramour, Oxeye still greene, and bitter Patience; Ne wants there pale Narcisse, that in a well Seeing his beautie, in loue with it fell, And whatsoeuer other flowre of worth, And whatso other hearb of louely hew The iouyous Spring out of the ground brings forth, To cloath her selfe in colours fresh and new; He planted there, and reard a mount of earth, In whose high front was writ as doth ensue. To thee, small Gnat, in lieu of his life saued, The Shepheard hath thy deaths record engraued. ~ Edmund Spenser,

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

436:Scene. Wrzburg; a garden in the environs. 1512. Festus, Paracelsus, Michal. Paracelsus. Come close to me, dear friends; still closer; thus! Close to the heart which, though long time roll by Ere it again beat quicker, pressed to yours, As now it beatsperchance a long, long time At least henceforth your memories shall make Quiet and fragrant as befits their home. Nor shall my memory want a home in yours Alas, that it requires too well such free Forgiving love as shall embalm it there! For if you would remember me aright, As I was born to be, you must forget All fitful strange and moody waywardness Which e'er confused my better spirit, to dwell Only on moments such as these, dear friends! My heart no truer, but my words and ways More true to it: as Michal, some months hence, Will say, "this autumn was a pleasant time," For some few sunny days; and overlook Its bleak wind, hankering after pining leaves. Autumn would fain be sunny; I would look Liker my nature's truth: and both are frail, And both beloved, for all our frailty. Michal.                      Aureole!                      Paracelsus. Drop by drop! she is weeping like a child! Not so! I am contentmore than content; Nay, autumn wins you best by this its mute Appeal to sympathy for its decay: Look up, sweet Michal, nor esteem the less Your stained and drooping vines their grapes bow down, Nor blame those creaking trees bent with their fruit, That apple-tree with a rare after-birth Of peeping blooms sprinkled its wealth among! Then for the windswhat wind that ever raved Shall vex that ash which overlooks you both, So proud it wears its berries? Ah, at length, The old smile meet for her, the lady of this Sequestered nest!this kingdom, limited Alone by one old populous green wall Tenanted by the ever-busy flies, Grey crickets and shy lizards and quick spiders, Each family of the silver-threaded moss Which, look through near, this way, and it appears A stubble-field or a cane-brake, a marsh Of bulrush whitening in the sun: laugh now! Fancy the crickets, each one in his house, Looking out, wondering at the worldor best, Yon painted snail with his gay shell of dew, Travelling to see the glossy balls high up Hung by the caterpillar, like gold lamps. Michal. In truth we have lived carelessly and well. Paracelsus. And shall, my perfect pair!each, trust me, born For the other; nay, your very hair, when mixed, Is of one hue. For where save in this nook Shall you two walk, when I am far away, And wish me prosperous fortune? Stay: that plant Shall never wave its tangles lightly and softly, As a queen's languid and imperial arm Which scatters crowns among her lovers, but you Shall be reminded to predict to me Some great success! Ah see, the sun sinks broad Behind Saint Saviour's: wholly gone, at last! Festus. Now, Aureole, stay those wandering eyes awhile! You are ours to-night, at least; and while you spoke Of Michal and her tears, I thought that none Could willing leave what he so seemed to love: But that last look destroys my dreamthat look As if, where'er you gazed, there stood a star! How far was Wrzburg with its church and spire And garden-walls and all things they contain, From that look's far alighting? Paracelsus.                  I but spoke And looked alike from simple joy to see The beings I love best, shut in so well From all rude chances like to be my lot, That, when afar, my weary spirit,disposed To lose awhile its care in soothing thoughts Of them, their pleasant features, looks and words, Needs never hesitate, nor apprehend Encroaching trouble may have reached them too, Nor have recourse to fancy's busy aid And fashion even a wish in their behalf Beyond what they possess already here; But, unobstructed, may at once forget Itself in them, assured how well they fare. Beside, this Festus knows he holds me one Whom quiet and its charms arrest in vain, One scarce aware of all the joys I quit, Too filled with airy hopes to make account Of soft delights his own heart garners up: Whereas behold how much our sense of all That's beauteous proves alike! When Festus learns That every common pleasure of the world Affects me as himself; that I have just As varied appetite for joy derived From common things; a stake in life, in short, Like his; a stake which rash pursuit of aims That life affords not, would as soon destroy; He may convince himself that, this in view, I shall act well advised. And last, because, Though heaven and earth and all things were at stake, Sweet Michal must not weep, our parting eve. Festus. True: and the eve is deepening, and we sit As little anxious to begin our talk As though to-morrow I could hint of it As we paced arm-in-arm the cheerful town At sun-dawn; or could whisper it by fits (Trithemius busied with his class the while) In that dim chamber where the noon-streaks peer Half-frightened by the awful tomes around; Or in some grassy lane unbosom all From even-blush to midnight: but, to-morrow! Have I full leave to tell my inmost mind? We have been brothers, and henceforth the world Will rise between us:all my freest mind? 'T is the last night, dear Aureole! Paracelsus.                    Oh, say on! Devise some test of love, some arduous feat To be performed for you: say on! If night Be spent the while, the better! Recall how oft My wondrous plans and dreams and hopes and fears Havenever wearied you, oh no!as I Recall, and never vividly as now, Your true affection, born when Einsiedeln And its green hills were all the world to us; And still increasing to this night which ends My further stay at Wrzburg. Oh, one day You shall be very proud! Say on, dear friends! Festus. In truth? 'T is for my proper peace, indeed, Rather than yours; for vain all projects seem To stay your course: I said my latest hope Is fading even now. A story tells Of some far embassy despatched to win The favour of an eastern king, and how The gifts they offered proved but dazzling dust Shed from the ore-beds native to his clime. Just so, the value of repose and love, I meant should tempt you, better far than I You seem to comprehend; and yet desist No whit from projects where repose nor love Has part. Paracelsus.      Once more? Alas! As I foretold.      Festus. A solitary briar the bank puts forth To save our swan's nest floating out to sea. Paracelsus. Dear Festus, hear me. What is it you wish? That I should lay aside my heart's pursuit, Abandon the sole ends for which I live, Reject God's great commission, and so die! You bid me listen for your true love's sake: Yet how has grown that love? Even in a long And patient cherishing of the self-same spirit It now would quell; as though a mother hoped To stay the lusty manhood of the child Once weak upon her knees. I was not born Informed and fearless from the first, but shrank From aught which marked me out apart from men: I would have lived their life, and died their death, Lost in their ranks, eluding destiny: But you first guided me through doubt and fear, Taught me to know mankind and know myself; And now that I am strong and full of hope, That, from my soul, I can reject all aims Save those your earnest words made plain to me, Now that I touch the brink of my design, When I would have a triumph in their eyes, A glad cheer in their voicesMichal weeps, And Festus ponders gravely! Festus.                When you deign To hear my purpose . . . Paracelsus.              Hear it? I can say Beforehand all this evening's conference! 'T is this way, Michal, that he uses: first, Or he declares, or I, the leading points Of our best scheme of life, what is man's end And what God's will; no two faiths e'er agreed As his with mine. Next, each of us allows Faith should be acted on as best we may; Accordingly, I venture to submit My plan, in lack of better, for pursuing The path which God's will seems to authorize. Well, he discerns much good in it, avows This motive worthy, that hope plausible, A danger here to be avoided, there An oversight to be repaired: in fine Our two minds go togetherall the good Approved by him, I gladly recognize, All he counts bad, I thankfully discard, And nought forbids my looking up at last For some stray comfort in his cautious brow. When, lo! I learn that, spite of all, there lurks Some innate and inexplicable germ Of failure in my scheme; so that at last It all amounts to thisthe sovereign proof That we devote ourselves to God, is seen In living just as though no God there were; A life which, prompted by the sad and blind Folly of man, Festus abhors the most; But which these tenets sanctify at once, Though to less subtle wits it seems the same, Consider it how they may. Michal.              Is it so, Festus He speaks so calmly and kindly: is it so? Paracelsus. Reject those glorious visions of God's love And man's design; laugh loud that God should send Vast longings to direct us; say how soon Power satiates these, or lust, or gold; I know The world's cry well, and how to answer it. But this ambiguous warfare . . . Festus.                  . . . Wearies so That you will grant no last leave to your friend To urge it?for his sake, not yours? I wish To send my soul in good hopes after you; Never to sorrow that uncertain words Erringly apprehended, a new creed Ill understood, begot rash trust in you, Had share in your undoing. Paracelsus.               Choose your side, Hold or renounce: but meanwhile blame me not Because I dare to act on your own views, Nor shrink when they point onward, nor espy A peril where they most ensure success. Festus. Prove that to mebut that! Prove you abide Within their warrant, nor presumptuous boast God's labour laid on you; prove, all you covet A mortal may expect; and, most of all, Prove the strange course you now affect, will lead To its attainmentand I bid you speed, Nay, count the minutes till you venture forth! You smile; but I had gathered from slow thought Much musing on the fortunes of my friend Matter I deemed could not be urged in vain; But it all leaves me at my need: in shreds And fragments I must venture what remains. Michal. Ask at once, Festus, wherefore he should scorn . . . Festus. Stay, Michal: Aureole, I speak guardedly And gravely, knowing well, whate'er your error, This is no ill-considered choice of yours, No sudden fancy of an ardent boy. Not from your own confiding words alone Am I aware your passionate heart long since Gave birth to, nourished and at length matures This scheme. I will not speak of Einsiedeln, Where I was born your elder by some years Only to watch you fully from the first: In all beside, our mutual tasks were fixed Even then't was mine to have you in my view As you had your own soul and those intents Which filled it when, to crown your dearest wish, With a tumultuous heart, you left with me Our childhood's home to join the favoured few Whom, here, Trithemius condescends to teach A portion of his lore: and not one youth Of those so favoured, whom you now despise, Came earnest as you came, resolved, like you, To grasp all, and retain all, and deserve By patient toil a wide renown like his. Now, this new ardour which supplants the old I watched, too; 't was significant and strange, In one matched to his soul's content at length With rivals in the search for wisdom's prize, To see the sudden pause, the total change; From contest, the transition to repose From pressing onward as his fellows pressed, To a blank idleness, yet most unlike The dull stagnation of a soul, content, Once foiled, to leave betimes a thriveless quest. That careless bearing, free from all pretence Even of contempt for what it ceased to seek Smiling humility, praising much, yet waiving What it professed to praisethough not so well Maintained but that rare outbreaks, fierce and brief, Revealed the hidden scorn, as quickly curbed. That ostentatious show of past defeat, That ready acquiescence in contempt, I deemed no other than the letting go His shivered sword, of one about to spring Upon his foe's throat; but it was not thus: Not that way looked your brooding purpose then. For after-signs disclosed, what you confirmed, That you prepared to task to the uttermost Your strength, in furtherance of a certain aim Whichwhile it bore the name your rivals gave Their own most puny effortswas so vast In scope that it included their best flights, Combined them, and desired to gain one prize In place of many,the secret of the world, Of man, and man's true purpose, path and fate. That you, not nursing as a mere vague dream This purpose, with the sages of the past, Have struck upon a way to this, if all You trust be true, which following, heart and soul, You, if a man may, dare aspire to know: And that this aim shall differ from a host Of aims alike in character and kind, Mostly in this,that in itself alone Shall its reward be, not an alien end Blending therewith; no hope nor fear nor joy Nor woe, to elsewhere move you, but this pure Devotion to sustain you or betray: Thus you aspire. Paracelsus.          You shall not state it thus: I should not differ from the dreamy crew You speak of. I profess no other share In the selection of my lot, than this My ready answer to the will of God Who summons me to be his organ. All Whose innate strength supports them shall succeed No better than the sages. Festus.              Such the aim, then, God sets before you; and't is doubtless need That he appoint no less the way of praise Than the desire to praise; for, though I hold With you, the setting forth such praise to be The natural end and service of a man, And hold such praise is best attained when man Attains the general welfare of his kind Yet this, the end, is not the instrument. Presume not to serve God apart from such Appointed channel as he wills shall gather Imperfect tributes, for that sole obedience Valued perchance! He seeks not that his altars Blaze, careless how, so that they do but blaze. Suppose this, then; that God selected you To know (heed well your answers, for my faith Shall meet implicitly what they affirm) I cannot think you dare annex to such Selection aught beyond a steadfast will, An intense hope; nor let your gifts create Scorn or neglect of ordinary means Conducive to success, make destiny Dispense with man's endeavour. Now, dare you search Your inmost heart, and candidly avow Whether you have not rather wild desire For this distinction than security Of its existence? whether you discern The path to the fulfilment of your purpose Clear as that purposeand again, that purpose Clear as your yearning to be singled out For its pursuer. Dare you answer this? Paracelsus [after a pause]. No, I have nought to fear! Who will may know The secret'st workings of my soul. What though It be so?if indeed the strong desire Eclipse the aim in me?if splendour break Upon the outset of my path alone, And duskest shade succeed? What fairer seal Shall I require to my authentic mission Than this fierce energy?this instinct striving Because its nature is to strive?enticed By the security of no broad course, Without success forever in its eyes! How know I else such glorious fate my own, But in the restless irresistible force That works within me? Is it for human will To institute such impulses?still less, To disregard their promptings! What should I Do, kept among you all; your loves, your cares, Your lifeall to be mine? Be sure that God Ne'er dooms to waste the strength he deigns impart! Ask the geier-eagle why she stoops at once Into the vast and unexplored abyss, What full-grown power informs her from the first, Why she not marvels, strenuously beating The silent boundless regions of the sky! Be sure they sleep not whom God needs! Nor fear Their holding light his charge, when every hour That finds that charge delayed, is a new death. This for the faith in which I trust; and hence I can abjure so well the idle arts These pedants strive to learn and teach; Black Arts, Great Works, the Secret and Sublime, forsooth Let others prize: too intimate a tie Connects me with our God! A sullen fiend To do my bidding, fallen and hateful sprites To help mewhat are these, at best, beside God helping, God directing everywhere, So that the earth shall yield her secrets up, And every object there be charged to strike, Teach, gratify her master God appoints? And I am young, my Festus, happy and free! I can devote myself; I have a life To give; I, singled out for this, the One! Think, think! the wide East, where all Wisdom sprung; The bright South, where she dwelt; the hopeful North, All are passed o'erit lights on me! 'T is time New hopes should animate the world, new light Should dawn from new revealings to a race Weighed down so long, forgotten so long; thus shall The heaven reserved for us at last receive Creatures whom no unwonted splendours blind, But ardent to confront the unclouded blaze. Whose beams not seldom blessed their pilgrimage, Not seldom glorified their life below. Festus. My words have their old fate and make faint stand Against your glowing periods. Call this, truth Why not pursue it in a fast retreat, Some one of Learning's many palaces, After approved example?seeking there Calm converse with the great dead, soul to soul, Who laid up treasure with the like intent So lift yourself into their airy place, And fill out full their unfulfilled careers, Unravelling the knots their baffled skill Pronounced inextricable, true!but left Far less confused. A fresh eye, a fresh hand, Might do much at their vigour's waning-point; Succeeding with new-breathed new-hearted force, As at old games the runner snatched the torch From runner still: this way success might be. But you have coupled with your enterprise, An arbitrary self-repugnant scheme Of seeking it in strange and untried paths. What books are in the desert? Writes the sea The secret of her yearning in vast caves Where yours will fall the first of human feet? Has wisdom sat there and recorded aught You press to read? Why turn aside from her To visit, where her vesture never glanced, Nowsolitudes consigned to barrenness By God's decree, which who shall dare impugn? Nowruins where she paused but would not stay, Old ravaged cities that, renouncing her, She called an endless curse on, so it came: Or worst of all, nowmen you visit, men, Ignoblest troops who never heard her voice Or hate it, men without one gift from Rome Or Athens,these shall Aureole's teachers be! Rejecting past example, practice, precept, Aidless'mid these he thinks to stand alone: Thick like a glory round the Stagirite Your rivals throng, the sages: here stand you! Whatever you may protest, knowledge is not Paramount in your love; or for her sake You would collect all help from every source Rival, assistant, friend, foe, all would merge In the broad class of those who showed her haunts, And those who showed them not. Paracelsus.                 What shall I say? Festus, from childhood I have been possessed By a fireby a true fire, or faint or fierce, As from without some master, so it seemed, Repressed or urged its current: this but ill Expresses what would I convey: but rather I will believe an angel ruled me thus, Than that my soul's own workings, own high nature, So became manifest. I knew not then What whispered in the evening, and spoke out At midnight. If some mortal, born too soon, Were laid away in some great trancethe ages Coming and going all the whiletill dawned His true time's advent; and could then record The words they spoke who kept watch by his bed, Then I might tell more of the breath so light Upon my eyelids, and the fingers light Among my hair. Youth is confused; yet never So dull was I but, when that spirit passed, I turned to him, scarce consciously, as turns A water-snake when fairies cross his sleep. And having this within me and about me While Einsiedeln, its mountains, lakes and woods Confined mewhat oppressive joy was mine When life grew plain, and I first viewed the thronged, The everlasting concourse of mankind! Believe that ere I joined them, ere I knew The purpose of the pageant, or the place Consigned me in its rankswhile, just awake, Wonder was freshest and delight most pure 'T was then that least supportable appeared A station with the brightest of the crowd, A portion with the proudest of them all. And from the tumult in my breast, this only Could I collect, that I must thenceforth die Or elevate myself far, far above The gorgeous spectacle. I seemed to long At once to trample on, yet save mankind, To make some unexampled sacrifice In their behalf, to wring some wondrous good From heaven or earth for them, to perish, winning Eternal weal in the act: as who should dare Pluck out the angry thunder from its cloud, That, all its gathered flame discharged on him, No storm might threaten summer's azure sleep: Yet never to be mixed with men so much As to have part even in my own work, share In my own largess. Once the feat achieved, I would withdraw from their officious praise, Would gently put aside their profuse thanks. Like some knight traversing a wilderness, Who, on his way, may chance to free a tribe Of desert-people from their dragon-foe; When all the swarthy race press round to kiss His feet, and choose him for their king, and yield Their poor tents, pitched among the sand-hills, for His realm: and he points, smiling, to his scarf Heavy with riveled gold, his burgonet Gay set with twinkling stonesand to the East, Where these must be displayed! Festus.                 Good: let us hear No more about your nature, "which first shrank "From all that marked you out apart from men!" Paracelsus. I touch on that; these words but analyse The first mad impulse: 't was as brief as fond, For as I gazed again upon the show, I soon distinguished here and there a shape Palm-wreathed and radiant, forehead and full eye. Well pleased was I their state should thus at once Interpret my own thoughts:"Behold the clue "To all," I rashly said, "and what I pine "To do, these have accomplished: we are peers. "They know and therefore rule: I, too, will know!" You were beside me, Festus, as you say; You saw me plunge in their pursuits whom fame Is lavish to attest the lords of mind, Not pausing to make sure the prize in view Would satiate my cravings when obtained, But since they strove I strove. Then came a slow And strangling failure. We aspired alike, Yet not the meanest plodder, Tritheim counts A marvel, but was all-sufficient, strong, Or staggered only at his own vast wits; While I was restless, nothing satisfied, Distrustful, most perplexed. I would slur over That struggle; suffice it, that I loathed myself As weak compared with them, yet felt somehow A mighty power was brooding, taking shape Within me; and this lasted till one night When, as I sat revolving it and more, A still voice from without said"Seest thou not, "Desponding child, whence spring defeat and loss? "Even from thy strength. Consider: hast thou gazed "Presumptuously on wisdom's countenance, "No veil between; and can thy faltering hands, "Unguided by the brain the sight absorbs, "Pursue their task as earnest blinkers do "Whom radiance ne'er distracted? Live their life "If thou wouldst share their fortune, choose their eyes "Unfed by splendour. Let each task present "Its petty good to thee. Waste not thy gifts "In profitless waiting for the gods' descent, "But have some idol of thine own to dress "With their array. Know, not for knowing's sake, "But to become a star to men for ever; "Know, for the gain it gets, the praise it brings, "The wonder it inspires, the love it breeds: "Look one step onward, and secure that step!" And I smiled as one never smiles but once, Then first discovering my own aim's extent, Which sought to comprehend the works of God, And God himself, and all God's intercourse With the human mind; I understood, no less, My fellows' studies, whose true worth I saw, But smiled not, well aware who stood by me. And softer came the voice"There is a way: "'T is hard for flesh to tread therein, imbued "With frailtyhopeless, if indulgence first "Have ripened inborn germs of sin to strength: "Wilt thou adventure for my sake and man's, "Apart from all reward?" And last it breathed "Be happy, my good soldier; I am by thee, "Be sure, even to the end!"I answered not, Knowing him. As he spoke, I was endued With comprehension and a steadfast will; And when he ceased, my brow was sealed his own. If there took place no special change in me, How comes it all things wore a different hue Thenceforward?pregnant with vast consequence, Teeming with grand result, loaded with fate? So that when, quailing at the mighty range Of secret truths which yearn for birth, I haste To contemplate undazzled some one truth, Its bearings and effects aloneat once What was a speck expands into a star, Asking a life to pass exploring thus, Till I near craze. I go to prove my soul! I see my way as birds their trackless way. I shall arrive! what time, what circuit first, I ask not: but unless God send his hail Or blinding fireballs, sleet or stifling snow, In some time, his good time, I shall arrive: He guides me and the bird. In his good time! Michal. Vex him no further, Festus; it is so! Festus. Just thus you help me ever. This would hold Were it the trackless air, and not a path Inviting you, distinct with footprints yet Of many a mighty marcher gone that way. You may have purer views than theirs, perhaps, But they were famous in their daythe proofs Remain. At least accept the light they lend. Paracelsus. Their light! the sum of all is briefly this: They laboured and grew famous, and the fruits Are best seen in a dark and groaning earth Given over to a blind and endless strife With evils, what of all their lore abates? No; I reject and spurn them utterly And all they teach. Shall I still sit beside Their dry wells, with a white lip and filmed eye, While in the distance heaven is blue above Mountains where sleep the unsunned tarns? Festus.                       And yet As strong delusions have prevailed ere now. Men have set out as gallantly to seek Their ruin. I have heard of such: yourself Avow all hitherto have failed and fallen. Michal. Nay, Festus, when but as the pilgrims faint Through the drear way, do you expect to see Their city dawn amid the clouds afar? Paracelsus. Ay, sounds it not like some old well-known tale? For me, I estimate their works and them So rightly, that at times I almost dream I too have spent a life the sages' way, And tread once more familiar paths. Perchance I perished in an arrogant self-reliance Ages ago; and in that act, a prayer For one more chance went up so earnest, so Instinct with better light let in by death, That life was blotted outnot so completely But scattered wrecks enough of it remain, Dim memories, as now, when once more seems The goal in sight again. All which, indeed, Is foolish, and only meansthe flesh I wear, The earth I tread, are not more clear to me Than my belief, explained to you or no. Festus. And who am I, to challenge and dispute That clear belief? I will divest all fear. Michal. Then Aureole is God's commissary! he shall Be great and grandand all for us! Paracelsus.                    No, sweet! Not great and grand. If I can serve mankind 'T is well; but there our intercourse must end: I never will be served by those I serve. Festus. Look well to this; here is a plague-spot, here, Disguise it how you may! 'T is true, you utter This scorn while by our side and loving us; 'T is but a spot as yet: but it will break Into a hideous blotch if overlooked. How can that course be safe which from the first Produces carelessness to human love? It seems you have abjured the helps which men Who overpass their kind, as you would do, Have humbly sought; I dare not thoroughly probe This matter, lest I learn too much. Let be That popular praise would little instigate Your efforts, nor particular approval Reward you; put reward aside; alone You shall go forth upon your arduous task, None shall assist you, none partake your toil, None share your triumph: still you must retain Some one to cast your glory on, to share Your rapture with. Were I elect like you, I would encircle me with love, and raise A rampart of my fellows; it should seem Impossible for me to fail, so watched By gentle friends who made my cause their own. They should ward off fate's envythe great gift, Extravagant when claimed by me alone, Being so a gift to them as well as me. If danger daunted me or ease seduced, How calmly their sad eyes should gaze reproach! Michal. O Aureole, can I sing when all alone, Without first calling, in my fancy, both To listen by my sideeven I! And you? Do you not feel this? Say that you feel this! Paracelsus. I feel't is pleasant that my aims, at length Allowed their weight, should be supposed to need A further strengthening in these goodly helps! My course allures for its own sake, its sole Intrinsic worth; and ne'er shall boat of mine Adventure forth for gold and apes at once. Your sages say, "if human, therefore weak:" If weak, more need to give myself entire To my pursuit; and by its side, all else . . . No matter! I deny myself but little In waiving all assistance save its own. Would there were some real sacrifice to make! Your friends the sages threw their joys away, While I must be content with keeping mine. Festus. But do not cut yourself from human weal! You cannot thrivea man that dares affect To spend his life in service to his kind For no reward of theirs, unbound to them By any tie; nor do so, Aureole! No There are strange punishments for such. Give up (Although no visible good flow thence) some part Of the glory to another; hiding thus, Even from yourself, that all is for yourself. Say, say almost to God"I have done all "For her, not for myself!" Paracelsus.               And who but lately Was to rejoice in my success like you? Whom should I love but both of you? Festus.                    I know not: But know this, you, that't is no will of mine You should abjure the lofty claims you make; And this the causeI can no longer seek To overlook the truth, that there would be A monstrous spectacle upon the earth, Beneath the pleasant sun, among the trees: A being knowing not what love is. Hear me! You are endowed with faculties which bear Annexed to them as't were a dispensation To summon meaner spirits to do their will And gather round them at their need; inspiring Such with a love themselves can never feel, Passionless'mid their passionate votaries. I know not if you joy in this or no, Or ever dream that common men can live On objects you prize lightly, but which make Their heart's sole treasure: the affections seem Beauteous at most to you, which we must taste Or die: and this strange quality accords, I know not how, with you; sits well upon That luminous brow, though in another it scowls An eating brand, a shame. I dare not judge you. The rules of right and wrong thus set aside, There's no alternativeI own you one Of higher order, under other laws Than bind us; therefore, curb not one bold glance! 'T is best aspire. Once mingled with us all . . . Michal. Stay with us, Aureole! cast those hopes away, And stay with us! An angel warns me, too, Man should be humble; you are very proud: And God, dethroned, has doleful plagues for such! Warns me to have in dread no quick repulse, No slow defeat, but a complete success: You will find all you seek, and perish so! Paracelsus [after a pause]. Are these the barren firstfruits of my quest? Is love like this the natural lot of all? How many years of pain might one such hour O'erbalance? Dearest Michal, dearest Festus, What shall I say, if not that I desire To justify your love; and will, dear friends, In swerving nothing from my first resolves. See, the great moon! and ere the mottled owls Were wide awake, I was to go. It seems You acquiesce at last in all save this If I am like to compass what I seek By the untried career I choose; and then, If that career, making but small account Of much of life's delight, will yet retain Sufficient to sustain my soul: for thus I understand these fond fears just expressed. And first; the lore you praise and I neglect, The labours and the precepts of old time, I have not lightly disesteemed. But, friends, Truth is within ourselves; it takes no rise From outward things, whate'er you may believe. There is an inmost centre in us all, Where truth abides in fulness; and around, Wall upon wall, the gross flesh hems it in, This perfect, clear perceptionwhich is truth. A baffling and perverting carnal mesh Binds it, and makes all error: and to know Rather consists in opening out a way Whence the imprisoned splendour may escape, Than in effecting entry for a light Supposed to be without. Watch narrowly The demonstration of a truth, its birth, And you trace back the effluence to its spring And source within us; where broods radiance vast, To be elicited ray by ray, as chance Shall favour: chancefor hitherto, your sage Even as he knows not how those beams are born, As little knows he what unlocks their fount: And men have oft grown old among their books To die case-hardened in their ignorance, Whose careless youth had promised what long years Of unremitted labour ne'er performed: While, contrary, it has chanced some idle day, To autumn loiterers just as fancy-free As the midges in the sun, gives birth at last To truthproduced mysteriously as cape Of cloud grown out of the invisible air. Hence, may not truth be lodged alike in all, The lowest as the highest? some slight film The interposing bar which binds a soul And makes the idiot, just as makes the sage Some film removed, the happy outlet whence Truth issues proudly? See this soul of ours! How it strives weakly in the child, is loosed In manhood, clogged by sickness, back compelled By age and waste, set free at last by death: Why is it, flesh enthrals it or enthrones? What is this flesh we have to penetrate? Oh, not alone when life flows still, do truth And power emerge, but also when strange chance Ruffles its current; in unused conjuncture, When sickness breaks the bodyhunger, watching, Excess or languoroftenest death's approach, Peril, deep joy or woe. One man shall crawl Through life surrounded with all stirring things, Unmoved; and he goes mad: and from the wreck Of what he was, by his wild talk alone, You first collect how great a spirit he hid. Therefore, set free the soul alike in all, Discovering the true laws by which the flesh Accloys the spirit! We may not be doomed To cope with seraphs, but at least the rest Shall cope with us. Make no more giants, God, But elevate the race at once! We ask To put forth just our strength, our human strength, All starting fairly, all equipped alike, Gifted alike, all eagle-eyed, true-hearted See if we cannot beat thine angels yet! Such is my task. I go to gather this The sacred knowledge, here and there dispersed About the world, long lost or never found. And why should I be sad or lorn of hope? Why ever make man's good distinct from God's, Or, finding they are one, why dare mistrust? Who shall succeed if not one pledged like me? Mine is no mad attempt to build a world Apart from his, like those who set themselves To find the nature of the spirit they bore, And, taught betimes that all their gorgeous dreams Were only born to vanish in this life, Refused to fit them to its narrow sphere, But chose to figure forth another world And other frames meet for their vast desires, And all a dream! Thus was life scorned; but life Shall yet be crowned: twine amaranth! I am priest! And all for yielding with a lively spirit A poor existence, parting with a youth Like those who squander every energy Convertible to good, on painted toys, Breath-bubbles, gilded dust! And though I spurn All adventitious aims, from empty praise To love's award, yet whoso deems such helps Important, and concerns himself for me, May know even these will follow with the rest As in the steady rolling Mayne, asleep Yonder, is mixed its mass of schistous ore. My own affections laid to rest awhile, Will waken purified, subdued alone By all I have achieved. Till thentill then . . . Ah, the time-wiling loitering of a page Through bower and over lawn, till eve shall bring The stately lady's presence whom he loves The broken sleep of the fisher whose rough coat Enwraps the queenly pearlthese are faint types! See, see, they look on me: I triumph now! But one thing, Festus, Michal! I have told All I shall e'er disclose to mortal: say Do you believe I shall accomplish this? Festus. I do believe! Michal.        I ever did believe!        Paracelsus. Those words shall never fade from out my brain! This earnest of the end shall never fade! Are there not, Festus, are there not, dear Michal, Two points in the adventure of the diver, Onewhen, a beggar, he prepares to plunge, Onewhen, a prince, he rises with his pearl? Festus, I plunge! Festus.          We wait you when you rise! ~ Robert Browning, Paracelsus - Part I - Paracelsus Aspires ,

437:class:Classics BOOK THE TWELFTH The Trojan War Priam, to whom the story was unknown, As dead, deplor'd his metamorphos'd son: A cenotaph his name, and title kept, And Hector round the tomb, with all his brothers, wept. This pious office Paris did not share; Absent alone; and author of the war, Which, for the Spartan queen, the Grecians drew T' avenge the rape; and Asia to subdue. A thousand ships were mann'd, to sail the sea: Nor had their just resentments found delay, Had not the winds, and waves oppos'd their way. At Aulis, with united pow'rs they meet, But there, cross-winds or calms detain'd the fleet. Now, while they raise an altar on the shore, And Jove with solemn sacrifice adore; A boding sign the priests and people see: A snake of size immense ascends a tree, And, in the leafie summit, spy'd a nest, Which o'er her callow young, a sparrow press'd. Eight were the birds unfledg'd; their mother flew, And hover'd round her care; but still in view: 'Till the fierce reptile first devour'd the brood, Then seiz'd the flutt'ring dam, and drunk her blood. This dire ostent, the fearful people view; Calchas alone, by Phoebus taught, foreknew What Heav'n decreed; and with a smiling glance, Thus gratulates to Greece her happy chance: O Argives, we shall conquer: Troy is ours, But long delays shall first afflict our pow'rs: Nine years of labour, the nine birds portend; The tenth shall in the town's destruction end. The serpent, who his maw obscene had fill'd, The branches in his curl'd embraces held: But, as in spires he stood, he turn'd to stone: The stony snake retain'd the figure still his own. Yet, not for this, the wind-bound navy weigh'd; Slack were their sails; and Neptune disobey'd. Some thought him loth the town should be destroy'd, Whose building had his hands divine employ'd: Not so the seer; who knew, and known foreshow'd, The virgin Phoebe, with a virgin's blood Must first be reconcil'd: the common cause Prevail'd; and pity yielding to the laws, Fair Iphigenia the devoted maid Was, by the weeping priests, in linnen-robes array'd; All mourn her fate; but no relief appear'd; The royal victim bound, the knife already rear'd: When that offended Pow'r, who caus'd their woe, Relenting ceas'd her wrath; and stop'd the coming blow. A mist before the ministers she cast, And, in the virgin's room, a hind she plac'd. Th' oblation slain, and Phoebe, reconcil'd, The storm was hush'd, and dimpled ocean smil'd: A favourable gale arose from shore, Which to the port desir'd, the Graecian gallies bore. The House of Fame Full in the midst of this created space, Betwixt Heav'n, Earth, and skies, there stands a place, Confining on all three, with triple bound; Whence all things, tho' remote, are view'd around; And thither bring their undulating sound. The palace of loud Fame, her seat of pow'r, Plac'd on the summet of a lofty tow'r; A thousand winding entries long and wide, Receive of fresh reports a flowing tide. A thousand crannies in the walls are made; Nor gate, nor bars exclude the busie trade. 'Tis built of brass, the better to diffuse The spreading sounds, and multiply the news: Where eccho's in repeated eccho's play: A mart for ever full, and open night and day. Nor silence is within, nor voice express, But a deaf noise of sounds, that never cease. Confus'd and chiding, like the hollow roar Of tides, receding from th' insulted shore, Or like the broken thunder heard from far, When Jove at distance drives the rouling war. The courts are fill'd with a tumultuous din Of crouds, or issuing forth, or entring in: A thorough-fare of news: where some devise Things never heard, some mingle truth with lies; The troubled air with empty sounds they beat, Intent to hear, and eager to repeat. Error sits brooding there, with added train Of vain credulity, and joys as vain: Suspicion, with sedition join'd, are near, And rumours rais'd, and murmurs mix'd, and panique fear. Fame sits aloft, and sees the subject ground, And seas about, and skies above; enquiring all around. The Goddess gives th' alarm; and soon is known The Grecian fleet descending on the town. Fix'd on defence, the Trojans are not slow To guard their shore, from an expected foe. They meet in fight: by Hector's fatal hand Protesilaus falls, and bites the strand: Which with expence of blood the Grecians won; And prov'd the strength unknown of Priam's son. And to their cost the Trojan leaders felt The Grecian heroes; and what deaths they dealt. The Story of Cygnus From these first onsets, the Sigaean shore Was strew'd with carcasses, and stain'd with gore: Neptunian Cygnus troops of Greeks had slain; Achilles in his carr had scour'd the plain, And clear'd the Trojan ranks: where-e'er he fought, Cygnus, or Hector, through the fields he sought: Cygnus he found; on him his force essay'd: For Hector was to the tenth year delay'd. His white-main'd steeds, that bow'd beneath the yoke, He chear'd to courage, with a gentle stroke; Then urg'd his fiery chariot on the foe; And rising shook his lance; in act to throw. But first he cry'd, O youth, be proud to bear Thy death, ennobled by Pelides' spear. The lance pursu'd the voice without delay, Nor did the whizzing weapon miss the way; But pierc'd his cuirass, with such fury sent, And sign'd his bosom with a purple dint. At this the seed of Neptune: Goddess-born, For ornament, not use, these arms are worn; This helm, and heavy buckler, I can spare; As only decorations of the war: So Mars is arm'd for glory, not for need. 'Tis somewhat more from Neptune to proceed, Than from a daughter of the sea to spring: Thy sire is mortal; mine is ocean's king. Secure of death, I shou'd contemn thy dart, Tho' naked; and impassible depart: He said, and threw: the trembling weapon pass'd Through nine bull-hides, each under other plac'd, On his broad shield; and stuck within the last. Achilles wrench'd it out; and sent again The hostile gift: the hostile gift was vain. He try'd a third, a tough well-chosen spear; Th' inviolable body stood sincere, Though Cygnus then did no defence provide, But scornful offer'd his unshielded side. Not otherwise th' impatient hero far'd, Than as a bull incompass'd with a guard, Amid the Circus roars, provok'd from far By sight of scarlet, and a sanguine war: They quit their ground, his bended horns elude; In vain pursuing, and in vain pursu'd: Before to farther fight he wou'd advance, He stood considering, and survey'd his lance. Doubts if he wielded not a wooden spear Without a point: he look'd, the point was there. This is my hand, and this my lance, he said; By which so many thousand foes are dead, O whither is their usual virtue fled! I had it once; and the Lyrnessian wall, And Tenedos, confess'd it in their fall. Thy streams, Caicus, rowl'd a crimson-flood; And Thebes ran red with her own natives' blood. Twice Telephus employ'd their piercing steel, To wound him first, and afterward to heal. The vigour of this arm was never vain: And that my wonted prowess I retain, Witness these heaps of slaughter on the plain. He said; and, doubtful of his former deeds, To some new tryal of his force proceeds. He chose Menoetes from among the rest; At him he launch'd his spear, and pierc'd his breast: On the hard earth the Lycian knock'd his head, And lay supine; and forth the spirit fled. Then thus the hero: Neither can I blame The hand, or jav'lin; both are still the same. The same I will employ against this foe, And wish but with the same success to throw. So spoke the chief; and while he spoke he threw; The weapon with unerring fury flew, At his left shoulder aim'd: nor entrance found; But back, as from a rock, with swift rebound Harmless return'd: a bloody mark appear'd, Which with false joy the flatter'd hero chear'd. Wound there was none; the blood that was in view, The lance before from slain Menoetes drew. Headlong he leaps from off his lofty car, And in close fight on foot renews the war. Raging with high disdain, repeats his blows; Nor shield, nor armour can their force oppose; Huge cantlets of his buckler strew the ground, And no defence in his bor'd arms is found, But on his flesh, no wound or blood is seen; The sword it self is blunted on the skin. This vain attempt the chief no longer bears; But round his hollow temples and his ears His buckler beats: the son of Neptune, stunn'd With these repeated buffets, quits his ground; A sickly sweat succeeds, and shades of night; Inverted Nature swims before his sight: Th' insulting victor presses on the more, And treads the steps the vanquish'd trod before, Nor rest, nor respite gives. A stone there lay Behind his trembling foe, and stopp'd his way: Achilles took th' advantage which he found, O'er-turn'd, and push'd him backward on the ground, His buckler held him under, while he press'd, With both his knees, above his panting breast. Unlac'd his helm: about his chin the twist He ty'd; and soon the strangled soul dismiss'd. With eager haste he went to strip the dead: The vanish'd body from his arms was fled. His sea-God sire, t' immortalize his frame, Had turn'd it to a bird that bears his name. A truce succeeds the labours of this day, And arms suspended with a long delay. While Trojan walls are kept with watch and ward; The Greeks before their trenches mount the guard; The feast approach'd; when to the blue-ey'd maid His vows for Cygnus slain the victor paid, And a white heyfer on her altar laid. The reeking entrails on the fire they threw, And to the Gods the grateful odour flew. Heav'n had its part in sacrifice: the rest Was broil'd, and roasted for the future feast. The chief-invited guests were set around! And hunger first asswag'd, the bowls were crown'd, Which in deep draughts their cares, and labours drown'd. The mellow harp did not their ears employ: And mute was all the warlike symphony: Discourse, the food of souls, was their delight, And pleasing chat prolong'd the summer's night. The subject, deeds of arms; and valour shown, Or on the Trojan side, or on their own. Of dangers undertaken, fame atchiev'd, They talk'd by turns; the talk by turns reliev'd. What things but these could fierce Achilles tell, Or what cou'd fierce Achilles hear so well? The last great act perform'd, of Cygnus slain, Did most the martial audience entertain: Wondring to find a body free by Fate From steel; and which cou'd ev'n that steel rebate: Amaz'd, their admiration they renew; And scarce Pelides cou'd believe it true. The Story of Caeneus Then Nestor thus: what once this age has known, In fated Cygnus, and in him alone, These eyes have seen in Caeneus long before; Whose body not a thousand swords cou'd bore. Caeneus, in courage, and in strength, excell'd; And still his Othrys with his fame is fill'd: But what did most his martial deeds adorn (Though since he chang'd his sex) a woman born. A novelty so strange, and full of Fate, His list'ning audience ask'd him to relate. Achilles thus commends their common sute: O father, first for prudence in repute, Tell, with that eloquence, so much thy own, What thou hast heard, or what of Caeneus known: What was he, whence his change of sex begun, What trophies, join'd in wars with thee, he won? Who conquer'd him, and in what fatal strife The youth, without a wound, cou'd lose his life? Neleides then: Though tardy age, and time, Have shrunk my sinews, and decay'd my prime; Though much I have forgotten of my store, Yet not exhausted, I remember more. Of all that arms atchiev'd, or peace design'd, That action still is fresher in my mind, Than ought beside. If reverend age can give To faith a sanction, in my third I live. 'Twas in my second cent'ry, I survey'd Young Caenis, then a fair Thessalian maid: Caenis the bright, was born to high command; A princess, and a native of thy land, Divine Achilles; every tongue proclaim'd Her beauty, and her eyes all hearts inflam'd. Peleus, thy sire, perhaps had sought her bed, Among the rest; but he had either led Thy mother then; or was by promise ty'd; But she to him, and all, alike her love deny'd. It was her fortune once to take her way Along the sandy margin of the sea: The Pow'r of ocean view'd her as she pass'd, And, lov'd as soon as seen, by force embrac'd. So Fame reports. Her virgin-treasure seiz'd, And his new joys, the ravisher so pleas'd, That thus, transported, to the nymph he cry'd; Ask what thou wilt, no pray'r shall be deny'd. This also Fame relates: the haughty fair, Who not the rape ev'n of a God cou'd bear, This answer, proud, return'd: To mighty wrongs A mighty recompence, of right, belongs. Give me no more to suffer such a shame; But change the woman, for a better name; One gift for all: she said; and while she spoke, A stern, majestick, manly tone she took. A man she was: and as the Godhead swore, To Caeneus turn'd, who Caenis was before. To this the lover adds, without request, No force of steel shou'd violate his breast. Glad of the gift, the new-made warrior goes; And arms among the Greeks, and longs for equal foes. The Skirmish between the Centaurs and Lapithites Now brave Perithous, bold Ixion's son, The love of fair Hippodame had won. The cloud-begotten race, half men, half beast, Invited, came to grace the nuptial feast: In a cool cave's recess the treat was made, Whose entrance, trees with spreading boughs o'er-shade They sate: and summon'd by the bridegroom, came, To mix with those, the Lapythaean name: Nor wanted I: the roofs with joy resound: And Hymen, Io Hymen, rung around. Rais'd altars shone with holy fires; the bride, Lovely her self (and lovely by her side A bevy of bright nymphs, with sober grace), Came glitt'ring like a star, and took her place. Her heav'nly form beheld, all wish'd her joy; And little wanted; but in vain, their wishes all employ. For one, most brutal, of the brutal brood, Or whether wine, or beauty fir'd his blood, Or both at once, beheld with lustful eyes The bride; at once resolv'd to make his prize. Down went the board; and fastning on her hair, He seiz'd with sudden force the frighted fair. 'Twas Eurytus began: his bestial kind His crime pursu'd; and each as pleas'd his mind, Or her, whom chance presented, took: the feast An image of a taken town express'd. The cave resounds with female shrieks; we rise, Mad with revenge to make a swift reprise: And Theseus first, What phrenzy has possess'd, O Eurytus, he cry'd, thy brutal breast, To wrong Perithous, and not him alone, But while I live, two friends conjoyn'd in one? To justifie his threat, he thrusts aside The crowd of centaurs; and redeems the bride: The monster nought reply'd: for words were vain, And deeds cou'd only deeds unjust maintain; But answers with his hand, and forward press'd, With blows redoubled, on his face, and breast. An ample goblet stood, of antick mold, And rough with figures of the rising gold; The hero snatch'd it up, and toss'd in air Full at the front of the foul ravisher. He falls; and falling vomits forth a flood Of wine, and foam, and brains, and mingled blood. Half roaring, and half neighing through the hall, Arms, arms, the double-form'd with fury call; To wreak their brother's death: a medley-flight Of bowls, and jars, at first supply the fight, Once instruments of feasts; but now of Fate; Wine animates their rage, and arms their hate. Bold Amycus, from the robb'd vestry brings The chalices of Heav'n; and holy things Of precious weight: a sconce that hung on high, With tapers fill'd, to light the sacristy, Torn from the cord, with his unhallow'd hand He threw amid the Lapythaean band. On Celadon the ruin fell; and left His face of feature, and of form bereft: So, when some brawny sacrificer knocks, Before an altar led, an offer'd ox, His eyes-balls rooted out, are thrown to ground; His nose, dismantled, in his mouth is found; His jaws, cheeks, front, one undistinguish'd wound. This, Belates, th' avenger, cou'd not brook; But, by the foot, a maple board he took; And hurl'd at Amycus; his chin it bent Against his chest, and down the centaur sent: Whom sputtring bloody teeth, the second blow Of his drawn sword, dispatch'd to shades below. Grineus was near; and cast a furious look On the side-altar, cens'd with sacred smoke, And bright with flaming fires; The Gods, he cry'd, Have with their holy trade our hands supply'd: Why use we not their gifts? Then from the floor An altar stone he heav'd, with all the load it bore: Altar, and altar's freight together slew, Where thickest throng'd the Lapythaean crew: And, at once, Broteas and Oryus flew. Oryus' mother, Mycale, was known Down from her sphere to draw the lab'ring moon. Exadius cry'd, Unpunish'd shall not go This fact, if arms are found against the foe. He look'd about, where on a pine were spread The votive horns of a stag's branching head: At Grineus these he throws; so just they fly, That the sharp antlers stuck in either eye: Breathless, and blind he fell; with blood besmear'd; His eye-balls beaten out, hung dangling on his beard. Fierce Rhoetus, from the hearth a burning brand Selects, and whirling waves; 'till, from his hand The fire took flame; then dash'd it from the right, On fair Charaxus' temples, near the sight: The whistling pest came on, and pierc'd the bone, And caught the yellow hair, that shrivel'd while it shone. Caught, like dry stubble fir'd; or like seerwood; Yet from the wound ensu'd no purple flood; But look'd a bubbling mass of frying blood. His blazing locks sent forth a crackling sound; And hiss'd, like red hot ir'n within the smithy drown'd. The wounded warrior shook his flaming hair, Then (what a team of horse could hardly rear) He heaves the threshold stone, but could not throw; The weight itself forbad the threaten'd blow; Which dropping from his lifted arms, came down Full on Cometes' head; and crush'd his crown. Nor Rhoetus then retain'd his joy; but said, So by their fellows may our foes be sped; Then, with redoubled strokes he plies his head: The burning lever not deludes his pains: But drives the batter'd skull within the brains. Thus flush'd, the conqueror, with force renew'd, Evagrus, Dryas, Corythus, pursu'd: First, Corythus, with downy cheeks, he slew; Whose fall, when fierce Evagrus had in view, He cry'd, What palm is from a beardless prey? Rhoetus prevents what more he had to say; And drove within his mouth the fi'ry death, Which enter'd hissing in, and choak'd his breath. At Dryas next he flew: but weary chance, No longer wou'd the same success advance. For while he whirl'd in fiery circles round The brand, a sharpen'd stake strong Dryas found; And in the shoulder's joint inflicts the wound. The weapon stuck; which, roaring out with pain, He drew; nor longer durst the fight maintain, But turn'd his back, for fear; and fled amain. With him fled Orneus, with like dread possess'd, Thaumas, and Medon wounded in the breast; And Mermeros, in the late race renown'd, Now limping ran, and tardy with his wound. Pholus, and Melaneus from fight withdrew, And Abas maim'd, who boars encountring slew: And Augur Asbolos, whose art in vain, From fight dissuaded the four-footed train, Now beat the hoof with Nessus on the plain; But to his fellow cry'd, Be safely slow, Thy death deferr'd is due to great Alcides' bow. Mean-time strong Dryas urg'd his chance so well, That Lycidas, Areos, Imbreus fell; All, one by one, and fighting face to face: Crenaeus fled, to fall with more disgrace: For, fearful, while he look'd behind, he bore, Betwixt his nose, and front, the blow before. Amid the noise, and tumult of the fray, Snoring, and drunk with wine, Aphidas lay. Ev'n then the bowl within his hand he kept, And on a bear's rough hide securely slept. Him Phorbas with his flying dart transfix'd; Take thy next draught, with Stygian waters mix'd, And sleep thy fill, th' insulting victor cry'd; Surpriz'd with death unfelt, the centaur dy'd; The ruddy vomit, as he breath'd his soul Repass'd his throat, and fill'd his empty bowl. I saw Petraeus' arms employ'd around A well-grown oak, to root it from the ground. This way, and that, he wrench'd the fibrous bands; The trunk was like a sappling, in his hands, And still obey'd the bent: while thus he stood, Perithous' dart drove on; and nail'd him to the wood; Lycus, and Chromis fell, by him oppress'd: Helops, and Dictis added to the rest A nobler palm: Helops, through either ear Transfix'd, receiv'd the penetrating spear. This Dictis saw; and, seiz'd with sudden fright, Leapt headlong from the hill of steepy height; And crush'd an ash beneath, that cou'd not bear his weight. The shatter'd tree receives his fall; and strikes, Within his full-blown paunch, the sharpen'd spikes. Strong Aphareus had heav'd a mighty stone, The fragment of a rock; and wou'd have thrown; But Theseus, with a club of harden'd oak, The cubit-bone of the bold centaur broke; And left him maim'd; nor seconded the stroke. Then leapt on tall Bianor's back (who bore No mortal burden but his own, before); Press'd with his knees his sides; the double man, His speed with spurs increas'd, unwilling ran. One hand the hero fastn'd on his locks; His other ply'd him with repeated strokes. The club rung round his ears, and batter'd brows; He falls; and lashing up his heels, his rider throws. The same Herculean arms, Nedymnus wound; And lay by him Lycotas on the ground, And Hippasus, whose beard his breast invades; And Ripheus, haunter of the woodl and shades: And Thereus, us'd with mountain-bears to strive, And from their dens to draw th' indignant beasts alive. Demoleon cou'd not bear this hateful sight, Or the long fortune of th' Athenian knight: But pull'd with all his force, to disengage From Earth a pine, the product of an age: The root stuck fast: the broken trunk he sent At Theseus; Theseus frustrates his intent, And leaps aside; by Pallas warn'd, the blow To shun (for so he said; and we believ'd it so). Yet not in vain th' enormous weight was cast; Which Crantor's body sunder'd at the waist: Thy father's 'squire, Achilles, and his care; Whom conquer'd in the Polopeian war, Their king, his present ruin to prevent, A pledge of peace implor'd, to Peleus sent. Thy sire, with grieving eyes, beheld his Fate; And cry'd, Not long, lov'd Crantor, shalt thou wait Thy vow'd revenge. At once he said, and threw His ashen-spear; which quiver'd, as it flew; With all his force, and all his soul apply'd; The sharp point enter'd in the centaur's side: Both hands, to wrench it out, the monster join'd; And wrench'd it out; but left the steel behind; Stuck in his lungs it stood: inrag'd he rears His hoofs, and down to ground thy father bears. Thus trampled under foot, his shield defends His head; his other hand the lance portends. Ev'n while he lay extended on the dust, He sped the centaur, with one single thrust. Two more his lance before transfix'd from far; And two, his sword had slain, in closer war. To these was added Dorylas, who spread A bull's two goring horns around his head. With these he push'd; in blood already dy'd, Him fearless, I approach'd; and thus defy'd: Now, monster, now, by proof it shall appear, Whether thy horns are sharper, or my spear. At this, I threw: for want of other ward, He lifted up his hand, his front to guard. His hand it pass'd; and fix'd it to his brow: Loud shouts of ours attend the lucky blow. Him Peleus finish'd, with a second wound, Which thro' the navel pierc'd: he reel'd around; And dragg'd his dangling bowels on the ground. Trod what he drag'd; and what he trod, he crush'd: And to his mother-Earth, with empty belly, rush'd. The Story of Cyllarus and Hylonome Nor cou'd thy form, o Cyllarus, foreflow Thy Fate (if form to monsters men allow): Just bloom'd thy beard: thy beard of golden hue: Thy locks, in golden waves, about thy shoulders flew. Sprightly thy look: thy shapes in ev'ry part So clean, as might instruct the sculptor's art; As far as man extended: where began The beast, the beast was equal to the man. Add but a horse's head and neck; and he, O Castor, was a courser worthy thee. So was his back proportion'd for the seat: So rose his brawny chest; so swiftly mov'd his feet. Coal-black his colour, but like jett it shone; His legs, and flowing tail were white alone. Belov'd by many maidens of his kind; But fair Hylonome possess'd his mind; Hylonome, for features, and for face, Excelling all the nymphs of double race: Nor less her blandishments, than beauty, move; At once both loving, and confessing love. For him she dress'd: for him, with female care She comb'd, and set in curls, her auburn hair. Of roses, violets, and lillies mix'd, And sprigs of flowing rosemary betwixt, She form'd the chaplet, that adorn'd her front: In waters of the Pegasaean fount, And in the streams that from the fountain play, She wash'd her face; and bath'd her twice a-day. The scarf of furs, that hung below her side, Was ermin, or the panther's spotted pride; Spoils of no common beast: with equal flame They lov'd: their silvan pleasures were the same: All day they hunted: and when day expir'd, Together to some shady cave retir'd: Invited to the nuptials, both repair: And, side by side, they both engage in war. Uncertain from what hand, a flying dart At Cyllarus was sent; which pierc'd his heart. The jav'lin drawn from out the mortal wound, He faints with stagg'ring steps; and seeks the ground: The fair within her arms receiv'd his fall, And strove his wand'ring spirits to recall: And while her hand the streaming blood oppos'd, Join'd face to face, his lips with hers she clos'd. Stifled with kisses, a sweet death he dies; She fills the fields with undistinguish'd cries; At least her words were in her clamour drown'd; For my stunn'd ears receiv'd no vocal sound. In madness of her grief, she seiz'd the dart New-drawn, and reeking from her lover's heart; To her bare bosom the sharp point apply'd; And wounded fell; and falling by his side, Embrac'd him in her arms; and thus embracing dy'd. Ev'n still methinks, I see Phaeocomes; Strange was his habit, and as odd his dress. Six lions' hides, with thongs together fast, His upper part defended to his waist: And where man ended, the continued vest, Spread on his back, the houss and trappings of a beast. A stump too heavy for a team to draw (It seems a fable, tho' the fact I saw); He threw at Pholon; the descending blow Divides the skull, and cleaves his head in two. The brains, from nose, and mouth, and either ear, Came issuing out, as through a colendar The curdled milk; or from the press the whey, Driv'n down by weight above, is drain'd away. But him, while stooping down to spoil the slain, Pierc'd through the paunch, I tumbled on the plain. Then Chthonyus, and Teleboas I slew: A fork the former arm'd; a dart his fellow threw. The jav'lin wounded me (behold the scar, Then was my time to seek the Trojan war; Then I was Hector's match in open field; But he was then unborn; at least a child: Now, I am nothing). I forbear to tell By Periphantas how Pyretus fell; The centaur by the knight: nor will I stay On Amphix, or what deaths he dealt that day: What honour, with a pointless lance, he won, Stuck in the front of a four-footed man. What fame young Macareus obtain'd in fight: Or dwell on Nessus, now return'd from flight. How prophet Mopsus not alone divin'd, Whose valour equal'd his foreseeing mind. Caeneus transform'd to an Eagle Already Caeneus, with his conquering hand, Had slaughter'd five the boldest of their band. Pyrachmus, Helymus, Antimachus, Bromus the brave, and stronger Stiphelus, Their names I number'd, and remember well, No trace remaining, by what wounds they fell. Laitreus, the bulki'st of the double race, Whom the spoil'd arms of slain Halesus grace, In years retaining still his youthful might, Though his black hairs were interspers'd with white, Betwixt th' imbattled ranks began to prance, Proud of his helm, and Macedonian lance; And rode the ring around; that either hoast Might hear him, while he made this empty boast: And from a strumpet shall we suffer shame? For Caenis still, not Caeneus, is thy name: And still the native softness of thy kind Prevails; and leaves the woman in thy mind; Remember what thou wert; what price was paid To change thy sex; to make thee not a maid: And but a man in shew; go, card and spin; And leave the business of the war to men. While thus the boaster exercis'd his pride, The fatal spear of Caeneus reach'd his side: Just in the mixture of the kinds it ran; Betwixt the neather beast, and upper man: The monster mad with rage, and stung with smart, His lance directed at the hero's heart: It struck; but bounded from his harden'd breast, Like hail from tiles, which the safe house invest. Nor seem'd the stroke with more effect to come, Than a small pebble falling on a drum. He next his fauchion try'd, in closer fight; But the keen fauchion had no pow'r to bite. He thrust; the blunted point return'd again: Since downright blows, he cry'd, and thrusts are vain, I'll prove his side; in strong embraces held He prov'd his side; his side the sword repell'd: His hollow belly eccho'd to the stroke, Untouch'd his body, as a solid rock; Aim'd at his neck at last, the blade in shivers broke. Th' impassive knight stood idle, to deride His rage, and offer'd oft his naked side; At length, Now monster, in thy turn, he cry'd, Try thou the strength of Caeneus: at the word He thrust; and in his shoulder plung'd the sword. Then writh'd his hand; and as he drove it down, Deep in his breast, made many wounds in one. The centaurs saw, inrag'd, th' unhop'd success; And rushing on in crowds, together press; At him, and him alone, their darts they threw: Repuls'd they from his fated body flew. Amaz'd they stood; 'till Monichus began, O shame, a nation conquer'd by a man! A woman-man! yet more a man is he, Than all our race; and what he was, are we. Now, what avail our nerves? th' united force, Of two the strongest creatures, man and horse; Nor Goddess-born; nor of Ixion's seed We seem (a lover built for Juno's bed); Master'd by this half man. Whole mountains throw With woods at once, and bury him below. This only way remains. Nor need we doubt To choak the soul within; though not to force it out: Heap weights, instead of wounds. He chanc'd to see Where southern storms had rooted up a tree; This, rais'd from Earth, against the foe he threw; Th' example shewn, his fellow-brutes pursue. With forest-loads the warrior they invade; Othrys, and Pelion soon were void of shade; And spreading groves were naked mountains made. Press'd with the burden, Caeneus pants for breath; And on his shoulders bears the wooden death. To heave th' intolerable weight he tries; At length it rose above his mouth and eyes: Yet still he heaves; and, strugling with despair, Shakes all aside, and gains a gulp of air: A short relief, which but prolongs his pain; He faints by fits; and then respires again: At last, the burden only nods above, As when an earthquake stirs th' Idaean grove. Doubtful his death: he suffocated seem'd, To most; but otherwise our Mopsus deem'd, Who said he saw a yellow bird arise From out the piles, and cleave the liquid skies: I saw it too, with golden feathers bright; Nor e'er before beheld so strange a sight. Whom Mopsus viewing, as it soar'd around Our troop, and heard the pinions' rattling sound, All hail, he cry'd, thy country's grace and love! Once first of men below, now first of birds above. Its author to the story gave belief: For us, our courage was increas'd by grief: Asham'd to see a single man, pursu'd With odds, to sink beneath a multitude, We push'd the foe: and forc'd to shameful flight, Part fell, and part escap'd by favour of the night. The Fate of Periclymenos This tale, by Nestor told, did much displease Tlepolemus, the seed of Hercules: For, often he had heard his father say, That he himself was present at the fray; And more than shar'd the glories of the day. Old Chronicle, he said, among the rest, You might have nam'd Alcides at the least: Is he not worth your praise? The Pylian prince Sigh'd ere he spoke; then made this proud defence. My former woes in long oblivion drown'd, I wou'd have lost; but you renew the wound: Better to pass him o'er, than to relate The cause I have your mighty sire to hate. His fame has fill'd the world, and reach'd the sky (Which, oh, I wish, with truth, I cou'd deny!); We praise not Hector; though his name, we know, Is great in arms; 'tis hard to praise a foe. He, your great father, levell'd to the ground Messenia's tow'rs: nor better fortune found Elis, and Pylos; that a neighb'ring state, And this my own: both guiltless of their fate. To pass the rest, twelve, wanting one, he slew; My brethren, who their birth from Neleus drew, All youths of early promise, had they liv'd; By him they perish'd: I alone surviv'd. The rest were easie conquest: but the fate Of Periclymenos, is wondrous to relate. To him, our common grandsire of the main Had giv'n to change his form, and chang'd, resume again. Vary'd at pleasure, every shape he try'd; And in all beasts, Alcides still defy'd: Vanquish'd on Earth, at length he soar'd above; Chang'd to the bird, that bears the bolt of Jove: The new-dissembled eagle, now endu'd With beak, and pounces, Hercules pursu'd, And cuff'd his manly cheeks, and tore his face; Then, safe retir'd, and tour'd in empty space. Alcides bore not long his flying foe; But bending his inevitable bow, Reach'd him in air, suspended as he stood; And in his pinion fix'd the feather'd wood. Light was the wound; but in the sinew hung The point, and his disabled wing unstrung. He wheel'd in air, and stretch'd his vans in vain; His vans no longer cou'd his flight sustain: For while one gather'd wind, one unsupply'd Hung drooping down, nor pois'd his other side. He fell: the shaft that slightly was impress'd, Now from his heavy fall with weight increas'd, Drove through his neck, aslant, he spurns the ground, And the soul issues through the weazon's wound. Now, brave commander of the Rhodian seas, What praise is due from me, to Hercules? Silence is all the vengeance I decree For my slain brothers; but 'tis peace with thee. Thus with a flowing tongue old Nestor spoke: Then, to full bowls each other they provoke: At length, with weariness, and wine oppress'd, They rise from table; and withdraw to rest. The Death of Achilles The sire of Cygnus, monarch of the main, Mean-time, laments his son, in battel slain, And vows the victor's death; nor vows in vain. For nine long years the smother'd pain he bore (Achilles was not ripe for Fate before): Then when he saw the promis'd hour was near, He thus bespoke the God, that guides the year: Immortal offspring of my brother Jove; My brightest nephew, and whom best I love, Whose hands were join'd with mine, to raise the wall Of tott'ring Troy, now nodding to her fall, Dost thou not mourn our pow'r employ'd in vain; And the defenders of our city slain? To pass the rest, could noble Hector lie Unpity'd, drag'd around his native Troy? And yet the murd'rer lives: himself by far A greater plague, than all the wasteful war: He lives; the proud Pelides lives, to boast Our town destroy'd, our common labour lost. O, could I meet him! But I wish too late: To prove my trident is not in his Fate! But let him try (for that's allow'd) thy dart, And pierce his only penetrable part. Apollo bows to the superior throne; And to his uncle's anger, adds his own. Then in a cloud involv'd, he takes his flight, Where Greeks, and Trojans mix'd in mortal fight; And found out Paris, lurking where he stood, And stain'd his arrows with plebeian blood: Phoebus to him alone the God confess'd, Then to the recreant knight, he thus address'd. Dost thou not blush, to spend thy shafts in vain On a degenerate, and ignoble train? If fame, or better vengeance be thy care, There aim: and, with one arrow, end the war. He said; and shew'd from far the blazing shield And sword, which, but Achilles, none cou'd wield; And how he mov'd a God, and mow'd the standing field. The deity himself directs aright Th' invenom'd shaft; and wings the fatal flight. Thus fell the foremost of the Grecian name; And he, the base adult'rer, boasts the fame. A spectacle to glad the Trojan train; And please old Priam, after Hector slain. If by a female hand he had foreseen He was to die, his wish had rather been The lance, and double ax of the fair warriour queen. And now the terror of the Trojan field, The Grecian honour, ornament, and shield, High on a pile, th' unconquer'd chief is plac'd, The God that arm'd him first, consum'd at last. Of all the mighty man, the small remains A little urn, and scarcely fill'd, contains. Yet great in Homer, still Achilles lives; And equal to himself, himself survives. His buckler owns its former lord; and brings New cause of strife, betwixt contending kings; Who worthi'st after him, his sword to wield, Or wear his armour, or sustain his shield. Ev'n Diomede sat mute, with down-cast eyes; Conscious of wanted worth to win the prize: Nor Menelaus presum'd these arms to claim, Nor he the king of men, a greater name. Two rivals only rose: Laertes' son, And the vast bulk of Ajax Telamon: The king, who cherish'd each with equal love, And from himself all envy wou'd remove, Left both to be determin'd by the laws; And to the Graecian chiefs transferr'd the cause. ---------------------------------------------------------------------- ~ Ovid, BOOK THE TWELFTH ,

438:I. You're my friend: I was the man the Duke spoke to; I helped the Duchess to cast off his yoke, too; So here's the tale from beginning to end, My friend! II. Ours is a great wild country: If you climb to our castle's top, I don't see where your eye can stop; For when you've passed the cornfield country, Where vineyards leave off, flocks are packed, And sheep-range leads to cattle-tract, And cattle-tract to open-chase, And open-chase to the very base Of the mountain where, at a funeral pace, Round about, solemn and slow, One by one, row after row, Up and up the pine-trees go, So, like black priests up, and so Down the other side again To another greater, wilder country, That's one vast red drear burnt-up plain, Branched through and through with many a vein Whence iron's dug, and copper's dealt; Look right, look left, look straight before,- Beneath they mine, above they smelt, Copper-ore and iron-ore, And forge and furnace mould and melt, And so on, more and ever more, Till at the last, for a bounding belt, Comes the salt sand hoar of the great sea-shore, -And the whole is our Duke's country. III. I was born the day this present Duke was- (And O, says the song, ere I was old!) In the castle where the other Duke was- (When I was happy and young, not old!) I in the kennel, he in the bower: We are of like age to an hour. My father was huntsman in that day; Who has not heard my father say That, when a boar was brought to bay, Three times, four times out of five, With his huntspear he'd contrive To get the killing-place transfixed, And pin him true, both eyes betwixt? And that's why the old Duke would rather He lost a salt-pit than my father, And loved to have him ever in call; That's why my father stood in the hall When the old Duke brought his infant out To show the people, and while they passed The wondrous bantling round about, Was first to start at the outside blast As the Kaiser's courier blew his horn Just a month after the babe was born. ``And,'' quoth the Kaiser's courier, ``since ``The Duke has got an heir, our Prince ``Needs the Duke's self at his side: '' The Duke looked down and seemed to wince, But he thought of wars o'er the world wide, Castles a-fire, men on their march, The toppling tower, the crashing arch; And up he looked, and awhile he eyed The row of crests and shields and banners Of all achievements after all manners, And ``ay,'' said the Duke with a surly pride. The more was his comfort when he died At next year's end, in a velvet suit, With a gilt glove on his hand, his foot In a silken shoe for a leather boot, Petticoated like a herald, In a chamher next to an ante-room, Where he breathed the breath of page and groom, What he called stink, and they, perfume: -They should have set him on red Berold Mad with pride, like fire to manage! They should have got his cheek fresh tannage Such a day as to-day in the merry sunshine! Had they stuck on his fist a rough-foot merlin! (Hark, the wind's on the heath at its game! Oh for a noble falcon-lanner To flap each broad wing like a banner, And turn in the wind, and dance like flame!) Had they broached a white-beer cask from Berlin -Or if you incline to prescribe mere wine Put to his lips, when they saw him pine, A cup of our own Moldavia fine, Cotnar for instance, green as May sorrel And ropy with sweet,-we shall not quarrel. IV. So, at home, the sick tall yellow Duchess Was left with the infant in her clutches, She being the daughter of God knows who: And now was the time to revisit her tribe. Abroad and afar they went, the two, And let our people rail and gibe At the empty hall and extinguished fire, As loud as we liked, but ever in vain, Till after long years we had our desire, And back came the Duke and his mother again. V. And he came back the pertest little ape That ever affronted human shape; Full of his travel, struck at himself. You'd say, he despised our bluff old ways? -Not he! For in Paris they told the elf Our rough North land was the Land of Lays, The one good thing left in evil days; Since the Mid-Age was the Heroic Time, And only in wild nooks like ours Could you taste of it yet as in its prime, And see true castles, with proper towers, Young-hearted women, old-minded men, And manners now as manners were then. So, all that the old Dukes had been, without knowing it, This Duke would fain know he was, without being it; 'Twas not for the joy's self, but the joy of his showing it, Nor for the pride's self, but the pride of our seeing it, He revived all usages thoroughly worn-out, The souls of them fumed-forth, the hearts of them torn-out: And chief in the chase his neck he perilled On a lathy horse, all legs and length, With blood for bone, all speed, no strength; -They should have set him on red Berold With the red eye slow consuming in fire, And the thin stiff ear like an abbey-spire! VI. Well, such as he was, he must marry, we heard: And out of a convent, at the word, Came the lady, in time of spring. -Oh, old thoughts they cling, they cling! That day, I know, with a dozen oaths I clad myself in thick hunting-clothes Fit for the chase of urochs or buffle In winter-time when you need to muffle. But the Duke had a mind we should cut a figure, And so we saw the lady arrive: My friend, I have seen a white crane bigger! She was the smallest lady alive, Made in a piece of nature's madness, Too small, almost, for the life and gladness That over-filled her, as some hive Out of the bears' reach on the high trees Is crowded with its safe merry bees: In truth, she was not hard to please! Up she looked, down she looked, round at the mead, Straight at the castle, that's best indeed To look at from outside the walls: As for us, styled the ``serfs and thralls,'' She as much thanked me as if she had said it, (With her eyes, do you understand?) Because I patted her horse while I led it; And Max, who rode on her other hand, Said, no bird flew past but she inquired What its true name was, nor ever seemed tired- If that was an eagle she saw hover, And the green and grey bird on the field was the plover. When suddenly appeared the Duke: And as down she sprung, the small foot pointed On to my hand,-as with a rebuke, And as if his backbone were not jointed, The Duke stepped rather aside than forward, And welcomed her with his grandest smile; And, mind you, his mother all the while Chilled in the rear, like a wind to Nor'ward; And up, like a weary yawn, with its pullies Went, in a shriek, the rusty portcullis; And, like a glad sky the north-wind sullies, The lady's face stopped its play, As if her first hair had grown grey; For such things must begin some one day. VII. In a day or two she was well again; As who should say, ``You labour in vain! ``This is all a jest against God, who meant ``I should ever be, as I am, content `` And glad in his sight; therefore, glad I will be.'' So, smiling as at first went she. VIII. She was active, stirring, all fire- Could not rest, could not tire- To a stone she might have given life! (I myself loved once, in my day) -For a shepherd's, miner's, huntsman's wife, (I had a wife, I know what I say) Never in all the world such an one! And here was plenty to be done, And she that could do it, great or small, She was to do nothing at all. There was already this man in his post, This in his station, and that in his office, And the Duke's plan admitted a wife, at most, To meet his eye, with the other trophies, Now outside the hall, now in it, To sit thus, stand thus, see and be seen, At the proper place in the proper minute, And die away the life between. And it was amusing enough, each infraction Of rule-(but for after-sadness that came) To hear the consummate self-satisfaction With which the young Duke and the old dame Would let her advise, and criticise, And, being a fool, instruct the wise, And, child-like, parcel out praise or blame: They bore it all in complacent guise, As though an artificer, after contriving A wheel-work image as if it were living, Should find with delight it could motion to strike him! So found the Duke, and his mother like him: The lady hardly got a rebuff- That had not been contemptuous enough, With his cursed smirk, as he nodded applause, And kept off the old mother-cat's claws. IX. So, the little lady grew silent and thin, Paling and ever paling, As the way is with a hid chagrin; And the Duke perceived that she was ailing, And said in his heart, ``'Tis done to spite me, ``But I shall find in my power to right me!'' Don't swear, friend! The old one, many a year, Is in hell, and the Duke's self . . . you shall hear. X. Well, early in autumn, at first winter-warning, When the stag had to break with his foot, of a morning, A drinking-hole out of the fresh tender ice That covered the pond till the sun, in a trice, Loosening it, let out a ripple of gold, And another and another, and faster and faster, Till, dimpling to blindness, the wide water rolled: Then it so chanced that the Duke our master Asked himself what were the pleasures in season, And found, since the calendar bade him be hearty, He should do the Middle Age no treason In resolving on a hunting-party. Always provided, old books showed the way of it! What meant old poets by their strictures? And when old poets had said their say of it, How taught old painters in their pictures? We must revert to the proper channels, Workings in tapestry, paintings on panels, And gather up woodcraft's authentic traditions: Here was food for our various ambitions, As on each case, exactly stated- To encourage your dog, now, the properest chirrup, Or best prayer to Saint Hubert on mounting your stirrup- We of the house hold took thought and debated. Blessed was he whose back ached with the jerkin His sire was wont to do forest-work in; Blesseder he who nobly sunk ``ohs'' And ``ahs'' while he tugged on his grand-sire's trunk-hose; What signified hats if they had no rims on, Each slouching before and behind like the scallop, And able to serve at sea for a shallop, Loaded with lacquer and looped with crimson? So that the deer now, to make a short rhyme on't, What with our Venerers, Prickers and Yerderers, Might hope for real hunters at length and not murderers, And oh the Duke's tailor, he had a hot time on't! XI. Now you must know that when the first dizziness Of flap-hats and buff-coats and jack-boots subsided, The Duke put this question, ``The Duke's part provided, ``Had not the Duchess some share in the business?'' For out of the mouth of two or three witnesses Did he establish all fit-or-unfitnesses: And, after much laying of heads together, Somebody's cap got a notable feather By the announcement with proper unction That he had discovered the lady's function; Since ancient authors gave this tenet, ``When horns wind a mort and the deer is at siege, ``Let the dame of the castle prick forth on her jennet, ``And, with water to wash the hands of her liege ``In a clean ewer with a fair toweling, `` Let her preside at the disemboweling.'' Now, my friend, if you had so little religion As to catch a hawk, some falcon-lanner, And thrust her broad wings like a banner Into a coop for a vulgar pigeon; And if day by day and week by week You cut her claws, and sealed her eyes, And clipped her wings, and tied her beak, Would it cause you any great surprise If, when you decided to give her an airing, You found she needed a little preparing? -I say, should you be such a curmudgeon, If she clung to the perch, as to take it in dudgeon? Yet when the Duke to his lady signified, Just a day before, as he judged most dignified, In what a pleasure she was to participate,- And, instead of leaping wide in flashes, Her eyes just lifted their long lashes, As if pressed by fatigue even he could not dissipate, And duly acknowledged the Duke's forethought, But spoke of her health, if her health were worth aught, Of the weight by day and the watch by night, And much wrong now that used to be right, So, thanking him, declined the hunting,- Was conduct ever more affronting? With all the ceremony settled- With the towel ready, and the sewer Polishing up his oldest ewer, And the jennet pitched upon, a piebald, Black-barred, cream-coated and pink eye-balled,- No wonder if the Duke was nettled And when she persisted nevertheless,- Well, I suppose here's the time to confess That there ran half round our lady's chamber A balcony none of the hardest to clamber; And that Jacynth the tire-woman, ready in waiting, Stayed in call outside, what need of relating? And since Jacynth was like a June rose, why, a fervent Adorer of Jacynth of course was your servant; And if she had the habit to peep through the casement, How could I keep at any vast distance? And so, as I say, on the lady's persistence, The Duke, dumb-stricken with amazement, Stood for a while in a sultry smother, And then, with a smile that partook of the awful, Turned her over to his yellow mother To learn what was held decorous and lawful; And the mother smelt blood with a cat-like instinct, As her cheek quick whitened thro' all its quince-tinct. Oh, but the lady heard the whole truth at once! What meant she?Who was she?-Her duty and station, The wisdom of age and the folly of youth, at once, Its decent regard and its fitting relation- In brief, my friend, set all the devils in hell free And turn them out to carouse in a belfry And treat the priests to a fifty-part canon, And then you may guess how that tongue of hers ran on! Well, somehow or other it ended at last And, licking her whiskers, out she passed; And after her,-making (he hoped) a face Like Emperor Nero or Sultan Saladin, Stalked the Duke's self with the austere grace Of ancient hero or modern paladin, From door to staircase-oh such a solemn Unbending of the vertebral column! XII. However, at sunrise our company mustered; And here was the huntsman bidding unkennel, And there 'neath his bonnet the pricker blustered, With feather dank as a bough of wet fennel; For the court-yard walls were filled with fog You might have cut as an axe chops a log- Like so much wool for colour and bulkiness; And out rode the Duke in a perfect sulkiness, Since, before breakfast, a man feels but queasily, And a sinking at the lower abdomen Begins the day with indifferent omen. And lo, as he looked around uneasily, The sun ploughed the fog up and drove it asunder This way and that from the valley under; And, looking through the court-yard arch, Down in the valley, what should meet him But a troop of Gipsies on their march? No doubt with the annual gifts to greet him. XIII. Now, in your land, Gipsies reach you, only After reaching all lands beside; North they go, South they go, trooping or lonely, And still, as they travel far and wide, Catch they and keep now a trace here, trace there, That puts you in mind of a place here, a place there. But with us, I believe they rise out of the ground, And nowhere else, I take it, are found With the earth-tint yet so freshly embrowned: Born, no doubt, like insects which breed on The very fruit they are meant to feed on. For the earth-not a use to which they don't turn it, The ore that grows in the mountain's womb, Or the sand in the pits like a honeycomb, They sift and soften it, bake it and burn it- Whether they weld you, for instance, a snaffle With side-bars never a brute can baffle; Or a lock that's a puzzle of wards within wards; Or, if your colt's fore-foot inclines to curve inwards, Horseshoes they hammer which turn on a swivel And won't allow the hoof to shrivel. Then they cast bells like the shell of the winkle That keep a stout heart in the ram with their tinkle; But the sand-they pinch and pound it like otters; Commend me to Gipsy glass-makers and potters! Glasses they'll blow you, crystal-clear, Where just a faint cloud of rose shall appear, As if in pure water you dropped and let die A bruised black-blooded mulberry; And that other sort, their crowning pride, With long white threads distinct inside, Like the lake-flower's fibrous roots which dangle Loose such a length and never tangle, Where the bold sword-lily cuts the clear waters, And the cup-lily couches with all the white daughters: Such are the works they put their hand to, The uses they turn and twist iron and sand to. And these made the troop, which our Duke saw sally Toward his castle from out of the valley, Men and women, like new-hatched spiders, Come out with the morning to greet our riders. And up they wound till they reached the ditch, Whereat all stopped save one, a witch That I knew, as she hobbled from the group, By her gait directly and her stoop, I, whom Jacynth was used to importune To let that same witch tell us our fortune. The oldest Gipsy then above ground; And, sure as the autumn season came round, She paid us a visit for profit or pastime, And every time, as she swore, for the last time. And presently she was seen to sidle Up to the Duke till she touched his bridle, So that the horse of a sudden reared up As under its nose the old witch peered up With her worn-out eyes, or rather eye-holes Of no use now but to gather brine, And began a kind of level whine Such as they used to sing to their viols When their ditties they go grinding Up and down with nobody minding: And then, as of old, at the end of the humming Her usual presents were forthcoming -A dog-whistle blowing the fiercest of trebles, (Just a sea-shore stone holding a dozen fine pebbles,) Or a porcelain mouth-piece to screw on a pipe-end,- And so she awaited her annual stipend. But this time, the Duke would scarcely vouchsafe A word in reply; and in vain she felt With twitching fingers at her belt For the purse of sleek pine-martin pelt, Ready to ptlt what he gave in her pouch safe,- Till, either to quicken his apprehension, Or possibly with an after-intention, She was come, she said, to pay her duty To the new Duchess, the youthful beauty. No sooner had she named his lady, Than a shine lit up the face so shady, And its smirk returned with a novel meaning- For it struck him, the babe just wanted weaning; If one gave her a taste of what life was and sorrow, She, foolish to-day, would be wiser tomorrow; And who so fit a teacher of trouble As this sordid crone bent well-nigh double? So, glancing at her wolf-skin vesture, (If such it was, for they grow so hirsute That their own fleece serves for natural fur-suit) He was contrasting, 'twas plain from his gesture, The life of the lady so flower-like and delicate With the loathsome squalor of this helicat. I, in brief, was the man the Duke beckoned From out of the throng, and while I drew near He told the crone-as I since have reckoned By the way he bent and spoke into her ear With circumspection and mystery- The main of the lady's history, Her frowardness and ingratitude: And for all the crone's submissive attitude I could see round her mouth the loose plaits tightening, And her brow with assenting intelligence brightening, As though she engaged with hearty good-will Whatever he now might enjoin to fulfil, And promised the lady a thorough frightening. And so, just giving her a glimpse Of a purse, with the air of a man who imps The wing of the hawk that shall fetch the hernshaw, He bade me take the Gipsy mother And set her telling some story or other Of hill or dale, oak-wood or fernshaw, To wile away a weary hour For the lady left alone in her bower, Whose mind and body craved exertion And yet shrank from all better diversion. XIV. Then clapping heel to his horse, the mere curveter, Out rode the Duke, and after his hollo Horses and hounds swept, huntsman and servitor, And back I turned and bade the crone follow. And what makes me confident what's to be told you Had all along been of this crone's devising, Is, that, on looking round sharply, behold you, There was a novelty quick as surprising: For first, she had shot up a full head in stature, And her step kept pace with mine nor faltered, As if age had foregone its usurpature, And the ignoble mien was wholly altered, And the face looked quite of another nature, And the change reached too, whatever the change meant, Her shaggy wolf-skin cloak's arrangement: For where its tatters hung loose like sedges, Gold coins were glittering on the edges, Like the band-roll strung with tomans Which proves the veil a Persian woman's. And under her brow, like a snail's horns newly Come out as after the rain he paces, Two unmistakeable eye-points duly Live and aware looked out of their places. So, we went and found Jacynth at the entry Of the lady's chamber standing sentry; I told the command and produced my companion, And Jacynth rejoiced to admit any one, For since last night, by the same token, Not a single word had the lady spoken: They went in both to the presence together, While I in the balcony watched the weather. XV. And now, what took place at the very first of all, I cannot tell, as I never could learn it: Jacynth constantly wished a curse to fall On that little head of hers and burn it If she knew how she came to drop so soundly Asleep of a sudden and there continue The whole time sleeping as profoundly As one of the boars my father would pin you 'Twixt the eyes where life holds garrison, -Jacynth forgive me the comparison! But where I begin asy own narration Is a little after I took my station To breathe the fresh air from the balcony, And, having in those days a falcon eye, To follow the hunt thro' the open country, From where the bushes thinlier crested The hillocks, to a plain where's not one tree. When, in a moment, my ear was arrested By-was it singing, or was it saying, Or a strange musical instrument playing In the chamber?-and to be certain I pushed the lattice, pulled the curtain, And there lay Jacynth asleep, Yet as if a watch she tried to keep, In a rosy sleep along the floor With her head against the door; While in the midst, on the seat of state, Was a queen-the Gipsy woman late, With head and face downbent On the lady's head and face intent: For, coiled at her feet like a child at ease, The lady sat between her knees And o'er them the lady's clasped hands met, And on those hands her chin was set, And her upturned face met the face of the crone Wherein the eyes had grown and grown As if she could double and quadruple At pleasure the play of either pupil -Very like, by her hands' slow fanning, As up and down like a gor-crow's flappers They moved to measure, or bell-clappers. I said ``Is it blessing, is it banning, ``Do they applaud you or burlesque you- ``Those hands and fingers with no flesh on?'' But, just as I thought to spring in to the rescue, At once I was stopped by the lady's expression: For it was life her eyes were drinking From the crone's wide pair above unwinking, -Life's pure fire received without shrinking, Into the heart and breast whose heaving Told you no single drop they were leaving, -Life, that filling her, passed redundant Into her very hair, back swerving Over each shoulder, loose and abundant, As her head thrown back showed the white throat curving; And the very tresses shared in the pleasure, Moving to the mystic measure, Bounding as the bosom bounded. I stopped short, more and more confounded, As still her cheeks burned and eyes glistened, As she listened and she listened: When all at once a hand detained me, The selfsame contagion gained me, And I kept time to the wondrous chime, Making out words and prose and rhyme, Till it seemed that the music furled Its wings like a task fulfilled, and dropped From under the words it first had propped, And left them midway in the world: Word took word as hand takes hand, I could hear at last, and understand, And when I held the unbroken thread, The Gipsy said:- ``And so at last we find my tribe. ``And so I set thee in the midst, ``And to one and all of them describe ``What thou saidst and what thou didst, ``Our long and terrible journey through, ``And all thou art ready to say and do ``In the trials that remain: ``I trace them the vein and the other vein ``That meet on thy brow and part again, ``Making our rapid mystic mark; ``And I bid my people prove and probe ``Each eye's profound and glorious globe ``Till they detect the kindred spark ``In those depths so dear and dark, ``Like the spots that snap and burst and flee, ``Circling over the midnight sea. ``And on that round young cheek of thine ``I make them recognize the tinge, ``As when of the costly scarlet wine ``They drip so much as will impinge ``And spread in a thinnest scale afloat ``One thick gold drop from the olive's coat ``Over a silver plate whose sheen ``Still thro' the mixture shall be seen. ``For so I prove thee, to one and all, ``Fit, when my people ope their breast, ``To see the sign, and hear the call, ``And take the vow, and stand the test ``Which adds one more child to the rest- ``When the breast is bare and the arms are wide, ``And the world is left outside. ``For there is probation to decree, ``And many and long must the trials be ``Thou shalt victoriously endure, ``If that brow is true and those eyes are sure; ``Like a jewel-finder's fierce assay ``Of the prize he dug from its mountain-tomb- ``Let once the vindicating ray ``Leap out amid the anxious gloom, ``And steel and fire have done their part ``And the prize falls on its finder's heart; `'So, trial after trial past, ``Wilt thou fall at the very last ``Breathless, half in trance ``With the thrill of the great deliverance, ``Into our arms for evermore; ``And thou shalt know, those arms once curled ``About thee, what we knew before, ``How love is the only good in the world. ``Henceforth be loved as heart can love, ``Or brain devise, or hand approve! ``Stand up, look below, ``It is our life at thy feet we throw ``To step with into light and joy; ``Not a power of life but we employ ``To satisfy thy nature's want; ``Art thou the tree that props the plant, ``Or the climbing plant that seeks the tree- ``Canst thou help us, must we help thee? ``If any two creatures grew into one, ``They would do more than the world has done. ``Though each apart were never so weak, ``Ye vainly through the world should seek ``For the knowledge and the might ``Which in such union grew their right: ``So, to approach at least that end, ``And blend,-as much as may be, blend ``Thee with us or us with thee,- ``As climbing plant or propping tree, ``Shall some one deck thee, over and down, ``Up and about, with blossoms and leaves? ``Fix his heart's fruit for thy garland crown, ``Cling with his soul as the gourd-vine cleaves, ``Die on thy boughs and disappear ``While not a leaf of thine is sere? ``Or is the other fate in store, ``And art thou fitted to adore, ``To give thy wondrous self away, ``And take a stronger nature's sway? ``I foresee and could foretell ``Thy future portion, sure and well: ``But those passionate eyes speak true, speak true, ``Let them say what thou shalt do! ``Only be sure thy daily life, ``In its peace or in its strife, ``Never shall be unobserved: ``We pursue thy whole career, ``And hope for it, or doubt, or fear,- ``Lo, hast thou kept thy path or swerved, ``We are beside thee in all thy ways, ``With our blame, with our praise, ``Our shame to feel, our pride to show, ``Glad, angry-but indifferent, no! ``Whether it be thy lot to go, ``For the good of us all, where the haters meet ``In the crowded city's horrible street; ``Or thou step alone through the morass ``Where never sound yet was ``Save the dry quick clap of the stork's bill, ``For the air is still, and the water still, ``When the blue breast of the dipping coot ``Dives under, and all is mute. ``So, at the last shall come old age, ``Decrepit as befits that stage; ``How else wouldst thou retire apart ``With the hoarded memories of thy heart, ``And gather all to the very least ``Of the fragments of life's earlier feast, ``Let fall through eagerness to find ``The crowning dainties yet behind? ``Ponder on the entire past ``Laid together thus at last, ``When the twilight helps to fuse ``The first fresh with the faded hues, ``And the outline of the whole, ``As round eve's shades their framework roll, ``Grandly fronts for once thy soul. ``And then as, 'mid the dark, a glean ``Of yet another morning breaks, ``And like the hand which ends a dream, ``Death, with the might of his sunbeam, ``Touches the flesh and the soul awakes, ``Then'' Ay, then indeed something would happen! But what? For here her voice changed like a bird's; There grew more of the music and less of the words; Had Jacynth only been by me to clap pen To paper and put you down every syllable With those clever clerkly fingers, All I've forgotten as well as what lingers In this old brain of mine that's but ill able To give you even this poor version Of the speech I spoil, as it were, with stammering -More fault of those who had the hammering Of prosody into me and syntax, And did it, not with hobnails but tintacks! But to return from this excursion,- Just, do you mark, when the song was sweetest, The peace most deep and the charm completest, There came, shall I say, a snap- And the charm vanished! And my sense returned, so strangely banished, And, starting as from a nap, I knew the crone was bewitching my lady, With Jacynth asleep; and but one spring made I Down from the casement, round to the portal, Another minute and I had entered,- When the door opened, and more than mortal Stood, with a face where to my mind centred All beauties I ever saw or shall see, The Duchess: I stopped as if struck by palsy. She was so different, happy and beautiful, I felt at once that all was best, And that I had nothing to do, for the rest, But wait her commands, obey and be dutiful. Not that, in fact, there was any commanding; I saw the glory of her eye, And the brow's height and the breast's expanding, And I was hers to live or to die. As for finding what she wanted, You know God Almighty granted Such little signs should serve wild creatures To tell one another all their desires, So that each knows what his friend requires, And does its bidding without teachers. I preceded her; the crone Followed silent and alone; I spoke to her, but she merely jabbered In the old style; both her eyes had slunk Back to their pits; her stature shrunk; In short, the soul in its body sunk Like a blade sent home to its scabbard. We descended, I preceding; Crossed the court with nobody heeding, All the world was at the chase, The courtyard like a desert-place, The stable emptied of its small fry; I saddled myself the very palfrey I remember patting while it carried her, The day she arrived and the Duke married her. And, do you know, though it's easy deceiving Oneself in such matters, I can't help believing The lady had not forgotten it either, And knew the poor devil so much beneath her Would have been only too glad for her service To dance on hot ploughshares like a Turk dervise, But, unable to pay proper duty where owing it, Was reduced to that pitiful method of showing it: For though the moment I began setting His saddle on my own nag of Berold's begetting, (Not that I meant to be obtrusive) She stopped me, while his rug was shifting, By a single rapid finger's lifting, And, with a gesture kind but conclusive, And a little shake of the head, refused me,- I say, although she never used me, Yet when she was mounted, the Gipsy behind her, And I ventured to remind her, I suppose with a voice of less steadiness Than usual, for my feeling exceeded me, -Something to the effect that I was in readiness Whenever God should please she needed me,- Then, do you know, her face looked down on me With a look that placed a crown on me, And she felt in her bosom,-mark, her bosom- And, as a flower-tree drops its blossom, Dropped me . . . ah, had it been a purse Of silver, my friend, or gold that's worse, Why, you see, as soon as I found myself So understood,-that a true heart so may gain Such a reward,-I should have gone home again, Kissed Jacynth, and soberly drowned myself! It was a little plait of hair Such as friends in a convent make To wear, each for the other's sake,- This, see, which at my breast I wear, Ever did (rather to Jacynth's grudgment), And ever shall, till the Day of Judgment. And then,-and then,-to cut short,-this is idle, These are feelings it is not good to foster,- I pushed the gate wide, she shook the bridle, And the palfrey bounded,-and so we lost her. XVI. When the liquor's out why clink the cannikin? I did think to describe you the panic in The redoubtable breast of our master the mannikin, And what was the pitch of his mother's yellowness, How she turned as a shark to snap the spare-rib Clean off, sailors say, from a pearl-diving Carib, When she heard, what she called the flight of the feloness -But it seems such child's play, What they said and did with the lady away! And to dance on, when we've lost the music, Always made me-and no doubt makes you-sick. Nay, to my mind, the world's face looked so stern As that sweet form disappeared through the postern, She that kept it in constant good humour, It ought to have stopped; there seemed nothing to do more. But the world thought otherwise and went on, And my head's one that its spite was spent on: Thirty years are fled since that morning, And with them all my head's adorning. Nor did the old Duchess die outright, As you expect, of suppressed spite, The natural end of every adder Not suffered to empty its poison-bladder: But she and her son agreed, I take it, That no one should touch on the story to wake it, For the wound in the Duke's pride rankled fiery, So, they made no search and small inquiry- And when fresh Gipsies have paid us a visit, I've Noticed the couple were never inquisitive, But told them they're folks the Duke don't want here, And bade them make haste and cross the frontier. Brief, the Duchess was gone and the Duke was glad of it, And the old one was in the young one's stead, And took, in her place, the household's head, And a blessed time the household had of it! And were I not, as a man may say, cautious How I trench, more than needs, on the nauseous, I could favour you with sundry touches Of the paint-smutches with which the Duchess Heightened the mellowness of her cheek's yellowness (To get on faster) until at last her Cheek grew to be one master-plaster Of mucus and focus from mere use of ceruse: In short, she grew from scalp to udder Just the object to make you shudder. XVII. You're my friend- What a thing friendship is, world without end! How it gives the heart and soul a stir-up As if somebody broached you a glorious runlet, And poured out, all lovelily, sparklingly, sunlit, Our green Moldavia, the streaky syrup, Cotnar as old as the time of the Druids- Friendship may match with that monarch of fluids; Each supples a dry brain, fills you its ins-and-outs, Gives your life's hour-glass a shake when the thin sand doubts Whether to run on or stop short, and guarantees Age is not all made of stark sloth and arrant ease. I have seen my little lady once more, Jacynth, the Gipsy, Berold, and the rest of it, For to me spoke the Duke, as I told you before; I always wanted to make a clean breast of it: And now it is made-why, my heart's blood, that went trickle, Trickle, but anon, in such muddy driblets, Is pumped up brisk now, through the main ventricle, And genially floats me about the giblets. I'll tell you what I intend to do: I must see this fellow his sad life through- He is our Duke, after all, And I, as he says, but a serf and thrall. My father was born here, and I inherit His fame, a chain he bound his son with; Could I pay in a lump I should prefer it, But there's no mine to blow up and get done with: So, I must stay till the end of the chapter. For, as to our middle-age-manners-adapter, Be it a thing to be glad on or sorry on, Some day or other, his head in a morion And breast in a hauberk, his heels he'll kick up, Slain by an onslaught fierce of hiccup. And then, when red doth the sword of our Duke rust, And its leathern sheath lie o'ergrown with a blue crust, Then I shall scrape together my earnings; For, you see, in the churchyard Jacynth reposes, And our children all went the way of the roses: It's a long lane that knows no turnings. One needs but little tackle to travel in; So, just one stout cloak shall I indue: And for a stall, what beats the javelin With which his boars my father pinned you? And then, for a purpose you shall hear presently, Taking some Cotnar, a tight plump skinful, I shall go journeying, who but I, pleasantly! Sorrow is vain and despondency sinful. What's a man's age? He must hurry more, that's all; Cram in a day, what his youth took a year to hold. When we mind labour, then only, we're too old- What age had Methusalem when he begat Saul? And at last, as its haven some buffeted ship sees, (Come all the way from the north-parts with sperm oil) I hope to get safely out of the turmoil And arrive one day at the land of the Gipsies, And find my lady, or hear the last news of her From some old thief and son of Lucifer, His forehead chapleted green with wreathy hop, Sunburned all over like an thiop. And when my Cotnar begins to operate And the tongue of the rogue to run at a proper rate, And our wine-skin, tight once, shows each flaccid dent, I shall drop in with-as if by accident- ``You never knew, then, how it all ended, ``What fortune good or bad attended ``The little lady your Queen befriended?'' -And when that's told me, what's remaining? This world's too hard for my explaining. The same wise judge of matters equine Who still preferred some slim four-year-old To the big-boned stock of mighty Berold, And, fur strong Cotnar, drank French weak wine, He also umst be such a lady's scorner! Smooth Jacob still rubs homely Esau: Now up, now down, the world's one see-saw. -So, I shall find out some snug corner Under a hedge, like Orson the wood-knight, Turn myself round and bid the world good night; And sleep a sound sleep till the trumpet's blowing Wakes me (unless priests cheat us laymen) To a world where will be no furtiner throwing Pearls befare swine that Can't value them. Amen! ~ Robert Browning, The Flight Of The Duchess ,

439:The woods were long austere with snow: at last Pink leaflets budded on the beech, and fast Larches, scattered through pine-tree solitudes, Brightened, "as in the slumbrous heart o' the woods "Our buried year, a witch, grew young again "To placid incantations, and that stain "About were from her cauldron, green smoke blent "With those black pines"so Eglamor gave vent To a chance fancy. Whence a just rebuke From his companion; brother Naddo shook The solemnest of brows: "Beware," he said, "Of setting up conceits in nature's stead!" Forth wandered our Sordello. Nought so sure As that to-day's adventure will secure Palma, the visioned ladyonly pass O'er you damp mound and its exhausted grass, Under that brake where sundawn feeds the stalks Of withered fern with gold, into those walks Of pine and take her! Buoyantly he went. Again his stooping forehead was besprent With dew-drops from the skirting ferns. Then wide Opened the great morass, shot every side With flashing water through and through; a-shine, Thick-steaming, all-alive. Whose shape divine, Quivered i' the farthest rainbow-vapour, glanced Athwart the flying herons? He advanced, But warily; though Mincio leaped no more, Each foot-fall burst up in the marish-floor A diamond jet: and if he stopped to pick Rose-lichen, or molest the leeches quick, And circling blood-worms, minnow, newt or loach, A sudden pond would silently encroach This way and that. On Palma passed. The verge Of a new wood was gained. She will emerge Flushed, now, and panting,crowds to see,will own She loves himBoniface to hear, to groan, To leave his suit! One screen of pine-trees still Opposes: butthe startling spectacle Mantua, this time! Under the wallsa crowd Indeed, real men and women, gay and loud Round a pavilion. How he stood!                  In truth No prophecy had come to pass: his youth In its prime nowand where was homage poured Upon Sordello?born to be adored, And suddenly discovered weak, scarce made To cope with any, cast into the shade By this and this. Yet something seemed to prick And tingle in his blood; a sleighta trick And much would be explained. It went for nought The best of their endowments were ill bought With his identity: nay, the conceit, That this day's roving led to Palma's feet Was not so vainlist! The word, "Palma!" Steal Aside, and die, Sordello; this is real, And thisabjure!          What next? The curtains see Dividing! She is there; and presently He will be therethe proper You, at length In your own cherished dress of grace and strength: Most like, the very Boniface!                Not so. It was a showy man advanced; but though A glad cry welcomed him, then every sound Sank and the crowd disposed themselves around, "This is not he," Sordello felt; while, "Place "For the best Troubadour of Boniface!" Hollaed the Jongleurs,"Eglamor, whose lay "Concludes his patron's Court of Love to-day!" Obsequious Naddo strung the master's lute With the new lute-string, "Elys," named to suit The song: he stealthily at watch, the while, Biting his lip to keep down a great smile Of pride: then up he struck. Sordello's brain Swam; for he knew a sometime deed again; So, could supply each foolish gap and chasm The minstrel left in his enthusiasm, Mistaking its true versionwas the tale Not of Apollo? Only, what avail Luring her down, that Elys an he pleased, If the man dared no further? Has he ceased And, lo, the people's frank applause half done, Sordello was beside him, had begun (Spite of indignant twitchings from his friend The Trouvere) the true lay with the true end, Taking the other's names and time and place For his. On flew the song, a giddy race, After the flying story; word made leap Out word, rhymerhyme; the lay could barely keep Pace with the action visibly rushing past: Both ended. Back fell Naddo more aghast Than some Egyptian from the harassed bull That wheeled abrupt and, bellowing, fronted full His plague, who spied a scarab 'neath the tongue, And found 't was Apis' flank his hasty prong Insulted. But the peoplebut the cries, The crowding round, and proffering the prize! For he had gained some prize. He seemed to shrink Into a sleepy cloud, just at whose brink One sight withheld him. There sat Adelaide, Silent; but at her knees the very maid Of the North Chamber, her red lips as rich, The same pure fleecy hair; one weft of which, Golden and great, quite touched his cheek as o'er She leant, speaking some six words and no more. He answered something, anything; and she Unbound a scarf and laid it heavily Upon him, her neck's warmth and all. Again Moved the arrested magic; in his brain Noises grew, and a light that turned to glare, And greater glare, until the intense flare Engulfed him, shut the whole scene from his sense. And when he woke 't was many a furlong thence, At home; the sun shining his ruddy wont; The customary birds'-chirp; but his front Was crownedwas crowned! Her scented scarf around His neck! Whose gorgeous vesture heaps the ground? A prize? He turned, and peeringly on him Brooded the women-faces, kind and dim, Ready to talk"The Jongleurs in a troop "Had brought him back, Naddo and Squarcialupe "And Tagliafer; how strange! a childhood spent "In taking, well for him, so brave a bent! "Since Eglamor," they heard, "was dead with spite, "And Palma chose him for her minstrel."                      Light Sordello roseto think, now; hitherto He had perceived. Sure, a discovery grew Out of it all! Best live from first to last The transport o'er again. A week he passed, Sucking the sweet out of each circumstance, From the bard's outbreak to the luscious trance Bounding his own achievement. Strange! A man Recounted an adventure, but began Imperfectly; his own task was to fill The frame-work up, sing well what he sung ill, Supply the necessary points, set loose As many incidents of little use More imbecile the other, not to see Their relative importance clear as he! But, for a special pleasure in the act Of singinghad he ever turned, in fact, From Elys, to sing Elys?from each fit Of rapture to contrive a song of it? True, this snatch or the other seemed to wind Into a treasure, helped himself to find A beauty in himself; for, see, he soared By means of that mere snatch, to many a hoard Of fancies; as some falling cone bears soft The eye along the fir-tree-spire, aloft To a dove's nest. Then, how divine the cause Why such performance should exact applause From men, if they had fancies too? Did fate Decree they found a beauty separate In the poor snatch itself?"Take Elys, there, "'Her head that 's sharp and perfect like a pear, "'So close and smooth are laid the few fine locks "'Coloured like honey oozed from topmost rocks "'Sun-blanched the livelong summer'if they heard "Just those two rhymes, assented at my word, "And loved them as I love them who have run "These fingers through those pale locks, let the sun "Into the white cool skinwho first could clutch, "Then praiseI needs must be a god to such. "Or what if some, above themselves, and yet "Beneath me, like their Eglamor, have set "An impress on our gift? So, men believe "And worship what they know not, nor receive "Delight from. Have they fanciesslow, perchance, "Not at their beck, which indistinctly glance "Until, by song, each floating part be linked "To each, and all grow palpable, distinct?" He pondered this.          Meanwhile, sounds low and drear Stole on him, and a noise of footsteps, near And nearer, while the underwood was pushed Aside, the larches grazed, the dead leaves crushed At the approach of men. The wind seemed laid; Only, the trees shrunk slightly and a shade Came o'er the sky although 't was midday yet: You saw each half-shut downcast floweret Flutter"a Roman bride, when they 'd dispart "Her unbound tresses with the Sabine dart, "Holding that famous rape in memory still, "Felt creep into her curls the iron chill, "And looked thus," Eglamor would sayindeed 'T is Eglamor, no other, these precede Home hither in the woods. "'T were surely sweet "Far from the scene of one's forlorn defeat "To sleep!" judged Naddo, who in person led Jongleurs and Trouveres, chanting at their head, A scanty company; for, sooth to say, Our beaten Troubadour had seen his day. Old worshippers were something shamed, old friends Nigh weary; still the death proposed amends. "Let us but get them safely through my song "And home again!" quoth Naddo.                 All along, This man (they rest the bier upon the sand) This calm corpse with the loose flowers in his hand, Eglamor, lived Sordello's opposite. For him indeed was Naddo's notion right, And verse a temple-worship vague and vast, A ceremony that withdrew the last Opposing bolt, looped back the lingering veil Which hid the holy place: should one so frail Stand there without such effort? or repine If much was blank, uncertain at the shrine He knelt before, till, soothed by many a rite, The power responded, and some sound or sight Grew up, his own forever, to be fixed, In rhyme, the beautiful, forever!mixed With his own life, unloosed when he should please, Having it safe at hand, ready to ease All pain, remove all trouble; every time He loosed that fancy from its bonds of rhyme, (Like Perseus when he loosed his naked love) Faltering; so distinct and far above Himself, these fancies! He, no genius rare, Transfiguring in fire or wave or air At will, but a poor gnome that, cloistered up In some rock-chamber with his agate cup, His topaz rod, his seed-pearl, in these few And their arrangement finds enough to do For his best art. Then, how he loved that art! The calling marking him a man apart From menone not to care, take counsel for Cold hearts, comfortless faces(Eglamor Was neediest of his tribe)since verse, the gift, Was his, and men, the whole of them, must shift Without it, e'en content themselves with wealth And pomp and power, snatching a life by stealth. So, Eglamor was not without his pride! The sorriest bat which cowers throughout noontide While other birds are jocund, has one time When moon and stars are blinded, and the prime Of earth is his to claim, nor find a peer; And Eglamor was noblest poet here He well knew, 'mid those April woods he cast Conceits upon in plenty as he passed, That Naddo might suppose him not to think Entirely on the coming triumph: wink At the one weakness! 'T was a fervid child, That song of his; no brother of the guild Had e'er conceived its like. The rest you know, The exaltation and the overthrow: Our poet lost his purpose, lost his rank, His lifeto that it came. Yet envy sank Within him, as he heard Sordello out, And, for the first time, shoutedtried to shout Like others, not from any zeal to show Pleasure that way: the common sort did so, What else was Eglamor? who, bending down As they, placed his beneath Sordello's crown, Printed a kiss on his successor's hand, Left one great tear on it, then joined his band In time; for some were watching at the door: Who knows what envy may effect? "Give o'er, "Nor charm his lips, nor craze him!" (here one spied And disengaged the withered crown)"Beside "His crown? How prompt and clear those verses rang "To answer yours! nay, sing them!" And he sang Them calmly. Home he went; friends used to wait His coming, zealous to congratulate; But, to a manso quickly runs report Could do no less than leave him, and escort His rival. That eve, then, bred many a thought: What must his future life be? was he brought So low, who stood so lofty this Spring morn? At length he said, "Best sleep now with my scorn, "And by to-morrow I devise some plain "Expedient!" So, he slept, nor woke again. They found as much, those friends, when they returned O'erflowing with the marvels they had learned About Sordello's paradise, his roves Among the hills and vales and plains and groves, Wherein, no doubt, this lay was roughly cast, Polished by slow degrees, completed last To Eglamor's discomfiture and death. Such form the chanters now, and, out of breath, They lay the beaten man in his abode, Naddo reciting that same luckless ode, Doleful to hear. Sordello could explore By means of it, however, one step more In joy; and, mastering the round at length, Learnt how to live in weakness as in strength, When from his covert forth he stood, addressed Eglamor, bade the tender ferns invest, Primval pines o'ercanopy his couch, And, most of all, his fame(shall I avouch Eglamor heard it, dead though he might look, And laughed as from his brow Sordello took The crown, and laid on the bard's breast, and said It was a crown, now, fit for poet's head?) Continue. Nor the prayer quite fruitless fell. A plant they have, yielding a three-leaved bell Which whitens at the heart ere noon, and ails Till evening; evening gives it to her gales To clear away with such forgotten things As are an eyesore to the morn: this brings Him to their mind, and bears his very name. So much for Eglamor. My own month came; 'T was a sunrise of blossoming and May. Beneath a flowering laurel thicket lay Sordello; each new sprinkle of white stars That smell fainter of wine than Massic jars Dug up at Bai, when the south wind shed The ripest, made him happier; filleted And robed the same, only a lute beside Lay on the turf. Before him far and wide The country stretched: Goito slept behind The castle and its covert, which confined Him with his hopes and fears; so fain of old To leave the story of his birth untold. At intervals, 'spite the fantastic glow Of his Apollo-life, a certain low And wretched whisper, winding through the bliss, Admonished, no such fortune could be his, All was quite false and sure to fade one day: The closelier drew he round him his array Of brilliance to expel the truth. But when A reason for his difference from men Surprised him at the grave, he took no rest While aught of that old life, superbly dressed Down to its meanest incident, remained A mystery: alas, they soon explained Away Apollo! and the tale amounts To this: when at Vicenza both her counts Banished the Vivaresi kith and kin, Those Maltraversi hung on Ecelin, Reviled him as he followed; he for spite Must fire their quarter, though that self-same night Among the flames young Ecelin was born Of Adelaide, there too, and barely torn From the roused populace hard on the rear, By a poor archer when his chieftain's fear Grew high; into the thick Elcorte leapt, Saved her, and died; no creature left except His child to thank. And when the full escape Was knownhow men impaled from chine to nape Unlucky Prata, all to pieces spurned Bishop Pistore's concubines, and burned Taurello's entire household, flesh and fell, Missing the sweeter preysuch courage well Might claim reward. The orphan, ever since, Sordello, had been nurtured by his prince Within a blind retreat where Adelaide (For, once this notable discovery made, The past at every point was understood) Might harbour easily when times were rude, When Azzo schemed for Palma, to retrieve That pledge of Agnes Esteloth to leave Mantua unguarded with a vigilant eye, While there Taurello bode ambiguously He who could have no motive now to moil For his own fortunes since their utter spoil As it were worth while yet (went the report) To disengage himself from her. In short, Apollo vanished; a mean youth, just named His lady's minstrel, was to be proclaimed How shall I phrase it?Monarch of the World! For, on the day when that array was furled Forever, and in place of one a slave To longings, wild indeed, but longings save In dreams as wild, suppressedone daring not Assume the mastery such dreams allot, Until a magical equipment, strength, Grace, wisdom, decked him too,he chose at length, Content with unproved wits and failing frame, In virtue of his simple will, to claim That mastery, no lessto do his best With means so limited, and let the rest Go by,the seal was set: never again Sordello could in his own sight remain One of the many, one with hopes and cares And interests nowise distinct from theirs, Only peculiar in a thriveless store Of fancies, which were fancies and no more; Never again for him and for the crowd A common law was challenged and allowed If calmly reasoned of, howe'er denied By a mad impulse nothing justified Short of Apollo's presence. The divorce Is clear: why needs Sordello square his course By any known example? Men no more Compete with him than tree and flower before. Himself, inactive, yet is greater far Than such as act, each stooping to his star, Acquiring thence his function; he has gained The same result with meaner mortals trained To strength or beauty, moulded to express Each the idea that rules him; since no less He comprehends that function, but can still Embrace the others, take of might his fill With Richard as of grace with Palma, mix Their qualities, or for a moment fix On one; abiding free meantime, uncramped By any partial organ, never stamped Strong, and to strength turning all energies Wise, and restricted to becoming wise That is, he loves not, nor possesses One Idea that, star-like over, lures him on To its exclusive purpose. "Fortunate! "This flesh of mine ne'er strove to emulate "A soul so varioustook no casual mould "Of the first fancy and, contracted, cold, "Clogged her foreversoul averse to change "As flesh: whereas flesh leaves soul free to range, "Remains itself a blank, cast into shade, "Encumbers little, if it cannot aid. "So, range, free soul!who, by self-consciousness, "The last drop of all beauty dost express "The grace of seeing grace, a quintessence "For thee: while for the world, that can dispense "Wonder on men who, themselves, wondermake "A shift to love at second-hand, and take "For idols those who do but idolize, "Themselves,the world that counts men strong or wise, "Who, themselves, court strength, wisdom,it shall bow "Surely in unexampled worship now, "Discerning me!"          (Dear monarch, I beseech, Notice how lamentably wide a breach Is here: discovering this, discover too What our poor world has possibly to do With it! As pigmy natures as you please So much the better for you; take your ease, Look on, and laugh; style yourself God alone; Strangle some day with a cross olive-stone! All that is right enough: but why want us To know that you yourself know thus and thus?) "The world shall bow to me conceiving all "Man's life, who see its blisses, great and small, "Afarnot tasting any; no machine "To exercise my utmost will is mine: "Be mine mere consciousness! Let men perceive "What I could do, a mastery believe, "Asserted and established to the throng "By their selected evidence of song "Which now shall prove, whate'er they are, or seek "To be, I amwhose words, not actions speak, "Who change no standards of perfection, vex "With no strange forms created to perplex, "But just perform their bidding and no more, "At their own satiating-point give o'er, "While each shall love in me the love that leads "His soul to power's perfection." Song, not deeds, (For we get tired) was chosen. Fate would brook Mankind no other organ; he would look For not another channel to dispense His own volition by, receive men's sense Of its supremacywould live content, Obstructed else, with merely verse for vent. Nor should, for instance, strength an outlet seek And, striving, be admired: nor grace bespeak Wonder, displayed in gracious attitudes: Nor wisdom, poured forth, change unseemly moods; But he would give and take on song's one point. Like some huge throbbing stone that, poised a-joint, Sounds, to affect on its basaltic bed, Must sue in just one accent; tempests shed Thunder, and raves the windstorm: only let That key by any little noise be set The far benighted hunter's halloo pitch On that, the hungry curlew chance to scritch Or serpent hiss it, rustling through the rift, However loud, however lowall lift The groaning monster, stricken to the heart. Lo ye, the world's concernment, for its part, And this, for his, will hardly interfere! Its businesses in blood and blaze this year But wile the hour awaya pastime slight Till he shall step upon the platform: right! And, now thus much is settled, cast in rough, Proved feasible, be counselled! thought enough, Slumber, Sordello! any day will serve: Were it a less digested plan! how swerve To-morrow? Meanwhile eat these sun-dried grapes, And watch the soaring hawk there! Life escapes Merrily thus.        He thoroughly read o'er His truchman Naddo's missive six times more, Praying him visit Mantua and supply A famished world.          The evening star was high When he reached Mantua, but his fame arrived Before him: friends applauded, foes connived, And Naddo looked an angel, and the rest Angels, and all these angels would be blest Supremely by a songthe thrice-renowned Goito-manufacture. Then he found (Casting about to satisfy the crowd) That happy vehicle, so late allowed, A sore annoyance; 't was the song's effect He cared for, scarce the song itself: reflect! In the past life, what might be singing's use? Just to delight his Delians, whose profuse Praise, not the toilsome process which procured That praise, enticed Apollo: dreams abjured, No overleaping means for endstake both For granted or take neither! I am loth To say the rhymes at last were Eglamor's; But Naddo, chuckling, bade competitors Go pine; "the master certes meant to waste "No effort, cautiously had probed the taste "He 'd please anon: true bard, in short,disturb "His title if they could; nor spur nor curb, "Fancy nor reason, wanting in him; whence "The staple of his verses, common sense: "He built on man's broad naturegift of gifts, "That power to build! The world contented shifts "With counterfeits enough, a dreary sort "Of warriors, statesmen, ere it can extort "Its poet-soulthat 's, after all, a freak "(The having eyes to see and tongue to speak) "With our herd's stupid sterling happiness "So plainly incompatible thatyes "Yesshould a son of his improve the breed "And turn out poet, he were cursed indeed!" "Well, there 's Goito and its woods anon, "If the worst happen; best go stoutly on "Now!" thought Sordello.              Ay, and goes on yet! You pother with your glossaries to get A notion of the Troubadour's intent In rondel, tenzon, virlai or sirvent Much as you study arras how to twirl His angelot, plaything of page and girl Once; but you surely reach, at last,or, no! Never quite reach what struck the people so, As from the welter of their time he drew Its elements successively to view, Followed all actions backward on their course, And catching up, unmingled at the source, Such a strength, such a weakness, added then A touch or two, and turned them into men. Virtue took form, nor vice refused a shape; Here heaven opened, there was hell agape, As Saint this simpered past in sanctity, Sinner the other flared portentous by A greedy people. Then why stop, surprised At his success? The scheme was realized Too suddenly in one respect: a crowd Praising, eyes quick to see, and lips as loud To speak, delicious homage to receive, The woman's breath to feel upon his sleeve, Who said, "But Anafestwhy asks he less "Than Lucio, in your verses? how confess, "It seemed too much but yestereve!"the youth, Who bade him earnestly, "Avow the truth! "You love Bianca, surely, from your song; "I knew I was unworthy!"soft or strong, In poured such tributes ere he had arranged Ethereal ways to take them, sorted, changed, Digested. Courted thus at unawares, In spite of his pretensions and his cares, He caught himself shamefully hankering After the obvious petty joys that spring From true life, fain relinquish pedestal And condescend with pleasuresone and all To be renounced, no doubt; for, thus to chain Himself to single joys and so refrain From tasting their quintessence, frustrates, sure, His prime design; each joy must he abjure Even for love of it.            He laughed: what sage But perishes if from his magic page He look because, at the first line, a proof 'T was heard salutes him from the cavern roof? "On! Give yourself, excluding aught beside, "To the day's task; compel your slave provide "Its utmost at the soonest; turn the leaf "Thoroughly conned. These lays of yours, in brief "Cannot men bear, now, something better?fly "A pitch beyond this unreal pageantry "Of essences? the period sure has ceased "For such: present us with ourselves, at least, "Not portions of ourselves, mere loves and hates "Made flesh: wait not!"             Awhile the poet waits However. The first trial was enough: He left imagining, to try the stuff That held the imaged thing, and, let it writhe Never so fiercely, scarce allowed a tithe To reach the lighthis Language. How he sought The cause, conceived a cure, and slow re-wrought That Language,welding words into the crude Mass from the new speech round him, till a rude Armour was hammered out, in time to be Approved beyond the Roman panoply Melted to make it,boots not. This obtained With some ado, no obstacle remained To using it; accordingly he took An action with its actors, quite forsook Himself to live in each, returned anon With the resulta creature, and, by one And one, proceeded leisurely to equip Its limbs in harness of his workmanship. "Accomplished! Listen, Mantuans!" Fond essay! Piece after piece that armour broke away, Because perceptions whole, like that he sought To clothe, reject so pure a work of thought As language: thought may take perception's place But hardly co-exist in any case, Being its mere presentmentof the whole By parts, the simultaneous and the sole By the successive and the many. Lacks The crowd perception? painfully it tacks Thought to thought, which Sordello, needing such, Has rent perception into: it's to clutch And reconstructhis office to diffuse, Destroy: as hard, then, to obtain a Muse As to become Apollo. "For the rest, "E'en if some wondrous vehicle expressed "The whole dream, what impertinence in me "So to express it, who myself can be "The dream! nor, on the other hand, are those "I sing to, over-likely to suppose "A higher than the highest I present "Now, which they praise already: be content "Both parties, ratherthey with the old verse, "And I with the old praisefar go, fare worse!" A few adhering rivets loosed, upsprings The angel, sparkles off his mail, which rings Whirled from each delicatest limb it warps; So might Apollo from the sudden corpse Of Hyacinth have cast his luckless quoits. He set to celebrating the exploits Of Montfort o'er the Mountaineers.                   Then came The world's revenge: their pleasure, now his aim Merely,what was it? "Not to play the fool "So much as learn our lesson in your school!" Replied the world. He found that, every time He gained applause by any ballad-rhyme, His auditory recognized no jot As he intended, and, mistaking not Him for his meanest hero, ne'er was dunce Sufficient to believe himall, at once. His will . . . conceive it caring for his will! Mantuans, the main of them, admiring still How a mere singer, ugly, stunted, weak, Had Montfort at completely (so to speak) His fingers' ends; while past the praise-tide swept To Montfort, either's share distinctly kept: The true meed for true merit!his abates Into a sort he most repudiates, And on them angrily he turns. Who were The Mantuans, after all, that he should care About their recognition, ay or no? In spite of the convention months ago, (Why blink the truth?) was not he forced to help This same ungrateful audience, every whelp Of Naddo's litter, make them pass for peers With the bright band of old Goito years, As erst he toiled for flower or tree? Why, there Sat Palma! Adelaide's funereal hair Ennobled the next corner. Ay, he strewed A fairy dust upon that multitude, Although he feigned to take them by themselves; His giants dignified those puny elves, Sublimed their faint applause. In short, he found Himself still footing a delusive round, Remote as ever from the self-display He meant to compass, hampered every way By what he hoped assistance. Wherefore then Continue, make believe to find in men A use he found not?           Weeks, months, years went by And lo, Sordello vanished utterly, Sundered in twain; each spectral part at strife With each; one jarred against another life; The Poet thwarting hopelessly the Man Who, fooled no longer, free in fancy ran Here, there: let slip no opportunities As pitiful, forsooth, beside the prize To drop on him some no-time and acquit His constant faith (the Poet-half's to wit That waiving any compromise between No joy and all joy kept the hunger keen Beyond most methods)of incurring scoff From the Man-portionnot to be put off With self-reflectings by the Poet's scheme, Though ne'er so bright. Who sauntered forth in dream, Dressed any how, nor waited mystic frames, Immeasurable gifts, astounding claims, But just his sorry self?who yet might be Sorrier for aught he in reality Achieved, so pinioned Man's the Poet-part, Fondling, in turn of fancy, verse; the Art Developing his soul a thousand ways Potent, by its assistance, to amaze The multitude with majesties, convince Each sort of nature that the nature's prince Accosted it. Language, the makeshift, grew Into a bravest of expedients, too; Apollo, seemed it now, perverse had thrown Quiver and bow away, the lyre alone Sufficed. While, out of dream, his day's work went To tune a crazy tenzon or sirvent So hampered him the Man-part, thrust to judge Between the bard and the bard's audience, grudge A minute's toil that missed its due reward! But the complete Sordello, Man and Bard, John's cloud-girt angel, this foot on the land, That on the sea, with, open in his hand, A bitter-sweetling of a bookwas gone. Then, if internal struggles to be one, Which frittered him incessantly piecemeal, Referred, ne'er so obliquely, to the real Intruding Mantuans! ever with some call To action while he pondered, once for all, Which looked the easier effortto pursue This course, still leap o'er paltry joys, yearn through The present ill-appreciated stage Of self-revealment, and compel the age Know himor else, forswearing bard-craft, wake From out his lethargy and nobly shake Off timid habits of denial, mix With men, enjoy like men. Ere he could fix On aught, in rushed the Mantuans; much they cared For his perplexity! Thus unprepared, The obvious if not only shelter lay In deeds, the dull conventions of his day Prescribed the like of him: why not be glad 'T is settled Palma's minstrel, good or bad, Submits to this and that established rule? Let Vidal change, or any other fool, His murrey-coloured robe for filamot, And crop his hair; too skin-deep, is it not, Such vigour? Then, a sorrow to the heart, His talk! Whatever topics they might start Had to be groped for in his consciousness Straight, and as straight delivered them by guess. Only obliged to ask himself, "What was," A speedy answer followed; but, alas, One of God's large ones, tardy to condense Itself into a period; answers whence A tangle of conclusions must be stripped At any risk ere, trim to pattern clipped, They matched rare specimens the Mantuan flock Regaled him with, each talker from his stock Of sorted-o'er opinions, every stage, Juicy in youth or desiccate with age, Fruits like the fig-tree's, rathe-ripe, rotten-rich, Sweet-sour, all tastes to take: a practice which He too had not impossibly attained, Once either of those fancy-flights restrained; (For, at conjecture how might words appear To others, playing there what happened here, And occupied abroad by what he spurned At home, 't was slipped, the occasion he returned To seize he 'd strike that lyre adroitlyspeech, Would but a twenty-cubit plectre reach; A clever hand, consummate instrument, Were both brought close; each excellency went For nothing, else. The question Naddo asked, Had just a lifetime moderately tasked To answer, Naddo's fashion. More disgust And more: why move his soul, since move it must At minute's notice or as good it failed To move at all? The end was, he retailed Some ready-made opinion, put to use This quip, that maxim, ventured reproduce Gestures and tonesat any folly caught Serving to finish with, nor too much sought If false or true 't was spoken; praise and blame Of what he said grew pretty nigh the same Meantime awards to meantime acts: his soul, Unequal to the compassing a whole, Saw, in a tenth part, less and less to strive About. And as for men in turn . . . contrive Who could to take eternal interest In them, so hate the worst, so love the best, Though, in pursuance of his passive plan, He hailed, decried, the proper way.                    As Man So figured he; and how as Poet? Verse Came only not to a stand-still. The worse, That his poor piece of daily work to do Wasnot sink under any rivals; who Loudly and long enough, without these qualms, Turned, from Bocafoli's stark-naked psalms, To Plara's sonnets spoilt by toying with, "As knops that stud some almug to the pith "Prickd for gum, wry thence, and crinkld worse "Than pursd eyelids of a river-horse "Sunning himself o' the slime when whirrs the breese" Gad-fly, that is. He might compete with these! Butbut      "Observe a pompion-twine afloat; "Pluck me one cup from off the castle-moat! "Along with cup you raise leaf, stalk and root, "The entire surface of the pool to boot. "So could I pluck a cup, put in one song "A single sight, did not my hand, too strong, "Twitch in the least the root-strings of the whole. "How should externals satisfy my soul?" "Why that's precise the error Squarcialupe" (Hazarded Naddo) "finds; 'the man can't stoop "'To sing us out,' quoth he, 'a mere romance; "'He'd fain do better than the best, enhance "'The subjects' rarity, work problems out "'Therewith.' Now, you 're a bard, a bard past doubt, "And no philosopher; why introduce "Crotchets like these? fine, surely, but no use "In poetrywhich still must be, to strike, "Based upon common sense; there's nothing like "Appealing to our nature! what beside "Was your first poetry? No tricks were tried "In that, no hollow thrills, affected throes! "'The man,' said we, 'tells his own joys and woes: "'We'll trust him.' Would you have your songs endure? "Build on the human heart!why, to be sure "Yours is one sort of heartbut I mean theirs, "Ours, every one's, the healthy heart one cares "To build on! Central peace, mother of strength, "That's father of . . . nay, go yourself that length, "Ask those calm-hearted doers what they do "When they have got their calm! And is it true, "Fire rankles at the heart of every globe? "Perhaps. But these are matters one may probe "Too deeply for poetic purposes: "Rather select a theory that . . . yes, "Laugh! what does that prove?stations you midway "And saves some little o'er-refining. Nay, "That's rank injustice done me! I restrict "The poet? Don't I hold the poet picked "Out of a host of warriors, statesmen . . . did "I tell you? Very like! As well you hid "That sense of power, you have! True bards believe "All able to achieve what they achieve "That is, just nothingin one point abide "Profounder simpletons than all beside. "Oh, ay! The knowledge that you are a bard "Must constitute your prime, nay sole, reward!" So prattled Naddo, busiest of the tribe Of genius-hauntershow shall I describe What grubs or nips or rubs or ripsyour louse For love, your flea for hate, magnanimous, Malignant, Pappacoda, Tagliafer, Picking a sustenance from wear and tear By implements it sedulous employs To undertake, lay down, mete out, o'er-toise Sordello? Fifty creepers to elude At once! They settled staunchly; shame ensued: Behold the monarch of mankind succumb To the last fool who turned him round his thumb, As Naddo styled it! 'T was not worth oppose The matter of a moment, gainsay those He aimed at getting rid of; better think Their thoughts and speak their speech, secure to slink Back expeditiously to his safe place, And chew the cudwhat he and what his race Were really, each of them. Yet even this Conformity was partial. He would miss Some point, brought into contact with them ere Assured in what small segment of the sphere Of his existence they attended him; Whence blunders, falsehoods rectifieda grim Listslur it over! How? If dreams were tried, His will swayed sicklily from side to side, Nor merely neutralized his waking act But tended e'en in fancy to distract The intermediate will, the choice of means. He lost the art of dreaming: Mantuan scenes Supplied a baron, say, he sang before, Handsomely reckless, full to running-o'er Of gallantries; "abjure the soul, content "With body, therefore!" Scarcely had he bent Himself in dream thus low, when matter fast Cried out, he found, for spirit to contrast And task it duly; by advances slight, The simple stuff becoming composite, Count Lori grew Apollo: best recall His fancy! Then would some rough peasant-Paul, Like those old Ecelin confers with, glance His gay apparel o'er; that countenance Gathered his shattered fancies into one, And, body clean abolished, soul alone Sufficed the grey Paulician: by and by, To balance the ethereality, Passions were needed; foiled he sank again. Meanwhile the world rejoiced ('t is time explain) Because a sudden sickness set it free From Adelaide. Missing the mother-bee, Her mountain-hive Romano swarmed; at once A rustle-forth of daughters and of sons Blackened the valley. "I am sick too, old, "Half-crazed I think; what good's the Kaiser's gold "To such an one? God help me! for I catch "My children's greedy sparkling eyes at watch "'He bears that double breastplate on,' they say, "'So many minutes less than yesterday!' "Beside, Monk Hilary is on his knees "Now, sworn to kneel and pray till God shall please "Exact a punishment for many things "You know, and some you never knew; which brings "To memory, Azzo's sister Beatrix "And Richard's Giglia are my Alberic's "And Ecelin's betrothed; the Count himself "Must get my Palma: Ghibellin and Guelf "Mean to embrace each other." So began Romano's missive to his fighting man Taurelloon the Tuscan's death, away With Friedrich sworn to sail from Naples' bay Next month for Syria. Never thunder-clap Out of Vesuvius' throat, like this mishap Startled him. "That accursed Vicenza! I "Absent, and she selects this time to die! "Ho, fellows, for Vicenza!" Half a score Of horses ridden dead, he stood before Romano in his reeking spurs: too late "Boniface urged me, Este could not wait," The chieftain stammered; "let me die in peace "Forget me! Was it I who craved increase "Of rule? Do you and Friedrich plot your worst "Against the Father: as you found me first "So leave me now. Forgive me! Palma, sure, "Is at Goito still. Retain that lure "Only be pacified!"           The country rung With such a piece of news: on every tongue, How Ecelin's great servant, congeed off, Had done a long day's service, so, might doff The green and yellow, and recover breath At Mantua, whither,since Retrude's death, (The girlish slip of a Sicilian bride From Otho's house, he carried to reside At Mantua till the Ferrarese should pile A structure worthy her imperial style, The gardens raise, the statues there enshrine, She never lived to see)although his line Was ancient in her archives and she took A pride in him, that city, nor forsook Her child when he forsook himself and spent A prowess on Romano surely meant For his own growthwhither he ne'er resorts If wholly satisfied (to trust reports) With Ecelin. So, forward in a trice Were shows to greet him. "Take a friend's advice," Quoth Naddo to Sordello, "nor be rash "Because your rivals (nothing can abash "Some folks) demur that we pronounced you best "To sound the great man's welcome; 't is a test, "Remember! Strojavacca looks asquint, "The rough fat sloven; and there 's plenty hint "Your pinions have received of late a shock "Outsoar them, cobswan of the silver flock! "Sing well!" A signal wonder, song 's no whit Facilitated.       Fast the minutes flit; Another day, Sordello finds, will bring The soldier, and he cannot choose but sing; So, a last shift, quits Mantuaslow, alone: Out of that aching brain, a very stone, Song must be struck. What occupies that front? Just how he was more awkward than his wont The night before, when Naddo, who had seen Taurello on his progress, praised the mien For dignity no crosses could affect Such was a joy, and might not he detect A satisfaction if established joys Were proved imposture? Poetry annoys Its utmost: wherefore fret? Verses may come Or keep away! And thus he wandered, dumb Till evening, when he paused, thoroughly spent, On a blind hill-top: down the gorge he went, Yielding himself up as to an embrace. The moon came out; like features of a face, A querulous fraternity of pines, Sad blackthorn clumps, leafless and grovelling vines Also came out, made gradually up The picture; 't was Goito's mountain-cup And castle. He had dropped through one defile He never dared explore, the Chief erewhile Had vanished by. Back rushed the dream, enwrapped Him wholly. 'T was Apollo now they lapped, Those mountains, not a pettish minstrel meant To wear his soul away in discontent, Brooding on fortune's malice. Heart and brain Swelled; he expanded to himself again, As some thin seedling spice-tree starved and frail, Pushing between cat's head and ibis' tail Crusted into the porphyry pavement smooth, Suffered remain just as it sprung, to soothe The Soldan's pining daughter, never yet Well in her chilly green-glazed minaret, When rooted up, the sunny day she died, And flung into the common court beside Its parent tree. Come home, Sordello! Soon Was he low muttering, beneath the moon, Of sorrow saved, of quiet evermore, Since from the purpose, he maintained before, Only resulted wailing and hot tears. Ah, the slim castle! dwindled of late years, But more mysterious; gone to ruintrails Of vine through every loop-hole. Nought avails The night as, torch in hand, he must explore The maple chamber: did I say, its floor Was made of intersecting cedar beams? Worn now with gaps so large, there blew cold streams Of air quite from the dungeon; lay your ear Close and 't is like, one after one, you hear In the blind darkness water drop. The nests And nooks retain their long ranged vesture-chests Empty and smelling of the iris root The Tuscan grated o'er them to recruit Her wasted wits. Palma was gone that day, Said the remaining women. Last, he lay Beside the Carian group reserved and still. The Body, the Machine for Acting Will, Had been at the commencement proved unfit; That for Demonstrating, Reflecting it, Mankindno fitter: was the Will Itself In fault?      His forehead pressed the moonlit shelf Beside the youngest marble maid awhile; Then, raising it, he thought, with a long smile, "I shall be king again!" as he withdrew The envied scarf; into the font he threw His crown      Next day, no poet! "Wherefore?" asked Taurello, when the dance of Jongleurs, masked As devils, ended; "don't a song come next?" The master of the pageant looked perplexed Till Naddo's whisper came to his relief. "His Highness knew what poets were: in brief, "Had not the tetchy race prescriptive right "To peevishness, caprice? or, call it spite, "One must receive their nature in its length "And breadth, expect the weakness with the strength!" So phrasing, till, his stock of phrases spent, The easy-natured soldier smiled assent, Settled his portly person, smoothed his chin, And nodded that the bull-bait might begin. ~ Robert Browning, Sordello - Book the Second ,

440:Meantime Ferrara lay in rueful case; The lady-city, for whose sole embrace Her pair of suitors struggled, felt their arms A brawny mischief to the fragile charms They tugged forone discovering that to twist Her tresses twice or thrice about his wrist Secured a point of vantageone, how best He 'd parry that by planting in her breast His elbow spikeeach party too intent For noticing, howe'er the battle went, The conqueror would but have a corpse to kiss. "May Boniface be duly damned for this!" Howled some old Ghibellin, as up he turned, From the wet heap of rubbish where they burned His house, a little skull with dazzling teeth: "A boon, sweet Christlet Salinguerra seethe "In hell for ever, Christ, and let myself "Be there to laugh at him!"moaned some young Guelf Stumbling upon a shrivelled hand nailed fast To the charred lintel of the doorway, last His father stood within to bid him speed. The thoroughfares were overrun with weed Docks, quitchgrass, loathy mallows no man plants. The stranger, none of its inhabitants Crept out of doors to taste fresh air again, And ask the purpose of a splendid train Admitted on a morning; every town Of the East League was come by envoy down To treat for Richard's ransom: here you saw The Vicentine, here snowy oxen draw The Paduan carroch, its vermilion cross On its white field. A-tiptoe o'er the fosse Looked Legate Montelungo wistfully After the flock of steeples he might spy In Este's time, gone (doubts he) long ago To mend the ramparts: sure the laggards know The Pope's as good as here! They paced the streets More soberly. At last, "Taurello greets "The League," announced a pursuivant,"will match "Its courtesy, and labours to dispatch "At earliest Tito, Friedrich's Pretor, sent "On pressing matters from his post at Trent, "With Mainard Count of Tyrol,simply waits "Their going to receive the delegates." "Tito!" Our delegates exchanged a glance, And, keeping the main way, admired askance The lazy engines of outlandish birth, Couched like a king each on its bank of earth Arbalist, manganel and catapult; While stationed by, as waiting a result, Lean silent gangs of mercenaries ceased Working to watch the strangers. "This, at least, "Were better spared; he scarce presumes gainsay "The League's decision! Get our friend away "And profit for the future: how else teach "Fools 't is not safe to stray within claw's reach "Ere Salinguerra's final gasp be blown? "Those mere convulsive scratches find the bone. "Who bade him bloody the spent osprey's nare?" The carrochs halted in the public square. Pennons of every blazon once a-flaunt, Men prattled, freelier than the crested gaunt White ostrich with a horse-shoe in her beak Was missing, and whoever chose might speak "Ecelin" boldly out: so,"Ecelin "Needed his wife to swallow half the sin "And sickens by himself: the devil's whelp, "He styles his son, dwindles away, no help "From conserves, your fine triple-curded froth "Of virgin's blood, your Venice viper-broth "Eh? Jubilate!""Peace! no little word "You utter here that 's not distinctly heard "Up at Oliero: he was absent sick "When we besieged Bassanowho, i' the thick "O' the work, perceived the progress Azzo made, "Like Ecelin, through his witch Adelaide? "She managed it so well that, night by night "At their bed-foot stood up a soldier-sprite, "First fresh, pale by-and-by without a wound, "And, when it came with eyes filmed as in swound, "They knew the place was taken.""Ominous "That Ghibellins should get what cautelous "Old Redbeard sought from Azzo's sire to wrench "Vainly; Saint George contrived his town a trench "O' the marshes, an impermeable bar." "Young Ecelin is meant the tutelar "Of Padua, rather; veins embrace upon "His hand like Brenta and Bacchiglion." What now?"The founts! God's bread, touch not a plank! "A crawling hell of carrionevery tank "Choke-full!found out just now to Cino's cost "The same who gave Taurello up for lost, "And, making no account of fortune's freaks, "Refused to budge from Padua then, but sneaks "Back now with Concorezzi: 'faith! they drag "Their carroch to San Vitale, plant the flag "On his own palace, so adroitly razed "He knew it not; a sort of Guelf folk gazed "And laughed apart; Cino disliked their air "Must pluck up spirit, show he does not care "Seats himself on the tank's edgewill begin "To hum, za, za, Cavaler Ecelin "A silence; he gets warmer, clinks to chime, "Now both feet plough the ground, deeper each time, "At last, za, za and up with a fierce kick "Comes his own mother's face caught by the thick "Grey hair about his spur!"                Which means, they lift The covering, Salinguerra made a shift To stretch upon the truth; as well avoid Further disclosures; leave them thus employed. Our dropping Autumn morning clears apace, And poor Ferrara puts a softened face On her misfortunes. Let us scale this tall Huge foursquare line of red brick garden-wall Bastioned within by trees of every sort On three sides, slender, spreading, long and short; Each grew as it contrived, the poplar ramped, The fig-tree reared itself,but stark and cramped, Made fools of, like tamed lions: whence, on the edge, Running 'twixt trunk and trunk to smooth one ledge Of shade, were shrubs inserted, warp and woof, Which smothered up that variance. Scale the roof Of solid tops, and o'er the slope you slide Down to a grassy space level and wide, Here and there dotted with a tree, but trees Of rarer leaf, each foreigner at ease, Set by itself: and in the centre spreads, Borne upon three uneasy leopards' heads, A laver, broad and shallow, one bright spirt Of water bubbles in. The walls begirt With trees leave off on either hand; pursue Your path along a wondrous avenue Those walls abut on, heaped of gleamy stone, With aloes leering everywhere, grey-grown From many a Moorish summer: how they wind Out of the fissures! likelier to bind The building than those rusted cramps which drop Already in the eating sunshine. Stop, You fleeting shapes above there! Ah, the pride Or else despair of the whole country-side! A range of statues, swarming o'er with wasps, God, goddess, woman, man, the Greek rough-rasps In crumbling Naples marblemeant to look Like those Messina marbles Constance took Delight in, or Taurello's self conveyed To Mantua for his mistress, Adelaide, A certain font with caryatides Since cloistered at Goito; only, these Are up and doing, not abashed, a troop Able to right themselveswho see you, stoop Their arms o' the instant after you! Unplucked By this or that, you pass; for they conduct To terrace raised on terrace, and, between, Creatures of brighter mould and braver mien Than any yet, the choicest of the Isle No doubt. Here, left a sullen breathing-while, Up-gathered on himself the Fighter stood For his last fight, and, wiping treacherous blood Out of the eyelids just held ope beneath Those shading fingers in their iron sheath, Steadied his strengths amid the buzz and stir Of the dusk hideous amphitheatre At the announcement of his over-match To wind the day's diversion up, dispatch The pertinactious Gaul: while, limbs one heap, The Slave, no breath in her round mouth, watched leap Dart after dart forth, as her hero's car Clove dizzily the solid of the war Let coil about his knees for pride in him. We reach the farthest terrace, and the grim San Pietro Palace stops us.                Such the state Of Salinguerra's plan to emulate Sicilian marvels, that his girlish wife Retrude still might lead her ancient life In her new home: whereat enlarged so much Neighbours upon the novel princely touch He took,who here imprisons Boniface. Here must the Envoys come to sue for grace; And here, emerging from the labyrinth Below, Sordello paused beside the plinth Of the door-pillar.           He had really left Verona for the cornfields (a poor theft From the morass) where Este's camp was made; The Envoys' march, the Legate's cavalcade All had been seen by him, but scarce as when, Eager for cause to stand aloof from men At every point save the fantastic tie Acknowledged in his boyish sophistry, He made account of such. A crowd,he meant To task the whole of it; each part's intent Concerned him therefore: and, the more he pried, The less became Sordello satisfied With his own figure at the moment. Sought He respite from his task? Descried he aught Novel in the anticipated sight Of all these livers upon all delight? This phalanx, as of myriad points combined, Whereby he still had imaged the mankind His youth was passed in dreams of rivalling, His agein plans to prove at least such thing Had been so dreamed,which now he must impress With his own will, effect a happiness By theirs,supply a body to his soul Thence, and become eventually whole With them as he had hoped to be without Made these the mankind he once raved about? Because a few of them were notable, Should all be figured worthy note? As well Expect to find Taurello's triple line Of trees a single and prodigious pine. Real pines rose here and there; but, close among, Thrust into and mixed up with pines, a throng Of shrubs, he saw,a nameless common sort O'erpast in dreams, left out of the report And hurried into corners, or at best Admitted to be fancied like the rest. Reckon that morning's proper chiefshow few! And yet the people grew, the people grew, Grew ever, as if the many there indeed, More left behind and most who should succeed, Simply in virtue of their mouths and eyes, Petty enjoyments and huge miseries, Mingled with, and made veritably great Those chiefs: he overlooked not Mainard's state Nor Concorezzi's station, but instead Of stopping there, each dwindled to be head Of infinite and absent Tyrolese Or Paduans; startling all the more, that these Seemed passive and disposed of, uncared for, Yet doubtless on the whole (like Eglamor) Smiling; for if a wealthy man decays And out of store of robes must wear, all days, One tattered suit, alike in sun and shade, 'T is commonly some tarnished gay brocade Fit for a feast-night's flourish and no more: Nor otherwise poor Misery from her store Of looks is fain upgather, keep unfurled For common wear as she goes through the world, The faint remainder of some worn-out smile Meant for a feast-night's service merely. While Crowd upon crowd rose on Sordello thus, (Crowds no way interfering to discuss, Much less dispute, life's joys with one employed In envying them,or, if they aught enjoyed, Where lingered something indefinable In every look and tone, the mirth as well As woe, that fixed at once his estimate Of the result, their good or bad estate) Old memories returned with new effect: And the new body, ere he could suspect, Cohered, mankind and he were really fused, The new self seemed impatient to be used By him, but utterly another way Than that anticipated: strange to say, They were too much below him, more in thrall Than he, the adjunct than the principal. What booted scattered units?here a mind And there, which might repay his own to find, And stamp, and use?a few, howe'er august, If all the rest were grovelling in the dust? No: first a mighty equilibrium, sure, Should he establish, privilege procure For all, the few had long possessed! He felt An error, an exceeding error melt: While he was occupied with Mantuan chants, Behoved him think of men, and take their wants, Such as he now distinguished every side, As his own want which might be satisfied, And, after that, think of rare qualities Of his own soul demanding exercise. It followed naturally, through no claim On their part, which made virtue of the aim At serving them, on his,that, past retrieve, He felt now in their toils, theirsnor could leave Wonder how, in the eagerness to rule, Impress his will on mankind, he (the fool!) Had never even entertained the thought That this his last arrangement might be fraught with incidental good to them as well, And that mankind's delight would help to swell His own. So, if he sighed, as formerly Because the merry time of life must fleet, 'T was deeplier now,for could the crowds repeat Their poor experiences? His hand that shook Was twice to be deplored. "The Legate, look! "With eyes, like fresh-blown thrush-eggs on a thread, "Faint-blue and loosely floating in his head, "Large tongue, moist open mouth; and this long while "That owner of the idiotic smile "Serves them!"        He fortunately saw in time His fault however, and since the office prime Includes the secondarybest accept Both offices; Taurello, its adept, Could teach him the preparatory one, And how to do what he had fancied done Long previously, ere take the greater task. How render first these people happy? Ask The people's friends: for there must be one good One way to itthe Cause! He understood The meaning now of Palma; why the jar Else, the ado, the trouble wide and far Of Guelfs and Ghibellins, the Lombard hope And Rome's despair?'twixt Emperor and Pope The confused shifting sort of Eden tale Hardihood still recurring, still to fail That foreign interloping fiend, this free And native overbrooding deity: Yet a dire fascination o'er the palms The Kaiser ruined, troubling even the calms Of paradise; or, on the other hand, The Pontiff, as the Kaisers understand, One snake-like cursed of God to love the ground, Whose heavy length breaks in the noon profound Some saving treewhich needs the Kaiser, dressed As the dislodging angel of that pest: Yet flames that pest bedropped, flat head, full fold, With coruscating dower of dyes. "Behold "The secret, so to speak, and master-spring "O' the contest!which of the two Powers shall bring "Men good, perchance the most good: ay, it may "Be that!the question, which best knows the way." And hereupon Count Mainard strutted past Out of San Pietro; never seemed the last Of archers, slingers: and our friend began To recollect strange modes of serving man Arbalist, catapult, brake, manganel, And more. "This way of theirs may,who can tell? "Need perfecting," said he: "let all be solved "At once! Taurello 't is, the task devolved "On late: confront Taurello!"                And at last He did confront him. Scarce an hour had past When forth Sordello came, older by years Than at his entry. Unexampled fears Oppressed him, and he staggered off, blind, mute And deaf, like some fresh-mutilated brute, Into Ferraranot the empty town That morning witnessed: he went up and down Streets whence the veil had been stript shred by shred, So that, in place of huddling with their dead Indoors, to answer Salinguerra's ends, Townsfolk make shift to crawl forth, sit like friends With any one. A woman gave him choice Of her two daughters, the infantile voice Or the dimpled knee, for half a chain, his throat Was clasped with; but an archer knew the coat Its blue cross and eight lilies,bade beware One dogging him in concert with the pair Though thrumming on the sleeve that hid his knife. Night set in early, autumn dews were rife, They kindled great fires while the Leaguers' mass Began at every carroch: he must pass Between the kneeling people. Presently The carroch of Verona caught his eye With purple trappings; silently he bent Over its fire, when voices violent Began, "Affirm not whom the youth was like "That struck me from the porch: I did not strike "Again: I too have chestnut hair; my kin "Hate Azzo and stand up for Ecelin. "Here, minstrel, drive bad thoughts away! Sing! Take "My glove for guerdon!" And for that man's sake He turned: "A song of Eglamor's!"scarce named, When, "Our Sordello's rather!"all exclaimed; "Is not Sordello famousest for rhyme?" He had been happy to deny, this time, Profess as heretofore the aching head And failing heart,suspect that in his stead Some true Apollo had the charge of them, Was champion to reward or to condemn, So his intolerable risk might shift Or share itself; but Naddo's precious gift Of gifts, he owned, be certain! At the close "I made that," said he to a youth who rose As if to hear: 't was Palma through the band Conducted him in silence by her hand. Back now for Salinguerra. Tito of Trent Gave place to Palma and her friend, who went In turn at Montelungo's visit: one After the other were they come and gone, These spokesmen for the Kaiser and the Pope, This incarnation of the People's hope, Sordello,all the say of each was said; And Salinguerra sat,himself instead Of these to talk with, lingered musing yet. 'T was a drear vast presence-chamber roughly set In order for the morning's use; full face, The Kaiser's ominous sign-mark had first place, The crowned grim twy-necked eagle, coarsely-blacked With ochre on the naked wall; nor lacked Romano's green and yellow either side; But the new token Tito brought had tried The Legate's patiencenay, if Palma knew What Salinguerra almost meant to do Until the sight of her restored his lip A certain half-smile, three months' chieftainship Had banished! Afterward, the Legate found No change in him, nor asked what badge he wound And unwound carelessly. Now sat the Chief Silent as when our couple left, whose brief Encounter wrought so opportune effect In thoughts he summoned not, nor would reject, Though time 't was now if ever, to pausefix On any sort of ending: wiles and tricks Exhausted, judge! his charge, the crazy town, Just managed to be hindered crashing down His last sound troops rangedcare observed to post His best of the maimed soldiers innermost So much was plain enough, but somehow struck Him not before. And now with this strange luck Of Tito's news, rewarding his address So well, what thought he of?how the success With Friedrich's rescript there, would either hush Old Ecelin's scruples, bring the manly flush To his young son's white cheek, or, last, exempt Himself from telling what there was to tempt? No: that this minstrel was Romano's last Servanthimself the first! Could he contrast The whole!that minstrel's thirty years just spent In doing nought, their notablest event This morning's journey hither, as I told Who yet was lean, outworn and really old, A stammering awkward man that scarce dared raise His eye before the magisterial gaze And Salinguerra with his fears and hopes Of sixty years, his Emperors and Popes, Cares and contrivances, yet, you would say, 'T was a youth nonchalantly looked away Through the embrasure northward o'er the sick Expostulating treesso agile, quick And graceful turned the head on the broad chest Encased in pliant steel, his constant vest, Whence split the sun off in a spray of fire Across the room; and, loosened of its tire Of steel, that head let breathe the comely brown Large massive locks discoloured as if a crown Encircled them, so frayed the basnet where A sharp white line divided clean the hair; Glossy above, glossy below, it swept Curling and fine about a brow thus kept Calm, laid coat upon coat, marble and sound: This was the mystic mark the Tuscan found, Mused of, turned over books about. Square-faced, No lion more; two vivid eyes, enchased In hollows filled with many a shade and streak Settling from the bold nose and bearded cheek. Nor might the half-smile reach them that deformed A lip supremely perfect elseunwarmed, Unwidened, less or more; indifferent Whether on trees or men his thoughts were bent, Thoughts rarely, after all, in trim and train As now a period was fulfilled again: Of such, a series made his life, compressed In each, one story serving for the rest How his life-streams rolling arrived at last At the barrier, whence, were it once overpast, They would emerge, a river to the end, Gathered themselves up, paused, bade fate befriend, Took the leap, hung a minute at the height, Then fell back to oblivion infinite: Therefore he smiled. Beyond stretched garden-grounds Where late the adversary, breaking bounds, Had gained him an occasion, That above, That eagle, testified he could improve Effectually. The Kaiser's symbol lay Beside his rescript, a new badge by way Of baldric; while,another thing that marred Alike emprise, achievement and reward, Ecelin's missive was conspicuous too. What past life did those flying thoughts pursue? As his, few names in Mantua half so old; But at Ferrara, where his sires enrolled It latterly, the Adelardi spared No pains to rival them: both factions shared Ferrara, so that, counted out, 't would yield A product very like the city's shield, Half black and white, or Ghibellin and Guelf As after Salinguerra styled himself And Este who, till Marchesalla died, (Last of the Adelardi)never tried His fortune there: with Marchesalla's child Would pass,could Blacks and Whites be reconciled And young Taurello wed Linguetta,wealth And sway to a sole grasp. Each treats by stealth Already: when the Guelfs, the Ravennese Arrive, assault the Pietro quarter, seize Linguetta, and are gone! Men's first dismay Abated somewhat, hurries down, to lay The after indignation, Boniface, This Richard's father. "Learn the full disgrace "Averted, ere you blame us Guelfs, who rate "Your Salinguerra, your sole potentate "That might have been, 'mongst Este's valvassors "Ay, Azzo'swho, not privy to, abhors "Our step; but we were zealous." Azzo then To do with! Straight a meeting of old men: "Old Salinguerra dead, his heir a boy, "What if we change our ruler and decoy "The Lombard Eagle of the azure sphere "With Italy to build in, fix him here, "Settle the city's troubles in a trice? "For private wrong, let public good suffice!" In fine, young Salinguerra's staunchest friends Talked of the townsmen making him amends, Gave him a goshawk, and affirmed there was Rare sport, one morning, over the green grass A mile or so. He sauntered through the plain, Was restless, fell to thinking, turned again In time for Azzo's entry with the bride; Count Boniface rode smirking at their side; "She brings him half Ferrara," whispers flew, "And all Ancona! If the stripling knew!" Anon the stripling was in Sicily Where Heinrich ruled in right of Constance; he Was gracious nor his guest incapable; Each understood the other. So it fell, One Spring, when Azzo, thoroughly at ease, Had near forgotten by what precise degrees He crept at first to such a downy seat, The Count trudged over in a special heat To bid him of God's love dislodge from each Of Salinguerra's palaces,a breach Might yawn else, not so readily to shut, For who was just arrived at Mantua but The youngster, sword on thigh and tuft on chin, With tokens for Celano, Ecelin, Pistore, and the like! Next news,no whit Do any of Ferrara's domes befit His wife of Heinrich's very blood: a band Of foreigners assemble, understand Garden-constructing, level and surround, Build up and bury in. A last news crowned The consternation: since his infant's birth, He only waits they end his wondrous girth Of trees that link San Pietro with Tom, To visit Mantua. When the Podest Ecelin, at Vicenza, called his friend Taurello thither, what could be their end But to restore the Ghibellins' late Head, The Kaiser helping? He with most to dread From vengeance and reprisal, Azzo, there With Boniface beforehand, as aware Of plots in progress, gave alarm, expelled Both plotters: but the Guelfs in triumph yelled Too hastily. The burning and the flight, And how Taurello, occupied that night With Ecelin, lost wife and son, I told: Not how he bore the blow, retained his hold, Got friends safe through, left enemies the worst O' the fray, and hardly seemed to care at first: But afterward men heard not constantly Of Salinguerra's House so sure to be! Though Azzo simply gained by the event A shifting of his plaguesthe first, content To fall behind the second and estrange So far his nature, suffer such a change That in Romano sought he wife and child, And for Romano's sake seemed reconciled To losing individual life, which shrunk As the other prosperedmortised in his trunk; Like a dwarf palm which wanton Arabs foil Of bearing its own proper wine and oil, By grafting into it the stranger-vine, Which sucks its heart out, sly and serpentine, Till forth one vine-palm feathers to the root, And red drops moisten the insipid fruit. Once Adelaide set on,the subtle mate Of the weak soldier, urged to emulate The Church's valiant women deed for deed, And paragon her namesake, win the meed O' the great Matilda,soon they overbore The rest of Lombardy,not as before By an instinctive truculence, but patched The Kaiser's strategy until it matched The Pontiff's, sought old ends by novel means. "Only, why is it Salinguerra screens "Himself behind Romano?him we bade "Enjoy our shine i' the front, not seek the shade!" Asked Heinrich, somewhat of the tardiest To comprehend. Nor Philip acquiesced At once in the arrangement; reasoned, plied His friend with offers of another bride, A statelier functionfruitlessly: 't was plain Taurello through some weakness must remain Obscure. And Otho, free to judge of both Ecelin the unready, harsh and loth, And this more plausible and facile wight With every point a-sparklechose the right, Admiring how his predecessors harped On the wrong man: "thus," quoth he, "wits are warped "By outsides!" Carelessly, meanwhile, his life Suffered its many turns of peace and strife In many landsyou hardly could surprise The man; who shamed Sordello (recognize!) In this as much beside, that, unconcerned What qualities were natural or earned, With no ideal of graces, as they came He took them, singularly well the same Speaking the Greek's own language, just because Your Greek eludes you, leave the least of flaws In contracts with him; while, since Arab lore Holds the stars' secrettake one trouble more And master it! 'T is done, and now deter Who may the Tuscan, once Jove trined for her, From Friedrich's path!Friedrich, whose pilgrimage The same man puts aside, whom he 'll engage To leave next year John Brienne in the lurch, Come to Bassano, see Saint Francis' church And judge of Guido the Bolognian's piece Which,lend Taurello credit,rivals Greece Angels, with aureoles like golden quoits Pitched home, applauding Ecelin's exploits. For elegance, he strung the angelot, Made rhymes thereto; for prowess, clove he not Tiso, last siege, from crest to crupper? Why Detail you thus a varied mastery But to show how Taurello, on the watch For men, to read their hearts and thereby catch Their capabilities and purposes, Displayed himself so far as displayed these: While our Sordello only cared to know About men as a means whereby he 'd show Himself, and men had much or little worth According as they kept in or drew forth That self; the other's choicest instruments Surmised him shallow.            Meantime, malcontents Dropped off, town after town grew wiser. "How "Change the world's face?" asked people; "as 't is now "It has been, will be ever: very fine "Subjecting things profane to things divine, "In talk! This contumacy will fatigue "The vigilance of Este and the League! "The Ghibellins gain on us!"as it happed. Old Azzo and old Boniface, entrapped By Ponte Alto, both in one month's space Slept at Verona: either left a brace Of sonsbut, three years after, either's pair Lost Guglielm and Aldobrand its heir: Azzo remained and Richardall the stay Of Este and Saint Boniface, at bay As 't were. Then, either Ecelin grew old Or his brain alterednot o' the proper mould For new applianceshis old palm-stock Endured no influx of strange strengths. He 'd rock As in a drunkenness, or chuckle low As proud of the completeness of his woe, Then weep real tears;now make some mad onslaught On Este, heedless of the lesson taught So painfully,now cringe for peace, sue peace At price of past gain, bar of fresh increase To the fortunes of Romano. Up at last Rose Este, down Romano sank as fast. And men remarked these freaks of peace and war Happened while Salinguerra was afar: Whence every friend besought him, all in vain, To use his old adherent's wits again. Not he!"who had advisers in his sons, "Could plot himself, nor needed any one's "Advice." 'T was Adelaide's remaining staunch Prevented his destruction root and branch Forthwith; but when she died, doom fell, for gay He made alliances, gave lands away To whom it pleased accept them, and withdrew For ever from the world. Taurello, who Was summoned to the convent, then refused A word at the wicket, patience thus abused, Promptly threw off alike his imbecile Ally's yoke, and his own frank, foolish smile. Soon a few movements of the happier sort Changed matters, put himself in men's report As heretofore; he had to fight, beside, And that became him ever. So, in pride And flushing of this kind of second youth, He dealt a good-will blow. Este in truth Lay proneand men remembered, somewhat late, A laughing old outrageous stifled hate He bore to Estehow it would outbreak At times spite of disguise, like an earthquake In sunny weatheras that noted day When with his hundred friends he tried to slay Azzo before the Kaiser's face: and how, On Azzo's calm refusal to allow A liegeman's challenge, straight he too was calmed: As if his hate could bear to lie embalmed, Bricked up, the moody Pharaoh, and survive All intermediate crumblings, to arrive At earth's catastrophe't was Este's crash Not Azzo's he demanded, so, no rash Procedure! Este's true antagonist Rose out of Ecelin: all voices whist, All eyes were sharpened, wits predicted. He 'T was, leaned in the embrasure absently, Amused with his own efforts, now, to trace With his steel-sheathed forefinger Friedrich's face I' the dust: but as the trees waved sere, his smile Deepened, and words expressed its thought erewhile. "Ay, fairly housed at last, my old compeer? "That we should stick together, all the year "I kept Vicenza!How old Boniface, "Old Azzo caught us in its market-place, "He by that pillar, I at this,caught each "In mid swing, more than fury of his speech, "Egging the rabble on to disavow "Allegiance to their MarquisBacchus, how "They boasted! Ecelin must turn their drudge, "Nor, if released, will Salinguerra grudge "Paying arrears of tribute due long since "Bacchus! My man could promise then, nor wince "The bones-and-muscles! Sound of wind and limb, "Spoke he the set excuse I framed for him: "And now he sits me, slavering and mute, "Intent on chafing each starved purple foot "Benumbed past aching with the altar slab: "Will no vein throb there when some monk shall blab "Spitefully to the circle of bald scalps, "'Friedrich 's affirmed to be our side the Alps' "Eh, brother Lactance, brother Anaclet? "Sworn to abjure the world, its fume and fret, "God's own now? Drop the dormitory bar, "Enfold the scanty grey serge scapular "Twice o'er the cowl to muffle memories out! "So! But the midnight whisper turns a shout, "Eyes wink, mouths open, pulses circulate "In the stone walls: the past, the world you hate "Is with you, ambush, open fieldor see "The surging flamewe fire Vicenzaglee! "Follow, let Pilio and Bernardo chafe! "Bring up the Mantuansthrough San Biagiosafe! "Ah, the mad people waken? Ah, they writhe "And reach us? If they block the gate? No tithe "Can passkeep back, you Bassanese! The edge, "Use the edgeshear, thrust, hew, melt down the wedge, "Let out the black of those black upturned eyes! "Hellare they sprinkling fire too? The blood fries "And hisses on your brass gloves as they tear "Those upturned faces choking with despair. "Brave! Slidder through the reeking gate! `How now? "'You six had charge of her?' And then the vow "Comes, and the foam spirts, hair's plucked, till one shriek "(I hear it) and you flingyou cannot speak "Your gold-flowered basnet to a man who haled "The Adelaide he dared scarce view unveiled "This morn, naked across the fire: how crown "The archer that exhausted lays you down "Your infant, smiling at the flame, and dies? "While one, while mine . . .                "Bacchus! I think there lies "More than one corpse there" (and he paced the room) "Another cinder somewhere: 't was my doom "Beside, my doom! If Adelaide is dead, "I live the same, this Azzo lives instead "Of that to me, and we pull, any how, "Este into a heap: the matter 's now "At the true juncture slipping us so oft. "Ay, Heinrich died and Otho, please you, doffed "His crown at such a juncture! Still, if hold "Our Friedrich's purpose, if this chain enfold "The neck of . . . who but this same Ecelin "That must recoil when the best days begin! "Recoil? that 's nought; if the recoiler leaves "His name for me to fight with, no one grieves: "But he must interfere, forsooth, unlock "His cloister to become my stumbling-block "Just as of old! Ay, ay, there 't is again "The land's inevitable Headexplain "The reverences that subject us! Count "These Ecelins now! Not to say as fount, "Originating power of thought,from twelve "That drop i' the trenches they joined hands to delve, "Six shall surpass him, but . . . why men must twine "Somehow with something! Ecelin 's a fine "Clear name! 'Twere simpler, doubtless, twine with me "At once: our cloistered friend's capacity "Was of a sort! I had to share myself "In fifty portions, like an o'ertasked elf "That 's forced illume in fifty points the vast "Rare vapour he 's environed by. At last "My strengths, though sorely frittered, e'en converge "And crown . . . no, Bacchus, they have yet to urge "The man be crowned!            "That aloe, an he durst, "Would climb! Just such a bloated sprawler first "I noted in Messina's castle-court "The day I came, when Heinrich asked in sport "If I would pledge my faith to win him back "His right in Lombardy: 'for, once bid pack "Marauders,' he continued, `in my stead "'You rule, Taurello!' and upon this head `Laid the silk glove of ConstanceI see her "Too, mantled head to foot in miniver, "Retrude following!           "I am absolved "From further toil: the empery devolved "On me, 't was Tito's word: I have to lay "For once my plan, pursue my plan my way, "Prompt nobody, and render an account "Taurello to Taurello! Nay, I mount "To Friedrich: he conceives the post I kept, "Who did true service, able or inept, "Who 's worthy guerdon, Ecelin or I. "Me guerdoned, counsel follows: would he vie "With the Pope really? Azzo, Boniface "Compose a right-arm Hohenstauffen's race "Must break ere govern Lombardy. I point "How easy 't were to twist, once out of joint, "The socket from the bone: my Azzo's stare "Meanwhile! for I, this idle strap to wear, "Shallfret myself abundantly, what end "To serve? There 's left me twenty years to spend "How better than my old way? Had I one "Who laboured overthrow my worka son "Hatching with Azzo superb treachery, "To root my pines up and then poison me, "Suppose't were worth while frustrate that! Beside, "Another life's ordained me: the world's tide "Rolls, and what hope of parting from the press "Of waves, a single wave though weariness "Gently lifted aside, laid upon shore? "My life must be lived out in foam and roar, "No question. Fifty years the province held "Taurello; troubles raised, and troubles quelled, "He in the midstwho leaves this quaint stone place, "These trees a year or two, then not a trace "Of him! How obtain hold, fetter men's tongues "Like this poor minstrel with the foolish songs "To which, despite our bustle, he is linked? "Flowers one may teaze, that never grow extinct. "Ay, that patch, surely, green as ever, where "I set Her Moorish lentisk, by the stair, "To overawe the aloes; and we trod "Those flowers, how call you such?into the sod; "A stately foreignera world of pain "To make it thrive, arrest rough windsall vain! "It would decline; these would not be destroyed: "And now, where is it? where can you avoid "The flowers? I frighten children twenty years "Longer!which way, too, Ecelin appears "To thwart me, for his son's besotted youth "Gives promise of the proper tigertooth: "They feel it at Vicenza! Fate, fate, fate, "My fine Taurello! Go you, promulgate "Friedrich's decree, and here 's shall aggrandise "Young Ecelinyour Prefect's badge! a prize "Too precious, certainly.              "How now? Compete "With my old comrade? shuffle from their seat "His children? Paltry dealing! Do n't I know "Ecelin? now, I think, and years ago! "What 's changedthe weakness? did not I compound "For that, and undertake to keep him sound "Despite it? Here 's Taurello hankering "After a boy's prefermentthis plaything "To carry, Bacchus!" And he laughed.                    Remark Why schemes wherein cold-blooded men embark Prosper, when your enthusiastic sort Fail: while these last are ever stopping short (So much they shouldso little they can do!) The careless tribe see nothing to pursue If they desist; meantime their scheme succeeds. Thoughts were caprices in the course of deeds Methodic with Taurello; so, he turned, Enough amused by fancies fairly earned Of Este's horror-struck submitted neck, And Richard, the cowed braggart, at his beck, To his own petty but immediate doubt If he could pacify the League without Conceding Richard; just to this was brought That interval of vain discursive thought! As, shall I say, some Ethiop, past pursuit Of all enslavers, dips a shackled foot Burnt to the blood, into the drowsy black Enormous watercourse which guides him back To his own tribe again, where he is king; And laughs because he guesses, numbering The yellower poison-wattles on the pouch Of the first lizard wrested from its couch Under the slime (whose skin, the while, he strips To cure his nostril with, and festered lips, And eyeballs bloodshot through the desert-blast) That he has reached its boundary, at last May breathe;thinks o'er enchantments of the South Sovereign to plague his enemies, their mouth, Eyes, nails, and hair; but, these enchantments tried In fancy, puts them soberly aside For truth, projects a cool return with friends, The likelihood of winning mere amends Ere long; thinks that, takes comfort silently, Then, from the river's brink, his wrongs and he, Hugging revenge close to their hearts, are soon Off-striding for the Mountains of the Moon. Midnight: the watcher nodded on his spear, Since clouds dispersing left a passage clear For any meagre and discoloured moon To venture forth; and such was peering soon Above the harassed cityher close lanes Closer, not half so tapering her fanes, As though she shrunk into herself to keep What little life was saved, more safely. Heap By heap the watch-fires mouldered, and beside The blackest spoke Sordello and replied Palma with none to listen. "'T is your cause: "What makes a Ghibellin? There should be laws "(Remember how my youth escaped! I trust "To you for manhood, Palma! tell me just "As any child)there must be laws at work "Explaining this. Assure me, good may lurk "Under the bad,my multitude has part "In your designs, their welfare is at heart "With Salinguerra, to their interest "Refer the deeds he dwelt on,so divest "Our conference of much that scared me. Why "Affect that heartless tone to Tito? I "Esteemed myself, yes, in my inmost mind "This morn, a recreant to my racemankind "O'erlooked till now: why boast my spirit's force, "Such force denied its object? why divorce "These, then admire my spirit's flight the same "As though it bore up, helped some half-orbed flame "Else quenched in the dead void, to living space? "That orb cast off to chaos and disgrace, "Why vaunt so much my unencumbered dance, "Making a feat's facilities enhance "Its marvel? But I front Taurello, one "Of happier fate, and all I should have done, "He does; the people's good being paramount "With him, their progress may perhaps account "For his abiding still; whereas you heard "The talk with Titothe excuse preferred "For burning those five hostages,and broached "By way of blind, as you and I approached, "I do believe."         She spoke: then he, "My thought "Plainlier expressed! All to your profitnought "Meantime of these, of conquests to achieve "For them, of wretchedness he might relieve "While profiting your party. Azzo, too, "Supports a cause: what cause? Do Guelfs pursue "Their ends by means like yours, or better?"                        When The Guelfs were proved alike, men weighed with men, And deed with deed, blaze, blood, with blood and blaze, Morn broke: "Once more, Sordello, meet its gaze "Proudlythe people's charge against thee fails "In every point, while either party quails! "These are the busy ones: be silent thou! "Two parties take the world up, and allow "No third, yet have one principle, subsist "By the same injustice; whoso shall enlist "With either, ranks with man's inveterate foes. "So there is one less quarrel to compose: "The Guelf, the Ghibellin may be to curse "I have done nothing, but both sides do worse "Than nothing. Nay, to me, forgotten, reft "Of insight, lapped by trees and flowers, was left "The notion of a serviceha? What lured "Me here, what mighty aim was I assured "Must move Taurello? What if there remained "A cause, intact, distinct from these, ordained "For me, its true discoverer?"                 Some one pressed Before them here, a watcher, to suggest The subject for a ballad: "They must know "The tale of the dead worthy, long ago "Consul of Romethat 's long ago for us, "Minstrels and bowmen, idly squabbling thus `In the world's cornerbut too late no doubt, "For the brave time he sought to bring about. "Not know Crescentius Nomentanus?" Then He cast about for terms to tell him, when Sordello disavowed it, how they used Whenever their Superior introduced A novice to the Brotherhood("for I "Was just a brown-sleeve brother, merrily "Appointed too," quoth he, "till Innocent "Bade me relinquish, to my small content, "My wife or my brown sleeves")some brother spoke Ere nocturns of Crescentius, to revoke The edict issued, after his demise, Which blotted fame alike and effigies, All out except a floating power, a name Including, tending to produce the same Great act. Rome, dead, forgotten, lived at least Within that brain, though to a vulgar priest And a vile stranger,two not worth a slave Of Rome's, Pope John, King Otho,fortune gave The rule there: so, Crescentius, haply dressed In white, called Roman Consul for a jest, Taking the people at their word, forth stepped As upon Brutus' heel, nor ever kept Rome waiting,stood erect, and from his brain Gave Rome out on its ancient place again, Ay, bade proceed with Brutus' Rome, Kings styled Themselves mere citizens of, and, beguiled Into great thoughts thereby, would choose the gem Out of a lapfull, spoil their diadem The Senate's cypher was so hard to scratch He flashes like a phanal, all men catch The flame, Rome 's just accomplished! when returned Otho, with John, the Consul's step had spurned, And Hugo Lord of Este, to redress The wrongs of each. Crescentius in the stress Of adverse fortune bent. "They crucified "Their Consul in the Forum; and abide "E'er since such slaves at Rome, that I(for I "Was once a brown-sleeve brother, merrily "Appointed)I had option to keep wife "Or keep brown sleeves, and managed in the strife "Lose both. A song of Rome!"                And Rome, indeed, Robed at Goito in fantastic weed, The Mother-City of his Mantuan days, Looked an established point of light whence rays Traversed the world; for, all the clustered homes Beside of men, seemed bent on being Romes In their degree; the question was, how each Should most resemble Rome, clean out of reach. Nor, of the Two, did either principle Struggle to change, but to possess Rome,still Guelf Rome or Ghibellin Rome.                Let Rome advance! Rome, as she struck Sordello's ignorance How could he doubt one moment? Rome 's the Cause! Rome of the Pandects, all the world's new laws Of the Capitol, of Castle Angelo; New structures, that inordinately glow, Subdued, brought back to harmony, made ripe By many a relic of the archetype Extant for wonder; every upstart church That hoped to leave old temples in the lurch, Corrected by the Theatre forlorn That,as a mundane shell, its world late born, Lay and o'ershadowed it. These hints combined, Rome typifies the scheme to put mankind Once more in full possession of their rights. "Let us have Rome again! On me it lights "To build up Romeon me, the first and last: "For such a future was endured the past!" And thus, in the grey twilight, forth he sprung To give his thought consistency among The very Peoplelet their facts avail Finish the dream grown from the archer's tale. ~ Robert Browning, Sordello - Book the Fourth ,

441: Ilion Book I: The Book of the Herald Dawn in her journey eternal compelling the labour of mortals, Dawn the beginner of things with the night for their rest or their ending, Pallid and bright-lipped arrived from the mists and the chill of the Euxine. Earth in the dawn-fire delivered from starry and shadowy vastness Woke to the wonder of life and its passion and sorrow and beauty, All on her bosom sustaining, the patient compassionate Mother. Out of the formless vision of Night with its look on things hidden Given to the gaze of the azure she lay in her garment of greenness, Wearing light on her brow. In the dawn-ray lofty and voiceless Ida climbed with her god-haunted peaks into diamond lustres, Ida first of the hills with the ranges silent beyond her Watching the dawn in their giant companies, as since the ages First began they had watched her, upbearing Time on their summits. Troas cold on her plain awaited the boon of the sunshine. There, like a hope through an emerald dream sole-pacing for ever, Stealing to wideness beyond, crept Simois lame in his currents, Guiding his argent thread mid the green of the reeds and the grasses. Headlong, impatient of Space and its boundaries, Time and its slowness, Xanthus clamoured aloud as he ran to the far-surging waters, Joining his call to the many-voiced roar of the mighty Aegean, Answering Oceans limitless cry like a whelp to its parent. Forests looked up through their rifts, the ravines grew aware of their shadows. Closer now gliding glimmered the golden feet of the goddess. Over the hills and the headlands spreading her garment of splendour, Fateful she came with her eyes impartial looking on all things, Bringer to man of the day of his fortune and day of his downfall. Full of her luminous errand, careless of eve and its weeping, Fateful she paused unconcerned above Ilions mysteried greatness, Domes like shimmering tongues of the crystal flames of the morning, Opalesque rhythm-line of tower-tops, notes of the lyre of the sungod. High over all that a nation had built and its love and its laughter, Lighting the last time highway and homestead, market and temple, Looking on men who must die and women destined to sorrow, Looking on beauty fire must lay low and the sickle of slaughter, Fateful she lifted the doom-scroll red with the script of the Immortals, Deep in the invisible air that folds in the race and its morrows Fixed it, and passed on smiling the smile of the griefless and deathless, Dealers of death though death they know not, who in the morning Scatter the seed of the event for the reaping ready at nightfall. Over the brooding of plains and the agelong trance of the summits Out of the sun and its spaces she came, pausing tranquil and fatal, And, at a distance followed by the golden herds of the sungod, Carried the burden of Light and its riddle and danger to Hellas. Even as fleets on a chariot divine through the gold streets of ether, Swiftly when Life fleets, invisibly changing the arc of the soul-drift, And, with the choice that has chanced or the fate man has called and now suffers Weighted, the moment travels driving the past towards the future, Only its face and its feet are seen, not the burden it carries. Weight of the event and its surface we bear, but the meaning is hidden. Earth sees not; lifes clamour deafens the ear of the spirit: Man knows not; least knows the messenger chosen for the summons. Only he listens to the voice of his thoughts, his hearts ignorant whisper, Whistle of winds in the tree-tops of Time and the rustle of Nature. Now too the messenger hastened driving the car of the errand: Even while dawn was a gleam in the east, he had cried to his coursers. Half yet awake in lights turrets started the scouts of the morning Hearing the jar of the wheels and the throb of the hooves exultation, Hooves of the horses of Greece as they galloped to Phrygian Troya. Proudly they trampled through Xanthus thwarting the foam of his anger, Whinnying high as in scorn crossed Simois tangled currents, Xanthus reed-girdled twin, the gentle and sluggard river. One and unarmed in the car was the driver; grey was he, shrunken, Worn with his decades. To Pergama cinctured with strength Cyclopean Old and alone he arrived, insignificant, feeblest of mortals, Carrying Fate in his helpless hands and the doom of an empire. Ilion, couchant, saw him arrive from the sea and the darkness. Heard mid the faint slow stirrings of life in the sleep of the city, Rapid there neared a running of feet, and the cry of the summons Beat round the doors that guarded the domes of the splendour of Priam. Wardens charged with the night, ye who stand in Laomedons gateway, Waken the Ilian kings. Talthybius, herald of Argos, Parleying stands at the portals of Troy in the grey of the dawning. High and insistent the call. In the dimness and hush of his chamber Charioted far in his dreams amid visions of glory and terror, Scenes of a vivider world,though blurred and deformed in the brain-cells, Vague and inconsequent, there full of colour and beauty and greatness, Suddenly drawn by the pull of the conscious thread of the earth-bond And of the needs of Time and the travail assigned in the transience Warned by his body, Deiphobus, reached in that splendid remoteness, Touched through the nerve-ways of life that branch to the brain of the dreamer, Heard the terrestrial call and slumber startled receded Sliding like dew from the mane of a lion. Reluctant he travelled Back from the light of the fields beyond death, from the wonderful kingdoms Where he had wandered a soul among souls in the countries beyond us, Free from the toil and incertitude, free from the struggle and danger: Now, compelled, he returned from the respite given to the time-born, Called to the strife and the wounds of the earth and the burden of daylight. He from the carven couch upreared his giant stature. Haste-spurred he laved his eyes and regained earths memories, haste-spurred Donning apparel and armour strode through the town of his fathers, Watched by her gods on his way to his fate, towards Pergamas portals. Nine long years had passed and the tenth now was wearily ending, Years of the wrath of the gods, and the leaguer still threatened the ramparts Since through a tranquil morn the ships came past Tenedos sailing And the first Argive fell slain as he leaped on the Phrygian beaches; Still the assailants attacked, still fought back the stubborn defenders. When the reward is withheld and endlessly leng thens the labour, Weary of fruitless toil grows the transient heart of the mortal. Weary of battle the invaders warring hearthless and homeless Prayed to the gods for release and return to the land of their fathers: Weary of battle the Phrygians beset in their beautiful city Prayed to the gods for an end of the danger and mortal encounter. Long had the high-beached ships forgotten their measureless ocean. Greece seemed old and strange to her children camped on the beaches, Old like a life long past one remembers hardly believing But as a dream that has happened, but as the tale of another. Time with his tardy touch and Nature changing our substance Slowly had dimmed the faces loved and the scenes once cherished: Yet was the dream still dear to them longing for wife and for children, Longing for hearth and glebe in the far-off valleys of Hellas. Always like waves that swallow the shingles, lapsing, returning, Tide of the battle, race of the onset relentlessly thundered Over the Phrygian corn-fields. Trojan wrestled with Argive, Caria, Lycia, Thrace and the war-lord mighty Achaia Joined in the clasp of the fight. Death, panic and wounds and disaster, Glory of conquest and glory of fall, and the empty hearth-side, Weeping and fortitude, terror and hope and the pang of remembrance, Anguish of hearts, the lives of the warriors, the strength of the nations Thrown were like weights into Destinys scales, but the balance wavered Pressed by invisible hands. For not only the mortal fighters, Heroes half divine whose names are like stars in remoteness, Triumphed and failed and were winds or were weeds on the dance of the surges, But from the peaks of Olympus and shimmering summits of Ida Gleaming and clanging the gods of the antique ages descended. Hidden from human knowledge the brilliant shapes of Immortals Mingled unseen in the mellay, or sometimes, marvellous, maskless, Forms of undying beauty and power that made tremble the heart-strings Parting their deathless secrecy crossed through the borders of vision, Plain as of old to the demigods out of their glory emerging, Heard by mortal ears and seen by the eyeballs that perish. Mighty they came from their spaces of freedom and sorrowless splendour. Sea-vast, trailing the azure hem of his clamorous waters, Blue-lidded, maned with the Night, Poseidon smote for the future, Earth-shaker who with his trident releases the coils of the Dragon, Freeing the forces unborn that are locked in the caverns of Nature. Calm and unmoved, upholding the Word that is Fate and the order Fixed in the sight of a Will foreknowing and silent and changeless, Hera sent by Zeus and Athene lifting his aegis Guarded the hidden decree. But for Ilion, loud as the surges, Ares impetuous called to the fire in mens hearts, and his passion Woke in the shadowy depths the forms of the Titan and demon; Dumb and coerced by the grip of the gods in the abyss of the being, Formidable, veiled they sit in the grey subconscient darkness Watching the sleep of the snake-haired Erinnys. Miracled, haloed, Seer and magician and prophet who beholds what the thought cannot witness, Lifting the godhead within us to more than a human endeavour, Slayer and saviour, thinker and mystic, leaped from his sun-peaks Guarding in Ilion the wall of his mysteries Delphic Apollo. Heavens strengths divided swayed in the whirl of the Earth-force. All that is born and destroyed is reborn in the sweep of the ages; Life like a decimal ever recurring repeats the old figure; Goal seems there none for the ball that is chased throughout Time by the Fate-teams; Evil once ended renews and no issue comes out of living: Only an Eye unseen can distinguish the thread of its workings. Such seemed the rule of the pastime of Fate on the plains of the Troad; All went backwards and forwards tossed in the swing of the death-game. Vain was the toil of the heroes, the blood of the mighty was squandered, Spray as of surf on the cliffs when it moans unappeased, unrequited Age after fruitless age. Day hunted the steps of the nightfall; Joy succeeded to grief; defeat only greatened the vanquished, Victory offered an empty delight without guerdon or profit. End there was none of the effort and end there was none of the failure. Triumph and agony changing hands in a desperate measure Faced and turned as a man and a maiden trampling the grasses Face and turn and they laugh in their joy of the dance and each other. These were gods and they trampled lives. But though Time is immortal, Mortal his works are and ways and the anguish ends like the rapture. Artists of Nature content with their work in the plan of the transience, Beautiful, deathless, august, the Olympians turned from the carnage, Leaving the battle already decided, leaving the heroes Slain in their minds, Troy burned, Greece left to her glory and downfall. Into their heavens they rose up mighty like eagles ascending Fanning the world with their wings. As the great to their luminous mansions Turn from the cry and the strife, forgetting the wounded and fallen, Calm they repose from their toil and incline to the joy of the banquet, Watching the feet of the wine-bearers rosily placed on the marble, Filling their hearts with ease, so they to their sorrowless ether Passed from the wounded earth and its air that is ploughed with mens anguish; Calm they reposed and their hearts inclined to the joy and the silence. Lifted was the burden laid on our wills by their starry presence: Man was restored to his smallness, the world to its inconscient labour. Life felt a respite from height, the winds breathed freer delivered; Light was released from their blaze and the earth was released from their greatness. But their immortal content from the struggle titanic departed. Vacant the noise of the battle roared like the sea on the shingles; Wearily hunted the spears their quarry; strength was disheartened; Silence increased with the march of the months on the tents of the leaguer. But not alone on the Achaians the steps of the moments fell heavy; Slowly the shadow deepened on Ilion mighty and scornful: Dragging her days went by; in the rear of the hearts of her people Something that knew what they dared not know and the mind would not utter, Something that smote at her soul of defiance and beauty and laughter, Darkened the hours. For Doom in her sombre and giant uprising Neared, assailing the skies: the sense of her lived in all pastimes; Time was pursued by unease and a terror woke in the midnight: Even the ramparts felt her, stones that the gods had erected. Now no longer she dallied and played, but bounded and hastened, Seeing before her the end and, imagining massacre calmly, Laughed and admired the flames and rejoiced in the cry of the captives. Under her, dead to the watching immortals, Deiphobus hastened Clanging in arms through the streets of the beautiful insolent city, Brilliant, a gleaming husk but empty and left by the daemon. Even as a star long extinguished whose light still travels the spaces, Seen in its form by men, but itself goes phantom-like fleeting Void and null and dark through the uncaring infinite vastness, So now he seemed to the sight that sees all things from the Real. Timeless its vision of Time creates the hour by things coming. Borne on a force from the past and no more by a power for the future Mighty and bright was his body, but shadowy the shape of his spirit Only an eidolon seemed of the being that had lived in him, fleeting Vague like a phantom seen by the dim Acherontian waters. But to the guardian towers that watched over Pergamas gateway Out of the waking city Deiphobus swiftly arriving Called, and swinging back the huge gates slowly, reluctant, Flung Troy wide to the entering Argive. Ilions portals Parted admitting her destiny, then with a sullen and iron Cry they closed. Mute, staring, grey like a wolf descended Old Talthybius, propping his steps on the staff of his errand; Feeble his body, but fierce still his glance with the fire within him; Speechless and brooding he gazed on the hated and coveted city. Suddenly, seeking heaven with her buildings hewn as for Titans, Marvellous, rhythmic, a child of the gods with marble for raiment, Smiting the vision with harmony, splendid and mighty and golden, Ilion stood up around him entrenched in her giant defences. Strength was uplifted on strength and grandeur supported by grandeur; Beauty lay in her lap. Remote, hieratic and changeless, Filled with her deeds and her dreams her gods looked out on the Argive, Helpless and dumb with his hate as he gazed on her, they too like mortals Knowing their centuries past, not knowing the morrow before them. Dire were his eyes upon Troya the beautiful, his face like a doom-mask: All Greece gazed in them, hated, admired, grew afraid, grew relentless. But to the Greek Deiphobus cried and he turned from his passion Fixing his ominous eyes with the god in them straight on the Trojan: Messenger, voice of Achaia, wherefore confronting the daybreak Comest thou driving thy car from the sleep of the tents that besiege us? Fateful, I deem, was the thought that, conceived in the silence of midnight, Raised up thy aged limbs from the couch of their rest in the stillness, Thoughts of a mortal but forged by the Will that uses our members And of its promptings our speech and our acts are the tools and the image. Oft from the veil and the shadow they leap out like stars in their brightness, Lights that we think our own, yet they are but tokens and counters, Signs of the Forces that flow through us serving a Power that is secret. What in the dawning bringst thou to Troya the mighty and dateless Now in the ending of Time when the gods are weary of struggle? Sends Agamemnon challenge or courtesy, Greek, to the Trojans? High like the northwind answered the voice of the doom from Achaia: Trojan Deiphobus, daybreak, silence of night and the evening Sink and arise and even the strong sun rests from his splendour. Not for the servant is rest nor Time is his, only his death-pyre. I have not come from the monarch of men or the armoured assembly Held on the wind-swept marge of the thunder and laughter of ocean. One in his singleness greater than kings and multitudes sends me. I am a voice out of Phthia, I am the will of the Hellene. Peace in my right I bring to you, death in my left hand. Trojan, Proudly receive them, honour the gifts of the mighty Achilles. Death accept, if Ate deceives you and Doom is your lover, Peace if your fate can turn and the god in you chooses to hearken. Full is my heart and my lips are impatient of speech undelivered. It was not made for the streets or the market, nor to be uttered Meanly to common ears, but where counsel and majesty harbour Far from the crowd in the halls of the great and to wisdom and foresight Secrecy whispers, there I will speak among Ilions princes. Envoy, answered the Laomedontian, voice of Achilles, Vain is the offer of peace that sets out with a threat for its prelude. Yet will we hear thee. Arise who are fleetest of foot in the gateway, Thou, Thrasymachus, haste. Let the domes of the mansion of Ilus Wake to the bruit of the Hellene challenge. Summon Aeneas. Even as the word sank back into stillness, doffing his mantle Started to run at the bidding a swift-footed youth of the Trojans First in the race and the battle, Thrasymachus son of Aretes. He in the dawn disappeared into swiftness. Deiphobus slowly, Measuring Fate with his thoughts in the troubled vasts of his spirit, Back through the stir of the city returned to the house of his fathers, Taming his mighty stride to the pace infirm of the Argive. But with the god in his feet Thrasymachus rapidly running Came to the halls in the youth of the wonderful city by Ilus Built for the joy of the eye; for he rested from war and, triumphant, Reigned adored by the prostrate nations. Now when all ended, Last of its mortal possessors to walk in its flowering gardens, Great Anchises lay in that luminous house of the ancients Soothing his restful age, the far-warring victor Anchises, High Bucoleons son and the father of Rome by a goddess; Lonely and vagrant once in his boyhood divine upon Ida White Aphrodite ensnared him and she loosed her ambrosial girdle Seeking a mortals love. On the threshold Thrasymachus halted Looking for servant or guard, but felt only a loneness of slumber Drawing the souls sight within away from its life and things human; Soundless, unheeding, the vacant corridors fled into darkness. He to the shades of the house and the dreams of the echoing rafters Trusted his high-voiced call, and from chambers still dim in their twilight Strong Aeneas armoured and mantled, leonine striding, Came, Anchises son; for the dawn had not found him reposing, But in the night he had left his couch and the clasp of Cresa, Rising from sleep at the call of his spirit that turned to the waters Prompted by Fate and his mother who guided him, white Aphrodite. Still with the impulse of speed Thrasymachus greeted Aeneas: Hero Aeneas, swift be thy stride to the Ilian hill-top. Dardanid, haste! for the gods are at work; they have risen with the morning, Each from his starry couch, and they labour. Doom, we can see it, Glows on their anvils of destiny, clang we can hear of their hammers. Something they forge there sitting unknown in the silence eternal, Whether of evil or good it is they who shall choose who are masters Calm, unopposed; they are gods and they work out their iron caprices. Troy is their stage and Argos their background; we are their puppets. Always our voices are prompted to speech for an end that we know not, Always we think that we drive, but are driven. Action and impulse, Yearning and thought are their engines, our will is their shadow and helper. Now too, deeming he comes with a purpose framed by a mortal, Shaft of their will they have shot from the bow of the Grecian leaguer, Lashing themselves at his steeds, Talthybius sent by Achilles. Busy the gods are always, Thrasymachus son of Aretes, Weaving Fate on their looms, and yesterday, now and tomorrow Are but the stands they have made with Space and Time for their timber, Frame but the dance of their shuttle. What eye unamazed by their workings Ever can pierce where they dwell and uncover their far-stretching purpose? Silent they toil, they are hid in the clouds, they are wrapped with the midnight. Yet to Apollo I pray, the Archer friendly to mortals, Yet to the rider on Fate I abase myself, wielder of thunder, Evil and doom to avert from my fatherland. All night Morpheus, He who with shadowy hands heaps error and truth upon mortals, Stood at my pillow with images. Dreaming I erred like a phantom Helpless in Ilions streets with the fire and the foeman around me. Red was the smoke as it mounted triumphant the house-top of Priam, Clang of the arms of the Greeks was in Troya, and thwarting the clangour Voices were crying and calling me over the violent Ocean Borne by the winds of the West from a land where Hesperus harbours. Brooding they ceased, for their thoughts grew heavy upon them and voiceless. Then, in a farewell brief and unthought and unconscious of meaning, Parting they turned to their tasks and their lives now close but soon severed: Destined to perish even before his perishing nation, Back to his watch at the gate sped Thrasymachus rapidly running; Large of pace and swift, but with eyes absorbed and unseeing, Driven like a car of the gods by the whip of his thoughts through the highways, Turned to his mighty future the hero born of a goddess. One was he chosen to ascend into greatness through fall and disaster, Loser of his world by the will of a heaven that seemed ruthless and adverse, Founder of a newer and greater world by daring adventure. Now, from the citadels rise with the townships crowding below it High towards a pondering of domes and the mystic Palladium climbing, Fronted with the morning ray and joined by the winds of the ocean, Fate-weighed up Troys slope strode musing strong Aeneas. Under him silent the slumbering roofs of the city of Ilus Dreamed in the light of the dawn; above watched the citadel, sleepless Lonely and strong like a goddess white-limbed and bright on a hill-top, Looking far out at the sea and the foe and the prowling of danger. Over the brow he mounted and saw the palace of Priam, Home of the gods of the earth, Laomedons marvellous vision Held in the thought that accustomed his will to unearthly achievement And in the blaze of his spirit compelling heaven with its greatness, Dreamed by the harp of Apollo, a melody caught into marble. Out of his mind it arose like an epic canto by canto; Each of its halls was a strophe, its chambers lines of an epode, Victor chant of Ilions destiny. Absent he entered, Voiceless with thought, the brilliant megaron crowded with paintings, Paved with a splendour of marble, and saw Deiphobus seated, Son of the ancient house by the opulent hearth of his fathers, And at his side like a shadow the grey and ominous Argive. Happy of light like a lustrous star when it welcomes the morning, Brilliant, beautiful, glamoured with gold and a fillet of gem-fire, Paris, plucked from the song and the lyre by the Grecian challenge, Came with the joy in his face and his eyes that Fate could not alter. Ever a child of the dawn at play near a turn of the sun-roads, Facing destinys look with the careless laugh of a comrade, He with his vision of delight and beauty brightening the earth-field Passed through its peril and grief on his way to the ambiguous Shadow. Last from her chamber of sleep where she lay in the Ilian mansion Far in the heart of the house with the deep-bosomed daughters of Priam, Noble and tall and erect in a nimbus of youth and of glory, Claiming the world and life as a fief of her strength and her courage, Dawned through a doorway that opened to distant murmurs and laughter, Capturing the eye like a smile or a sunbeam, Penthesilea. She from the threshold cried to the herald, crossing the marble, Regal and fleet, with her voice that was mighty and dire in its sweetness. What with such speed has impelled from the wind-haunted beaches of Troas, Herald, thy car though the sun yet hesitates under the mountains? Comest thou humbler to Troy, Talthybius, now than thou camest Once when the streams of my East sang low to my ear, not this Ocean Loud, and I roamed in my mountains uncalled by the voice of Apollo? Bringest thou dulcet-eyed peace or, sweeter to Penthesilea, Challenge of war when the spears fall thick on the shields of the fighters, Lightly the wheels leap onward chanting the anthem of Ares, Death is at work in his fields and the heart is enamoured of danger? What says Odysseus, the baffled Ithacan? what Agamemnon? Are they then weary of war who were rapid and bold and triumphant, Now that their gods are reluctant, now victory darts not from heaven Down from the clouds above Ida directing the luminous legions Armed by Fate, now Pallas forgets, now Poseidon slumbers? Bronze were their throats to the battle like bugles blaring in chorus; Mercy they knew not, but shouted and ravened and ran to the slaughter Eager as hounds when they chase, till a woman met them and stayed them, Loud my war-shout rang by Scamander. Herald of Argos, What say the vaunters of Greece to the virgin Penthesilea? High was the Argives answer confronting the mighty in Troya. Princes of Pergama, whelps of the lion who roar for the mellay, Suffer my speech! It shall ring like a spear on the hearts of the mighty. Blame not the herald; his voice is an impulse, an echo, a channel Now for the timbrels of peace and now for the drums of the battle. And I have come from no cautious strength, from no half-hearted speaker, But from the Phthian. All know him! Proud is his soul as his fortunes, Swift as his sword and his spear are the speech and the wrath from his bosom. I am his envoy, herald am I of the conquering Argives. Has not one heard in the night when the breezes whisper and shudder, Dire, the voice of a lion unsatisfied, gnawed by his hunger, Seeking his prey from the gods? For he prowls through the glens of the mountains, Errs a dangerous gleam in the woodlands, fatal and silent. So for a while he endures, for a while he seeks and he suffers Patient yet in his terrible grace as assured of his banquet; But he has lacked too long and he lifts his head and to heaven Roars in his wonder, incensed, impatiently. Startled the valleys Shrink from the dreadful alarum, the cattle gallop to shelter. Arming the herdsmen cry to each other for comfort and courage. So Talthybius spoke, as a harper voicing his prelude Touches his strings to a varied music, seeks for a concord; Long his strain he prepares. But one broke in on the speaker, Sweet was his voice like a harps though heard in the front of the onset, One of the sons of Fate by the people loved whom he ruined, Leader in counsel and battle, the Priamid, he in his beauty Carelessly walking who scattered the seeds of Titanic disaster. Surely thou dreamedst at night and awaking thy dreams have not left thee! Hast thou not woven thy words to intimidate children in Argos Sitting alarmed in the shadows who listen pale to their nurses? Greek, thou art standing in Ilion now and thou facest her princes. Use not thy words but thy kings. If friendship their honey-breathed burden, Friendship we clasp from Achilles, but challenge outpace with our challenge Meeting the foe ere he moves in his will to the clash of encounter. Such is the way of the Trojans since Phryx by the Hellespont halting Seated Troy on her hill with the Ocean for comrade and sister. Shaking in wrath his filleted head Talthybius answered: Princes, ye speak their words who drive you! Thus said Achilles: Rise, Talthybius, meet in her spaces the car of the morning; Challenge her coursers divine as they bound through the plains of the Troad. Hasten, let not the day wear gold ere thou stand in her ramparts. Herald charged with my will to a haughty and obstinate nation, Speak in the palace of Priam the word of the Phthian Achilles. Freely and not as his vassal who leads, Agamemnon, the Argive, But as a ruler in Hellas I send thee, king of my nations. Long I have walked apart from the mellay of gods in the Troad, Long has my listless spear leaned back on the peace of my tent-side, Deaf to the talk of the trumpets, the whine of the chariots speeding; Sole with my heart I have lived, unheeding the Hellene murmur, Chid when it roared for the hunt the lion pack of the war-god, Day after day I walked at dawn and in blush of the sunset, Far by the call of the seas and alone with the gods and my dreaming, Leaned to the unsatisfied chant of my heart and the rhythms of ocean, Sung to by hopes that were sweet-lipped and vain. For Polyxenas brothers Still are the brood of the Titan Laomedon slain in his greatness, Engines of God unable to bear all the might that they harbour. Awe they have chid from their hearts, nor our common humanity binds them, Stay have they none in the gods who approve, giving calmness to mortals: But like the Titans of old they have hugged to them grandeur and ruin. Seek then the race self-doomed, the leaders blinded by heaven Not in the agora swept by the winds of debate and the shoutings Lion-voiced, huge of the people! In Troyas high-crested mansion Speak out my word to the hero Deiphobus, head of the mellay, Paris the racer of doom and the stubborn strength of Aeneas. Herald of Greece, when thy feet shall be pressed on the gold and the marble, Rise in the Ilian megaron, curb not the cry of the challenge. Thus shalt thou say to them striking the ground with the staff of defiance, Fronting the tempests of war, the insensate, the gamblers with downfall. Princes of Troy, I have sat in your halls, I have slept in your chambers; Not in the battle alone as a warrior glad of his foemen, Glad of the strength that mates with his own, in peace we encountered. Marvelling I sat in the halls of my enemies, close to the bosoms Scarred by the dints of my sword and the eyes I had seen through the battle, Ate rejoicing the food of the East at the tables of Priam Served by the delicatest hands in the world, by Hecubas daughter, Or with our souls reconciled in some careless and rapturous midnight Drank of the sweetness of Phrygian wine, admiring your bodies Shaped by the gods indeed, and my spirit revolted from hatred, Softening it yearned in its strings to the beauty and joy of its foemen, Yearned from the death that oertakes and the flame that cries and desires Even at the end to save and even on the verge to deliver Troy and her wonderful works and her sons and her deep-bosomed daughters. Warned by the gods who reveal to the heart what the mind cannot hearken Deaf with its thoughts, I offered you friendship, I offered you bridal, Hellas for comrade, Achilles for brother, the world for enjoyment Won by my spear. And one heard my call and one turned to my seeking. Why is it then that the war-cry sinks not to rest by the Xanthus? We are not voices from Argolis, Lacedaemonian tricksters, Splendid and subtle and false; we are speakers of truth, we are Hellenes, Men of the northl and faithful in friendship and noble in anger, Strong like our fathers of old. But you answered my truth with evasion Hoping to seize what I will not yield and you flattered your people. Long have I waited for wisdom to dawn on your violent natures. Lonely I paced oer the sands by the thousand-throated waters Praying to Pallas the wise that the doom might turn from your mansions, Buildings delightful, gracious as rhythms, lyrics in marble, Works of the transient gods, and I yearned for the end of the war-din Hoping that Death might relent to the beautiful sons of the Trojans. Far from the cry of the spears, from the speed and the laughter of axles, Heavy upon me like iron the intolerable yoke of inaction Weighed like a load on a runner. The war-cry rose by Scamander; Xanthus was crossed on a bridge of the fallen, not by Achilles. Often I stretched out my hand to the spear, for the Trojan beaches Rang with the voice of Deiphobus shouting and slaying the Argives; Often my heart like an anxious mother for Greece and her children Leaped, for the air was full of the leonine roar of Aeneas. Always the evening fell or the gods protected the Argives. Then by the moat of the ships, on the hither plain of the Xanthus New was the voice that climbed through the din and sailed on the breezes, High, insistent, clear, and it shouted an unknown war-cry Threatening doom to the peoples. A woman had come in to aid you, Regal and insolent, fair as the morning and fell as the northwind, Freed from the distaff who grasps at the sword and she spurns at subjection Breaking the rule of the gods. She is turbulent, swift in the battle. Clanging her voice of the swan as a summons to death and disaster, Fleet-footed, happy and pitiless, laughing she runs to the slaughter; Strong with the gait that allures she leaps from her car to the slaying, Dabbles in blood smooth hands like lilies. Europe astonished Reels from her shock to the Ocean. She is the panic and mellay, War is her paean, the chariots thunder of Penthesilea. Doom was her coming, it seems, to the men of the West and their legions; Ajax sleeps for ever, Meriones lies on the beaches. One by one they are falling before you, the great in Achaia. Ever the wounded are borne like the stream of the ants when they forage Past my ships, and they hush their moans as they near and in silence Gaze at the legions inactive accusing the fame of Achilles. Still have I borne with you, waited a little, looked for a summons, Longing for bridal torches, not flame on the Ilian housetops, Blood in the chambers of sweetness, the golden amorous city Swallowed by doom. Not broken I turned from the wrestle Titanic, Hopeless, weary of toil in the ebb of my glorious spirit, But from my stress of compassion for doom of the kindred nations, But for her sake whom my soul desires, for the daughter of Priam. And for Polyxenas sake I will speak to you yet as your lover Once ere the Fury, abrupt from Erebus, deaf to your crying, Mad with the joy of the massacre, seizes on wealth and on women Calling to Fire as it strides and Ilion sinks into ashes. Yield; for your doom is impatient. No longer your helpers hasten, Legions swift to your call; the yoke of your pride and your splendour Lies not now on the nations of earth as when Fortune desired you, Strength was your slave and Troya the lioness hungrily roaring Threatened the western world from her ramparts built by Apollo. Gladly released from the thraldom they hated, the insolent shackles Curbing their manhood the peoples arise and they pray for your ruin; Piled are their altars with gifts; their blessings help the Achaians. Memnon came, but he sleeps, and the faces swart of his nation Darken no more like a cloud over thunder and surge of the onset. Wearily Lycia fights; far fled are the Carian levies. Thrace retreats to her plains preferring the whistle of stormwinds Or on the banks of the Strymon to wheel in her Orphean measure, Not in the revel of swords and fronting the spears of the Hellenes. Princes of Pergama, open your gates to our Peace who would enter, Life in her gracious clasp and forgetfulness, grave of earths passions, Healer of wounds and the past. In a comity equal, Hellenic, Asia join with Greece, one world from the frozen rivers Trod by the hooves of the Scythian to farthest undulant Ganges. Tyndarid Helen resign, the desirable cause of your danger, Back to Greece that is empty long of her smile and her movements. Broider with riches her coming, pomp of her slaves and the waggons Endlessly groaning with gold that arrive with the ransom of nations. So shall the Fury be pacified, she who exultant from Sparta Breathed in the sails of the Trojan ravisher helping his oarsmen. So shall the gods be appeased and the thoughts of their wrath shall be cancelled, Justice contented trace back her steps and for brands of the burning Torches delightful shall break into Troy with the swords of the bridal. I like a bridegroom will seize on your city and clasp and defend her Safe from the envy of Argos, from Lacedaemonian hatred, Safe from the hunger of Crete and the Locrians violent rapine. But if you turn from my voice and you hearken only to Ares Crying for battle within you deluded by Hera and Pallas, Swiftly the fierce deaths surges shall close over Troy and her ramparts Built by the gods shall be stubble and earth to the tread of the Hellene. For to my tents I return not, I swear it by Zeus and Apollo, Master of Truth who sits within Delphi fathomless brooding Sole in the caverns of Nature and hearkens her underground murmur, Giving my oath to his keeping mute and stern who forgets not, Not from the panting of Ares toil to repose, from the wrestle Locked of hope and death in the ruthless clasp of the mellay Leaving again the Trojan ramparts unmounted, leaving Greece unavenged, the Aegean a lake and Europe a province. Choosing from Hellas exile, from Peleus and Deidamia, Choosing the field for my chamber of sleep and the battle for hearthside I shall go warring on till Asia enslaved to my footsteps Feels the tread of the God in my sandal pressed on her bosom. Rest shall I then when the borders of Greece are fringed with the Ganges; Thus shall the past pay its Titan ransom and, Fate her balance Changing, a continent ravished suffer the fortune of Helen. This I have sworn allying my will to Zeus and Ananke. So was it spoken, the Phthian challenge. Silent the heroes Looked back amazed on their past and into the night of their future. Silent their hearts felt a grasp from gods and had hints of the heavens. Hush was awhile in the room, as if Fate were trying her balance Poised on the thoughts of her mortals. At length with a musical laughter Sweet as the jangling of bells upon anklets leaping in measure Answered aloud to the gods the virgin Penthesilea. Long I had heard in my distant realms of the fame of Achilles, Ignorant still while I played with the ball and ran in the dances Thinking not ever to war; but I dreamed of the shock of the hero. So might a poet inland who imagines the rumour of Ocean, Yearn with his lust for the giant upheaval, the dance as of hill-tops, Toss of the yellow mane and the tawny march and the voices Lionlike claiming earth as a prey for the clamorous waters. So have I longed as I came for the cry and the speed of Achilles. But he has lurked in his ships, he has sulked like a boy that is angry. Glad am I now of his soul that arises hungry for battle, Glad, whether victor I live or defeated travel the shadows. Once shall my spear have rung on the shield of the Phthian Achilles. Peace I desire not. I came to a haughty and resolute nation, Honour and fame they cherish, not life by the gift of a foeman. Sons of the ancient house on whom Ilion looks as on Titans, Chiefs whom the world admires, do you fear then the shock of the Phthian? Gods, it is said, have decided your doom. Are you less in your greatness? Are you not gods to reverse their decrees or unshaken to suffer? Memnon is dead and the Carians leave you? Lycia lingers? But from the streams of my East I have come to you, Penthesilea. Virgin of Asia, answered Talthybius, doom of a nation Brought thee to Troy and her haters Olympian shielded thy coming, Vainly who feedest mens hearts with a hope that the gods have rejected. Doom in thy sweet voice utters her counsels robed like a woman. Answered the virgin disdainfully, wroth at the words of the Argive: Hast thou not ended the errand they gave thee, envoy of Hellas? Not, do I think, as our counsellor camst thou elected from Argos, Nor as a lover to Troy hast thou hastened with amorous footing Hurting thy heart with her frowardness. Hatred and rapine sent thee, Greed of the Ilian gold and lust of the Phrygian women, Voice of Achaian aggression! Doom am I truly; let Gnossus Witness it, Salamis speak of my fatal arrival and Argos Silent remember her wounds. But the Argive answered the virgin: Hearken then to the words of the Hellene, Penthesilea. Virgin to whom earths strongest are corn in the sweep of thy sickle, Lioness vain of thy bruit who besiegest the paths of the battle! Art thou not satiate yet? hast thou drunk then so little of slaughter? Death has ascended thy car; he has chosen thy hand for his harvest. But I have heard of thy pride and disdain, how thou scornest the Argives And of thy fate thou complainest that ever averse to thy wishes Cloisters the Phthian and matches with weaklings Penthesilea. Not of the Ithacan boar nor the wild-cat littered in Locris Nor of the sleek-coat Argive wild-bulls sates me the hunting; So hast thou said, I would bury my spear in the lion of Hellas. Blind and infatuate, art thou not beautiful, bright as the lightning? Were not thy limbs made cunningly linking sweetness to sweetness? Is not thy laughter an arrow surprising hearts imprudent? Charm is the seal of the gods upon woman. Distaff and girdle, Work of the jar at the well and the hush of our innermost chambers, These were appointed thee, but thou hast scorned them, O Titaness, grasping Rather the shield and the spear. Thou, obeying thy turbulent nature, Tramplest oer laws that are old to the pleasure thy heart has demanded. Rather bow to the ancient Gods who are seated and constant. But for thyself thou passest and what hast thou gained for the aeons Mingled with men in their works and depriving the age of thy beauty? Fair art thou, woman, but fair with a bitter and opposite sweetness Clanging in war when thou matchest thy voice with the shout of assemblies. Not to this end was thy sweetness made and the joy of thy members, Not to this rhythm Heaven tuned its pipe in thy throat of enchantment, Armoured like men to go warring forth and with hardness and fierceness Mix in the strife and the hate while the varied meaning of Nature Perishes hurt in its heart and life is emptied of music. Long have I marked in your world a madness. Monarchs descending Court the imperious mob of their slaves and their suppliant gesture Shameless and venal offends the majestic tradition of ages: Princes plead in the agora; spurred by the tongue of a coward, Heroes march to an impious war at a priestly bidding. Gold is sought by the great with the chaffering heart of the trader. Asia fails and the Gods are abandoning Ida for Hellas. Why must thou come here to perish, O noble and exquisite virgin, Here in a cause not thine, in a quarrel remote from thy beauty, Leaving a land that is lovely and far to be slain among strangers? Girl, to thy rivers go back and thy hills where the grapes are aspirant. Trust not a fate that indulges; for all things, Penthesilea, Break with excess and he is the wisest who walks by a measure. Yet, if thou wilt, thou shalt meet me today in the shock of the battle: There will I give thee the fame thou desirest; captive in Hellas, Men shall point to thee always, smiling and whispering, saying, This is the woman who fought with the Greeks, overthrowing their heroes; This is the slayer of Ajax, this is the slave of Achilles. Then with her musical laughter the fearless Penthesilea: Well do I hope that Achilles enslaved shall taste of that glory Or on the Phrygian fields lie slain by the spear of a woman. But to the herald Achaian the Priamid, leader of Troya: Rest in the halls of thy foes and ease thy fatigue and thy winters. Herald, abide till the people have heard and reply to Achilles. Not as the kings of the West are Ilions princes and archons, Monarchs of men who drive their nations dumb to the battle. Not in the palace of Priam and not in the halls of the mighty Whispered councils prevail and the few dispose of the millions; But with their nation consulting, feeling the hearts of the commons Ilions princes march to the war or give peace to their foemen. Lightning departs from her kings and the thunder returns from her people Met in the ancient assembly where Ilus founded his columns And since her famous centuries, names that the ages remember Leading her, Troya proclaims her decrees to obedient nations. Ceasing he cried to the thralls of his house and they tended the Argive. Brought to a chamber of rest in the luminous peace of the mansion, Grey he sat and endured the food and the wine of his foemen, Chiding his spirit that murmured within him and gazed undelighted, Vexed with the endless pomps of Laomedon. Far from those glories Memory winged it back to a sward half-forgotten, a village Nestling in leaves and low hills watching it crowned with the sunset. So for his hour he abode in earths palace of lordliest beauty, But in its caverns his heart was weary and, hurt by the splendours, Longed for Greece and the smoke-darkened roof of a cottage in Argos, Eyes of a woman faded and children crowding the hearthside. Joyless he rose and eastward expected the sunrise on Ida. *** ~ Sri Aurobindo, 1 - The Book of the Herald ,

442:There are who lord it o'er their fellow-men With most prevailing tinsel: who unpen Their baaing vanities, to browse away The comfortable green and juicy hay From human pastures; or, O torturing fact! Who, through an idiot blink, will see unpack'd Fire-branded foxes to sear up and singe Our gold and ripe-ear'd hopes. With not one tinge Of sanctuary splendour, not a sight Able to face an owl's, they still are dight By the blear-eyed nations in empurpled vests, And crowns, and turbans. With unladen breasts, Save of blown self-applause, they proudly mount To their spirit's perch, their being's high account, Their tiptop nothings, their dull skies, their thrones Amid the fierce intoxicating tones Of trumpets, shoutings, and belabour'd drums, And sudden cannon. Ah! how all this hums, In wakeful ears, like uproar past and gone Like thunder clouds that spake to Babylon, And set those old Chaldeans to their tasks. Are then regalities all gilded masks? No, there are throned seats unscalable But by a patient wing, a constant spell, Or by ethereal things that, unconfin'd, Can make a ladder of the eternal wind, And poise about in cloudy thunder-tents To watch the abysm-birth of elements. Aye, 'bove the withering of old-lipp'd Fate A thousand Powers keep religious state, In water, fiery realm, and airy bourne; And, silent as a consecrated urn, Hold sphery sessions for a season due. Yet few of these far majesties, ah, few! Have bared their operations to this globe Few, who with gorgeous pageantry enrobe Our piece of heavenwhose benevolence Shakes hand with our own Ceres; every sense Filling with spiritual sweets to plenitude, As bees gorge full their cells. And, by the feud 'Twixt Nothing and Creation, I here swear, Eterne Apollo! that thy Sister fair Is of all these the gentlier-mightiest. When thy gold breath is misting in the west, She unobserved steals unto her throne, And there she sits most meek and most alone; As if she had not pomp subservient; As if thine eye, high Poet! was not bent Towards her with the Muses in thine heart; As if the ministring stars kept not apart, Waiting for silver-footed messages. O Moon! the oldest shades 'mong oldest trees Feel palpitations when thou lookest in: O Moon! old boughs lisp forth a holier din The while they feel thine airy fellowship. Thou dost bless every where, with silver lip Kissing dead things to life. The sleeping kine, Couched in thy brightness, dream of fields divine: Innumerable mountains rise, and rise, Ambitious for the hallowing of thine eyes; And yet thy benediction passeth not One obscure hiding-place, one little spot Where pleasure may be sent: the nested wren Has thy fair face within its tranquil ken, And from beneath a sheltering ivy leaf Takes glimpses of thee; thou art a relief To the poor patient oyster, where it sleeps Within its pearly house.The mighty deeps, The monstrous sea is thinethe myriad sea! O Moon! far-spooming Ocean bows to thee, And Tellus feels his forehead's cumbrous load. Cynthia! where art thou now? What far abode Of green or silvery bower doth enshrine Such utmost beauty? Alas, thou dost pine For one as sorrowful: thy cheek is pale For one whose cheek is pale: thou dost bewail His tears, who weeps for thee. Where dost thou sigh? Ah! surely that light peeps from Vesper's eye, Or what a thing is love! 'Tis She, but lo! How chang'd, how full of ache, how gone in woe! She dies at the thinnest cloud; her loveliness Is wan on Neptune's blue: yet there's a stress Of love-spangles, just off yon cape of trees, Dancing upon the waves, as if to please The curly foam with amorous influence. O, not so idle: for down-glancing thence She fathoms eddies, and runs wild about O'erwhelming water-courses; scaring out The thorny sharks from hiding-holes, and fright'ning Their savage eyes with unaccustomed lightning. Where will the splendor be content to reach? O love! how potent hast thou been to teach Strange journeyings! Wherever beauty dwells, In gulf or aerie, mountains or deep dells, In light, in gloom, in star or blazing sun, Thou pointest out the way, and straight 'tis won. Amid his toil thou gav'st Leander breath; Thou leddest Orpheus through the gleams of death; Thou madest Pluto bear thin element; And now, O winged Chieftain! thou hast sent A moon-beam to the deep, deep water-world, To find Endymion.          On gold sand impearl'd With lily shells, and pebbles milky white, Poor Cynthia greeted him, and sooth'd her light Against his pallid face: he felt the charm To breathlessness, and suddenly a warm Of his heart's blood: 'twas very sweet; he stay'd His wandering steps, and half-entranced laid His head upon a tuft of straggling weeds, To taste the gentle moon, and freshening beads, Lashed from the crystal roof by fishes' tails. And so he kept, until the rosy veils Mantling the east, by Aurora's peering hand Were lifted from the water's breast, and fann'd Into sweet air; and sober'd morning came Meekly through billows:when like taper-flame Left sudden by a dallying breath of air, He rose in silence, and once more 'gan fare Along his fated way.            Far had he roam'd, With nothing save the hollow vast, that foam'd Above, around, and at his feet; save things More dead than Morpheus' imaginings: Old rusted anchors, helmets, breast-plates large Of gone sea-warriors; brazen beaks and targe; Rudders that for a hundred years had lost The sway of human hand; gold vase emboss'd With long-forgotten story, and wherein No reveller had ever dipp'd a chin But those of Saturn's vintage; mouldering scrolls, Writ in the tongue of heaven, by those souls Who first were on the earth; and sculptures rude In ponderous stone, developing the mood Of ancient Nox;then skeletons of man, Of beast, behemoth, and leviathan, And elephant, and eagle, and huge jaw Of nameless monster. A cold leaden awe These secrets struck into him; and unless Dian had chaced away that heaviness, He might have died: but now, with cheered feel, He onward kept; wooing these thoughts to steal About the labyrinth in his soul of love. "What is there in thee, Moon! that thou shouldst move My heart so potently? When yet a child I oft have dried my tears when thou hast smil'd. Thou seem'dst my sister: hand in hand we went From eve to morn across the firmament. No apples would I gather from the tree, Till thou hadst cool'd their cheeks deliciously: No tumbling water ever spake romance, But when my eyes with thine thereon could dance: No woods were green enough, no bower divine, Until thou liftedst up thine eyelids fine: In sowing time ne'er would I dibble take, Or drop a seed, till thou wast wide awake; And, in the summer tide of blossoming, No one but thee hath heard me blithly sing And mesh my dewy flowers all the night. No melody was like a passing spright If it went not to solemnize thy reign. Yes, in my boyhood, every joy and pain By thee were fashion'd to the self-same end; And as I grew in years, still didst thou blend With all my ardours: thou wast the deep glen; Thou wast the mountain-topthe sage's pen The poet's harpthe voice of friendsthe sun; Thou wast the riverthou wast glory won; Thou wast my clarion's blastthou wast my steed My goblet full of winemy topmost deed: Thou wast the charm of women, lovely Moon! O what a wild and harmonized tune My spirit struck from all the beautiful! On some bright essence could I lean, and lull Myself to immortality: I prest Nature's soft pillow in a wakeful rest. But, gentle Orb! there came a nearer bliss My strange love cameFelicity's abyss! She came, and thou didst fade, and fade away Yet not entirely; no, thy starry sway Has been an under-passion to this hour. Now I begin to feel thine orby power Is coming fresh upon me: O be kind, Keep back thine influence, and do not blind My sovereign vision.Dearest love, forgive That I can think away from thee and live! Pardon me, airy planet, that I prize One thought beyond thine argent luxuries! How far beyond!" At this a surpris'd start Frosted the springing verdure of his heart; For as he lifted up his eyes to swear How his own goddess was past all things fair, He saw far in the concave green of the sea An old man sitting calm and peacefully. Upon a weeded rock this old man sat, And his white hair was awful, and a mat Of weeds were cold beneath his cold thin feet; And, ample as the largest winding-sheet, A cloak of blue wrapp'd up his aged bones, O'erwrought with symbols by the deepest groans Of ambitious magic: every ocean-form Was woven in with black distinctness; storm, And calm, and whispering, and hideous roar Were emblem'd in the woof; with every shape That skims, or dives, or sleeps, 'twixt cape and cape. The gulphing whale was like a dot in the spell, Yet look upon it, and 'twould size and swell To its huge self; and the minutest fish Would pass the very hardest gazer's wish, And show his little eye's anatomy. Then there was pictur'd the regality Of Neptune; and the sea nymphs round his state, In beauteous vassalage, look up and wait. Beside this old man lay a pearly wand, And in his lap a book, the which he conn'd So stedfastly, that the new denizen Had time to keep him in amazed ken, To mark these shadowings, and stand in awe. The old man rais'd his hoary head and saw The wilder'd strangerseeming not to see, His features were so lifeless. Suddenly He woke as from a trance; his snow-white brows Went arching up, and like two magic ploughs Furrow'd deep wrinkles in his forehead large, Which kept as fixedly as rocky marge, Till round his wither'd lips had gone a smile. Then up he rose, like one whose tedious toil Had watch'd for years in forlorn hermitage, Who had not from mid-life to utmost age Eas'd in one accent his o'er-burden'd soul, Even to the trees. He rose: he grasp'd his stole, With convuls'd clenches waving it abroad, And in a voice of solemn joy, that aw'd Echo into oblivion, he said: "Thou art the man! Now shall I lay my head In peace upon my watery pillow: now Sleep will come smoothly to my weary brow. O Jove! I shall be young again, be young! O shell-borne Neptune, I am pierc'd and stung With new-born life! What shall I do? Where go, When I have cast this serpent-skin of woe? I'll swim to the syrens, and one moment listen Their melodies, and see their long hair glisten; Anon upon that giant's arm I'll be, That writhes about the roots of Sicily: To northern seas I'll in a twinkling sail, And mount upon the snortings of a whale To some black cloud; thence down I'll madly sweep On forked lightning, to the deepest deep, Where through some sucking pool I will be hurl'd With rapture to the other side of the world! O, I am full of gladness! Sisters three, I bow full hearted to your old decree! Yes, every god be thank'd, and power benign, For I no more shall wither, droop, and pine. Thou art the man!" Endymion started back Dismay'd; and, like a wretch from whom the rack Tortures hot breath, and speech of agony, Mutter'd: "What lonely death am I to die In this cold region? Will he let me freeze, And float my brittle limbs o'er polar seas? Or will he touch me with his searing hand, And leave a black memorial on the sand? Or tear me piece-meal with a bony saw, And keep me as a chosen food to draw His magian fish through hated fire and flame? O misery of hell! resistless, tame, Am I to be burnt up? No, I will shout, Until the gods through heaven's blue look out! O Tartarus! but some few days agone Her soft arms were entwining me, and on Her voice I hung like fruit among green leaves: Her lips were all my own, andah, ripe sheaves Of happiness! ye on the stubble droop, But never may be garner'd. I must stoop My head, and kiss death's foot. Love! love, farewel! Is there no hope from thee? This horrid spell Would melt at thy sweet breath.By Dian's hind Feeding from her white fingers, on the wind I see thy streaming hair! and now, by Pan, I care not for this old mysterious man!" He spake, and walking to that aged form, Look'd high defiance. Lo! his heart 'gan warm With pity, for the grey-hair'd creature wept. Had he then wrong'd a heart where sorrow kept? Had he, though blindly contumelious, brought Rheum to kind eyes, a sting to human thought, Convulsion to a mouth of many years? He had in truth; and he was ripe for tears. The penitent shower fell, as down he knelt Before that care-worn sage, who trembling felt About his large dark locks, and faultering spake: "Arise, good youth, for sacred Phoebus' sake! I know thine inmost bosom, and I feel A very brother's yearning for thee steal Into mine own: for why? thou openest The prison gates that have so long opprest My weary watching. Though thou know'st it not, Thou art commission'd to this fated spot For great enfranchisement. O weep no more; I am a friend to love, to loves of yore: Aye, hadst thou never lov'd an unknown power I had been grieving at this joyous hour But even now most miserable old, I saw thee, and my blood no longer cold Gave mighty pulses: in this tottering case Grew a new heart, which at this moment plays As dancingly as thine. Be not afraid, For thou shalt hear this secret all display'd, Now as we speed towards our joyous task." So saying, this young soul in age's mask Went forward with the Carian side by side: Resuming quickly thus; while ocean's tide Hung swollen at their backs, and jewel'd sands Took silently their foot-prints. "My soul stands Now past the midway from mortality, And so I can prepare without a sigh To tell thee briefly all my joy and pain. I was a fisher once, upon this main, And my boat danc'd in every creek and bay; Rough billows were my home by night and day, The sea-gulls not more constant; for I had No housing from the storm and tempests mad, But hollow rocks,and they were palaces Of silent happiness, of slumberous ease: Long years of misery have told me so. Aye, thus it was one thousand years ago. One thousand years!Is it then possible To look so plainly through them? to dispel A thousand years with backward glance sublime? To breathe away as 'twere all scummy slime From off a crystal pool, to see its deep, And one's own image from the bottom peep? Yes: now I am no longer wretched thrall, My long captivity and moanings all Are but a slime, a thin-pervading scum, The which I breathe away, and thronging come Like things of yesterday my youthful pleasures. "I touch'd no lute, I sang not, trod no measures: I was a lonely youth on desert shores. My sports were lonely, 'mid continuous roars, And craggy isles, and sea-mew's plaintive cry Plaining discrepant between sea and sky. Dolphins were still my playmates; shapes unseen Would let me feel their scales of gold and green, Nor be my desolation; and, full oft, When a dread waterspout had rear'd aloft Its hungry hugeness, seeming ready ripe To burst with hoarsest thunderings, and wipe My life away like a vast sponge of fate, Some friendly monster, pitying my sad state, Has dived to its foundations, gulph'd it down, And left me tossing safely. But the crown Of all my life was utmost quietude: More did I love to lie in cavern rude, Keeping in wait whole days for Neptune's voice, And if it came at last, hark, and rejoice! There blush'd no summer eve but I would steer My skiff along green shelving coasts, to hear The shepherd's pipe come clear from aery steep, Mingled with ceaseless bleatings of his sheep: And never was a day of summer shine, But I beheld its birth upon the brine: For I would watch all night to see unfold Heaven's gates, and Aethon snort his morning gold Wide o'er the swelling streams: and constantly At brim of day-tide, on some grassy lea, My nets would be spread out, and I at rest. The poor folk of the sea-country I blest With daily boon of fish most delicate: They knew not whence this bounty, and elate Would strew sweet flowers on a sterile beach. "Why was I not contented? Wherefore reach At things which, but for thee, O Latmian! Had been my dreary death? Fool! I began To feel distemper'd longings: to desire The utmost privilege that ocean's sire Could grant in benediction: to be free Of all his kingdom. Long in misery I wasted, ere in one extremest fit I plung'd for life or death. To interknit One's senses with so dense a breathing stuff Might seem a work of pain; so not enough Can I admire how crystal-smooth it felt, And buoyant round my limbs. At first I dwelt Whole days and days in sheer astonishment; Forgetful utterly of self-intent; Moving but with the mighty ebb and flow. Then, like a new fledg'd bird that first doth shew His spreaded feathers to the morrow chill, I tried in fear the pinions of my will. 'Twas freedom! and at once I visited The ceaseless wonders of this ocean-bed. No need to tell thee of them, for I see That thou hast been a witnessit must be For these I know thou canst not feel a drouth, By the melancholy corners of that mouth. So I will in my story straightway pass To more immediate matter. Woe, alas! That love should be my bane! Ah, Scylla fair! Why did poor Glaucus everever dare To sue thee to his heart? Kind stranger-youth! I lov'd her to the very white of truth, And she would not conceive it. Timid thing! She fled me swift as sea-bird on the wing, Round every isle, and point, and promontory, From where large Hercules wound up his story Far as Egyptian Nile. My passion grew The more, the more I saw her dainty hue Gleam delicately through the azure clear: Until 'twas too fierce agony to bear; And in that agony, across my grief It flash'd, that Circe might find some relief Cruel enchantress! So above the water I rear'd my head, and look'd for Phoebus' daughter. Aeaea's isle was wondering at the moon: It seem'd to whirl around me, and a swoon Left me dead-drifting to that fatal power. "When I awoke, 'twas in a twilight bower; Just when the light of morn, with hum of bees, Stole through its verdurous matting of fresh trees. How sweet, and sweeter! for I heard a lyre, And over it a sighing voice expire. It ceasedI caught light footsteps; and anon The fairest face that morn e'er look'd upon Push'd through a screen of roses. Starry Jove! With tears, and smiles, and honey-words she wove A net whose thraldom was more bliss than all The range of flower'd Elysium. Thus did fall The dew of her rich speech: "Ah! Art awake? O let me hear thee speak, for Cupid's sake! I am so oppress'd with joy! Why, I have shed An urn of tears, as though thou wert cold dead; And now I find thee living, I will pour From these devoted eyes their silver store, Until exhausted of the latest drop, So it will pleasure thee, and force thee stop Here, that I too may live: but if beyond Such cool and sorrowful offerings, thou art fond Of soothing warmth, of dalliance supreme; If thou art ripe to taste a long love dream; If smiles, if dimples, tongues for ardour mute, Hang in thy vision like a tempting fruit, O let me pluck it for thee." Thus she link'd Her charming syllables, till indistinct Their music came to my o'er-sweeten'd soul; And then she hover'd over me, and stole So near, that if no nearer it had been This furrow'd visage thou hadst never seen. "Young man of Latmos! thus particular Am I, that thou may'st plainly see how far This fierce temptation went: and thou may'st not Exclaim, How then, was Scylla quite forgot? "Who could resist? Who in this universe? She did so breathe ambrosia; so immerse My fine existence in a golden clime. She took me like a child of suckling time, And cradled me in roses. Thus condemn'd, The current of my former life was stemm'd, And to this arbitrary queen of sense I bow'd a tranced vassal: nor would thence Have mov'd, even though Amphion's harp had woo'd Me back to Scylla o'er the billows rude. For as Apollo each eve doth devise A new appareling for western skies; So every eve, nay every spendthrift hour Shed balmy consciousness within that bower. And I was free of haunts umbrageous; Could wander in the mazy forest-house Of squirrels, foxes shy, and antler'd deer, And birds from coverts innermost and drear Warbling for very joy mellifluous sorrow To me new born delights!              "Now let me borrow, For moments few, a temperament as stern As Pluto's sceptre, that my words not burn These uttering lips, while I in calm speech tell How specious heaven was changed to real hell. "One morn she left me sleeping: half awake I sought for her smooth arms and lips, to slake My greedy thirst with nectarous camel-draughts; But she was gone. Whereat the barbed shafts Of disappointment stuck in me so sore, That out I ran and search'd the forest o'er. Wandering about in pine and cedar gloom Damp awe assail'd me; for there 'gan to boom A sound of moan, an agony of sound, Sepulchral from the distance all around. Then came a conquering earth-thunder, and rumbled That fierce complain to silence: while I stumbled Down a precipitous path, as if impell'd. I came to a dark valley.Groanings swell'd Poisonous about my ears, and louder grew, The nearer I approach'd a flame's gaunt blue, That glar'd before me through a thorny brake. This fire, like the eye of gordian snake, Bewitch'd me towards; and I soon was near A sight too fearful for the feel of fear: In thicket hid I curs'd the haggard scene The banquet of my arms, my arbour queen, Seated upon an uptorn forest root; And all around her shapes, wizard and brute, Laughing, and wailing, groveling, serpenting, Shewing tooth, tusk, and venom-bag, and sting! O such deformities! Old Charon's self, Should he give up awhile his penny pelf, And take a dream 'mong rushes Stygian, It could not be so phantasied. Fierce, wan, And tyrannizing was the lady's look, As over them a gnarled staff she shook. Oft-times upon the sudden she laugh'd out, And from a basket emptied to the rout Clusters of grapes, the which they raven'd quick And roar'd for more; with many a hungry lick About their shaggy jaws. Avenging, slow, Anon she took a branch of mistletoe, And emptied on't a black dull-gurgling phial: Groan'd one and all, as if some piercing trial Was sharpening for their pitiable bones. She lifted up the charm: appealing groans From their poor breasts went sueing to her ear In vain; remorseless as an infant's bier She whisk'd against their eyes the sooty oil. Whereat was heard a noise of painful toil, Increasing gradual to a tempest rage, Shrieks, yells, and groans of torture-pilgrimage; Until their grieved bodies 'gan to bloat And puff from the tail's end to stifled throat: Then was appalling silence: then a sight More wildering than all that hoarse affright; For the whole herd, as by a whirlwind writhen, Went through the dismal air like one huge Python Antagonizing Boreas,and so vanish'd. Yet there was not a breath of wind: she banish'd These phantoms with a nod. Lo! from the dark Came waggish fauns, and nymphs, and satyrs stark, With dancing and loud revelry,and went Swifter than centaurs after rapine bent. Sighing an elephant appear'd and bow'd Before the fierce witch, speaking thus aloud In human accent: "Potent goddess! chief Of pains resistless! make my being brief, Or let me from this heavy prison fly: Or give me to the air, or let me die! I sue not for my happy crown again; I sue not for my phalanx on the plain; I sue not for my lone, my widow'd wife; I sue not for my ruddy drops of life, My children fair, my lovely girls and boys! I will forget them; I will pass these joys; Ask nought so heavenward, so tootoo high: Only I pray, as fairest boon, to die, Or be deliver'd from this cumbrous flesh, From this gross, detestable, filthy mesh, And merely given to the cold bleak air. Have mercy, Goddess! Circe, feel my prayer!" That curst magician's name fell icy numb Upon my wild conjecturing: truth had come Naked and sabre-like against my heart. I saw a fury whetting a death-dart; And my slain spirit, overwrought with fright, Fainted away in that dark lair of night. Think, my deliverer, how desolate My waking must have been! disgust, and hate, And terrors manifold divided me A spoil amongst them. I prepar'd to flee Into the dungeon core of that wild wood: I fled three dayswhen lo! before me stood Glaring the angry witch. O Dis, even now, A clammy dew is beading on my brow, At mere remembering her pale laugh, and curse. "Ha! ha! Sir Dainty! there must be a nurse Made of rose leaves and thistledown, express, To cradle thee my sweet, and lull thee: yes, I am too flinty-hard for thy nice touch: My tenderest squeeze is but a giant's clutch. So, fairy-thing, it shall have lullabies Unheard of yet; and it shall still its cries Upon some breast more lily-feminine. Oh, noit shall not pine, and pine, and pine More than one pretty, trifling thousand years; And then 'twere pity, but fate's gentle shears Cut short its immortality. Sea-flirt! Young dove of the waters! truly I'll not hurt One hair of thine: see how I weep and sigh, That our heart-broken parting is so nigh. And must we part? Ah, yes, it must be so. Yet ere thou leavest me in utter woe, Let me sob over thee my last adieus, And speak a blessing: Mark me! thou hast thews Immortal, for thou art of heavenly race: But such a love is mine, that here I chase Eternally away from thee all bloom Of youth, and destine thee towards a tomb. Hence shalt thou quickly to the watery vast; And there, ere many days be overpast, Disabled age shall seize thee; and even then Thou shalt not go the way of aged men; But live and wither, cripple and still breathe Ten hundred years: which gone, I then bequeath Thy fragile bones to unknown burial. Adieu, sweet love, adieu!"As shot stars fall, She fled ere I could groan for mercy. Stung And poisoned was my spirit: despair sung A war-song of defiance 'gainst all hell. A hand was at my shoulder to compel My sullen steps; another 'fore my eyes Moved on with pointed finger. In this guise Enforced, at the last by ocean's foam I found me; by my fresh, my native home. Its tempering coolness, to my life akin, Came salutary as I waded in; And, with a blind voluptuous rage, I gave Battle to the swollen billow-ridge, and drave Large froth before me, while there yet remain'd Hale strength, nor from my bones all marrow drain'd. "Young lover, I must weepsuch hellish spite With dry cheek who can tell? While thus my might Proving upon this element, dismay'd, Upon a dead thing's face my hand I laid; I look'd'twas Scylla! Cursed, cursed Circe! O vulture-witch, hast never heard of mercy? Could not thy harshest vengeance be content, But thou must nip this tender innocent Because I lov'd her?Cold, O cold indeed Were her fair limbs, and like a common weed The sea-swell took her hair. Dead as she was I clung about her waist, nor ceas'd to pass Fleet as an arrow through unfathom'd brine, Until there shone a fabric crystalline, Ribb'd and inlaid with coral, pebble, and pearl. Headlong I darted; at one eager swirl Gain'd its bright portal, enter'd, and behold! 'Twas vast, and desolate, and icy-cold; And all aroundBut wherefore this to thee Who in few minutes more thyself shalt see? I left poor Scylla in a niche and fled. My fever'd parchings up, my scathing dread Met palsy half way: soon these limbs became Gaunt, wither'd, sapless, feeble, cramp'd, and lame. "Now let me pass a cruel, cruel space, Without one hope, without one faintest trace Of mitigation, or redeeming bubble Of colour'd phantasy; for I fear 'twould trouble Thy brain to loss of reason: and next tell How a restoring chance came down to quell One half of the witch in me.        On a day, Sitting upon a rock above the spray, I saw grow up from the horizon's brink A gallant vessel: soon she seem'd to sink Away from me again, as though her course Had been resum'd in spite of hindering force So vanish'd: and not long, before arose Dark clouds, and muttering of winds morose. Old Eolus would stifle his mad spleen, But could not: therefore all the billows green Toss'd up the silver spume against the clouds. The tempest came: I saw that vessel's shrouds In perilous bustle; while upon the deck Stood trembling creatures. I beheld the wreck; The final gulphing; the poor struggling souls: I heard their cries amid loud thunder-rolls. O they had all been sav'd but crazed eld Annull'd my vigorous cravings: and thus quell'd And curb'd, think on't, O Latmian! did I sit Writhing with pity, and a cursing fit Against that hell-born Circe. The crew had gone, By one and one, to pale oblivion; And I was gazing on the surges prone, With many a scalding tear and many a groan, When at my feet emerg'd an old man's hand, Grasping this scroll, and this same slender wand. I knelt with painreached out my handhad grasp'd These treasurestouch'd the knucklesthey unclasp'd I caught a finger: but the downward weight O'erpowered meit sank. Then 'gan abate The storm, and through chill aguish gloom outburst The comfortable sun. I was athirst To search the book, and in the warming air Parted its dripping leaves with eager care. Strange matters did it treat of, and drew on My soul page after page, till well-nigh won Into forgetfulness; when, stupefied, I read these words, and read again, and tried My eyes against the heavens, and read again. O what a load of misery and pain Each Atlas-line bore off!a shine of hope Came gold around me, cheering me to cope Strenuous with hellish tyranny. Attend! For thou hast brought their promise to an end. "In the wide sea there lives a forlorn wretch, Doom'd with enfeebled carcase to outstretch His loath'd existence through ten centuries, And then to die alone. Who can devise A total opposition? No one. So One million times ocean must ebb and flow, And he oppressed. Yet he shall not die, These things accomplish'd:If he utterly Scans all the depths of magic, and expounds The meanings of all motions, shapes, and sounds; If he explores all forms and substances Straight homeward to their symbol-essences; He shall not die. Moreover, and in chief, He must pursue this task of joy and grief Most piously;all lovers tempest-tost, And in the savage overwhelming lost, He shall deposit side by side, until Time's creeping shall the dreary space fulfil: Which done, and all these labours ripened, A youth, by heavenly power lov'd and led, Shall stand before him; whom he shall direct How to consummate all. The youth elect Must do the thing, or both will be destroy'd." "Then," cried the young Endymion, overjoy'd, "We are twin brothers in this destiny! Say, I intreat thee, what achievement high Is, in this restless world, for me reserv'd. What! if from thee my wandering feet had swerv'd, Had we both perish'd?""Look!" the sage replied, "Dost thou not mark a gleaming through the tide, Of divers brilliances? 'tis the edifice I told thee of, where lovely Scylla lies; And where I have enshrined piously All lovers, whom fell storms have doom'd to die Throughout my bondage." Thus discoursing, on They went till unobscur'd the porches shone; Which hurryingly they gain'd, and enter'd straight. Sure never since king Neptune held his state Was seen such wonder underneath the stars. Turn to some level plain where haughty Mars Has legion'd all his battle; and behold How every soldier, with firm foot, doth hold His even breast: see, many steeled squares, And rigid ranks of ironwhence who dares One step? Imagine further, line by line, These warrior thousands on the field supine: So in that crystal place, in silent rows, Poor lovers lay at rest from joys and woes. The stranger from the mountains, breathless, trac'd Such thousands of shut eyes in order plac'd; Such ranges of white feet, and patient lips All ruddy,for here death no blossom nips. He mark'd their brows and foreheads; saw their hair Put sleekly on one side with nicest care; And each one's gentle wrists, with reverence, Put cross-wise to its heart.                "Let us commence, Whisper'd the guide, stuttering with joy, even now." He spake, and, trembling like an aspen-bough, Began to tear his scroll in pieces small, Uttering the while some mumblings funeral. He tore it into pieces small as snow That drifts unfeather'd when bleak northerns blow; And having done it, took his dark blue cloak And bound it round Endymion: then struck His wand against the empty air times nine. "What more there is to do, young man, is thine: But first a little patience; first undo This tangled thread, and wind it to a clue. Ah, gentle! 'tis as weak as spider's skein; And shouldst thou break itWhat, is it done so clean? A power overshadows thee! Oh, brave! The spite of hell is tumbling to its grave. Here is a shell; 'tis pearly blank to me, Nor mark'd with any sign or charactery Canst thou read aught? O read for pity's sake! Olympus! we are safe! Now, Carian, break This wand against yon lyre on the pedestal." 'Twas done: and straight with sudden swell and fall Sweet music breath'd her soul away, and sigh'd A lullaby to silence."Youth! now strew These minced leaves on me, and passing through Those files of dead, scatter the same around, And thou wilt see the issue."'Mid the sound Of flutes and viols, ravishing his heart, Endymion from Glaucus stood apart, And scatter'd in his face some fragments light. How lightning-swift the change! a youthful wight Smiling beneath a coral diadem, Out-sparkling sudden like an upturn'd gem, Appear'd, and, stepping to a beauteous corse, Kneel'd down beside it, and with tenderest force Press'd its cold hand, and weptand Scylla sigh'd! Endymion, with quick hand, the charm applied The nymph arose: he left them to their joy, And onward went upon his high employ, Showering those powerful fragments on the dead. And, as he pass'd, each lifted up its head, As doth a flower at Apollo's touch. Death felt it to his inwards; 'twas too much: Death fell a weeping in his charnel-house. The Latmian persever'd along, and thus All were re-animated. There arose A noise of harmony, pulses and throes Of gladness in the airwhile many, who Had died in mutual arms devout and true, Sprang to each other madly; and the rest Felt a high certainty of being blest. They gaz'd upon Endymion. Enchantment Grew drunken, and would have its head and bent. Delicious symphonies, like airy flowers, Budded, and swell'd, and, full-blown, shed full showers Of light, soft, unseen leaves of sounds divine. The two deliverers tasted a pure wine Of happiness, from fairy-press ooz'd out. Speechless they eyed each other, and about The fair assembly wander'd to and fro, Distracted with the richest overflow Of joy that ever pour'd from heaven.                   "Away!" Shouted the new-born god; "Follow, and pay Our piety to Neptunus supreme!" Then Scylla, blushing sweetly from her dream, They led on first, bent to her meek surprise, Through portal columns of a giant size, Into the vaulted, boundless emerald. Joyous all follow'd, as the leader call'd, Down marble steps; pouring as easily As hour-glass sandand fast, as you might see Swallows obeying the south summer's call, Or swans upon a gentle waterfall. Thus went that beautiful multitude, nor far, Ere from among some rocks of glittering spar, Just within ken, they saw descending thick Another multitude. Whereat more quick Moved either host. On a wide sand they met, And of those numbers every eye was wet; For each their old love found. A murmuring rose, Like what was never heard in all the throes Of wind and waters: 'tis past human wit To tell; 'tis dizziness to think of it. This mighty consummation made, the host Mov'd on for many a league; and gain'd, and lost Huge sea-marks; vanward swelling in array, And from the rear diminishing away, Till a faint dawn surpris'd them. Glaucus cried, "Behold! behold, the palace of his pride! God Neptune's palaces!" With noise increas'd, They shoulder'd on towards that brightening east. At every onward step proud domes arose In prospect,diamond gleams, and golden glows Of amber 'gainst their faces levelling. Joyous, and many as the leaves in spring, Still onward; still the splendour gradual swell'd. Rich opal domes were seen, on high upheld By jasper pillars, letting through their shafts A blush of coral. Copious wonder-draughts Each gazer drank; and deeper drank more near: For what poor mortals fragment up, as mere As marble was there lavish, to the vast Of one fair palace, that far far surpass'd, Even for common bulk, those olden three, Memphis, and Babylon, and Nineveh. As large, as bright, as colour'd as the bow Of Iris, when unfading it doth shew Beyond a silvery shower, was the arch Through which this Paphian army took its march, Into the outer courts of Neptune's state: Whence could be seen, direct, a golden gate, To which the leaders sped; but not half raught Ere it burst open swift as fairy thought, And made those dazzled thousands veil their eyes Like callow eagles at the first sunrise. Soon with an eagle nativeness their gaze Ripe from hue-golden swoons took all the blaze, And then, behold! large Neptune on his throne Of emerald deep: yet not exalt alone; At his right hand stood winged Love, and on His left sat smiling Beauty's paragon. Far as the mariner on highest mast Can see all round upon the calmed vast, So wide was Neptune's hall: and as the blue Doth vault the waters, so the waters drew Their doming curtains, high, magnificent, Aw'd from the throne aloof;and when storm-rent Disclos'd the thunder-gloomings in Jove's air; But sooth'd as now, flash'd sudden everywhere, Noiseless, sub-marine cloudlets, glittering Death to a human eye: for there did spring From natural west, and east, and south, and north, A light as of four sunsets, blazing forth A gold-green zenith 'bove the Sea-God's head. Of lucid depth the floor, and far outspread As breezeless lake, on which the slim canoe Of feather'd Indian darts about, as through The delicatest air: air verily, But for the portraiture of clouds and sky: This palace floor breath-air,but for the amaze Of deep-seen wonders motionless,and blaze Of the dome pomp, reflected in extremes, Globing a golden sphere.              They stood in dreams Till Triton blew his horn. The palace rang; The Nereids danc'd; the Syrens faintly sang; And the great Sea-King bow'd his dripping head. Then Love took wing, and from his pinions shed On all the multitude a nectarous dew. The ooze-born Goddess beckoned and drew Fair Scylla and her guides to conference; And when they reach'd the throned eminence She kist the sea-nymph's cheek,who sat her down A toying with the doves. Then,"Mighty crown And sceptre of this kingdom!" Venus said, "Thy vows were on a time to Nais paid: Behold!"Two copious tear-drops instant fell From the God's large eyes; he smil'd delectable, And over Glaucus held his blessing hands. "Endymion! Ah! still wandering in the bands Of love? Now this is cruel. Since the hour I met thee in earth's bosom, all my power Have I put forth to serve thee. What, not yet Escap'd from dull mortality's harsh net? A little patience, youth! 'twill not be long, Or I am skilless quite: an idle tongue, A humid eye, and steps luxurious, Where these are new and strange, are ominous. Aye, I have seen these signs in one of heaven, When others were all blind; and were I given To utter secrets, haply I might say Some pleasant words:but Love will have his day. So wait awhile expectant. Pr'ythee soon, Even in the passing of thine honey-moon, Visit my Cytherea: thou wilt find Cupid well-natured, my Adonis kind; And pray persuade with theeAh, I have done, All blisses be upon thee, my sweet son!" Thus the fair goddess: while Endymion Knelt to receive those accents halcyon. Meantime a glorious revelry began Before the Water-Monarch. Nectar ran In courteous fountains to all cups outreach'd; And plunder'd vines, teeming exhaustless, pleach'd New growth about each shell and pendent lyre; The which, in disentangling for their fire, Pull'd down fresh foliage and coverture For dainty toying. Cupid, empire-sure, Flutter'd and laugh'd, and oft-times through the throng Made a delighted way. Then dance, and song, And garlanding grew wild; and pleasure reign'd. In harmless tendril they each other chain'd, And strove who should be smother'd deepest in Fresh crush of leaves.              O 'tis a very sin For one so weak to venture his poor verse In such a place as this. O do not curse, High Muses! let him hurry to the ending. All suddenly were silent. A soft blending Of dulcet instruments came charmingly; And then a hymn.           "KING of the stormy sea! Brother of Jove, and co-inheritor Of elements! Eternally before Thee the waves awful bow. Fast, stubborn rock, At thy fear'd trident shrinking, doth unlock Its deep foundations, hissing into foam. All mountain-rivers lost, in the wide home Of thy capacious bosom ever flow. Thou frownest, and old Eolus thy foe Skulks to his cavern, 'mid the gruff complaint Of all his rebel tempests. Dark clouds faint When, from thy diadem, a silver gleam Slants over blue dominion. Thy bright team Gulphs in the morning light, and scuds along To bring thee nearer to that golden song Apollo singeth, while his chariot Waits at the doors of heaven. Thou art not For scenes like this: an empire stern hast thou; And it hath furrow'd that large front: yet now, As newly come of heaven, dost thou sit To blend and interknit Subdued majesty with this glad time. O shell-borne King sublime! We lay our hearts before thee evermore We sing, and we adore! "Breathe softly, flutes; Be tender of your strings, ye soothing lutes; Nor be the trumpet heard! O vain, O vain; Not flowers budding in an April rain, Nor breath of sleeping dove, nor river's flow, No, nor the Eolian twang of Love's own bow, Can mingle music fit for the soft ear Of goddess Cytherea! Yet deign, white Queen of Beauty, thy fair eyes On our souls' sacrifice. "Bright-winged Child! Who has another care when thou hast smil'd? Unfortunates on earth, we see at last All death-shadows, and glooms that overcast Our spirits, fann'd away by thy light pinions. O sweetest essence! sweetest of all minions! God of warm pulses, and dishevell'd hair, And panting bosoms bare! Dear unseen light in darkness! eclipser Of light in light! delicious poisoner! Thy venom'd goblet will we quaff until We fillwe fill! And by thy Mother's lips"             Was heard no more For clamour, when the golden palace door Opened again, and from without, in shone A new magnificence. On oozy throne Smooth-moving came Oceanus the old, To take a latest glimpse at his sheep-fold, Before he went into his quiet cave To muse for everThen a lucid wave, Scoop'd from its trembling sisters of mid-sea, Afloat, and pillowing up the majesty Of Doris, and the Egean seer, her spouse Next, on a dolphin, clad in laurel boughs, Theban Amphion leaning on his lute: His fingers went across itAll were mute To gaze on Amphitrite, queen of pearls, And Thetis pearly too.              The palace whirls Around giddy Endymion; seeing he Was there far strayed from mortality. He could not bear itshut his eyes in vain; Imagination gave a dizzier pain. "O I shall die! sweet Venus, be my stay! Where is my lovely mistress? Well-away! I dieI hear her voiceI feel my wing" At Neptune's feet he sank. A sudden ring Of Nereids were about him, in kind strife To usher back his spirit into life: But still he slept. At last they interwove Their cradling arms, and purpos'd to convey Towards a crystal bower far away. Lo! while slow carried through the pitying crowd, To his inward senses these words spake aloud; Written in star-light on the dark above: Dearest Endymion! my entire love! How have I dwelt in fear of fate: 'tis done Immortal bliss for me too hast thou won. Arise then! for the hen-dove shall not hatch Her ready eggs, before I'll kissing snatch Thee into endless heaven. Awake! awake! The youth at once arose: a placid lake Came quiet to his eyes; and forest green, Cooler than all the wonders he had seen, Lull'd with its simple song his fluttering breast. How happy once again in grassy nest! (line 1): Woodhouse notes that "Keats said, with much simplicity, 'It will be easily seen what I think of the present ministers, by the beginning of the third Book.'" (line 407): Whether the reference is to the Pillars of Hercules, the confluence of the Mediterranean and Atlantic, or to the scene of the Death of Hercules, is not very clear; but probably "wound up his story" refers rather to his last labour than to his death on Mount ta. (lines 863-65): This simile must surely be a reminiscence of Perrin's Fables Amusantes or some similar book used in Mr. Clarke's School. I remember the Fable of the old eagle and her young stood first in the book I used at school. The draft gives line 860 thus -- 'But soon like eagles natively their gaze...' At the end of this Book Keats wrote in the draft, "Oxf: Sept. 26." ~ Poetical Works of John Keats, ed. H. Buxton Forman, Crowell publ. 1895. by owner. provided at no charge for educational purposes ~ John Keats, Endymion - Book III ,

443:class:Classics BOOK THE NINTH The Story of Achelous and Hercules Theseus requests the God to tell his woes, Whence his maim'd brow, and whence his groans arose Whence thus the Calydonian stream reply'd, With twining reeds his careless tresses ty'd: Ungrateful is the tale; for who can bear, When conquer'd, to rehearse the shameful war? Yet I'll the melancholy story trace; So great a conqu'ror softens the disgrace: Nor was it still so mean the prize to yield, As great, and glorious to dispute the field. Perhaps you've heard of Deianira's name, For all the country spoke her beauty's fame. Long was the nymph by num'rous suitors woo'd, Each with address his envy'd hopes pursu'd: I joyn'd the loving band; to gain the fair, Reveal'd my passion to her father's ear. Their vain pretensions all the rest resign, Alcides only strove to equal mine; He boasts his birth from Jove, recounts his spoils, His step-dame's hate subdu'd, and finish'd toils. Can mortals then (said I), with Gods compare? Behold a God; mine is the watry care: Through your wide realms I take my mazy way, Branch into streams, and o'er the region stray: No foreign guest your daughter's charms adores, But one who rises in your native shores. Let not his punishment your pity move; Is Juno's hate an argument for love? Though you your life from fair Alcmena drew, Jove's a feign'd father, or by fraud a true. Chuse then; confess thy mother's honour lost, Or thy descent from Jove no longer boast. While thus I spoke, he look'd with stern disdain, Nor could the sallies of his wrath restrain, Which thus break forth. This arm decides our right; Vanquish in words, be mine the prize in fight. Bold he rush'd on. My honour to maintain, I fling my verdant garments on the plain, My arms stretch forth, my pliant limbs prepare, And with bent hands expect the furious war. O'er my sleek skin now gather'd dust he throws, And yellow sand his mighty muscles strows. Oft he my neck, and nimble legs assails, He seems to grasp me, but as often fails. Each part he now invades with eager hand; Safe in my bulk, immoveable I stand. So when loud storms break high, and foam and roar Against some mole that stretches from the shore; The firm foundation lasting tempests braves, Defies the warring winds, and driving waves. A-while we breathe, then forward rush amain, Renew the combat, and our ground maintain; Foot strove with foot, I prone extend my breast, Hands war with hands, and forehead forehead prest. Thus have I seen two furious bulls engage, Inflam'd with equal love, and equal rage; Each claims the fairest heifer of the grove, And conquest only can decide their love: The trembling herds survey the fight from far, 'Till victory decides th' important war. Three times in vain he strove my joints to wrest, To force my hold, and throw me from his breast; The fourth he broke my gripe, that clasp'd him round, Then with new force he stretch'd me on the ground; Close to my back the mighty bur then clung, As if a mountain o'er my limbs were flung. Believe my tale; nor do I, boastful, aim By feign'd narration to extol my fame. No sooner from his grasp I freedom get, Unlock my arms, that flow'd with trickling sweat, But quick he seized me, and renew'd the strife, As my exhausted bosom pants for life: My neck he gripes, my knee to earth he strains; I fall, and bite the sand with shame, and pains. O'er-match'd in strength, to wiles, and arts I take, And slip his hold, in form of speckled snake; Who, when I wreath'd in spires my body round, Or show'd my forky tongue with hissing sound, Smiles at my threats: Such foes my cradle knew, He cries, dire snakes my infant hand o'erthrew; A dragon's form might other conquests gain, To war with me you take that shape in vain. Art thou proportion'd to the Hydra's length, Who by his wounds receiv'd augmented strength? He rais'd a hundred hissing heads in air; When one I lopt, up-sprung a dreadful pair. By his wounds fertile, and with slaughter strong, Singly I quell'd him, and stretch'd dead along. What canst thou do, a form precarious, prone, To rouse my rage with terrors not thy own? He said; and round my neck his hands he cast, And with his straining fingers wrung me fast; My throat he tortur'd, close as pincers clasp, In vain I strove to loose the forceful grasp. Thus vanquish'd too, a third form still remains, Chang'd to a bull, my lowing fills the plains. Strait on the left his nervous arms were thrown Upon my brindled neck, and tugg'd it down; Then deep he struck my horn into the sand, And fell'd my bulk among the dusty land. Nor yet his fury cool'd; 'twixt rage and scorn, From my maim'd front he tore the stubborn horn: This, heap'd with flow'rs, and fruits, the Naiads bear, Sacred to plenty, and the bounteous year. He spoke; when lo, a beauteous nymph appears, Girt like Diana's train, with flowing hairs; The horn she brings in which all Autumn's stor'd, And ruddy apples for the second board. Now morn begins to dawn, the sun's bright fire Gilds the high mountains, and the youths retire; Nor stay'd they, 'till the troubled stream subsides, And in its bounds with peaceful current glides. But Achelous in his oozy bed Deep hides his brow deform'd, and rustick head: No real wound the victor's triumph show'd, But his lost honours griev'd the watry God; Yet ev'n that loss the willow's leaves o'erspread, And verdant reeds, in garlands, bind his head. The Death of Nessus the Centaur This virgin too, thy love, O Nessus, found, To her alone you owe the fatal wound. As the strong son of Jove his bride conveys, Where his paternal lands their bulwarks raise; Where from her slopy urn, Evenus pours Her rapid current, swell'd by wintry show'rs, He came. The frequent eddies whirl'd the tide, And the deep rolling waves all pass deny'd. As for himself, he stood unmov'd by fears, For now his bridal charge employ'd his cares, The strong-limb'd Nessus thus officious cry'd (For he the shallows of the stream had try'd), Swim thou, Alcides, all thy strength prepare, On yonder bank I'll lodge thy nuptial care. Th' Aonian chief to Nessus trusts his wife, All pale, and trembling for her heroe's life: Cloath'd as he stood in the fierce lion's hide, The laden quiver o'er his shoulder ty'd (For cross the stream his bow and club were cast), Swift he plung'd in: These billows shall be past, He said, nor sought where smoother waters glide, But stem'd the rapid dangers of the tide. The bank he reach'd; again the bow he bears; When, hark! his bride's known voice alarms his ears. Nessus, to thee I call (aloud he cries) Vain is thy trust in flight, be timely wise: Thou monster double-shap'd, my right set free; If thou no rev'rence owe my fame and me, Yet kindred should thy lawless lust deny; Think not, perfidious wretch, from me to fly, Tho' wing'd with horse's speed; wounds shall pursue; Swift as his words the fatal arrow flew: The centaur's back admits the feather'd wood, And thro' his breast the barbed weapon stood; Which when, in anguish, thro' the flesh he tore, From both the wounds gush'd forth the spumy gore Mix'd with Lernaean venom; this he took, Nor dire revenge his dying breast forsook. His garment, in the reeking purple dy'd, To rouse love's passion, he presents the bride. The Death of Hercules Now a long interval of time succeeds, When the great son of Jove's immortal deeds, And step-dame's hate, had fill'd Earth's utmost round; He from Oechalia, with new lawrels crown'd, In triumph was return'd. He rites prepares, And to the King of Gods directs his pray'rs; When Fame (who falshood cloaths in truth's disguise, And swells her little bulk with growing lies) Thy tender ear, o Deianira, mov'd, That Hercules the fair Iole lov'd. Her love believes the tale; the truth she fears Of his new passion, and gives way to tears. The flowing tears diffus'd her wretched grief, Why seek I thus, from streaming eyes, relief? She cries; indulge not thus these fruitless cares, The harlot will but triumph in thy tears: Let something be resolv'd, while yet there's time; My bed not conscious of a rival's crime. In silence shall I mourn, or loud complain? Shall I seek Calydon, or here remain? What tho', ally'd to Meleager's fame, I boast the honours of a sister's name? My wrongs, perhaps, now urge me to pursue Some desp'rate deed, by which the world shall view How far revenge, and woman's rage can rise, When weltring in her blood the harlot dies. Thus various passions rul'd by turns her breast, She now resolves to send the fatal vest, Dy'd with Lernaean gore, whose pow'r might move His soul anew, and rouse declining love. Nor knew she what her sudden rage bestows, When she to Lychas trusts her future woes; With soft endearments she the boy commands, To bear the garment to her husband's hands. Th' unwitting hero takes the gift in haste, And o'er his shoulders Lerna's poison cast, As first the fire with frankincense he strows, And utters to the Gods his holy vows; And on the marble altar's polish'd frame Pours forth the grapy stream; the rising flame Sudden dissolves the subtle pois'nous juice, Which taints his blood, and all his nerves bedews. With wonted fortitude he bore the smart, And not a groan confess'd his burning heart. At length his patience was subdu'd by pain, He rends the sacred altar from the plain; Oete's wide forests echo with his cries: Now to rip off the deathful robe he tries. Where-e'er he plucks the vest, the skin he tears, The mangled muscles, and huge bones he bares (A ghastful sight!), or raging with his pain, To rend the sticking plague he tugs in vain. As the red iron hisses in the flood, So boils the venom in his curdling blood. Now with the greedy flame his entrails glow, And livid sweats down all his body flow; The cracking nerves burnt up are burst in twain, The lurking venom melts his swimming brain. Then, lifting both his hands aloft, he cries, Glut thy revenge, dread Empress of the skies; Sate with my death the rancour of thy heart, Look down with pleasure, and enjoy my smart. Or, if e'er pity mov'd a hostile breast (For here I stand thy enemy profest), Take hence this hateful life, with tortures torn, Inur'd to trouble, and to labours born. Death is the gift most welcome to my woe, And such a gift a stepdame may bestow. Was it for this Busiris was subdu'd, Whose barb'rous temples reek'd with strangers' blood? Press'd in these arms his fate Antaeus found, Nor gain'd recruited vigour from the ground. Did I not triple-form'd Geryon fell? Or did I fear the triple dog of Hell? Did not these hands the bull's arm'd forehead hold? Are not our mighty toils in Elis told? Do not Stymphalian lakes proclaim thy fame? And fair Par thenian woods resound thy name? Who seiz'd the golden belt of Thermodon? And who the dragon-guarded apples won? Could the fierce centaur's strength my force withstand, Or the fell boar that spoil'd th' Arcadian land? Did not these arms the Hydra's rage subdue, Who from his wounds to double fury grew? What if the Thracian horses, fat with gore, Who human bodies in their mangers tore, I saw, and with their barb'rous lord o'erthrew? What if these hands Nemaea's lion slew? Did not this neck the heav'nly globe sustain? The female partner of the Thunderer's reign Fatigu'd, at length suspends her harsh commands, Yet no fatigue hath slack'd these valiant hands. But now new plagues pursue me, neither force, Nor arms, nor darts can stop their raging course. Devouring flame thro' my rack'd entrails strays, And on my lungs and shrivel'd muscles preys. Yet still Eurystheus breathes the vital air. What mortal now shall seek the Gods with pray'r? The Transformation of Lychas into a Rock The hero said; and with the torture stung, Furious o'er Oete's lofty hills he sprung. Stuck with the shaft, thus scours the tyger round, And seeks the flying author of his wound. Now might you see him trembling, now he vents His anguish'd soul in groans, and loud laments; He strives to tear the clinging vest in vain, And with up-rooted forests strows the plain; Now kindling into rage, his hands he rears, And to his kindred Gods directs his pray'rs. When Lychas, lo, he spies; who trembling flew, And in a hollow rock conceal'd from view, Had shun'd his wrath. Now grief renew'd his pain, His madness chaf'd, and thus he raves again. Lychas, to thee alone my fate I owe, Who bore the gift, the cause of all my woe. The youth all pale, with shiv'ring fear was stung, And vain excuses falter'd on his tongue. Alcides snatch'd him, as with suppliant face He strove to clasp his knees, and beg for grace: He toss'd him o'er his head with airy course, And hurl'd with more than with an engine's force; Far o'er th' Eubaean main aloof he flies, And hardens by degrees amid the skies. So showry drops, when chilly tempests blow, Thicken at first, then whiten into snow, In balls congeal'd the rolling fleeces bound, In solid hail result upon the ground. Thus, whirl'd with nervous force thro' distant air, The purple tide forsook his veins, with fear; All moisture left his limbs. Transform'd to stone, In ancient days the craggy flint was known; Still in the Eubaean waves his front he rears, Still the small rock in human form appears, And still the name of hapless Lychas bears. The Apotheosis of Hercules But now the hero of immortal birth Fells Oete's forests on the groaning Earth; A pile he builds; to Philoctetes' care He leaves his deathful instruments of war; To him commits those arrows, which again Shall see the bulwarks of the Trojan reign. The son of Paean lights the lofty pyre, High round the structure climbs the greedy fire; Plac'd on the top, thy nervous shoulders spread With the Nemaean spoils, thy careless head Rais'd on a knotty club, with look divine, Here thou, dread hero, of celestial line, Wert stretch'd at ease; as when a chearful guest, Wine crown'd thy bowls, and flow'rs thy temples drest. Now on all sides the potent flames aspire, And crackle round those limbs that mock the fire A sudden terror seiz'd th' immortal host, Who thought the world's profess'd defender lost. This when the Thund'rer saw, with smiles he cries, 'Tis from your fears, ye Gods, my pleasures rise; Joy swells my breast, that my all-ruling hand O'er such a grateful people boasts command, That you my suff'ring progeny would aid; Tho' to his deeds this just respect be paid, Me you've oblig'd. Be all your fears forborn, Th' Oetean fires do thou, great hero, scorn. Who vanquish'd all things, shall subdue the flame. That part alone of gross maternal frame Fire shall devour; while what from me he drew Shall live immortal, and its force subdue; That, when he's dead, I'll raise to realms above; May all the Pow'rs the righteous act approve. If any God dissent, and judge too great The sacred honours of the heav'nly seat, Ev'n he shall own his deeds deserve the sky, Ev'n he reluctant, shall at length comply. Th' assembled Pow'rs assent. No frown 'till now Had mark'd with passion vengeful Juno's brow, Mean-while whate'er was in the pow'r of flame Was all consum'd; his body's nervous frame No more was known, of human form bereft, Th' eternal part of Jove alone was left. As an old serpent casts his scaly vest, Wreathes in the sun, in youthful glory drest; So when Alcides mortal mold resign'd, His better part enlarg'd, and grew refin'd; August his visage shone; almighty Jove In his swift carr his honour'd offspring drove; High o'er the hollow clouds the coursers fly, And lodge the hero in the starry sky. The Transformation of Galanthis Atlas perceiv'd the load of Heav'n's new guest. Revenge still rancour'd in Eurystheus' breast Against Alcides' race. Alcmena goes To Iole, to vent maternal woes; Here she pours forth her grief, recounts the spoils Her son had bravely reap'd in glorious toils. This Iole, by Hercules' commands, Hyllus had lov'd, and joyn'd in nuptial bands. Her swelling womb the teeming birth confess'd, To whom Alcmena thus her speech address'd. O, may the Gods protect thee, in that hour, When, 'midst thy throws, thou call'st th' Ilithyan Pow'r! May no delays prolong thy racking pain, As when I su'd for Juno's aid in vain. When now Alcides' mighty birth drew nigh, And the tenth sign roll'd forward on the sky, My womb extends with such a mighty load, As Jove the parent of the bur then show'd. I could no more th' encreasing smart sustain, My horror kindles to recount the pain; Cold chills my limbs while I the tale pursue, And now methinks I feel my pangs anew. Seven days and nights amidst incessant throws, Fatigu'd with ills I lay, nor knew repose; When lifting high my hands, in shrieks I pray'd, Implor'd the Gods, and call'd Lucina's aid. She came, but prejudic'd, to give my Fate A sacrifice to vengeful Juno's hate. She hears the groaning anguish of my fits, And on the altar at my door she sits. O'er her left knee her crossing leg she cast, Then knits her fingers close, and wrings them fast: This stay'd the birth; in mutt'ring verse she pray'd, The mutt'ring verse th' unfinish'd birth delay'd. Now with fierce struggles, raging with my pain, At Jove's ingratitude I rave in vain. How did I wish for death! such groans I sent, As might have made the flinty heart relent. Now the Cadmeian matrons round me press, Offer their vows, and seek to bring redress; Among the Theban dames Galanthis stands, Strong limb'd, red hair'd, and just to my commands: She first perceiv'd that all these racking woes From the persisting hate of Juno rose. As here and there she pass'd, by chance she sees The seated Goddess; on her close-press'd knees Her fast-knit hands she leans; with chearful voice Galanthis cries, Whoe'er thou art, rejoyce, Congratulate the dame, she lies at rest, At length the Gods Alcmena's womb have blest. Swift from her seat the startled Goddess springs, No more conceal'd, her hands abroad she flings; The charm unloos'd, the birth my pangs reliev'd; Galanthis' laughter vex'd the Pow'r deceiv'd. Fame says, the Goddess dragg'd the laughing maid Fast by the hair; in vain her force essay'd Her grov'ling body from the ground to rear; Chang'd to fore-feet her shrinking arms appear: Her hairy back her former hue retains, The form alone is lost; her strength remains; Who, since the lye did from her mouth proceed, Shall from her pregnant mouth bring forth her breed; Nor shall she quit her long-frequented home, But haunt those houses where she lov'd to roam. The Fable of Dryope She said, and for her lost Galanthis sighs; When the fair consort of her son replies; Since you a servant's ravish'd form bemoan, And kindly sigh for sorrows not your own, Let me (if tears and grief permit) relate A nearer woe, a sister's stranger fate. No nymph of all Oechaloa could compare For beauteous form with Dryope the fair; Her tender mother's only hope and pride (My self the offspring of a second bride), This nymph, compress'd by him who rules the day, Whom Delphi, and the Delian isle obey, Andraemon lov'd; and blest in all those charms That pleas'd a God, succeeded to her arms. A lake there was, with shelving banks around, Whose verdant summit fragrant myrtles crown'd. Those shades, unknowing of the fates, she sought; And to the Naiads flow'ry garlands brought; Her smiling babe (a pleasing charge) she prest Between her arms, and nourish'd at her breast. Not distant far a watry lotos grows; The Spring was new, and all the verdant boughs, Acorn'd with blossoms, promis'd fruits that vye In glowing colours with the Tyrian dye. Of these she cropt, to please her infant son, And I my self the same rash act had done, But, lo! I saw (as near her side I stood) The violated blossoms drop with blood; Upon the tree I cast a frightful look, The trembling tree with sudden horror shook. Lotis the nymph (if rural tales be true) As from Priapus' lawless lust she flew, Forsook her form; and fixing here became A flow'ry plant, which still preserves her name. This change unknown, astonish'd at the sight, My trembling sister strove to urge her flight; Yet first the pardon of the Nymphs implor'd, And those offended Sylvan pow'rs ador'd: But when she backward would have fled, she found Her stiff'ning feet were rooted to the ground: In vain to free her fasten'd feet she strove, And as she struggles only moves above; She feels th' incroaching bark around her grow, By slow degrees, and cover all below: Surpriz'd at this, her trembling hand she heaves To rend her hair; her hand is fill'd with leaves; Where late was hair, the shooting leaves are seen To rise, and shade her with a sudden green. The Child Amphisus, to her bosom prest, Perceiv'd a colder and a harder breast, And found the springs, that n'er 'till then deny'd Their milky moisture, on a sudden dry'd. I saw, unhappy, what I now relate, And stood the helpless witness of thy fate; Embrac'd thy boughs, the rising bark delay'd, There wish'd to grow, and mingle shade with shade. Behold Andraemon, and th' unhappy sire Appear, and for their Dryope enquire; A springing tree for Dryope they find, And print warm kisses on the panting rind; Prostrate, with tears their kindred plant bedew, And close embrac'd, as to the roots they grew; The face was all that now remain'd of thee; No more a woman, nor yet quite a tree: Thy branches hung with humid pearls appear, From ev'ry leaf distills a trickling tear; And strait a voice, while yet a voice remains, Thus thro' the trembling boughs in sighs complains. If to the wretched any faith be giv'n, I swear by all th' unpitying Pow'rs of Heav'n, No wilful crime this heavy vengeance bred, In mutual innocence our lives we led. If this be false, let these new greens decay, Let sounding axes lop my limbs away, And crackling flames on all my honours prey. Now from my branching arms this infant bear, Let some kind nurse supply a mother's care; Yet to his mother let him oft be led, Sport in her shades, and in her shades be fed; Teach him, when first his infant voice shall frame Imperfect words, and lisp his mother's name, To hail this tree, and say with weeping eyes, Within this plant my hapless parent lies; And when in youth he seeks the shady woods, Oh, let him fly the chrystal lakes and floods, Nor touch the fatal flow'rs; but warn'd by me, Believe a Goddess shrin'd in ev'ry tree. My sire, my sister, and my spouse farewel! If in your breasts or love, or pity, dwell, Protect your plant, nor let my branches feel The browzing cattle, or the piercing steel. Farewel! and since I cannot bend to join My lips to yours, advance at least to mine. My son, thy mother's parting kiss receive, While yet thy mother has a kiss to give. I can no more; the creeping rind invades My closing lips, and hides my head in shades: Remove your hands; the bark shall soon suffice, Without their aid, to seal these dying eyes. She ceas'd at once to speak, and ceas'd to be; And all the nymph was lost within the tree: Yet latent life thro' her new branches reign'd, And long the plant a human heat retain'd. Iolaus restor'd to Youth While Iole the fatal change declares, Alcmena's pitying hand oft wip'd her tears. Grief too stream'd down her cheeks; soon sorrow flies, And rising joy the trickling moisture dries, Lo Iolaus stands before their eyes. A youth he stood; and the soft down began O'er his smooth chin to spread, and promise man. Hebe submitted to her husband's pray'rs, Instill'd new vigour, and restor'd his years. The Prophecy of Themis Now from her lips a solemn oath had past, That Iolaus this gift alone shou'd taste, Had not just Themis thus maturely said (Which check'd her vow, and aw'd the blooming maid). Thebes is embroil'd in war. Capaneus stands Invincible, but by the Thund'rer's hands. Ambition shall the guilty brothers fire, Both rush to mutual wounds, and both expire. The reeling Earth shall ope her gloomy womb, Where the yet breathing bard shall find his tomb. The son shall bath his hands in parents' blood, And in one act be both unjust, and good. Of home, and sense depriv'd, where-e'er he flies, The Furies, and his mother's ghost he spies. His wife the fatal bracelet shall implore, And Phegeus stain his sword in kindred gore. Callirhoe shall then with suppliant pray'r Prevail on Jupiter's relenting ear. Jove shall with youth her infant sons inspire, And bid their bosoms glow with manly fire. The Debate of the Gods When Themis thus with prescient voice had spoke, Among the Gods a various murmur broke; Dissention rose in each immortal breast, That one should grant, what was deny'd the rest. Aurora for her aged spouse complains, And Ceres grieves for Jason's freezing veins; Vulcan would Erichthonius' years renew, Her future race the care of Venus drew, She would Anchises' blooming age restore; A diff'rent care employ'd each heav'nly Pow'r: Thus various int'rests did their jars encrease, 'Till Jove arose; he spoke, their tumults cease. Is any rev'rence to our presence giv'n, Then why this discord 'mong the Pow'rs of Heav'n? Who can the settled will of Fate subdue? 'Twas by the Fates that Iolaus knew A second youth. The Fates' determin'd doom Shall give Callirhoe's race a youthful bloom. Arms, nor ambition can this pow'r obtain; Quell your desires; ev'n me the Fates restrain. Could I their will controul, no rolling years Had Aeacus bent down with silver hairs; Then Rhadamanthus still had youth possess'd, And Minos with eternal bloom been bless'd. Jove's words the synod mov'd; the Pow'rs give o'er, And urge in vain unjust complaint no more. Since Rhadamanthus' veins now slowly flow'd, And Aeacus, and Minos bore the load; Minos, who in the flow'r of youth, and fame, Made mighty nations tremble at his name, Infirm with age, the proud Miletus fears, Vain of his birth, and in the strength of years, And now regarding all his realms as lost, He durst not force him from his native coast. But you by choice, Miletus, fled his reign, And thy swift vessel plow'd th' Aegean main; On Asiatick shores a town you frame, Which still is honour'd with the founder's name. Here you Cyanee knew, the beauteous maid, As on her father's winding banks she stray'd: Caunus and Byblis hence their lineage trace, The double offspring of your warm embrace. The Passion of of Byblis Let the sad fate of wretched Byblis prove A dismal warning to unlawful love; One birth gave being to the hapless pair, But more was Caunus than a sister's care; Unknown she lov'd, for yet the gentle fire Rose not in flames, nor kindled to desire, 'Twas thought no sin to wonder at his charms, Hang on his neck, and languish in his arms; Thus wing'd with joy, fled the soft hours away, And all the fatal guilt on harmless Nature lay. But love (too soon from piety declin'd) Insensibly deprav'd her yielding mind. Dress'd she appears, with nicest art adorn'd, And ev'ry youth, but her lov'd brother, scorn'd; For him alone she labour'd to be fair, And curst all charms that might with hers compare. 'Twas she, and only she, must Caunus please, Sick at her heart, yet knew not her disease: She call'd him lord, for brother was a name Too cold, and dull for her aspiring flame; And when he spoke, if sister he reply'd, For Byblis change that frozen word, she cry'd. Yet waking still she watch'd her strugling breast, And love's approaches were in vain address'd, 'Till gentle sleep an easy conquest made, And in her soft embrace the conqueror was laid. But oh too soon the pleasing vision fled, And left her blushing on the conscious bed: Ah me! (she cry'd) how monstrous do I seem? Why these wild thoughts? and this incestuous dream? Envy herself ('tis true) must own his charms, But what is beauty in a sister's arms? Oh were I not that despicable she, How bless'd, how pleas'd, how happy shou'd I be! But unregarded now must bear my pain, And but in dreams, my wishes can obtain. O sea-born Goddess! with thy wanton boy! Was ever such a charming scene of joy? Such perfect bliss! such ravishing delight! Ne'er hid before in the kind shades of night. How pleas'd my heart! in what sweet raptures tost! Ev'n life it self in the soft combat lost, While breathless he on my heav'd bosom lay, And snatch'd the treasures of my soul away. If the bare fancy so affects my mind, How shou'd I rave if to the substance join'd? Oh, gentle Caunus! quit thy hated line, Or let thy parents be no longer mine! Oh that in common all things were enjoy'd, But those alone who have our hopes destroy'd. Were I a princess, thou an humble swain, The proudest kings shou'd rival thee in vain. It cannot be, alas! the dreadful ill Is fix'd by Fate, and he's my brother still. Hear me, ye Gods! I must have friends in Heav'n, For Jove himself was to a sister giv'n: But what are their prerogatives above, To the short liberties of human love? Fantastick thoughts! down, down, forbidden fires, Or instant death extinguish my desires. Strict virtue, then, with thy malicious leave, Without a crime I may a kiss receive: But say shou'd I in spight of laws comply, Yet cruel Caunus might himself deny, No pity take of an afflicted maid (For love's sweet game must be by couples play'd). Yet why shou'd youth, and charms like mine, despair? Such fears ne'er startled the Aeolian pair; No ties of blood could their full hopes destroy, They broke thro' all, for the prevailing joy; And who can tell but Caunus too may be Rack'd and tormented in his breast for me? Like me, to the extreamest anguish drove, Like me, just waking from a dream of love? But stay! Oh whither wou'd my fury run! What arguments I urge to be undone! Away fond Byblis, quench these guilty flames; Caunus thy love but as brother claims; Yet had he first been touch'd with love of me, The charming youth cou'd I despairing see? Oppress'd with grief, and dying by disdain? Ah no! too sure I shou'd have eas'd his pain! Since then, if Caunus ask'd me, it were done; Asking my self, what dangers can I run? But canst thou ask? and see that right betray'd, From Pyrrha down to thy whole sex convey'd? That self-denying gift we all enjoy, Of wishing to be won, yet seeming to be coy. Well then, for once, let a fond mistress woo; The force of love no custom can subdue; This frantick passion he by words shall know, Soft as the melting heart from whence they flow. The pencil then in her fair hand she held, By fear discourag'd, but by love compell'd She writes, then blots, writes on, and blots again, Likes it as fit, then razes it as vain: Shame, and assurance in her face appear, And a faint hope just yielding to despair; Sister was wrote, and blotted as a word Which she, and Caunus too (she hop'd) abhorr'd; But now resolv'd to be no more controul'd By scrup'lous virtue, thus her grief she told. Thy lover (gentle Caunus) wishes thee That health, which thou alone canst give to me. O charming youth! the gift I ask bestow, Ere thou the name of the fond writer know; To thee without a name I would be known, Since knowing that, my frailty I must own. Yet why shou'd I my wretched name conceal? When thousand instances my flames reveal: Wan looks, and weeping eyes have spoke my pain, And sighs discharg'd from my heav'd heart in vain; Had I not wish'd my passion might be seen, What cou'd such fondness and embraces mean? Such kisses too! (Oh heedless lovely boy) Without a crime no sister cou'd enjoy: Yet (tho' extreamest rage has rack'd my soul, And raging fires in my parch'd bosom roul) Be witness, Gods! how piously I strove, To rid my thoughts of this enchanting love. But who cou'd scape so fierce, and sure a dart, Aim'd at a tender, and defenceless heart? Alas! what maid cou'd suffer, I have born, Ere the dire secret from my breast was torn; To thee a helpless vanquish'd wretch I come, 'Tis you alone can save, or give my doom; My life, or death this moment you may chuse. Yet think, oh think, no hated stranger sues, No foe; but one, alas! too near ally'd, And wishing still much nearer to be ty'd. The forms of decency let age debate, And virtue's rules by their cold morals state; Their ebbing joys give leisure to enquire, And blame those noble flights our youth inspire: Where Nature kindly summons let us go, Our sprightly years no bounds in love shou'd know, Shou'd feel no check of guilt, and fear no ill; Lovers, and Gods act all things at their will: We gain one blessing from our hated kin, Since our paternal freedom hides the sin; Uncensur'd in each other's arms we lye, Think then how easie to compleat our joy. Oh, pardon and oblige a blushing maid, Whose rage the pride of her vain sex betray'd; Nor let my tomb thus mournfully complain, Here Byblis lies, by her lov'd Caunus slain. Forc'd here to end, she with a falling tear Temper'd the pliant wax, which did the signet bear: The curious cypher was impress'd by art, But love had stamp'd one deeper in her heart; Her page, a youth of confidence, and skill, (Secret as night) stood waiting on her will; Sighing (she cry'd): Bear this, thou faithful boy, To my sweet partner in eternal joy: Here a long pause her secret guilt confess'd, And when at length she would have spoke the rest, Half the dear name lay bury'd in her breast. Thus as he listned to her vain command, Down fell the letter from her trembling hand. The omen shock'd her soul. Yet go, she cry'd; Can a request from Byblis be deny'd? To the Maeandrian youth this message's born, The half-read lines by his fierce rage were torn; Hence, hence, he cry'd, thou pandar to her lust, Bear hence the triumph of thy impious trust: Thy instant death will but divulge her shame, Or thy life's blood shou'd quench the guilty flame. Frighted, from threatning Caunus he withdrew, And with the dreadful news to his lost mistress flew. The sad repulse so struck the wounded fair, Her sense was bury'd in her wild despair; Pale was her visage, as the ghastly dead; And her scar'd soul from the sweet mansion fled; Yet with her life renew'd, her love returns, And faintly thus her cruel fate she mourns: 'Tis just, ye Gods! was my false reason blind? To write a secret of this tender kind? With female craft I shou'd at first have strove, By dubious hints to sound his distant love; And try'd those useful, tho' dissembled, arts, Which women practise on disdainful hearts: I shou'd have watch'd whence the black storm might rise; Ere I had trusted the unfaithful skies. Now on the rouling billows I am tost, And with extended sails, on the blind shelves am lost. Did not indulgent Heav'n my doom foretell, When from my hand the fatal letter fell? What madness seiz'd my soul? and urg'd me on To take the only course to be undone? I cou'd my self have told the moving tale With such alluring grace as must prevail; Then had his eyes beheld my blushing fears, My rising sighs, and my descending tears; Round his dear neck these arms I then had spread, And, if rejected, at his feet been dead: If singly these had not his thoughts inclin'd, Yet all united would have shock'd his mind. Perhaps, my careless page might be in fault, And in a luckless hour the fatal message brought; Business, and worldly thoughts might fill his breast, Sometimes ev'n love itself may be an irksome guest: He cou'd not else have treated me with scorn, For Caunus was not of a tygress born; Nor steel, nor adamant has fenc'd his heart; Like mine, 'tis naked to the burning dart. Away false fears! he must, he shall be mine; In death alone I will my claim resign; 'Tis vain to wish my written crime unknown, And for my guilt much vainer to atone. Repuls'd and baffled, fiercer still she burns, And Caunus with disdain her impious love returns. He saw no end of her injurious flame, And fled his country to avoid the shame. Forsaken Byblis, who had hopes no more; Burst out in rage, and her loose robes she tore; With her fair hands she smote her tender breast, And to the wond'ring world her love confess'd; O'er hills and dales, o'er rocks and streams she flew, But still in vain did her wild lust pursue: Wearied at length, on the cold earth she fell, And now in tears alone could her sad story tell. Relenting Gods in pity fix'd her there, And to a fountain turn'd the weeping fair. The Fable of Iphis and Ian the The fame of this, perhaps, thro' Crete had flown: But Crete had newer wonders of her own, In Iphis chang'd; for, near the Gnossian bounds (As loud report the miracle resounds), At Phaestus dwelt a man of honest blood, But meanly born, and not so rich as good; Esteem'd, and lov'd by all the neighbourhood; Who to his wife, before the time assign'd For child-birth came, thus bluntly spoke his mind. If Heav'n, said Lygdus, will vouchsafe to hear, I have but two petitions to prefer; Short pains for thee, for me a son and heir. Girls cost as many throes in bringing forth; Beside, when born, the titts are little worth; Weak puling things, unable to sustain Their share of labour, and their bread to gain. If, therefore, thou a creature shalt produce, Of so great charges, and so little use (Bear witness, Heav'n, with what reluctancy), Her hapless innocence I doom to die. He said, and common tears the common grief display, Of him who bad, and her who must obey. Yet Telethusa still persists, to find Fit arguments to move a father's mind; T' extend his wishes to a larger scope, And in one vessel not confine his hope. Lygdus continues hard: her time drew near, And she her heavy load could scarcely bear; When slumbring, in the latter shades of night, Before th' approaches of returning light, She saw, or thought she saw, before her bed, A glorious train, and Isis at their head: Her moony horns were on her forehead plac'd, And yellow shelves her shining temples grac'd: A mitre, for a crown, she wore on high; The dog, and dappl'd bull were waiting by; Osyris, sought along the banks of Nile; The silent God: the sacred crocodile; And, last, a long procession moving on, With timbrels, that assist the lab'ring moon. Her slumbers seem'd dispell'd, and, broad awake, She heard a voice, that thus distinctly spake. My votary, thy babe from death defend, Nor fear to save whate'er the Gods will send. Delude with art thy husband's dire decree: When danger calls, repose thy trust on me: And know thou hast not serv'd a thankless deity. This promise made, with night the Goddess fled; With joy the woman wakes, and leaves her bed; Devoutly lifts her spotless hands on high, And prays the Pow'rs their gift to ratifie. Now grinding pains proceed to bearing throes, 'Till its own weight the burden did disclose. 'Twas of the beauteous kind, and brought to light With secrecy, to shun the father's sight. Th' indulgent mother did her care employ, And past it on her husb and for a boy. The nurse was conscious of the fact alone; The father paid his vows as for a son; And call'd him Iphis, by a common name, Which either sex with equal right may claim. Iphis his grandsire was; the wife was pleas'd, Of half the fraud by Fortune's favour eas'd: The doubtful name was us'd without deceit, And truth was cover'd with a pious cheat. The habit show'd a boy, the beauteous face With manly fierceness mingled female grace. Now thirteen years of age were swiftly run, When the fond father thought the time drew on Of settling in the world his only son. Ian the was his choice; so wondrous fair, Her form alone with Iphis cou'd compare; A neighbour's daughter of his own degree, And not more bless'd with Fortune's goods than he. They soon espous'd; for they with ease were join'd, Who were before contracted in the mind. Their age the same, their inclinations too; And bred together, in one school they grew. Thus, fatally dispos'd to mutual fires, They felt, before they knew, the same desires. Equal their flame, unequal was their care; One lov'd with hope, one languish'd in despair. The maid accus'd the lingring day alone: For whom she thought a man, she thought her own. But Iphis bends beneath a greater grief; As fiercely burns, but hopes for no relief. Ev'n her despair adds fuel to her fire; A maid with madness does a maid desire. And, scarce refraining tears, Alas, said she, What issue of my love remains for me! How wild a passion works within my breast, With what prodigious flames am I possest! Could I the care of Providence deserve, Heav'n must destroy me, if it would preserve. And that's my fate, or sure it would have sent Some usual evil for my punishment: Not this unkindly curse; to rage, and burn, Where Nature shews no prospect of return. Nor cows for cows consume with fruitless fire; Nor mares, when hot, their fellow-mares desire: The father of the fold supplies his ewes; The stag through secret woods his hind pursues; And birds for mates the males of their own species chuse. Her females Nature guards from female flame, And joins two sexes to preserve the game: Wou'd I were nothing, or not what I am! Crete, fam'd for monsters, wanted of her store, 'Till my new love produc'd one monster more. The daughter of the sun a bull desir'd, And yet ev'n then a male a female fir'd: Her passion was extravagantly new, But mine is much the madder of the two. To things impossible she was not bent, But found the means to compass her intent. To cheat his eyes she took a different shape; Yet still she gain'd a lover, and a leap. Shou'd all the wit of all the world conspire, Shou'd Daedalus assist my wild desire, What art can make me able to enjoy, Or what can change Ian the to a boy? Extinguish then thy passion, hopeless maid, And recollect thy reason for thy aid. Know what thou art, and love as maidens ought, And drive these golden wishes from thy thought. Thou canst not hope thy fond desires to gain; Where hope is wanting, wishes are in vain. And yet no guards against our joys conspire; No jealous husb and hinders our desire; My parents are propitious to my wish, And she herself consenting to the bliss. All things concur to prosper our design; All things to prosper any love but mine. And yet I never can enjoy the fair; 'Tis past the pow'r of Heav'n to grant my pray'r. Heav'n has been kind, as far as Heav'n can be; Our parents with our own desires agree; But Nature, stronger than the Gods above, Refuses her assistance to my love; She sets the bar that causes all my pain; One gift refus'd, makes all their bounty vain. And now the happy day is just at hand, To bind our hearts in Hymen's holy band: Our hearts, but not our bodies: thus accurs'd, In midst of water I complain of thirst. Why com'st thou, Juno, to these barren rites, To bless a bed defrauded of delights? But why shou'd Hymen lift his torch on high, To see two brides in cold embraces lye? Thus love-sick Iphis her vain passion mourns; With equal ardour fair Ian the burns, Invoking Hymen's name, and Juno's pow'r, To speed the work, and haste the happy hour. She hopes, while Telethusa fears the day, And strives to interpose some new delay: Now feigns a sickness, now is in a fright For this bad omen, or that boding sight. But having done whate'er she could devise, And empty'd all her magazine of lies, The time approach'd; the next ensuing day The fatal secret must to light betray. Then Telethusa had recourse to pray'r, She, and her daughter with dishevel'd hair; Trembling with fear, great Isis they ador'd, Embrac'd her altar, and her aid implor'd. Fair queen, who dost on fruitful Egypt smile, Who sway'st the sceptre of the Pharian isle, And sev'n-fold falls of disemboguing Nile, Relieve, in this our last distress, she said, A suppliant mother, and a mournful maid. Thou, Goddess, thou wert present to my sight; Reveal'd I saw thee by thy own fair light: I saw thee in my dream, as now I see, With all thy marks of awful majesty: The glorious train that compass'd thee around; And heard the hollow timbrels holy sound. Thy words I noted, which I still retain; Let not thy sacred oracles be vain. That Iphis lives, that I myself am free From shame, and punishment, I owe to thee. On thy protection all our hopes depend. Thy counsel sav'd us, let thy pow'r defend. Her tears pursu'd her words; and while she spoke, The Goddess nodded, and her altar shook: The temple doors, as with a blast of wind, Were heard to clap; the lunar horns that bind The brows of Isis cast a blaze around; The trembling timbrel made a murm'ring sound. Some hopes these happy omens did impart; Forth went the mother with a beating heart: Not much in fear, nor fully satisfy'd; But Iphis follow'd with a larger stride: The whiteness of her skin forsook her face; Her looks embolden'd with an awful grace; Her features, and her strength together grew, And her long hair to curling locks withdrew. Her sparkling eyes with manly vigour shone, Big was her voice, audacious was her tone. The latent parts, at length reveal'd, began To shoot, and spread, and burnish into man. The maid becomes a youth; no more delay Your vows, but look, and confidently pay. Their gifts the parents to the temple bear: The votive tables this inscription wear; Iphis the man, has to the Goddess paid The vows, that Iphis offer'd when a maid. Now when the star of day had shewn his face, Venus and Juno with their presence grace The nuptial rites, and Hymen from above Descending to compleat their happy love; The Gods of marriage lend their mutual aid; And the warm youth enjoys the lovely maid. ---------------------------------------------------------------------- ~ Ovid, BOOK THE NINTH ,

444:class:Classics BOOK THE FIFTH The Story of Perseus continu'd While Perseus entertain'd with this report His father Cepheus, and the list'ning court, Within the palace walls was heard aloud The roaring noise of some unruly crowd; Not like the songs which chearful friends prepare For nuptial days, but sounds that threaten'd war; And all the pleasures of this happy feast, To tumult turn'd, in wild disorder ceas'd: So, when the sea is calm, we often find A storm rais'd sudden by some furious wind. Chief in the riot Phineus first appear'd, The rash ringleader of this boist'rous herd, And brandishing his brazen-pointed lance, Behold, he said, an injur'd man advance, Stung with resentment for his ravish'd wife, Nor shall thy wings, o Perseus, save thy life; Nor Jove himself; tho' we've been often told Who got thee in the form of tempting gold. His lance was aim'd, when Cepheus ran, and said, Hold, brother, hold; what brutal rage has made Your frantick mind so black a crime conceive? Are these the thanks that you to Perseus give? This the reward that to his worth you pay, Whose timely valour sav'd Andromeda? Nor was it he, if you would reason right, That forc'd her from you, but the jealous spight Of envious Nereids, and Jove's high decree; And that devouring monster of the sea, That ready with his jaws wide gaping stood To eat my child, the fairest of my blood. You lost her then, when she seem'd past relief, And wish'd perhaps her death, to ease your grief With my afflictions: not content to view Andromeda in chains, unhelp'd by you, Her spouse, and uncle; will you grieve that he Expos'd his life the dying maid to free? And shall you claim his merit? Had you thought Her charms so great, you shou'd have bravely sought That blessing on the rocks, where fix'd she lay: But now let Perseus bear his prize away, By service gain'd, by promis'd faith possess'd; To him I owe it, that my age is bless'd Still with a child: Nor think that I prefer Perseus to thee, but to the loss of her. Phineus on him, and Perseus, roul'd about His eyes in silent rage, and seem'd to doubt Which to destroy; 'till, resolute at length, He threw his spear with the redoubled strength His fury gave him, and at Perseus struck; But missing Perseus, in his seat it stuck. Who, springing nimbly up, return'd the dart, And almost plung'd it in his rival's heart; But he for safety to the altar ran, Unfit protection for so vile a man; Yet was the stroke not vain, as Rhaetus found, Who in his brow receiv'd a mortal wound; Headlong he tumbled, when his skull was broke, From which his friends the fatal weapon took, While he lay trembling, and his gushing blood In crimson streams around the table flow'd. But this provok'd th' unruly rabble worse, They flung their darts, and some in loud discourse To death young Perseus, and the monarch doom; But Cepheus left before the guilty room, With grief appealing to the Gods above, Who laws of hospitality approve, Who faith protect, and succour injur'd right, That he was guiltless of this barb'rous fight. Pallas her brother Perseus close attends, And with her ample shield from harm defends, Raising a sprightly courage in his heart: But Indian Athis took the weaker part, Born in the chrystal grottoes of the sea, Limnate's son, a fenny nymph, and she Daughter of Ganges; graceful was his mein, His person lovely, and his age sixteen. His habit made his native beauty more; A purple mantle fring'd with gold he wore; His neck well-turn'd with golden chains was grac'd, His hair with myrrh perfum'd, was nicely dress'd. Tho' with just aim he cou'd the javelin throw, Yet with more skill he drew the bending bow; And now was drawing it with artful hand, When Perseus snatching up a flaming brand, Whirl'd sudden at his face the burning wood, Crush'd his eyes in, and quench'd the fire with blood; Thro' the soft skin the splinter'd bones appear, And spoil'd the face that lately was so fair. When Lycabas his Athis thus beheld, How was his heart with friendly horror fill'd! A youth so noble, to his soul so dear, To see his shapeless look, his dying groans to hear! He snatch'd the bow the boy was us'd to bend, And cry'd, With me, false traytor, dare contend; Boast not a conquest o'er a child, but try Thy strength with me, who all thy pow'rs defy; Nor think so mean an act a victory. While yet he spoke he flung the whizzing dart, Which pierc'd the plaited robe, but miss'd his heart: Perseus defy'd, upon him fiercely press'd With sword, unsheath'd, and plung'd it in his breast; His eyes o'erwhelm'd with night, he stumbling falls, And with his latest breath on Athis calls; Pleas'd that so near the lovely youth he lies, He sinks his head upon his friend, and dies. Next eager Phorbas, old Methion's son, Came rushing forward with Amphimedon; When the smooth pavement, slippery made with gore, Trip'd up their feet, and flung 'em on the floor; The sword of Perseus, who by chance was nigh, Prevents their rise, and where they fall, they lye: Full in his ribs Amphimedon he smote, And then stuck fiery Phorbas in the throat. Eurythus lifting up his ax, the blow Was thus prevented by his nimble foe; A golden cup he seizes, high embost, And at his head the massy goblet tost: It hits, and from his forehead bruis'd rebounds, And blood, and brains he vomits from his wounds; With his slain fellows on the floor he lies, And death for ever shuts his swimming eyes. Then Polydaemon fell, a Goddess-born; Phlegias, and Elycen with locks unshorn Next follow'd; next, the stroke of death he gave To Clytus, Abanis, and Lycetus brave; While o'er unnumber'd heaps of ghastly dead, The Argive heroe's feet triumphant tread. But Phineus stands aloof, and dreads to feel His rival's force, and flies his pointed steel: Yet threw a dart from far; by chance it lights On Idas, who for neither party fights; But wounded, sternly thus to Phineus said, Since of a neuter thou a foe hast made, This I return thee, drawing from his side The dart; which, as he strove to fling, he dy'd. Odites fell by Clymenus's sword, The Cephen court had not a greater lord. Hypseus his blade does in Protenor sheath, But brave Lyncides soon reveng'd his death. Here too was old Emathion, one that fear'd The Gods, and in the cause of Heav'n appear'd, Who only wishing the success of right, And, by his age, exempted from the fight, Both sides alike condemns: This impious war Cease, cease, he cries; these bloody broils forbear. This scarce the sage with high concern had said, When Chromis at a blow struck off his head, Which dropping, on the royal altar roul'd, Still staring on the crowd with aspect bold; And still it seem'd their horrid strife to blame, In life and death, his pious zeal the same; While clinging to the horns, the trunk expires, The sever'd head consumes amidst the fires. Then Phineus, who from far his javelin threw, Broteas and Ammon, twins and brothers, slew; For knotted gauntlets matchless in the field; But gauntlets must to swords and javelins yield. Ampycus next, with hallow'd fillets bound, As Ceres' priest, and with a mitre crown'd, His spear transfix'd, and struck him to the ground. O Iapetides, with pain I tell How you, sweet lyrist, in the riot fell; What worse than brutal rage his breast could fill, Who did thy blood, o bard celestial! spill? Kindly you press'd amid the princely throng, To crown the feast, and give the nuptial song: Discord abhorr'd the musick of thy lyre, Whose notes did gentle peace so well inspire; Thee, when fierce Pettalus far off espy'd, Defenceless with thy harp, he scoffing cry'd, Go; to the ghosts thy soothing lessons play; We loath thy lyre, and scorn thy peaceful lay: And, as again he fiercely bid him go, He pierc'd his temples with a mortal blow. His harp he held, tho' sinking on the ground, Whose strings in death his trembling fingers found By chance, and tun'd by chance a dying sound. With grief Lycormas saw him fall, from far, And, wresting from the door a massy bar, Full in his poll lays on a load of knocks, Which stun him, and he falls like a devoted ox. Another bar Pelates would have snach'd, But Corynthus his motions slily watch'd; He darts his weapon from a private stand, And rivets to the post his veiny hand: When strait a missive spear transfix'd his side, By Abas thrown, and as he hung, he dy'd. Melaneus on the prince's side was slain; And Dorylas, who own'd a fertile plain, Of Nasamonia's fields the wealthy lord, Whose crowded barns, could scarce contain their board. A whizzing spear obliquely gave a blow, Stuck in his groin, and pierc'd the nerves below; His foe behld his eyes convulsive roul, His ebbing veins, and his departing soul; Then taunting said, Of all thy spacious plain, This spot thy only property remains. He left him thus; but had no sooner left, Than Perseus in revenge his nostrils cleft; From his friend's breast the murd'ring dart he drew, And the same weapon at the murderer threw; His head in halves the darted javelin cut, And on each side the brain came issuing out. Fortune his friend, in deaths around he deals, And this his lance, and that his faulchion feels: Now Clytius dies; and by a diff'rent wound, The twin, his brother Clanis, bites the ground. In his rent jaw the bearded weapon sticks, And the steel'd dart does Clytius' thigh transfix. With these Mendesian Celadon he slew: And Astreus next, whose mother was a Jew, His sire uncertain: then by Perseus fell Aethion, who cou'd things to come foretell; But now he knows not whence the javelin flies That wounds his breast, nor by whose arm he dies. The squire to Phineus next his valour try'd, And fierce Agyrtes stain'd with paricide. As these are slain, fresh numbers still appear, And wage with Perseus an unequal war; To rob him of his right, the maid he won, By honour, promise, and desert his own. With him, the father of the beauteous bride, The mother, and the frighted virgin side; With shrieks, and doleful cries they rend the air: Their shrieks confounded with the din of war, With dashing arms, and groanings of the slain, They grieve unpitied, and unheard complain. The floor with ruddy streams Bellona stains, And Phineus a new war with double rage maintains. Perseus begirt, from all around they pour Their lances on him, a tempestuous show'r, Aim'd all at him; a cloud of darts, and spears, Or blind his eyes, or whistle round his ears. Their numbers to resist, against the wall He guards his back secure, and dares them all. Here from the left Molpeus renews the fight, And bold Ethemon presses on the right: As when a hungry tyger near him hears Two lowing herds, a-while he both forbears; Nor can his hopes of this, or that renounce, So strong he lusts to prey on both at once; Thus Perseus now with that, or this is loth To war distinct:, but fain would fall on both. And first Chaonian Molpeus felt his blow, And fled, and never after fac'd his foe; Then fierce Ethemon, as he turn'd his back, Hurried with fury, aiming at his neck, His brandish'd sword against the marble struck With all his might; the brittle weapon broke, And in his throat the point rebounding stuck. Too slight the wound for life to issue thence, And yet too great for battel, or defence; His arms extended in this piteous state, For mercy he wou'd sue, but sues too late; Perseus has in his bosom plung'd the sword, And, ere he speaks, the wound prevents the word. The crowds encreasing, and his friends distress'd, Himself by warring multitudes oppress'd: Since thus unequally you fight, 'tis time, He cry'd, to punish your presumptuous crime; Beware, my friends; his friends were soon prepar'd, Their sight averting, high the head he rear'd, And Gorgon on his foes severely star'd. Vain shift! says Thescelus, with aspect bold, Thee, and thy bugbear monster, I behold With scorn; he lifts his arm, but ere he threw The dart, the heroe to a statue grew. In the same posture still the marble stands, And holds the warrior's weapons in its hands. Amphyx, whom yet this wonder can't alarm, Heaves at Lyncides' breast his impious arm; But, while thus daringly he presses on, His weapon and his arm are turn'd to stone. Next Nileus, he who vainly said he ow'd His origin to Nile's prolifick flood; Who on his shield seven silver rivers bore, His birth to witness by the arms he wore; Full of his sev'n-fold father, thus express'd His boast to Perseus, and his pride confess'd: See whence we sprung; let this thy comfort be In thy sure death, that thou didst die by me. While yet he spoke, the dying accents hung In sounds imperfect on his marble tongue; Tho' chang'd to stone, his lips he seem'd to stretch, And thro' th' insensate rock wou'd force a speech. This Eryx saw, but seeing wou'd not own; The mischief by your selves, he cries, is done, 'Tis your cold courage turns your hearts to stone. Come, follow me; fall on the stripling boy, Kill him, and you his magick arms destroy. Then rushing on, his arm to strike he rear'd, And marbled o'er his varied frame appear'd. These for affronting Pallas were chastis'd, And justly met the death they had despis'd. But brave Aconteus, Perseus' friend, by chance Look'd back, and met the Gorgon's fatal glance: A statue now become, he ghastly stares, And still the foe to mortal combat dares. Astyages the living likeness knew, On the dead stone with vengeful fury flew; But impotent his rage, the jarring blade No print upon the solid marble made: Again, as with redoubled might he struck, Himself astonish'd in the quarry stuck. The vulgar deaths 'twere tedious to rehearse, And fates below the dignity of verse; Their safety in their flight two hundred found, Two hundred, by Medusa's head were ston'd. Fierce Phineus now repents the wrongful fight, And views his varied friends, a dreadful sight; He knows their faces, for their help he sues, And thinks, not hearing him, that they refuse: By name he begs their succour, one by one, Then doubts their life, and feels the friendly stone. Struck with remorse, and conscious of his pride, Convict of sin, he turn'd his eyes aside; With suppliant mein to Perseus thus he prays, Hence with the head, as far as winds and seas Can bear thee; hence, o quit the Cephen shore, And never curse us with Medusa more, That horrid head, which stiffens into stone Those impious men who, daring death, look on. I warr'd not with thee out of hate or strife, My honest cause was to defend my wife, First pledg'd to me; what crime cou'd I suppose, To arm my friends, and vindicate my spouse? But vain, too late I see, was our design; Mine was the title, but the merit thine. Contending made me guilty, I confess; But penitence shou'd make that guilt the less: 'Twas thine to conquer by Minerva's pow'r; Favour'd of Heav'n, thy mercy I implore; For life I sue; the rest to thee I yield; In pity, from my sight remove the shield. He suing said; nor durst revert his eyes On the grim head: and Perseus thus replies: Coward, what is in me to grant, I will, Nor blood, unworthy of my valour spill: Fear not to perish by my vengeful sword, From that secure; 'tis all the Fates afford. Where I now see thee, thou shalt still be seen, A lasting monument to please our queen; There still shall thy betroth'd behold her spouse, And find his image in her father's house. This said; where Phineus turn'd to shun the shield Full in his face the staring head he held; As here and there he strove to turn aside, The wonder wrought, the man was petrify'd: All marble was his frame, his humid eyes Drop'd tears, which hung upon the stone like ice. In suppliant posture, with uplifted hands, And fearful look, the guilty statue stands. Hence Perseus to his native city hies, Victorious, and rewarded with his prize. Conquest, o'er Praetus the usurper, won, He re-instates his grandsire in the throne. Praetus, his brother dispossess'd by might, His realm enjoy'd, and still detain'd his right: But Perseus pull'd the haughty tyrant down, And to the rightful king restor'd the throne. Weak was th' usurper, as his cause was wrong; Where Gorgon's head appears, what arms are strong? When Perseus to his host the monster held, They soon were statues, and their king expell'd. Thence, to Seriphus with the head he sails, Whose prince his story treats as idle tales: Lord of a little isle, he scorns to seem Too credulous, but laughs at that, and him. Yet did he not so much suspect the truth, As out of pride, or envy, hate the youth. The Argive prince, at his contempt enrag'd, To force his faith by fatal proof engag'd. Friends, shut your eyes, he cries; his shield he takes, And to the king expos'd Medusa's snakes. The monarch felt the pow'r he wou'd not own, And stood convict of folly in the stone. Minerva's Interview with the Muses Thus far Minerva was content to rove With Perseus, offspring of her father Jove: Now, hid in clouds, Seriphus she forsook; And to the Theban tow'rs her journey took. Cythnos and Gyaros lying to the right, She pass'd unheeded in her eager flight; And chusing first on Helicon to rest, The virgin Muses in these words address'd: Me, the strange tidings of a new-found spring, Ye learned sisters, to this mountain bring. If all be true that Fame's wide rumours tell, 'Twas Pegasus discover'd first your well; Whose piercing hoof gave the soft earth a blow, Which broke the surface where these waters flow. I saw that horse by miracle obtain Life, from the blood of dire Medusa slain; And now, this equal prodigy to view, From distant isles to fam'd Boeotia flew. The Muse Urania said, Whatever cause So great a Goddess to this mansion draws; Our shades are happy with so bright a guest, You, Queen, are welcome, and we Muses blest. What Fame has publish'd of our spring is true, Thanks for our spring to Pegasus are due. Then, with becoming courtesy, she led The curious stranger to their fountain's head; Who long survey'd, with wonder, and delight, Their sacred water, charming to the sight; Their ancient groves, dark grottos, shady bow'rs, And smiling plains adorn'd with various flow'rs. O happy Muses! she with rapture cry'd, Who, safe from cares, on this fair hill reside; Blest in your seat, and free your selves to please With joys of study, and with glorious ease. The Fate of Pyreneus Then one replies: O Goddess, fit to guide Our humble works, and in our choir preside, Who sure wou'd wisely to these fields repair, To taste our pleasures, and our labours share, Were not your virtue, and superior mind To higher arts, and nobler deeds inclin'd; Justly you praise our works, and pleasing seat, Which all might envy in this soft retreat, Were we secur'd from dangers, and from harms; But maids are frighten'd with the least alarms, And none are safe in this licentious time; Still fierce Pyreneus, and his daring crime, With lasting horror strikes my feeble sight, Nor is my mind recover'd from the fright. With Thracian arms this bold usurper gain'd Daulis, and Phocis, where he proudly reign'd: It happen'd once, as thro' his lands we went, For the bright temple of Parnassus bent, He met us there, and in his artful mind Hiding the faithless action he design'd, Confer'd on us (whom, oh! too well he knew) All honours that to Goddesses are due. Stop, stop, ye Muses, 'tis your friend who calls, The tyrant said; behold the rain that falls On ev'ry side, and that ill-boding sky, Whose lowring face portends more storms are nigh. Pray make my house your own, and void of fear, While this bad weather lasts, take shelter here. Gods have made meaner places their resort, And, for a cottage, left their shining court. Oblig'd to stop, by the united force Of pouring rains, and complaisant discourse, His courteous invitation we obey, And in his hall resolve a-while to stay. Soon it clear'd up; the clouds began to fly, The driving north refin'd the show'ry sky; Then to pursue our journey we began: But the false traitor to his portal ran, Stopt our escape, the door securely barr'd, And to our honour, violence prepar'd. But we, transform'd to birds, avoid his snare, On pinions rising in the yielding air. But he, by lust and indignation fir'd, Up to his highest tow'r with speed retir'd, And cries, In vain you from my arms withdrew, The way you go your lover will pursue. Then, in a flying posture wildly plac'd, And daring from that height himself to cast, The wretch fell headlong, and the ground bestrew'd With broken bones, and stains of guilty blood. The Story of the Pierides The Muse yet spoke; when they began to hear A noise of wings that flutter'd in the air; And strait a voice, from some high-spreading bough, Seem'd to salute the company below. The Goddess wonder'd, and inquir'd from whence That tongue was heard, that spoke so plainly sense (It seem'd to her a human voice to be, But prov'd a bird's; for in a shady tree Nine magpies perch'd lament their alter'd state, And, what they hear, are skilful to repeat). The sister to the wondring Goddess said, These, foil'd by us, by us were thus repaid. These did Evippe of Paeonia bring With nine hard labour-pangs to Pella's king. The foolish virgins of their number proud, And puff'd with praises of the senseless crowd, Thro' all Achaia, and th' Aemonian plains Defy'd us thus, to match their artless strains; No more, ye Thespian girls, your notes repeat, Nor with false harmony the vulgar cheat; In voice or skill, if you with us will vye, As many we, in voice or skill will try. Surrender you to us, if we excell, Fam'd Aganippe, and Medusa's well. The conquest yours, your prize from us shall be The Aemathian plains to snowy Paeone; The nymphs our judges. To dispute the field, We thought a shame; but greater shame to yield. On seats of living stone the sisters sit, And by the rivers swear to judge aright. The Song of the Pierides Then rises one of the presumptuous throng, Steps rudely forth, and first begins the song; With vain address describes the giants' wars, And to the Gods their fabled acts prefers. She sings, from Earth's dark womb how Typhon rose, And struck with mortal fear his heav'nly foes. How the Gods fled to Egypt's slimy soil, And hid their heads beneath the banks of Nile: How Typhon, from the conquer'd skies, pursu'd Their routed godheads to the sev'n-mouth'd flood; Forc'd every God, his fury to escape, Some beastly form to take, or earthly shape. Jove (so she sung) was chang'd into a ram, From whence the horns of Libyan Ammon came. Bacchus a goat, Apollo was a crow, Phaebe a cat; die wife of Jove a cow, Whose hue was whiter than the falling snow. Mercury to a nasty Ibis turn'd, The change obscene, afraid of Typhon, mourn'd; While Venus from a fish protection craves, And once more plunges in her native waves. She sung, and to her harp her voice apply'd; Then us again to match her they defy'd. But our poor song, perhaps, for you to hear, Nor leisure serves, nor is it worth your ear. That causeless doubt remove, O Muse rehearse, The Goddess cry'd, your ever-grateful verse. Beneath a chequer'd shade she takes her seat, And bids the sister her whole song repeat. The sister thus: Calliope we chose For the performance. The sweet virgin rose, With ivy crown'd she tunes her golden strings, And to her harp this composition sings. The Song of the Muses First Ceres taught the lab'ring hind to plow The pregnant Earth, and quickning seed to sow. She first for Man did wholsome food provide, And with just laws the wicked world supply'd: All good from her deriv'd, to her belong The grateful tri butes of the Muse's song. Her more than worthy of our verse we deem, Oh! were our verse more worthy of the theme. Jove on the giant fair Trinacria hurl'd, And with one bolt reveng'd his starry world. Beneath her burning hills Tiphaeus lies, And, strugling always, strives in vain to rise. Down does Pelorus his right hand suppress Tow'rd Latium, on the left Pachyne weighs. His legs are under Lilybaeum spread, And Aetna presses hard his horrid head. On his broad back he there extended lies, And vomits clouds of ashes to the skies. Oft lab'ring with his load, at last he tires, And spews out in revenge a flood of fires. Mountains he struggles to o'erwhelm, and towns; Earth's inmost bowels quake, and Nature groans. His terrors reach the direful king of Hell; He fears his throws will to the day reveal The realms of night, and fright his trembling ghosts. This to prevent, he quits the Stygian coasts, In his black carr, by sooty horses drawn, Fair Sicily he seeks, and dreads the dawn. Around her plains he casts his eager eyes, And ev'ry mountain to the bottom tries. But when, in all the careful search, he saw No cause of fear, no ill-suspected flaw; Secure from harm, and wand'ring on at will, Venus beheld him from her flow'ry hill: When strait the dame her little Cupid prest With secret rapture to her snowy breast, And in these words the flutt'ring boy addrest. O thou, my arms, my glory, and my pow'r, My son, whom men, and deathless Gods adore; Bend thy sure bow, whose arrows never miss'd, No longer let Hell's king thy sway resist; Take him, while stragling from his dark abodes He coasts the kingdoms of superior Gods. If sovereign Jove, if Gods who rule the waves, And Neptune, who rules them, have been thy slaves; Shall Hell be free? The tyrant strike, my son, Enlarge thy mother's empire, and thy own. Let not our Heav'n be made the mock of Hell, But Pluto to confess thy pow'r compel. Our rule is slighted in our native skies, See Pallas, see Diana too defies Thy darts, which Ceres' daughter wou'd despise. She too our empire treats with aukward scorn; Such insolence no longer's to be born. Revenge our slighted reign, and with thy dart Transfix the virgin's to the uncle's heart. She said; and from his quiver strait he drew A dart that surely wou'd the business do. She guides his hand, she makes her touch the test, And of a thousand arrows chose the best: No feather better pois'd, a sharper head None had, and sooner none, and surer sped. He bends his bow, he draws it to his ear, Thro' Pluto's heart it drives, and fixes there. The Rape of Proserpine Near Enna's walls a spacious lake is spread, Fam'd for the sweetly-singing swans it bred; Pergusa is its name: and never more Were heard, or sweeter on Cayster's shore. Woods crown the lake; and Phoebus ne'er invades The tufted fences, or offends the shades: Fresh fragrant breezes fan the verdant bow'rs, And the moist ground smiles with enamel'd flow'rs The chearful birds their airy carols sing, And the whole year is one eternal spring. Here, while young Proserpine, among the maids, Diverts herself in these delicious shades; While like a child with busy speed and care She gathers lillies here, and vi'lets there; While first to fill her little lap she strives, Hell's grizly monarch at the shade arrives; Sees her thus sporting on the flow'ry green, And loves the blooming maid, as soon as seen. His urgent flame impatient of delay, Swift as his thought he seiz'd the beauteous prey, And bore her in his sooty carr away. The frighted Goddess to her mother cries, But all in vain, for now far off she flies; Far she behind her leaves her virgin train; To them too cries, and cries to them in vain, And, while with passion she repeats her call, The vi'lets from her lap, and lillies fall: She misses 'em, poor heart! and makes new moan; Her lillies, ah! are lost, her vi'lets gone. O'er hills, the ravisher, and vallies speeds, By name encouraging his foamy steeds; He rattles o'er their necks the rusty reins, And ruffles with the stroke their shaggy manes. O'er lakes he whirls his flying wheels, and comes To the Palici breathing sulph'rous fumes. And thence to where the Bacchiads of renown Between unequal havens built their town; Where Arethusa, round th' imprison'd sea, Extends her crooked coast to Cyane; The nymph who gave the neighb'ring lake a name, Of all Sicilian nymphs the first in fame, She from the waves advanc'd her beauteous head, The Goddess knew, and thus to Pluto said: Farther thou shalt not with the virgin run; Ceres unwilling, canst thou be her son? The maid shou'd be by sweet perswasion won. Force suits not with the softness of the fair; For, if great things with small I may compare, Me Anapis once lov'd; a milder course He took, and won me by his words, not force. Then, stretching out her arms, she stopt his way; But he, impatient of the shortest stay, Throws to his dreadful steeds the slacken'd rein, And strikes his iron sceptre thro' the main; The depths profound thro' yielding waves he cleaves, And to Hell's center a free passage leaves; Down sinks his chariot, and his realms of night The God soon reaches with a rapid flight. Cyane dissolves to a Fountain But still does Cyane the rape bemoan, And with the Goddess' wrongs laments her own; For the stoln maid, and for her injur'd spring, Time to her trouble no relief can bring. In her sad heart a heavy load she bears, 'Till the dumb sorrow turns her all to tears. Her mingling waters with that fountain pass, Of which she late immortal Goddess was; Her varied members to a fluid melt, A pliant softness in her bones is felt; Her wavy locks first drop away in dew, And liquid next her slender fingers grew. The body's change soon seizes its extreme, Her legs dissolve, and feet flow off in stream. Her arms, her back, her shoulders, and her side, Her swelling breasts in little currents glide, A silver liquor only now remains Within the channel of her purple veins; Nothing to fill love's grasp; her husb and chaste Bathes in that bosom he before embrac'd. A Boy transform'd to an Eft Thus, while thro' all the Earth, and all the main, Her daughter mournful Ceres sought in vain; Aurora, when with dewy looks she rose, Nor burnish'd Vesper found her in repose, At Aetna's flaming mouth two pitchy pines To light her in her search at length she tines. Restless, with these, thro' frosty night she goes, Nor fears the cutting winds, nor heeds the snows; And, when the morning-star the day renews, From east to west her absent child pursues. Thirsty at last by long fatigue she grows, But meets no spring, no riv'let near her flows. Then looking round, a lowly cottage spies, Smoaking among the trees, and thither hies. The Goddess knocking at the little door, 'Twas open'd by a woman old and poor, Who, when she begg'd for water, gave her ale Brew'd long, but well preserv'd from being stale. The Goddess drank; a chuffy lad was by, Who saw the liquor with a grutching eye, And grinning cries, She's greedy more than dry. Ceres, offended at his foul grimace, Flung what she had not drunk into his face, The sprinklings speckle where they hit the skin, And a long tail does from his body spin; His arms are turn'd to legs, and lest his size Shou'd make him mischievous, and he might rise Against mankind, diminutives his frame, Less than a lizzard, but in shape the same. Amaz'd the dame the wondrous sight beheld, And weeps, and fain wou'd touch her quondam child. Yet her approach th' affrighted vermin shuns, And fast into the greatest crevice runs. A name they gave him, which the spots exprest, That rose like stars, and varied all his breast. What lands, what seas the Goddess wander'd o'er, Were long to tell; for there remain'd no more. Searching all round, her fruitless toil she mourns, And with regret to Sicily returns. At length, where Cyane now flows, she came, Who cou'd have told her, were she still the same As when she saw her daughter sink to Hell; But what she knows she wants a tongue to tell. Yet this plain signal manifestly gave, The virgin's girdle floating on a wave, As late she dropt it from her slender waste, When with her uncle thro' the deep she past. Ceres the token by her grief confest, And tore her golden hair, and beat her breast. She knows not on what land her curse shou'd fall, But, as ingrate, alike upbraids them all, Unworthy of her gifts; Trinacria most, Where the last steps she found of what she lost. The plough for this the vengeful Goddess broke, And with one death the ox, and owner struck, In vain the fallow fields the peasant tills, The seed, corrupted ere 'tis sown, she kills. The fruitful soil, that once such harvests bore, Now mocks the farmer's care, and teems no more. And the rich grain which fills the furrow'd glade, Rots in the seed, or shrivels in the blade; Or too much sun burns up, or too much rain Drowns, or black blights destroy the blasted plain; Or greedy birds the new-sown seed devour, Or darnel, thistles, and a crop impure Of knotted grass along the acres stand, And spread their thriving roots thro' all the land. Then from the waves soft Arethusa rears Her head, and back she flings her dropping hairs. O mother of the maid, whom thou so far Hast sought, of whom thou canst no tidings hear; O thou, she cry'd, who art to life a friend, Cease here thy search, and let thy labour end. Thy faithful Sicily's a guiltless clime, And shou'd not suffer for another's crime; She neither knew, nor cou'd prevent the deed; Nor think that for my country thus I plead; My country's Pisa, I'm an alien here, Yet these abodes to Elis I prefer, No clime to me so sweet, no place so dear. These springs I Arethusa now possess, And this my seat, o gracious Goddess, bless: This island why I love, and why I crost Such spacious seas to reach Ortygia's coast, To you I shall impart, when, void of care, Your heart's at ease, and you're more fit to hear; When on your brow no pressing sorrow sits, For gay content alone such tales admits. When thro' Earth's caverns I a-while have roul'd My waves, I rise, and here again behold The long-lost stars; and, as I late did glide Near Styx, Proserpina there I espy'd. Fear still with grief might in her face be seen; She still her rape laments; yet, made a queen, Beneath those gloomy shades her sceptre sways, And ev'n th' infernal king her will obeys. This heard, the Goddess like a statue stood, Stupid with grief; and in that musing mood Continu'd long; new cares a-while supprest The reigning of her immortal breast. At last to Jove her daughter's sire she flies, And with her chariot cuts the chrystal skies; She comes in clouds, and with dishevel'd hair, Standing before his throne, prefers her pray'r. King of the Gods, defend my blood and thine, And use it not the worse for being mine. If I no more am gracious in thy sight, Be just, o Jove, and do thy daughter right. In vain I sought her the wide world around, And, when I most despair'd to find her, found. But how can I the fatal finding boast, By which I know she is for ever lost? Without her father's aid, what other Pow'r Can to my arms the ravish'd maid restore? Let him restore her, I'll the crime forgive; My child, tho' ravish'd, I'd with joy receive. Pity, your daughter with a thief shou'd wed, Tho' mine, you think, deserves no better bed. Jove thus replies: It equally belongs To both, to guard our common pledge from wrongs. But if to things we proper names apply, This hardly can be call'd an injury. The theft is love; nor need we blush to own The thief, if I can judge, to be our son. Had you of his desert no other proof, To be Jove's brother is methinks enough. Nor was my throne by worth superior got, Heav'n fell to me, as Hell to him, by lot: If you are still resolv'd her loss to mourn, And nothing less will serve than her return; Upon these terms she may again be yours (Th' irrevocable terms of fate, not ours), Of Stygian food if she did never taste, Hell's bounds may then, and only then, be past. The Transformation of Ascalaphus into an Owl The Goddess now, resolving to succeed, Down to the gloomy shades descends with speed; But adverse fate had otherwise decreed. For, long before, her giddy thoughtless child Had broke her fast, and all her projects spoil'd. As in the garden's shady walk she stray'd, A fair pomegranate charm'd the simple maid, Hung in her way, and tempting her to taste, She pluck'd the fruit, and took a short repast. Seven times, a seed at once, she eat the food; The fact Ascalaphus had only view'd; Whom Acheron begot in Stygian shades On Orphne, fam'd among Avernal maids; He saw what past, and by discov'ring all, Detain'd the ravish'd nymph in cruel thrall. But now a queen, she with resentment heard, And chang'd the vile informer to a bird. In Phlegeton's black stream her hand she dips, Sprinkles his head, and wets his babling lips. Soon on his face, bedropt with magick dew, A change appear'd, and gawdy feathers grew. A crooked beak the place of nose supplies, Rounder his head, and larger are his eyes. His arms and body waste, but are supply'd With yellow pinions flagging on each side. His nails grow crooked, and are turn'd to claws, And lazily along his heavy wings he draws. Ill-omen'd in his form, the unlucky fowl, Abhorr'd by men, and call'd a scrieching owl. The Daughters of Achelous transform'd to Sirens Justly this punishment was due to him, And less had been too little for his crime; But, o ye nymphs that from the flood descend, What fault of yours the Gods cou'd so offend, With wings and claws your beauteous forms to spoil, Yet save your maiden face, and winning smile? Were you not with her in Pergusa's bow'rs, When Proserpine went forth to gather flow'rs? Since Pluto in his carr the Goddess caught, Have you not for her in each climate sought? And when on land you long had search'd in vain, You wish'd for wings to cross the pathless main; That Earth and Sea might witness to your care: The Gods were easy, and return'd your pray'r; With golden wing o'er foamy waves you fled, And to the sun your plumy glories spread. But, lest the soft enchantment of your songs, And the sweet musick of your flat'ring tongues Shou'd quite be lost (as courteous fates ordain), Your voice and virgin beauty still remain. Jove some amends for Ceres lost to make, Yet willing Pluto shou'd the joy partake, Gives 'em of Proserpine an equal share, Who, claim'd by both, with both divides the year. The Goddess now in either empire sways, Six moons in Hell, and six with Ceres stays. Her peevish temper's chang'd; that sullen mind, Which made ev'n Hell uneasy, now is kind, Her voice refines, her mein more sweet appears, Her forehead free from frowns, her eyes from tears, As when, with golden light, the conqu'ring day Thro' dusky exhalations clears a way. Ceres her daughter's rape no longer mourn'd, But back to Arethusa's spring return'd; And sitting on the margin, bid her tell From whence she came, and why a sacred well. The Story of Arethusa Still were the purling waters, and the maid From the smooth surface rais'd her beauteous head, Wipes off the drops that from her tresses ran, And thus to tell Alpheus' loves began. In Elis first I breath'd the living air, The chase was all my pleasure, all my care. None lov'd like me the forest to explore, To pitch the toils, and drive the bristled boar. Of fair, tho' masculine, I had the name, But gladly wou'd to that have quitted claim: It less my pride than indignation rais'd, To hear the beauty I neglected, prais'd; Such compliments I loath'd, such charms as these I scorn'd, and thought it infamy to please. Once, I remember, in the summer's heat, Tir'd with the chase, I sought a cool retreat; And, walking on, a silent current found, Which gently glided o'er the grav'ly ground. The chrystal water was so smooth, so clear, My eye distinguish'd ev'ry pebble there. So soft its motion, that I scarce perceiv'd The running stream, or what I saw believ'd. The hoary willow, and the poplar, made Along the shelving bank a grateful shade. In the cool rivulet my feet I dipt, Then waded to the knee, and then I stript; My robe I careless on an osier threw, That near the place commodiously grew; Nor long upon the border naked stood, But plung'd with speed into the silver flood. My arms a thousand ways I mov'd, and try'd To quicken, if I cou'd, the lazy tide; Where, while I play'd my swimming gambols o'er, I heard a murm'ring voice, and frighted sprung to shore. Oh! whither, Arethusa, dost thou fly? From the brook's bottom did Alpheus cry; Again, I heard him, in a hollow tone, Oh! whither, Arethusa, dost thou run? Naked I flew, nor cou'd I stay to hide My limbs, my robe was on the other side; Alpheus follow'd fast, th' inflaming sight Quicken'd his speed, and made his labour light; He sees me ready for his eager arms, And with a greedy glance devours my charms. As trembling doves from pressing danger fly, When the fierce hawk comes sousing from the sky; And, as fierce hawks the trembling doves pursue, From him I fled, and after me he flew. First by Orchomenus I took my flight, And soon had Psophis and Cyllene in sight; Behind me then high Maenalus I lost, And craggy Erimanthus scal'd with frost; Elis was next; thus far the ground I trod With nimble feet, before the distanc'd God. But here I lagg'd, unable to sustain The labour longer, and my flight maintain; While he more strong, more patient of the toil, And fir'd with hopes of beauty's speedy spoil, Gain'd my lost ground, and by redoubled pace, Now left between us but a narrow space. Unweary'd I 'till now o'er hills, and plains, O'er rocks, and rivers ran, and felt no pains: The sun behind me, and the God I kept, But, when I fastest shou'd have run, I stept. Before my feet his shadow now appear'd; As what I saw, or rather what I fear'd. Yet there I could not be deceiv'd by fear, Who felt his breath pant on my braided hair, And heard his sounding tread, and knew him to be near. Tir'd, and despairing, O celestial maid, I'm caught, I cry'd, without thy heav'nly aid. Help me, Diana, help a nymph forlorn, Devoted to the woods, who long has worn Thy livery, and long thy quiver born. The Goddess heard; my pious pray'r prevail'd; In muffling clouds my virgin head was veil'd, The am'rous God, deluded of his hopes, Searches the gloom, and thro' the darkness gropes; Twice, where Diana did her servant hide He came, and twice, O Arethusa! cry'd. How shaken was my soul, how sunk my heart! The terror seiz'd on ev'ry trembling part. Thus when the wolf about the mountain prowls For prey, the lambkin hears his horrid howls: The tim'rous hare, the pack approaching nigh, Thus hearkens to the hounds, and trembles at the cry; Nor dares she stir, for fear her scented breath Direct the dogs, and guide the threaten'd death. Alpheus in the cloud no traces found To mark my way, yet stays to guard the ground, The God so near, a chilly sweat possest My fainting limbs, at ev'ry pore exprest; My strength distill'd in drops, my hair in dew, My form was chang'd, and all my substance new. Each motion was a stream, and my whole frame Turn'd to a fount, which still preserves my name. Resolv'd I shou'd not his embrace escape, Again the God resumes his fluid shape; To mix his streams with mine he fondly tries, But still Diana his attempt denies. She cleaves the ground; thro' caverns dark I run A diff'rent current, while he keeps his own. To dear Ortygia she conducts my way, And here I first review the welcome day. Here Arethusa stopt; then Ceres takes Her golden carr, and yokes her fiery snakes; With a just rein, along mid-heaven she flies O'er Earth, and seas, and cuts the yielding skies. She halts at Athens, dropping like a star, And to Triptolemus resigns her carr. Parent of seed, she gave him fruitful grain, And bad him teach to till and plough the plain; The seed to sow, as well in fallow fields, As where the soil manur'd a richer harvest yields. The Transformation of Lyncus The youth o'er Europe and o'er Asia drives, 'Till at the court of Lyncus he arrives. The tyrant Scythia's barb'rous empire sway'd; And, when he saw Triptolemus, he said, How cam'st thou, stranger, to our court, and why? Thy country, and thy name? The youth did thus reply: Triptolemus my name; my country's known O'er all the world, Minerva's fav'rite town, Athens, the first of cities in renown. By land I neither walk'd, nor sail'd by sea, But hither thro' the Aether made my way. By me, the Goddess who the fields befriends, These gifts, the greatest of all blessings, sends. The grain she gives if in your soil you sow, Thence wholsom food in golden crops shall grow. Soon as the secret to the king was known, He grudg'd the glory of the service done, And wickedly resolv'd to make it all his own. To hide his purpose, he invites his guest, The friend of Ceres, to a royal feast, And when sweet sleep his heavy eyes had seiz'd, The tyrant with his steel attempts his breast. Him strait a lynx's shape the Goddess gives, And home the youth her sacred dragons drives. The Pierides transform'd to Magpies The chosen Muse here ends her sacred lays; The nymphs unanimous decree the bays, And give the Heliconian Goddesses the praise. Then, far from vain that we shou'd thus prevail, But much provok'd to hear the vanquish'd rail, Calliope resumes: Too long we've born Your daring taunts, and your affronting scorn; Your challenge justly merited a curse, And this unmanner'd railing makes it worse. Since you refuse us calmly to enjoy Our patience, next our passions we'll employ; The dictates of a mind enrag'd pursue, And, what our just resentment bids us, do. The railers laugh, our threats and wrath despise, And clap their hands, and make a scolding noise: But in the fact they're seiz'd; beneath their nails Feathers they feel, and on their faces scales; Their horny beaks at once each other scare, Their arms are plum'd, and on their backs they bear Py'd wings, and flutter in the fleeting air. Chatt'ring, the scandal of the woods they fly, And there continue still their clam'rous cry: The same their eloquence, as maids, or birds, Now only noise, and nothing then but words. ---------------------------------------------------------------------- ~ Ovid, BOOK THE FIFTH ,

445:The Rosciad Unknowing and unknown, the hardy Muse Boldly defies all mean and partial views; With honest freedom plays the critic's part, And praises, as she censures, from the heart. Roscius deceased, each high aspiring player Push'd all his interest for the vacant chair. The buskin'd heroes of the mimic stage No longer whine in love, and rant in rage; The monarch quits his throne, and condescends Humbly to court the favour of his friends; For pity's sake tells undeserved mishaps, And, their applause to gain, recounts his claps. Thus the victorious chiefs of ancient Rome, To win the mob, a suppliant's form assume; In pompous strain fight o'er the extinguish'd war, And show where honour bled in every scar. But though bare merit might in Rome appear The strongest plea for favour, 'tis not here; We form our judgment in another way; And they will best succeed, who best can pay: Those who would gain the votes of British tribes, Must add to force of merit, force of bribes. What can an actor give? In every age Cash hath been rudely banish'd from the stage; Monarchs themselves, to grief of every player, Appear as often as their image there: They can't, like candidate for other seat, Pour seas of wine, and mountains raise of meat. Wine! they could bribe you with the world as soon, And of 'Roast Beef,' they only know the tune: But what they have they give; could Clive do more, Though for each million he had brought home four? Shuter keeps open house at Southwark fair, And hopes the friends of humour will be there; In Smithfield, Yates prepares the rival treat For those who laughter love, instead of meat; Foote, at Old House,--for even Foote will be, In self-conceit, an actor,--bribes with tea; 259 Which Wilkinson at second-hand receives, And at the New, pours water on the leaves. The town divided, each runs several ways, As passion, humour, interest, party sways. Things of no moment, colour of the hair, Shape of a leg, complexion brown or fair, A dress well chosen, or a patch misplaced, Conciliate favour, or create distaste. From galleries loud peals of laughter roll, And thunder Shuter's praises; he's so droll. Embox'd, the ladies must have something smart, Palmer! oh! Palmer tops the jaunty part. Seated in pit, the dwarf with aching eyes, Looks up, and vows that Barry's out of size; Whilst to six feet the vigorous stripling grown, Declares that Garrick is another Coan. When place of judgment is by whim supplied, And our opinions have their rise in pride; When, in discoursing on each mimic elf, We praise and censure with an eye to self; All must meet friends, and Ackman bids as fair, In such a court, as Garrick, for the chair. At length agreed, all squabbles to decide, By some one judge the cause was to be tried; But this their squabbles did afresh renew, Who should be judge in such a trial:--who? For Johnson some; but Johnson, it was fear'd, Would be too grave; and Sterne too gay appear'd; Others for Franklin voted; but 'twas known, He sicken'd at all triumphs but his own: For Colman many, but the peevish tongue Of prudent Age found out that he was young: For Murphy some few pilfering wits declared, Whilst Folly clapp'd her hands, and Wisdom stared. To mischief train'd, e'en from his mother's womb, Grown old in fraud, though yet in manhood's bloom, Adopting arts by which gay villains rise, And reach the heights which honest men despise; Mute at the bar, and in the senate loud, Dull 'mongst the dullest, proudest of the proud; A pert, prim, prater of the northern race, Guilt in his heart, and famine in his face, 260 Stood forth,--and thrice he waved his lily hand, And thrice he twirled his tye, thrice stroked his band:-At Friendship's call (thus oft, with traitorous aim, Men void of faith usurp Faith's sacred name) At Friendship's call I come, by Murphy sent, Who thus by me develops his intent: But lest, transfused, the spirit should be lost, That spirit which, in storms of rhetoric toss'd, Bounces about, and flies like bottled beer, In his own words his own intentions hear. Thanks to my friends; but to vile fortunes born, No robes of fur these shoulders must adorn. Vain your applause, no aid from thence I draw; Vain all my wit, for what is wit in law? Twice, (cursed remembrance!) twice I strove to gain Admittance 'mongst the law-instructed train, Who, in the Temple and Gray's Inn, prepare For clients' wretched feet the legal snare; Dead to those arts which polish and refine, Deaf to all worth, because that worth was mine, Twice did those blockheads startle at my name, And foul rejection gave me up to shame. To laws and lawyers then I bade adieu, And plans of far more liberal note pursue. Who will may be a judge--my kindling breast Burns for that chair which Roscius once possess'd. Here give your votes, your interest here exert, And let success for once attend desert. With sleek appearance, and with ambling pace, And, type of vacant head, with vacant face, The Proteus Hill put in his modest plea,-Let Favour speak for others, Worth for me.-For who, like him, his various powers could call Into so many shapes, and shine in all? Who could so nobly grace the motley list, Actor, Inspector, Doctor, Botanist? Knows any one so well--sure no one knows-At once to play, prescribe, compound, compose? Who can--but Woodward came,--Hill slipp'd away, Melting, like ghosts, before the rising day. With that low cunning, which in fools supplies, And amply too, the place of being wise, 261 Which Nature, kind, indulgent parent, gave To qualify the blockhead for a knave; With that smooth falsehood, whose appearance charms, And Reason of each wholesome doubt disarms, Which to the lowest depths of guile descends, By vilest means pursues the vilest ends; Wears Friendship's mask for purposes of spite, Pawns in the day, and butchers in the night; With that malignant envy which turns pale, And sickens, even if a friend prevail, Which merit and success pursues with hate, And damns the worth it cannot imitate; With the cold caution of a coward's spleen, Which fears not guilt, but always seeks a screen, Which keeps this maxim ever in her view-What's basely done, should be done safely too; With that dull, rooted, callous impudence, Which, dead to shame and every nicer sense, Ne'er blush'd, unless, in spreading Vice's snares, She blunder'd on some virtue unawares; With all these blessings, which we seldom find Lavish'd by Nature on one happy mind, A motley figure, of the Fribble tribe, Which heart can scarce conceive, or pen describe, Came simpering on--to ascertain whose sex Twelve sage impannell'd matrons would perplex. Nor male, nor female; neither, and yet both; Of neuter gender, though of Irish growth; A six-foot suckling, mincing in Its gait; Affected, peevish, prim, and delicate; Fearful It seem'd, though of athletic make, Lest brutal breezes should too roughly shake Its tender form, and savage motion spread, O'er Its pale cheeks, the horrid manly red. Much did It talk, in Its own pretty phrase, Of genius and of taste, of players and of plays; Much too of writings, which Itself had wrote, Of special merit, though of little note; For Fate, in a strange humour, had decreed That what It wrote, none but Itself should read; Much, too, It chatter'd of dramatic laws, Misjudging critics, and misplaced applause; 262 Then, with a self-complacent, jutting air, It smiled, It smirk'd, It wriggled to the chair; And, with an awkward briskness not Its own, Looking around, and perking on the throne, Triumphant seem'd; when that strange savage dame, Known but to few, or only known by name, Plain Common-Sense appear'd, by Nature there Appointed, with plain Truth, to guard the chair, The pageant saw, and, blasted with her frown, To Its first state of nothing melted down. Nor shall the Muse, (for even there the pride Of this vain nothing shall be mortified) Nor shall the Muse (should Fate ordain her rhymes, Fond, pleasing thought! to live in after-times) With such a trifler's name her pages blot; Known be the character, the thing forgot: Let It, to disappoint each future aim, Live without sex, and die without a name! Cold-blooded critics, by enervate sires Scarce hammer'd out, when Nature's feeble fires Glimmer'd their last; whose sluggish blood, half froze, Creeps labouring through the veins; whose heart ne'er glows With fancy-kindled heat;--a servile race, Who, in mere want of fault, all merit place; Who blind obedience pay to ancient schools, Bigots to Greece, and slaves to musty rules; With solemn consequence declared that none Could judge that cause but Sophocles alone. Dupes to their fancied excellence, the crowd, Obsequious to the sacred dictate, bow'd. When, from amidst the throng, a youth stood forth, Unknown his person, not unknown his worth; His look bespoke applause; alone he stood, Alone he stemm'd the mighty critic flood. He talk'd of ancients, as the man became Who prized our own, but envied not their fame; With noble reverence spoke of Greece and Rome, And scorn'd to tear the laurel from the tomb. But, more than just to other countries grown, Must we turn base apostates to our own? Where do these words of Greece and Rome excel, That England may not please the ear as well? 263 What mighty magic's in the place or air, That all perfection needs must centre there? In states, let strangers blindly be preferr'd; In state of letters, merit should be heard. Genius is of no country; her pure ray Spreads all abroad, as general as the day; Foe to restraint, from place to place she flies, And may hereafter e'en in Holland rise. May not, (to give a pleasing fancy scope, And cheer a patriot heart with patriot hope) May not some great extensive genius raise The name of Britain 'bove Athenian praise; And, whilst brave thirst of fame his bosom warms, Make England great in letters as in arms? There may--there hath,--and Shakspeare's Muse aspires Beyond the reach of Greece; with native fires Mounting aloft, he wings his daring flight, Whilst Sophocles below stands trembling at his height. Why should we then abroad for judges roam, When abler judges we may find at home? Happy in tragic and in comic powers, Have we not Shakspeare?--Is not Jonson ours? For them, your natural judges, Britons, vote; They'll judge like Britons, who like Britons wrote. He said, and conquer'd--Sense resumed her sway, And disappointed pedants stalk'd away. Shakspeare and Jonson, with deserved applause, Joint-judges were ordain'd to try the cause. Meantime the stranger every voice employ'd, To ask or tell his name. Who is it? Lloyd. Thus, when the aged friends of Job stood mute, And, tamely prudent, gave up the dispute, Elihu, with the decent warmth of youth, Boldly stood forth the advocate of Truth; Confuted Falsehood, and disabled Pride, Whilst baffled Age stood snarling at his side. The day of trial's fix'd, nor any fear Lest day of trial should be put off here. Causes but seldom for delay can call In courts where forms are few, fees none at all. The morning came, nor find I that the Sun, As he on other great events hath done, 264 Put on a brighter robe than what he wore To go his journey in, the day before. Full in the centre of a spacious plain, On plan entirely new, where nothing vain, Nothing magnificent appear'd, but Art With decent modesty perform'd her part, Rose a tribunal: from no other court It borrow'd ornament, or sought support: No juries here were pack'd to kill or clear, No bribes were taken, nor oaths broken here; No gownsmen, partial to a client's cause, To their own purpose turn'd the pliant laws; Each judge was true and steady to his trust, As Mansfield wise, and as old Foster just. In the first seat, in robe of various dyes, A noble wildness flashing from his eyes, Sat Shakspeare: in one hand a wand he bore, For mighty wonders famed in days of yore; The other held a globe, which to his will Obedient turn'd, and own'd the master's skill: Things of the noblest kind his genius drew, And look'd through Nature at a single view: A loose he gave to his unbounded soul, And taught new lands to rise, new seas to roll; Call'd into being scenes unknown before, And passing Nature's bounds, was something more. Next Jonson sat, in ancient learning train'd, His rigid judgment Fancy's flights restrain'd; Correctly pruned each wild luxuriant thought, Mark'd out her course, nor spared a glorious fault. The book of man he read with nicest art, And ransack'd all the secrets of the heart; Exerted penetration's utmost force, And traced each passion to its proper source; Then, strongly mark'd, in liveliest colours drew, And brought each foible forth to public view: The coxcomb felt a lash in every word, And fools, hung out, their brother fools deterr'd. His comic humour kept the world in awe, And Laughter frighten'd Folly more than Law. But, hark! the trumpet sounds, the crowd gives way, And the procession comes in just array. 265 Now should I, in some sweet poetic line, Offer up incense at Apollo's shrine, Invoke the Muse to quit her calm abode, And waken Memory with a sleeping Ode. For how shall mortal man, in mortal verse, Their titles, merits, or their names rehearse? But give, kind Dulness! memory and rhyme, We 'll put off Genius till another time. First, Order came,--with solemn step, and slow, In measured time his feet were taught to go. Behind, from time to time, he cast his eye, Lest this should quit his place, that step awry. Appearances to save his only care; So things seem right, no matter what they are. In him his parents saw themselves renew'd, Begotten by Sir Critic on Saint Prude. Then came drum, trumpet, hautboy, fiddle, flute; Next snuffer, sweeper, shifter, soldier, mute: Legions of angels all in white advance; Furies, all fire, come forward in a dance; Pantomime figures then are brought to view, Fools, hand in hand with fools, go two by two. Next came the treasurer of either house; One with full purse, t'other with not a sous. Behind, a group of figures awe create, Set off with all the impertinence of state; By lace and feather consecrate to fame, Expletive kings, and queens without a name. Here Havard, all serene, in the same strains, Loves, hates, and rages, triumphs and complains; His easy vacant face proclaim'd a heart Which could not feel emotions, nor impart. With him came mighty Davies: on my life, That Davies hath a very pretty wife! Statesman all over, in plots famous grown, He mouths a sentence, as curs mouth a bone. Next Holland came: with truly tragic stalk, He creeps, he flies,--a hero should not walk. As if with Heaven he warr'd, his eager eyes Planted their batteries against the skies; Attitude, action, air, pause, start, sigh, groan, He borrow'd, and made use of as his own. 266 By fortune thrown on any other stage, He might, perhaps, have pleased an easy age; But now appears a copy, and no more, Of something better we have seen before. The actor who would build a solid fame, Must Imitation's servile arts disclaim; Act from himself, on his own bottom stand; I hate e'en Garrick thus at second-hand. Behind came King.--Bred up in modest lore, Bashful and young, he sought Hibernia's shore; Hibernia, famed, 'bove every other grace, For matchless intrepidity of face. From her his features caught the generous flame, And bid defiance to all sense of shame. Tutor'd by her all rivals to surpass, 'Mongst Drury's sons he comes, and shines in Brass. Lo, Yates! Without the least finesse of art He gets applause--I wish he'd get his part. When hot Impatience is in full career, How vilely 'Hark ye! hark ye!' grates the ear; When active fancy from the brain is sent, And stands on tip-toe for some wish'd event, I hate those careless blunders, which recall Suspended sense, and prove it fiction all. In characters of low and vulgar mould, Where Nature's coarsest features we behold; Where, destitute of every decent grace, Unmanner'd jests are blurted in your face, There Yates with justice strict attention draws, Acts truly from himself, and gains applause. But when, to please himself or charm his wife, He aims at something in politer life, When, blindly thwarting Nature's stubborn plan, He treads the stage by way of gentleman, The clown, who no one touch of breeding knows, Looks like Tom Errand dress'd in Clincher's clothes. Fond of his dress, fond of his person grown, Laugh'd at by all, and to himself unknown, Prom side to side he struts, he smiles, he prates, And seems to wonder what's become of Yates. Woodward, endow'd with various tricks of face, Great master in the science of grimace, 267 From Ireland ventures, favourite of the town, Lured by the pleasing prospect of renown; A speaking harlequin, made up of whim, He twists, he twines, he tortures every limb; Plays to the eye with a mere monkey's art, And leaves to sense the conquest of the heart. We laugh indeed, but, on reflection's birth, We wonder at ourselves, and curse our mirth. His walk of parts he fatally misplaced, And inclination fondly took for taste; Hence hath the town so often seen display'd Beau in burlesque, high life in masquerade. But when bold wits,--not such as patch up plays, Cold and correct, in these insipid days,-Some comic character, strong featured, urge To probability's extremest verge; Where modest Judgment her decree suspends, And, for a time, nor censures, nor commends; Where critics can't determine on the spot Whether it is in nature found or not, There Woodward safely shall his powers exert, Nor fail of favour where he shows desert; Hence he in Bobadil such praises bore, Such worthy praises, Kitely scarce had more. By turns transform'd into all kind of shapes, Constant to none, Foote laughs, cries, struts, and scrapes: Now in the centre, now in van or rear, The Proteus shifts, bawd, parson, auctioneer. His strokes of humour, and his bursts of sport, Are all contain'd in this one word--distort. Doth a man stutter, look a-squint, or halt? Mimics draw humour out of Nature's fault, With personal defects their mirth adorn, And bang misfortunes out to public scorn. E'en I, whom Nature cast in hideous mould, Whom, having made, she trembled to behold, Beneath the load of mimicry may groan, And find that Nature's errors are my own. Shadows behind of Foote and Woodward came; Wilkinson this, Obrien was that name. Strange to relate, but wonderfully true, That even shadows have their shadows too! 268 With not a single comic power endued, The first a mere, mere mimic's mimic stood; The last, by Nature form'd to please, who shows, In Johnson's Stephen, which way genius grows, Self quite put off, affects with too much art To put on Woodward in each mangled part; Adopts his shrug, his wink, his stare; nay, more, His voice, and croaks; for Woodward croak'd before. When a dull copier simple grace neglects, And rests his imitation in defects, We readily forgive; but such vile arts Are double guilt in men of real parts. By Nature form'd in her perversest mood, With no one requisite of art endued, Next Jackson came--Observe that settled glare, Which better speaks a puppet than a player; List to that voice--did ever Discord hear Sounds so well fitted to her untuned ear? When to enforce some very tender part, The right hand slips by instinct on the heart, His soul, of every other thought bereft, Is anxious only where to place the left; He sobs and pants to soothe his weeping spouse; To soothe his weeping mother, turns and bows: Awkward, embarrass'd, stiff, without the skill Of moving gracefully, or standing still, One leg, as if suspicious of his brother, Desirous seems to run away from t'other. Some errors, handed down from age to age, Plead custom's force, and still possess the stage. That's vile: should we a parent's faults adore, And err, because our fathers err'd before? If, inattentive to the author's mind, Some actors made the jest they could not find; If by low tricks they marr'd fair Nature's mien, And blurr'd the graces of the simple scene, Shall we, if reason rightly is employ'd, Not see their faults, or seeing, not avoid? When Falstaff stands detected in a lie, Why, without meaning, rolls Love's glassy eye? Why? There's no cause--at least no cause we know-It was the fashion twenty years ago. 269 Fashion!--a word which knaves and fools may use, Their knavery and folly to excuse. To copy beauties, forfeits all pretence To fame--to copy faults, is want of sense. Yet (though in some particulars he fails, Some few particulars, where mode prevails) If in these hallow'd times, when, sober, sad, All gentlemen are melancholy mad; When 'tis not deem'd so great a crime by half To violate a vestal as to laugh, Rude mirth may hope, presumptuous, to engage An act of toleration for the stage; And courtiers will, like reasonable creatures, Suspend vain fashion, and unscrew their features; Old Falstaff, play'd by Love, shall please once more, And humour set the audience in a roar. Actors I've seen, and of no vulgar name, Who, being from one part possess'd of fame, Whether they are to laugh, cry, whine, or bawl, Still introduce that favourite part in all. Here, Love, be cautious--ne'er be thou betray'd To call in that wag Falstaff's dangerous aid; Like Goths of old, howe'er he seems a friend, He'll seize that throne you wish him to defend. In a peculiar mould by Humour cast, For Falstaff framed--himself the first and last-He stands aloof from all--maintains his state, And scorns, like Scotsmen, to assimilate. Vain all disguise--too plain we see the trick, Though the knight wears the weeds of Dominic; And Boniface disgraced, betrays the smack, In _anno Domini_, of Falstaff sack. Arms cross'd, brows bent, eyes fix'd, feet marching slow, A band of malcontents with spleen o'erflow; Wrapt in Conceit's impenetrable fog, Which Pride, like Phoebus, draws from every bog, They curse the managers, and curse the town Whose partial favour keeps such merit down. But if some man, more hardy than the rest, Should dare attack these gnatlings in their nest, At once they rise with impotence of rage, Whet their small stings, and buzz about the stage: 270 'Tis breach of privilege! Shall any dare To arm satiric truth against a player? Prescriptive rights we plead, time out of mind; Actors, unlash'd themselves, may lash mankind. What! shall Opinion then, of nature free, And liberal as the vagrant air, agree To rust in chains like these, imposed by things, Which, less than nothing, ape the pride of kings? No--though half-poets with half-players join To curse the freedom of each honest line; Though rage and malice dim their faded cheek, What the Muse freely thinks, she'll freely speak; With just disdain of every paltry sneer, Stranger alike to flattery and fear, In purpose fix'd, and to herself a rule, Public contempt shall wait the public fool. Austin would always glisten in French silks; Ackman would Norris be, and Packer, Wilkes: For who, like Ackman, can with humour please; Who can, like Packer, charm with sprightly ease? Higher than all the rest, see Bransby strut: A mighty Gulliver in Lilliput! Ludicrous Nature! which at once could show A man so very high, so very low! If I forget thee, Blakes, or if I say Aught hurtful, may I never see thee play. Let critics, with a supercilious air, Decry thy various merit, and declare Frenchman is still at top; but scorn that rage Which, in attacking thee, attacks the age. French follies, universally embraced, At once provoke our mirth, and form our taste. Long, from a nation ever hardly used, At random censured, wantonly abused, Have Britons drawn their sport; with partial view Form'd general notions from the rascal few; Condemn'd a people, as for vices known, Which from their country banish'd, seek our own. At length, howe'er, the slavish chain is broke, And Sense, awaken'd, scorns her ancient yoke: Taught by thee, Moody, we now learn to raise Mirth from their foibles; from their virtues, praise. 271 Next came the legion which our summer Bayes, From alleys, here and there, contrived to raise, Flush'd with vast hopes, and certain to succeed, With wits who cannot write, and scarce can read. Veterans no more support the rotten cause, No more from Elliot's worth they reap applause; Each on himself determines to rely; Be Yates disbanded, and let Elliot fly. Never did players so well an author fit, To Nature dead, and foes declared to wit. So loud each tongue, so empty was each head, So much they talk'd, so very little said, So wondrous dull, and yet so wondrous vain, At once so willing, and unfit to reign, That Reason swore, nor would the oath recall, Their mighty master's soul inform'd them all. As one with various disappointments sad, Whom dulness only kept from being mad, Apart from all the rest great Murphy came-Common to fools and wits, the rage of fame. What though the sons of Nonsense hail him Sire, Auditor, Author, Manager, and Squire, His restless soul's ambition stops not there; To make his triumphs perfect, dub him Player. In person tall, a figure form'd to please, If symmetry could charm deprived of ease; When motionless he stands, we all approve; What pity 'tis the thing was made to move. His voice, in one dull, deep, unvaried sound, Seems to break forth from caverns under ground; From hollow chest the low sepulchral note Unwilling heaves, and struggles in his throat. Could authors butcher'd give an actor grace, All must to him resign the foremost place. When he attempts, in some one favourite part, To ape the feelings of a manly heart, His honest features the disguise defy, And his face loudly gives his tongue the lie. Still in extremes, he knows no happy mean, Or raving mad, or stupidly serene. In cold-wrought scenes, the lifeless actor flags; In passion, tears the passion into rags. 272 Can none remember? Yes--I know all must-When in the Moor he ground his teeth to dust, When o'er the stage he Folly's standard bore, Whilst Common-Sense stood trembling at the door. How few are found with real talents blest! Fewer with Nature's gifts contented rest. Man from his sphere eccentric starts astray: All hunt for fame, but most mistake the way. Bred at St Omer's to the shuffling trade, The hopeful youth a Jesuit might have made; With various readings stored his empty skull, Learn'd without sense, and venerably dull; Or, at some banker's desk, like many more, Content to tell that two and two make four; His name had stood in City annals fair, And prudent Dulness mark'd him for a mayor. What, then, could tempt thee, in a critic age, Such blooming hopes to forfeit on a stage? Could it be worth thy wondrous waste of pains To publish to the world thy lack of brains? Or might not Reason e'en to thee have shown, Thy greatest praise had been to live unknown? Yet let not vanity like thine despair: Fortune makes Folly her peculiar care. A vacant throne, high-placed in Smithfield, view. To sacred Dulness and her first-born due, Thither with haste in happy hour repair, Thy birthright claim, nor fear a rival there. Shuter himself shall own thy juster claim, And venal Ledgers puff their Murphy's name; Whilst Vaughan, or Dapper, call him which you will, Shall blow the trumpet, and give out the bill. There rule, secure from critics and from sense, Nor once shall Genius rise to give offence; Eternal peace shall bless the happy shore, And little factions break thy rest no more. From Covent Garden crowds promiscuous go, Whom the Muse knows not, nor desires to know; Veterans they seem'd, but knew of arms no more Than if, till that time, arms they never bore: Like Westminster militia train'd to fight, They scarcely knew the left hand from the right. 273 Ashamed among such troops to show the head, Their chiefs were scatter'd, and their heroes fled. Sparks at his glass sat comfortably down To separate frown from smile, and smile from frown. Smith, the genteel, the airy, and the smart, Smith was just gone to school to say his part. Ross (a misfortune which we often meet) Was fast asleep at dear Statira's feet; Statira, with her hero to agree, Stood on her feet as fast asleep as he. Macklin, who largely deals in half-form'd sounds, Who wantonly transgresses Nature's bounds, Whose acting's hard, affected, and constrain'd, Whose features, as each other they disdain'd, At variance set, inflexible and coarse, Ne'er know the workings of united force, Ne'er kindly soften to each other's aid, Nor show the mingled powers of light and shade; No longer for a thankless stage concern'd, To worthier thoughts his mighty genius turn'd, Harangued, gave lectures, made each simple elf Almost as good a speaker as himself; Whilst the whole town, mad with mistaken zeal, An awkward rage for elocution feel; Dull cits and grave divines his praise proclaim, And join with Sheridan's their Macklin's name. Shuter, who never cared a single pin Whether he left out nonsense, or put in, Who aim'd at wit, though, levell'd in the dark, The random arrow seldom hit the mark, At Islington, all by the placid stream Where city swains in lap of Dulness dream, Where quiet as her strains their strains do flow, That all the patron by the bards may know, Secret as night, with Rolt's experienced aid, The plan of future operations laid, Projected schemes the summer months to cheer, And spin out happy folly through the year. But think not, though these dastard chiefs are fled, That Covent Garden troops shall want a head: Harlequin comes their chief! See from afar The hero seated in fantastic car! 274 Wedded to Novelty, his only arms Are wooden swords, wands, talismans, and charms; On one side Folly sits, by some call'd Fun, And on the other his arch-patron, Lun; Behind, for liberty athirst in vain, Sense, helpless captive, drags the galling chain: Six rude misshapen beasts the chariot draw, Whom Reason loathes, and Nature never saw, Monsters with tails of ice, and heads of fire; 'Gorgons, and Hydras, and Chimeras dire.' Each was bestrode by full as monstrous wight, Giant, dwarf, genius, elf, hermaphrodite. The Town, as usual, met him in full cry; The Town, as usual, knew no reason why: But Fashion so directs, and Moderns raise On Fashion's mouldering base their transient praise. Next, to the field a band of females draw Their force, for Britain owns no Salique law: Just to their worth, we female rights admit, Nor bar their claim to empire or to wit. First giggling, plotting chambermaids arrive, Hoydens and romps, led on by General Clive. In spite of outward blemishes, she shone, For humour famed, and humour all her own: Easy, as if at home, the stage she trod, Nor sought the critic's praise, nor fear'd his rod: Original in spirit and in ease, She pleased by hiding all attempts to please: No comic actress ever yet could raise, On Humour's base, more merit or more praise. With all the native vigour of sixteen, Among the merry troop conspicuous seen, See lively Pope advance, in jig, and trip Corinna, Cherry, Honeycomb, and Snip: Not without art, but yet to nature true, She charms the town with humour just, yet new: Cheer'd by her promise, we the less deplore The fatal time when Olive shall be no more. Lo! Vincent comes! With simple grace array'd, She laughs at paltry arts, and scorns parade: Nature through her is by reflection shown, Whilst Gay once more knows Polly for his own. 275 Talk not to me of diffidence and fear-I see it all, but must forgive it here; Defects like these, which modest terrors cause, From Impudence itself extort applause. Candour and Reason still take Virtue's part; We love e'en foibles in so good a heart. Let Tommy Arne,--with usual pomp of style, Whose chief, whose only merit's to compile; Who, meanly pilfering here and there a bit, Deals music out as Murphy deals out wit,-Publish proposals, laws for taste prescribe, And chaunt the praise of an Italian tribe; Let him reverse kind Nature's first decrees, And teach e'en Brent a method not to please; But never shall a truly British age Bear a vile race of eunuchs on the stage; The boasted work's call'd national in vain, If one Italian voice pollutes the strain. Where tyrants rule, and slaves with joy obey, Let slavish minstrels pour the enervate lay; To Britons far more noble pleasures spring, In native notes whilst Beard and Vincent sing. Might figure give a title unto fame, What rival should with Yates dispute her claim? But justice may not partial trophies raise, Nor sink the actress' in the woman's praise. Still hand in hand her words and actions go, And the heart feels more than the features show; For, through the regions of that beauteous face We no variety of passions trace; Dead to the soft emotions of the heart, No kindred softness can those eyes impart: The brow, still fix'd in sorrow's sullen frame, Void of distinction, marks all parts the same. What's a fine person, or a beauteous face, Unless deportment gives them decent grace? Bless'd with all other requisites to please, Some want the striking elegance of ease; The curious eye their awkward movement tires; They seem like puppets led about by wires. Others, like statues, in one posture still, Give great ideas of the workman's skill; 276 Wond'ring, his art we praise the more we view, And only grieve he gave not motion too. Weak of themselves are what we beauties call, It is the manner which gives strength to all; This teaches every beauty to unite, And brings them forward in the noblest light; Happy in this, behold, amidst the throng, With transient gleam of grace, Hart sweeps along. If all the wonders of external grace, A person finely turn'd, a mould of face, Where--union rare--expression's lively force With beauty's softest magic holds discourse, Attract the eye; if feelings, void of art, Rouse the quick passions, and inflame the heart; If music, sweetly breathing from the tongue, Captives the ear, Bride must not pass unsung. When fear, which rank ill-nature terms conceit, By time and custom conquer'd, shall retreat; When judgment, tutor'd by experience sage, Shall shoot abroad, and gather strength from age; When Heaven, in mercy, shall the stage release From the dull slumbers of a still-life piece; When some stale flower, disgraceful to the walk, Which long hath hung, though wither'd, on the stalk, Shall kindly drop, then Bride shall make her way, And merit find a passage to the day; Brought into action, she at once shall raise Her own renown, and justify our praise. Form'd for the tragic scene, to grace the stage With rival excellence of love and rage; Mistress of each soft art, with matchless skill To turn and wind the passions as she will; To melt the heart with sympathetic woe, Awake the sigh, and teach the tear to flow; To put on frenzy's wild, distracted glare, And freeze the soul with horror and despair; With just desert enroll'd in endless fame, Conscious of worth superior, Cibber came. When poor Alicia's madd'ning brains are rack'd, And strongly imaged griefs her mind distract, Struck with her grief, I catch the madness too, My brain turns round, the headless trunk I view! 277 The roof cracks, shakes, and falls--new horrors rise, And Reason buried in the ruin lies! Nobly disdainful of each slavish art, She makes her first attack upon the heart; Pleased with the summons, it receives her laws, And all is silence, sympathy, applause. But when, by fond ambition drawn aside, Giddy with praise, and puff'd with female pride, She quits the tragic scene, and, in pretence To comic merit, breaks down nature's fence, I scarcely can believe my ears or eyes, Or find out Cibber through the dark disguise. Pritchard, by Nature for the stage design'd, In person graceful, and in sense refined; Her art as much as Nature's friend became, Her voice as free from blemish as her fame, Who knows so well in majesty to please, Attemper'd with the graceful charms of ease? When, Congreve's favoured pantomime to grace, She comes a captive queen, of Moorish race; When love, hate, jealousy, despair, and rage With wildest tumults in her breast engage, Still equal to herself is Zara seen; Her passions are the passions of a queen. When she to murder whets the timorous Thane, I feel ambition rush through every vein; Persuasion hangs upon her daring tongue, My heart grows flint, and every nerve's new strung. In comedy--Nay, there, cries Critic, hold; Pritchard's for comedy too fat and old: Who can, with patience, bear the gray coquette, Or force a laugh with over-grown Julett? Her speech, look, action, humour, all are just, But then, her age and figure give disgust. Are foibles, then, and graces of the mind, In real life, to size or age confined? Do spirits flow, and is good-breeding placed In any set circumference of waist? As we grow old, doth affectation cease, Or gives not age new vigour to caprice? If in originals these things appear, Why should we bar them in the copy here? 278 The nice punctilio-mongers of this age, The grand minute reformers of the stage, Slaves to propriety of every kind, Some standard measure for each part should find, Which, when the best of actors shall exceed, Let it devolve to one of smaller breed. All actors, too, upon the back should bear Certificate of birth; time, when; place, where; For how can critics rightly fix their worth, Unless they know the minute of their birth? An audience, too, deceived, may find, too late, That they have clapp'd an actor out of date. Figure, I own, at first may give offence, And harshly strike the eye's too curious sense; But when perfections of the mind break forth, Humour's chaste sallies, judgment's solid worth; When the pure genuine flame by Nature taught, Springs into sense and every action's thought; Before such merit all objections fly-Pritchard's genteel, and Garrick's six feet high. Oft have I, Pritchard, seen thy wondrous skill, Confess'd thee great, but find thee greater still; That worth, which shone in scatter'd rays before, Collected now, breaks forth with double power. The 'Jealous Wife!' on that thy trophies raise, Inferior only to the author's praise. From Dublin, famed in legends of romance For mighty magic of enchanted lance, With which her heroes arm'd, victorious prove, And, like a flood, rush o'er the land of Love, Mossop and Barry came--names ne'er design'd By Fate in the same sentence to be join'd. Raised by the breath of popular acclaim, They mounted to the pinnacle of fame; There the weak brain, made giddy with the height, Spurr'd on the rival chiefs to mortal fight. Thus sportive boys, around some basin's brim, Behold the pipe-drawn bladders circling swim; But if, from lungs more potent, there arise Two bubbles of a more than common size, Eager for honour, they for fight prepare, Bubble meets bubble, and both sink to air. 279 Mossop attach'd to military plan, Still kept his eye fix'd on his right-hand man; Whilst the mouth measures words with seeming skill, The right hand labours, and the left lies still; For he, resolved on Scripture grounds to go, What the right doth, the left-hand shall not know, With studied impropriety of speech, He soars beyond the hackney critic's reach; To epithets allots emphatic state, Whilst principals, ungraced, like lackeys wait; In ways first trodden by himself excels, And stands alone in indeclinables; Conjunction, preposition, adverb join To stamp new vigour on the nervous line; In monosyllables his thunders roll, He, she, it, and we, ye, they, fright the soul. In person taller than the common size, Behold where Barry draws admiring eyes! When labouring passions, in his bosom pent, Convulsive rage, and struggling heave for vent; Spectators, with imagined terrors warm, Anxious expect the bursting of the storm: But, all unfit in such a pile to dwell, His voice comes forth, like Echo from her cell, To swell the tempest needful aid denies, And all adown the stage in feeble murmurs dies. What man, like Barry, with such pains, can err In elocution, action, character? What man could give, if Barry was not here, Such well applauded tenderness to Lear? Who else can speak so very, very fine, That sense may kindly end with every line? Some dozen lines before the ghost is there, Behold him for the solemn scene prepare: See how he frames his eyes, poises each limb, Puts the whole body into proper trim:-From whence we learn, with no great stretch of art, Five lines hence comes a ghost, and, ha! a start. When he appears most perfect, still we find Something which jars upon and hurts the mind: Whatever lights upon a part are thrown, We see too plainly they are not his own: 280 No flame from Nature ever yet he caught, Nor knew a feeling which he was not taught: He raised his trophies on the base of art, And conn'd his passions, as he conn'd his part. Quin, from afar, lured by the scent of fame, A stage leviathan, put in his claim, Pupil of Betterton and Booth. Alone, Sullen he walk'd, and deem'd the chair his own: For how should moderns, mushrooms of the day, Who ne'er those masters knew, know how to play? Gray-bearded veterans, who, with partial tongue, Extol the times when they themselves were young, Who, having lost all relish for the stage, See not their own defects, but lash the age, Received, with joyful murmurs of applause, Their darling chief, and lined his favourite cause. Far be it from the candid Muse to tread Insulting o'er the ashes of the dead: But, just to living merit, she maintains, And dares the test, whilst Garrick's genius reigns, Ancients in vain endeavour to excel, Happily praised, if they could act as well. But, though prescription's force we disallow, Nor to antiquity submissive bow; Though we deny imaginary grace, Founded on accidents of time and place, Yet real worth of every growth shall bear Due praise; nor must we, Quin, forget thee there. His words bore sterling weight; nervous and strong, In manly tides of sense they roll'd along: Happy in art, he chiefly had pretence To keep up numbers, yet not forfeit sense; No actor ever greater heights could reach In all the labour'd artifice of speech. Speech! is that all? And shall an actor found An universal fame on partial ground? Parrots themselves speak properly by rote, And, in six months, my dog shall howl by note. I laugh at those who, when the stage they tread, Neglect the heart, to compliment the head; With strict propriety their cares confined To weigh out words, while passion halts behind: 281 To syllable-dissectors they appeal, Allow them accent, cadence,--fools may feel; But, spite of all the criticising elves, Those who would make us feel, must feel themselves. His eyes, in gloomy socket taught to roll, Proclaim'd the sullen 'habit of his soul:' Heavy and phlegmatic he trod the stage, Too proud for tenderness, too dull for rage. When Hector's lovely widow shines in tears, Or Rowe's gay rake dependent virtue jeers, With the same cast of features he is seen To chide the libertine, and court the queen. From the tame scene, which without passion flows, With just desert his reputation rose; Nor less he pleased, when, on some surly plan, He was, at once, the actor and the man. In Brute he shone unequall'd: all agree Garrick's not half so great a Brute as he. When Cato's labour'd scenes are brought to view, With equal praise the actor labour'd too; For still you'll find, trace passions to their root, Small difference 'twixt the Stoic and the Brute. In fancied scenes, as in life's real plan, He could not, for a moment, sink the man. In whate'er cast his character was laid, Self still, like oil, upon the surface play'd. Nature, in spite of all his skill, crept in: Horatio, Dorax, Falstaff,--still 'twas Quin. Next follows Sheridan. A doubtful name, As yet unsettled in the rank of fame: This, fondly lavish in his praises grown, Gives him all merit; that allows him none; Between them both, we'll steer the middle course, Nor, loving praise, rob Judgment of her force. Just his conceptions, natural and great, His feelings strong, his words enforced with weight. Was speech-famed Quin himself to hear him speak, Envy would drive the colour from his cheek; But step-dame Nature, niggard of her grace, Denied the social powers of voice and face. Fix'd in one frame of features, glare of eye, Passions, like chaos, in confusion lie; 282 In vain the wonders of his skill are tried To form distinctions Nature hath denied. His voice no touch of harmony admits, Irregularly deep, and shrill by fits. The two extremes appear like man and wife, Coupled together for the sake of strife. His action's always strong, but sometimes such, That candour must declare he acts too much. Why must impatience fall three paces back? Why paces three return to the attack? Why is the right leg, too, forbid to stir, Unless in motion semicircular? Why must the hero with the Nailor vie, And hurl the close-clench'd fist at nose or eye? In Royal John, with Philip angry grown, I thought he would have knock'd poor Davies down. Inhuman tyrant! was it not a shame To fright a king so harmless and so tame? But, spite of all defects, his glories rise, And art, by judgment form'd, with nature vies. Behold him sound the depth of Hubert's soul, Whilst in his own contending passions roll; View the whole scene, with critic judgment scan, And then deny him merit, if you can. Where he falls short, 'tis Nature's fault alone; Where he succeeds, the merit's all his own. Last Garrick came. Behind him throng a train Of snarling critics, ignorant as vain. One finds out--He's of stature somewhat low-Your hero always should be tall, you know; True natural greatness all consists in height. Produce your voucher, Critic.--Serjeant Kite. Another can't forgive the paltry arts By which he makes his way to shallow hearts; Mere pieces of finesse, traps for applause-'Avaunt! unnatural start, affected pause!' For me, by Nature form'd to judge with phlegm, I can't acquit by wholesale, nor condemn. The best things carried to excess are wrong; The start may be too frequent, pause too long: But, only used in proper time and place, Severest judgment must allow them grace. 283 If bunglers, form'd on Imitation's plan, Just in the way that monkeys mimic man, Their copied scene with mangled arts disgrace, And pause and start with the same vacant face, We join the critic laugh; those tricks we scorn Which spoil the scenes they mean them to adorn. But when, from Nature's pure and genuine source, These strokes of acting flow with generous force, When in the features all the soul's portray'd, And passions, such as Garrick's, are display'd, To me they seem from quickest feelings caught-Each start is nature, and each pause is thought. When reason yields to passion's wild alarms, And the whole state of man is up in arms, What but a critic could condemn the player For pausing here, when cool sense pauses there? Whilst, working from the heart, the fire I trace, And mark it strongly flaming to the face; Whilst in each sound I hear the very man, I can't catch words, and pity those who can. Let wits, like spiders, from the tortured brain Fine-draw the critic-web with curious pain; The gods,--a kindness I with thanks must pay,-Have form'd me of a coarser kind of clay; Not stung with envy, nor with spleen diseased, A poor dull creature, still with Nature pleased: Hence to thy praises, Garrick, I agree, And, pleased with Nature, must be pleased with thee. Now might I tell how silence reign'd throughout, And deep attention hush'd the rabble rout; How every claimant, tortured with desire, Was pale as ashes, or as red as fire; But loose to fame, the Muse more simply acts, Rejects all flourish, and relates mere facts. The judges, as the several parties came, With temper heard, with judgment weigh'd each claim; And, in their sentence happily agreed, In name of both, great Shakspeare thus decreed:-If manly sense, if Nature link'd with Art; If thorough knowledge of the human heart; If powers of acting vast and unconfined; If fewest faults with greatest beauties join'd; 284 If strong expression, and strange powers which lie Within the magic circle of the eye; If feelings which few hearts like his can know, And which no face so well as his can show, Deserve the preference--Garrick! take the chair; Nor quit it--till thou place an equal there. ~ Charles Churchill,

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

447:BOOK THE ELEVENTH The Death of Orpheus Here, while the Thracian bard's enchanting strain Sooths beasts, and woods, and all the listn'ing plain, The female Bacchanals, devoutly mad, In shaggy skins, like savage creatures, clad, Warbling in air perceiv'd his lovely lay, And from a rising ground beheld him play. When one, the wildest, with dishevel'd hair, That loosely stream'd, and ruffled in the air; Soon as her frantick eye the lyrist spy'd, See, see! the hater of our sex, she cry'd. Then at his face her missive javelin sent, Which whiz'd along, and brusht him as it went; But the soft wreathes of ivy twisted round, Prevent a deep impression of the wound. Another, for a weapon, hurls a stone, Which, by the sound subdu'd as soon as thrown, Falls at his feet, and with a seeming sense Implores his pardon for its late offence. But now their frantick rage unbounded grows, Turns all to madness, and no measure knows: Yet this the charms of musick might subdue, But that, with all its charms, is conquer'd too; In louder strains their hideous yellings rise, And squeaking horn-pipes eccho thro' the skies, Which, in hoarse consort with the drum, confound The moving lyre, and ev'ry gentle sound: Then 'twas the deafen'd stones flew on with speed, And saw, unsooth'd, their tuneful poet bleed. The birds, the beasts, and all the savage crew Which the sweet lyrist to attention drew, Now, by the female mob's more furious rage, Are driv'n, and forc'd to quit the shady stage. Next their fierce hands the bard himself assail, Nor can his song against their wrath prevail: They flock, like birds, when in a clustring flight, By day they chase the boding fowl of night. So crowded amphitheatres survey The stag, to greedy dogs a future prey. Their steely javelins, which soft curls entwine Of budding tendrils from the leafy vine, For sacred rites of mild religion made, Are flung promiscuous at the poet's head. Those clods of earth or flints discharge, and these Hurl prickly branches sliver'd from the trees. And, lest their passion shou'd be unsupply'd, The rabble crew, by chance, at distance spy'd Where oxen, straining at the heavy yoke, The fallow'd field with slow advances broke; Nigh which the brawny peasants dug the soil, Procuring food with long laborious toil. These, when they saw the ranting throng draw near, Quitted their tools, and fled, possest with fear. Long spades, and rakes of mighty size were found, Carelesly left upon the broken ground. With these the furious lunaticks engage, And first the lab'ring oxen feel their rage; Then to the poet they return with speed, Whose fate was, past prevention, now decreed: In vain he lifts his suppliant hands, in vain He tries, before, his never-failing strain. And, from those sacred lips, whose thrilling sound Fierce tygers, and insensate rocks cou'd wound, Ah Gods! how moving was the mournful sight! To see the fleeting soul now take its flight. Thee the soft warblers of the feather'd kind Bewail'd; for thee thy savage audience pin'd; Those rocks and woods that oft thy strain had led, Mourn for their charmer, and lament him dead; And drooping trees their leafy glories shed. Naids and Dryads with dishevel'd hair Promiscuous weep, and scarfs of sable wear; Nor cou'd the river-Gods conceal their moan, But with new floods of tears augment their own. His mangled limbs lay scatter'd all around, His head, and harp a better fortune found; In Hebrus' streams they gently roul'd along, And sooth'd the waters with a mournful song. Soft deadly notes the lifeless tongue inspire, A doleful tune sounds from the floating lyre; The hollows banks in solemn consort mourn, And the sad strain in ecchoing groans return. Now with the current to the sea they glide, Born by the billows of the briny tide; And driv'n where waves round rocky Lesbos roar, They strand, and lodge upon Methymna's shore. But here, when landed on the foreign soil, A venom'd snake, the product of the isle Attempts the head, and sacred locks embru'd With clotted gore, and still fresh-dropping blood. Phoebus, at last, his kind protection gives, And from the fact the greedy monster drives: Whose marbled jaws his impious crime atone, Still grinning ghastly, tho' transform'd to stone. His ghost flies downward to the Stygian shore, And knows the places it had seen before: Among the shadows of the pious train He finds Eurydice, and loves again; With pleasure views the beauteous phantom's charms, And clasps her in his unsubstantial arms. There side by side they unmolested walk, Or pass their blissful hours in pleasing talk; Aft or before the bard securely goes, And, without danger, can review his spouse. The Thracian Women transform'd to Trees Bacchus, resolving to revenge the wrong, Of Orpheus murder'd, on the madding throng, Decreed that each accomplice dame should stand Fix'd by the roots along the conscious land. Their wicked feet, that late so nimbly ran To wreak their malice on the guiltless man, Sudden with twisted ligatures were bound, Like trees, deep planted in the turfy ground. And, as the fowler with his subtle gins, His feather'd captives by the feet entwines, That flutt'ring pant, and struggle to get loose, Yet only closer draw the fatal noose; So these were caught; and, as they strove in vain To quit the place, they but encreas'd their pain. They flounce and toil, yet find themselves controul'd; The root, tho' pliant, toughly keeps its hold. In vain their toes and feet they look to find, For ev'n their shapely legs are cloath'd with rind. One smites her thighs with a lamenting stroke, And finds the flesh transform'd to solid oak; Another, with surprize, and grief distrest, Lays on above, but beats a wooden breast. A rugged bark their softer neck invades, Their branching arms shoot up delightful shades; At once they seem, and are, a real grove, With mossy trunks below, and verdant leaves above. The Fable of Midas Nor this suffic'd; the God's disgust remains, And he resolves to quit their hated plains; The vineyards of Tymole ingross his care, And, with a better choir, he fixes there; Where the smooth streams of clear Pactolus roll'd, Then undistinguish'd for its sands of gold. The satyrs with the nymphs, his usual throng, Come to salute their God, and jovial danc'd along. Silenus only miss'd; for while he reel'd, Feeble with age, and wine, about the field, The hoary drunkard had forgot his way, And to the Phrygian clowns became a prey; Who to king Midas drag the captive God, While on his totty pate the wreaths of ivy nod. Midas from Orpheus had been taught his lore, And knew the rites of Bacchus long before. He, when he saw his venerable guest, In honour of the God ordain'd a feast. Ten days in course, with each continu'd night, Were spent in genial mirth, and brisk delight: Then on th' eleventh, when with brighter ray Phosphor had chac'd the fading stars away, The king thro' Lydia's fields young Bacchus sought, And to the God his foster-father brought. Pleas'd with the welcome sight, he bids him soon But name his wish, and swears to grant the boon. A glorious offer! yet but ill bestow'd On him whose choice so little judgment show'd. Give me, says he (nor thought he ask'd too much), That with my body whatsoe'er I touch, Chang'd from the nature which it held of old, May be converted into yellow gold. He had his wish; but yet the God repin'd, To think the fool no better wish could find. But the brave king departed from the place, With smiles of gladness sparkling in his face: Nor could contain, but, as he took his way, Impatient longs to make the first essay. Down from a lowly branch a twig he drew, The twig strait glitter'd with a golden hue: He takes a stone, the stone was turn'd to gold; A clod he touches, and the crumbling mold Acknowledg'd soon the great transforming pow'r, In weight and substance like a mass of ore. He pluck'd the corn, and strait his grasp appears Fill'd with a bending tuft of golden ears. An apple next he takes, and seems to hold The bright Hesperian vegetable gold. His hand he careless on a pillar lays. With shining gold the fluted pillars blaze: And while he washes, as the servants pour, His touch converts the stream to Danae's show'r. To see these miracles so finely wrought, Fires with transporting joy his giddy thought. The ready slaves prepare a sumptuous board, Spread with rich dainties for their happy lord; Whose pow'rful hands the bread no sooner hold, But its whole substance is transform'd to gold: Up to his mouth he lifts the sav'ry meat, Which turns to gold as he attempts to eat: His patron's noble juice of purple hue, Touch'd by his lips, a gilded cordial grew; Unfit for drink, and wondrous to behold, It trickles from his jaws a fluid gold. The rich poor fool, confounded with surprize, Starving in all his various plenty lies: Sick of his wish, he now detests the pow'r, For which he ask'd so earnestly before; Amidst his gold with pinching famine curst; And justly tortur'd with an equal thirst. At last his shining arms to Heav'n he rears, And in distress, for refuge, flies to pray'rs. O father Bacchus, I have sinn'd, he cry'd, And foolishly thy gracious gift apply'd; Thy pity now, repenting, I implore; Oh! may I feel the golden plague no more. The hungry wretch, his folly thus confest, Touch'd the kind deity's good-natur'd breast; The gentle God annull'd his first decree, And from the cruel compact set him free. But then, to cleanse him quite from further harm, And to dilute the relicks of the charm, He bids him seek the stream that cuts the land Nigh where the tow'rs of Lydian Sardis stand; Then trace the river to the fountain head, And meet it rising from its rocky bed; There, as the bubling tide pours forth amain, To plunge his body in, and wash away the stain. The king instructed to the fount retires, But with the golden charm the stream inspires: For while this quality the man forsakes, An equal pow'r the limpid water takes; Informs with veins of gold the neighb'ring land, And glides along a bed of golden sand. Now loathing wealth, th' occasion of his woes, Far in the woods he sought a calm repose; In caves and grottos, where the nymphs resort, And keep with mountain Pan their sylvan court. Ah! had he left his stupid soul behind! But his condition alter'd not his mind. For where high Tmolus rears his shady brow, And from his cliffs surveys the seas below, In his descent, by Sardis bounded here, By the small confines of Hypaepa there, Pan to the nymphs his frolick ditties play'd, Tuning his reeds beneath the chequer'd shade. The nymphs are pleas'd, the boasting sylvan plays, And speaks with slight of great Apollo's lays. Tmolus was arbiter; the boaster still Accepts the tryal with unequal skill. The venerable judge was seated high On his own hill, that seem'd to touch the sky. Above the whisp'ring trees his head he rears, From their encumbring boughs to free his ears; A wreath of oak alone his temples bound, The pendant acorns loosely dangled round. In me your judge, says he, there's no delay: Then bids the goatherd God begin, and play. Pan tun'd the pipe, and with his rural song Pleas'd the low taste of all the vulgar throng; Such songs a vulgar judgment mostly please, Midas was there, and Midas judg'd with these. The mountain sire with grave deportment now To Phoebus turns his venerable brow: And, as he turns, with him the listning wood In the same posture of attention stood. The God his own Parnassian laurel crown'd, And in a wreath his golden tresses bound, Graceful his purple mantle swept the ground. High on the left his iv'ry lute he rais'd, The lute, emboss'd with glitt'ring jewels, blaz'd In his right hand he nicely held the quill, His easy posture spoke a master's skill. The strings he touch'd with more than human art, Which pleas'd the judge's ear, and sooth'd his heart; Who soon judiciously the palm decreed, And to the lute postpon'd the squeaking reed. All, with applause, the rightful sentence heard, Midas alone dissatisfy'd appear'd; To him unjustly giv'n the judgment seems, For Pan's barbarick notes he most esteems. The lyrick God, who thought his untun'd ear Deserv'd but ill a human form to wear, Of that deprives him, and supplies the place With some more fit, and of an ampler space: Fix'd on his noddle an unseemly pair, Flagging, and large, and full of whitish hair; Without a total change from what he was, Still in the man preserves the simple ass. He, to conceal the scandal of the deed, A purple turbant folds about his head; Veils the reproach from publick view, and fears The laughing world would spy his monstrous ears. One trusty barber-slave, that us'd to dress His master's hair, when leng then'd to excess, The mighty secret knew, but knew alone, And, tho' impatient, durst not make it known. Restless, at last, a private place he found, Then dug a hole, and told it to the ground; In a low whisper he reveal'd the case, And cover'd in the earth, and silent left the place. In time, of trembling reeds a plenteous crop From the confided furrow sprouted up; Which, high advancing with the ripening year, Made known the tiller, and his fruitless care: For then the rustling blades, and whisp'ring wind, To tell th' important secret, both combin'd. The Building of Troy Phoebus, with full revenge, from Tmolus flies, Darts thro' the air, and cleaves the liquid skies; Near Hellespont he lights, and treads the plains Where great Laomedon sole monarch reigns; Where, built between the two projecting strands, To Panomphaean Jove an altar stands. Here first aspiring thoughts the king employ, To found the lofty tow'rs of future Troy. The work, from schemes magnificent begun, At vast expence was slowly carry'd on: Which Phoebus seeing, with the trident God Who rules the swelling surges with his nod, Assuming each a mortal shape, combine At a set price to finish his design. The work was built; the king their price denies, And his injustice backs with perjuries. This Neptune cou'd not brook, but drove the main, A mighty deluge, o'er the Phrygian plain: 'Twas all a sea; the waters of the deep From ev'ry vale the copious harvest sweep; The briny billows overflow the soil, Ravage the fields, and mock the plowman's toil. Nor this appeas'd the God's revengeful mind, For still a greater plague remains behind; A huge sea-monster lodges on the sands, And the king's daughter for his prey demands. To him that sav'd the damsel, was decreed A set of horses of the Sun's fine breed: But when Alcides from the rock unty'd The trembling fair, the ransom was deny'd. He, in revenge, the new-built walls attack'd, And the twice-perjur'd city bravely sack'd. Telamon aided, and in justice shar'd Part of the plunder as his due reward: The princess, rescu'd late, with all her charms, Hesione, was yielded to his arms; For Peleus, with a Goddess-bride, was more Proud of his spouse, than of his birth before: Grandsons to Jove there might be more than one, But he the Goddess had enjoy'd alone. The Story of Thetis and Peleus For Proteus thus to virgin Thetis said, Fair Goddess of the waves, consent to wed, And take some spritely lover to your bed. A son you'll have, the terror of the field, To whom in fame, and pow'r his sire shall yield. Jove, who ador'd the nymph with boundless love, Did from his breast the dangerous flame remove. He knew the Fates, nor car'd to raise up one, Whose fame and greatness should eclipse his own, On happy Peleus he bestow'd her charms, And bless'd his grandson in the Goddess' arms: A silent creek Thessalia's coast can show; Two arms project, and shape it like a bow; 'Twould make a bay, but the transparent tide Does scarce the yellow-gravell'd bottom hide; For the quick eye may thro' the liquid wave A firm unweedy level beach perceive. A grove of fragrant myrtle near it grows, Whose boughs, tho' thick, a beauteous grot disclose; The well-wrought fabrick, to discerning eyes, Rather by art than Nature seems to rise. A bridled dolphin oft fair Thetis bore To this her lov'd retreat, her fav'rite shore. Here Peleus seiz'd her, slumbring while she lay, And urg'd his suit with all that love could say: But when he found her obstinately coy, Resolv'd to force her, and comm and the joy; The nymph, o'erpowr'd, to art for succour flies And various shapes the eager youth surprize: A bird she seems, but plies her wings in vain, His hands the fleeting substance still detain: A branchy tree high in the air she grew; About its bark his nimble arms he threw: A tyger next she glares with flaming eyes; The frighten'd lover quits his hold, and flies: The sea-Gods he with sacred rites adores, Then a libation on the ocean pours; While the fat entrails crackle in the fire, And sheets of smoak in sweet perfume aspire; 'Till Proteus rising from his oozy bed, Thus to the poor desponding lover said: No more in anxious thoughts your mind employ, For yet you shall possess the dear expected joy. You must once more th' unwary nymph surprize, As in her cooly grot she slumbring lies; Then bind her fast with unrelenting hands, And strain her tender limbs with knotted bands. Still hold her under ev'ry different shape, 'Till tir'd she tries no longer to escape. Thus he: then sunk beneath the glassy flood, And broken accents flutter'd, where he stood. Bright Sol had almost now his journey done, And down the steepy western convex run; When the fair Nereid left the briny wave, And, as she us'd, retreated to her cave. He scarce had bound her fast, when she arose, And into various shapes her body throws: She went to move her arms, and found 'em ty'd; Then with a sigh, Some God assists ye, cry'd, And in her proper shape stood blushing by his side. About her waiste his longing arms he flung, From which embrace the great Achilles sprung. The Transformation of Daedalion Peleus unmix'd felicity enjoy'd (Blest in a valiant son, and virtuous bride), 'Till Fortune did in blood his hands imbrue, And his own brother by curst chance he slew: Then driv'n from Thessaly, his native clime, Trachinia first gave shelter to his crime; Where peaceful Ceyx mildly fill'd the throne, And like his sire, the morning planet, shone; But now, unlike himself, bedew'd with tears, Mourning a brother lost, his brow appears. First to the town with travel spent, and care, Peleus, and his small company repair: His herds, and flocks the while at leisure feed, On the rich pasture of a neighb'ring mead. The prince before the royal presence brought, Shew'd by the suppliant olive what he sought; Then tells his name, and race, and country right, But hides th' unhappy reason of his flight. He begs the king some little town to give, Where they may safe his faithful vassals live. Ceyx reply'd: To all my bounty flows, A hospitable realm your suit has chose. Your glorious race, and far-resounding fame, And grandsire Jove, peculiar favours claim. All you can wish, I grant; entreaties spare; My kingdom (would 'twere worth the sharing) share. Tears stop'd his speech: astonish'd Peleus pleads To know the cause from whence his grief proceeds. The prince reply'd: There's none of ye but deems This hawk was ever such as now it seems; Know 'twas a heroe once, Daedalion nam'd, For warlike deeds, and haughty valour fam'd; Like me to that bright luminary born, Who wakes Aurora, and brings on the morn. His fierceness still remains, and love of blood, Now dread of birds, and tyrant of the wood. My make was softer, peace my greatest care; But this my brother wholly bent on war; Late nations fear'd, and routed armies fled That force, which now the tim'rous pigeons dread. A daughter he possess'd, divinely fair, And scarcely yet had seen her fifteenth year; Young Chione: a thousand rivals strove To win the maid, and teach her how to love. Phoebus, and Mercury by chance one day From Delphi, and Cyllene past this way; Together they the virgin saw: desire At once warm'd both their breasts with am'rous fire. Phoebus resolv'd to wait 'till close of day; But Mercury's hot love brook'd no delay; With his entrancing rod the maid he charms, And unresisted revels in her arms. 'Twas night, and Phoebus in a beldam's dress, To the late rifled beauty got access. Her time compleat nine circling moons had run; To either God she bore a lovely son: To Mercury Autolycus she brought, Who turn'd to thefts and tricks his subtle thought; Possess'd he was of all his father's slight, At will made white look black, and black look white. Philammon born to Phoebus, like his sire, The Muses lov'd, and finely struck the lyre, And made his voice, and touch in harmony conspire. In vain, fond maid, you boast this double birth, The love of Gods, and royal father's worth, And Jove among your ancestors rehearse! Could blessings such as these e'er prove a curse? To her they did, who with audacious pride, Vain of her own, Diana's charms decry'd. Her taunts the Goddess with resentment fill; My face you like not, you shall try my skill. She said; and strait her vengeful bow she strung, And sent a shaft that pierc'd her guilty tongue: The bleeding tongue in vain its accents tries; In the red stream her soul reluctant flies. With sorrow wild I ran to her relief, And try'd to moderate my brother's grief. He, deaf as rocks by stormy surges beat, Loudly laments, and hears me not intreat. When on the fun'ral pile he saw her laid, Thrice he to rush into the flames assay'd, Thrice with officious care by us was stay'd. Now, mad with grief, away he fled amain, Like a stung heifer that resents the pain, And bellowing wildly bounds along the plain. O'er the most rugged ways so fast he ran, He seem'd a bird already, not a man: He left us breathless all behind; and now In quest of death had gain'd Parnassus' brow: But when from thence headlong himself he threw, He fell not, but with airy pinions flew. Phoebus in pity chang'd him to a fowl, Whose crooked beak and claws the birds controul, Little of bulk, but of a warlike soul. A hawk become, the feather'd race's foe, He tries to case his own by other's woe. A Wolf turn'd into Marble While they astonish'd heard the king relate These wonders of his hapless brother's fate; The prince's herdsman at the court arrives, And fresh surprize to all the audience gives. O Peleus, Peleus! dreadful news I bear, He said; and trembled as he spoke for fear. The worst, affrighted Peleus bid him tell, Whilst Ceyx too grew pale with friendly zeal. Thus he began: When Sol mid-heav'n had gain'd, And half his way was past, and half remain'd, I to the level shore my cattle drove, And let them freely in the meadows rove. Some stretch'd at length admire the watry plain, Some crop'd the herb, some wanton swam the main. A temple stands of antique make hard by, Where no gilt domes, nor marble lure the eye; Unpolish'd rafters bear its lowly height, Hid by a grove, as ancient, from the sight. Here Nereus, and the Nereids they adore; I learnt it from the man who thither bore His net, to dry it on the sunny shore. Adjoyns a lake, inclos'd with willows round, Where swelling waves have overflow'd the mound, And, muddy, stagnate on the lower ground. From thence a russling noise increasing flies, Strikes the still shore; and frights us with surprize, Strait a huge wolf rush'd from the marshy wood, His jaws besmear'd with mingled foam, and blood, Tho' equally by hunger urg'd, and rage, His appetite he minds not to asswage; Nought that he meets, his rabid fury spares, But the whole herd with mad disorder tears. Some of our men who strove to drive him thence, Torn by his teeth, have dy'd in their defence. The echoing lakes, the sea, and fields, and shore, Impurpled blush with streams of reeking gore. Delay is loss, nor have we time for thought; While yet some few remain alive, we ought To seize our arms, and with confederate force Try if we so can stop his bloody course. But Peleus car'd not for his ruin'd herd; His crime he call'd to mind, and thence inferr'd, That Psamathe's revenge this havock made, In sacrifice to murder'd Phocus' shade. The king commands his servants to their arms; Resolv'd to go; but the loud noise alarms His lovely queen, who from her chamber flew, And her half-plaited hair behind her threw: About his neck she hung with loving fears, And now with words, and now with pleading tears, Intreated that he'd send his men alone, And stay himself, to save two lives in one. Then Peleus: Your just fears, o queen, forget; Too much the offer leaves me in your debt. No arms against the monster I shall bear, But the sea nymphs appease with humble pray'r. The citadel's high turrets pierce the sky, Which home-bound vessels, glad, from far descry; This they ascend, and thence with sorrow ken The mangled heifers lye, and bleeding men; Th' inexorable ravager they view, With blood discolour'd, still the rest pursue: There Peleus pray'd submissive tow'rds the sea, And deprecates the ire of injur'd Psamathe. But deaf to all his pray'rs the nymph remain'd, 'Till Thetis for her spouse the boon obtain'd. Pleas'd with the luxury, the furious beast, Unstop'd, continues still his bloody feast: While yet upon a sturdy bull he flew, Chang'd by the nymph, a marble block he grew. No longer dreadful now the wolf appears, Bury'd in stone, and vanish'd like their fears. Yet still the Fates unhappy Peleus vex'd; To the Magnesian shore he wanders next. Acastus there, who rul'd the peaceful clime, Grants his request, and expiates his crime. The Story of Ceyx and Alcyone These prodigies affect the pious prince, But more perplex'd with those that happen'd since, He purposes to seek the Clarian God, Avoiding Delphi, his more fam'd abode, Since Phlegyan robbers made unsafe the road. Yet could he not from her he lov'd so well, The fatal voyage, he resolv'd, conceal; But when she saw her lord prepar'd to part, A deadly cold ran shiv'ring to her heart; Her faded cheeks are chang'd to boxen hue, And in her eyes the tears are ever new. She thrice essay'd to speak; her accents hung, And falt'ring dy'd unfinish'd on her tongue, And vanish'd into sighs: with long delay Her voice return'd, and found the wonted way. Tell me, my lord, she said, what fault unknown Thy once belov'd Alcyone has done? Whither, ah, whither, is thy kindness gone! Can Ceyx then sustain to leave his wife, And unconcern'd forsake the sweets of life? What can thy mind to this long journey move? Or need'st thou absence to renew thy love? Yet, if thou go'st by land, tho' grief possess My soul ev'n then, my fears will be the less. But ah! be warn'd to shun the watry way, The face is frightful of the stormy sea: For late I saw a-drift disjointed planks, And empty tombs erected on the banks. Nor let false hopes to trust betray thy mind, Because my sire in caves constrains the wind, Can with a breath their clam'rous rage appease, They fear his whistle, and forsake the seas: Not so; for once indulg'd, they sweep the main; Deaf to the call, or hearing, hear in vain; But bent on mischief bear the waves before, And not content with seas, insult the shore, When ocean, air, and Earth, at once ingage, And rooted forests fly before their rage: At once the clashing clouds to battel move, And lightnings run across the fields above: I know them well, and mark'd their rude comport, While yet a child within my father's court: In times of tempest they comm and alone, And he but sits precarious on the throne: The more I know, the more my fears augment; And fears are oft prophetick of th' event. But if not fears, or reasons will prevail, If Fate has fix'd thee obstinate to sail, Go not without thy wife, but let me bear My part of danger with an equal share, And present, what I suffer only fear: Then o'er the bounding billows shall we fly, Secure to live together, or to die. These reasons mov'd her warlike husband's heart, But still he held his purpose to depart: For as he lov'd her equal to his life, He would not to the seas expose his wife; Nor could be wrought his voyage to refrain, But sought by arguments to sooth her pain: Nor these avail'd; at length he lights on one, With which so difficult a cause he won: My love, so short an absence cease to fear, For by my father's holy flame I swear, Before two moons their orb with light adorn, If Heav'n allow me life, I will return. This promise of so short a stay prevails; He soon equips the ship, supplies the sails, And gives the word to launch; she trembling views This pomp of death, and parting tears renews: Last with a kiss, she took a long farewel, Sigh'd with a sad presage, and swooning fell: While Ceyx seeks delays, the lusty crew, Rais'd on their banks, their oars in order drew To their broad breasts, the ship with fury flew. The queen recover'd, rears her humid eyes, And first her husb and on the poop espies, Shaking his hand at distance on the main; She took the sign, and shook her hand again. Still as the ground recedes, contracts her view With sharpen'd sight, 'till she no longer knew The much-lov'd face; that comfort lost supplies With less, and with the galley feeds her eyes; The galley born from view by rising gales, She follow'd with her sight the flying sails: When ev'n the flying sails were seen no more, Forsaken of all sight she left the shore. Then on her bridal bed her body throws, And sought in sleep her wearied eyes to close: Her husband's pillow, and the widow'd part Which once he press'd, renew'd the former smart. And now a breeze from shoar began to blow, The sailors ship their oars, and cease to row; Then hoist their yards a-trip, and all their sails Let fall, to court the wind, and catch the gales: By this the vessel half her course had run, Both shoars were lost to sight, when at the close Of day a stiffer gale at east arose: The sea grew white, the rouling waves from far, Like heralds, first denounce the watry war. This seen, the master soon began to cry, Strike, strike the top-sail; let the main-sheet fly, And furl your sails: the winds repel the sound, And in the speaker's mouth the speech is drown'd. Yet of their own accord, as danger taught Each in his way, officiously they wrought; Some stow their oars, or stop the leaky sides, Another bolder, yet the yard bestrides, And folds the sails; a fourth with labour laves Th' intruding seas, and waves ejects on waves. In this confusion while their work they ply, The winds augment the winter of the sky, And wage intestine wars; the suff'ring seas Are toss'd, and mingled, as their tyrants please. The master would command, but in despair Of safety, stands amaz'd with stupid care, Nor what to bid, or what forbid he knows, Th' ungovern'd tempest to such fury grows: Vain is his force, and vainer is his skill; With such a concourse comes the flood of ill; The cries of men are mix'd with rattling shrowds; Seas dash on seas, and clouds encounter clouds: At once from east to west, from pole to pole, The forky lightnings flash, the roaring thunders roul. Now waves on waves ascending scale the skies, And in the fires above the water fries: When yellow sands are sifted from below, The glittering billows give a golden show: And when the fouler bottom spews the black The Stygian dye the tainted waters take: Then frothy white appear the flatted seas, And change their colour, changing their disease, Like various fits the Trachin vessel finds, And now sublime, she rides upon the winds; As from a lofty summit looks from high, And from the clouds beholds the nether sky; Now from the depth of Hell they lift their sight, And at a distance see superior light; The lashing billows make a loud report, And beat her sides, as batt'ring rams a fort: Or as a lion bounding in his way, With force augmented, bears against his prey, Sidelong to seize; or unapal'd with fear, Springs on the toils, and rushes on the spear: So seas impell'd by winds, with added pow'r Assault the sides, and o'er the hatches tow'r. The planks (their pitchy cov'ring wash'd away) Now yield; and now a yawning breach display: The roaring waters with a hostile tide Rush through the ruins of her gaping side. Mean-time in sheets of rain the sky descends, And ocean swell'd with waters upwards tends; One rising, falling one, the Heav'ns and sea Meet at their confines, in the middle way: The sails are drunk with show'rs, and drop with rain, Sweet waters mingle with the briny main. No star appears to lend his friendly light; Darkness, and tempest make a double night; But flashing fires disclose the deep by turns, And while the lightnings blaze, the water burns. Now all the waves their scatter'd force unite, And as a soldier foremost in the fight, Makes way for others, and an host alone Still presses on, and urging gains the town; So while th' invading billows come a-breast, The hero tenth advanc'd before the rest, Sweeps all before him with impetuous sway, And from the walls descends upon the prey; Part following enter, part remain without, With envy hear their fellows' conqu'ring shout, And mount on others' backs, in hopes to share The city, thus become the seat of war. An universal cry resounds aloud, The sailors run in heaps, a helpless crowd; Art fails, and courage falls, no succour near; As many waves, as many deaths appear. One weeps, and yet despairs of late relief; One cannot weep, his fears congeal his grief, But stupid, with dry eyes expects his fate: One with loud shrieks laments his lost estate, And calls those happy whom their fun'rals wait. This wretch with pray'rs and vows the Gods implores, And ev'n the skies he cannot see, adores. That other on his friends his thoughts bestows, His careful father, and his faithful spouse. The covetous worldling in his anxious mind, Thinks only on the wealth he left behind. All Ceyx his Alcyone employs, For her he grieves, yet in her absence joys: His wife he wishes, and would still be near, Not her with him, but wishes him with her: Now with last looks he seeks his native shoar, Which Fate has destin'd him to see no more; He sought, but in the dark tempestuous night He knew not whither to direct his sight. So whirl the seas, such darkness blinds the sky, That the black night receives a deeper dye. The giddy ship ran round; the tempest tore Her mast, and over-board the rudder bore. One billow mounts, and with a scornful brow, Proud of her conquest gain'd, insults the waves below; Nor lighter falls, than if some giant tore Pindus and Athos with the freight they bore, And toss'd on seas; press'd with the pond'rous blow, Down sinks the ship within th' abyss below: Down with the vessel sink into the main The many, never more to rise again. Some few on scatter'd planks, with fruitless care, Lay hold, and swim; but while they swim, despair. Ev'n he who late a scepter did command, Now grasps a floating fragment in his hand; And while he struggles on the stormy main, Invokes his father, and his wife's, in vain. But yet his consort is his greatest care, Alcyone he names amidst his pray'r; Names as a charm against the waves and wind; Most in his mouth, and ever in his mind. Tir'd with his toil, all hopes of safety past, From pray'rs to wishes he descends at last; That his dead body, wafted to the sands, Might have its burial from her friendly hands, As oft as he can catch a gulp of air, And peep above the seas, he names the fair; And ev'n when plung'd beneath, on her he raves, Murm'ring Alcyone below the waves: At last a falling billow stops his breath, Breaks o'er his head, and whelms him underneath. That night, his heav'nly form obscur'd with tears, And since he was forbid to leave the skies, He muffled with a cloud his mournful eyes. Mean-time Alcyone (his fate unknown) Computes how many nights he had been gone. Observes the waining moon with hourly view, Numbers her age, and wishes for a new; Against the promis'd time provides with care, And hastens in the woof the robes he was to wear: And for her self employs another loom, New-dress'd to meet her lord returning home, Flatt'ring her heart with joys, that never were to come: She fum'd the temples with an od'rous flame, And oft before the sacred altars came, To pray for him, who was an empty name. All Pow'rs implor'd, but far above the rest To Juno she her pious vows address'd, Her much-lov'd lord from perils to protect, And safe o'er seas his voyage to direct: Then pray'd, that she might still possess his heart, And no pretending rival share a part; This last petition heard of all her pray'r, The rest, dispers'd by winds, were lost in air. But she, the Goddess of the nuptial bed, Tir'd with her vain devotions for the dead, Resolv'd the tainted hand should be repell'd, Which incense offer'd, and her altar held: Then Iris thus bespoke: Thou faithful maid, By whom thy queen's commands are well convey'd, Haste to the house of sleep, and bid the God Who rules the night by visions with a nod, Prepare a dream, in figure, and in form Resembling him, who perish'd in the storm; This form before Alcyone present, To make her certain of the sad event. Indu'd with robes of various hue she flies, And flying draws an arch (a segment of the skies): Then leaves her bending bow, and from the steep Descends, to search the silent house of sleep. The House of Sleep Near the Cymmerians, in his dark abode, Deep in a cavern, dwells the drowzy God; Whose gloomy mansion nor the rising sun, Nor setting, visits, nor the lightsome noon; But lazy vapours round the region fly, Perpetual twilight, and a doubtful sky: No crowing cock does there his wings display, Nor with his horny bill provoke the day; Nor watchful dogs, nor the more wakeful geese, Disturb with nightly noise the sacred peace; Nor beast of Nature, nor the tame are nigh, Nor trees with tempests rock'd, nor human cry; But safe repose without an air of breath Dwells here, and a dumb quiet next to death. An arm of Lethe, with a gentle flow Arising upwards from the rock below, The palace moats, and o'er the pebbles creeps, And with soft murmurs calls the coming sleeps. Around its entry nodding poppies grow, And all cool simples that sweet rest bestow; Night from the plants their sleepy virtue drains, And passing, sheds it on the silent plains: No door there was th' unguarded house to keep, On creaking hinges turn'd, to break his sleep. But in the gloomy court was rais'd a bed, Stuff'd with black plumes, and on an ebon-sted: Black was the cov'ring too, where lay the God, And slept supine, his limbs display'd abroad: About his head fantastick visions fly, Which various images of things supply, And mock their forms; the leaves on trees not more, Nor bearded ears in fields, nor sands upon the shore. The virgin ent'ring bright, indulg'd the day To the brown cave, and brush'd the dreams away: The God disturb'd with this new glare of light, Cast sudden on his face, unseal'd his sight, And rais'd his tardy head, which sunk again, And sinking, on his bosom knock'd his chin; At length shook off himself, and ask'd the dame, (And asking yawn'd) for what intent she came. To whom the Goddess thus: O sacred rest, Sweet pleasing sleep, of all the Pow'rs the best! O peace of mind, repairer of decay, Whose balms renew the limbs to labours of the day, Care shuns thy soft approach, and sullen flies away! Adorn a dream, expressing human form, The shape of him who suffer'd in the storm, And send it flitting to the Trachin court, The wreck of wretched Ceyx to report: Before his queen bid the pale spectre stand, Who begs a vain relief at Juno's hand. She said, and scarce awake her eyes could keep, Unable to support the fumes of sleep; But fled, returning by the way she went, And swerv'd along her bow with swift ascent. The God, uneasy 'till he slept again, Resolv'd at once to rid himself of pain; And, tho' against his custom, call'd aloud, Exciting Morpheus from the sleepy crowd: Morpheus, of all his numerous train, express'd The shape of man, and imitated best; The walk, the words, the gesture could supply, The habit mimick, and the mein bely; Plays well, but all his action is confin'd, Extending not beyond our human kind. Another, birds, and beasts, and dragons apes, And dreadful images, and monster shapes: This demon, Icelos, in Heav'n's high hall The Gods have nam'd; but men Phobetor call. A third is Phantasus, whose actions roul On meaner thoughts, and things devoid of soul; Earth, fruits, and flow'rs he represents in dreams, And solid rocks unmov'd, and running streams. These three to kings, and chiefs their scenes display, The rest before th' ignoble commons play. Of these the chosen Morpheus is dispatch'd; Which done, the lazy monarch, over-watch'd, Down from his propping elbow drops his head, Dissolv'd in sleep, and shrinks within his bed. Darkling the demon glides, for flight prepar'd, So soft, that scarce his fanning wings are heard. To Trachin, swift as thought, the flitting shade, Thro' air his momentary journey made: Then lays aside the steerage of his wings, Forsakes his proper form, assumes the king's; And pale, as death, despoil'd of his array, Into the queen's apartment takes his way, And stands before the bed at dawn of day: Unmov'd his eyes, and wet his beard appears; And shedding vain, but seeming real tears; The briny waters dropping from his hairs. Then staring on her with a ghastly look, And hollow voice, he thus the queen bespoke. Know'st thou not me? Not yet, unhappy wife? Or are my features perish'd with my life? Look once again, and for thy husb and lost, Lo all that's left of him, thy husband's ghost! Thy vows for my return were all in vain, The stormy south o'ertook us in the main, And never shalt thou see thy living lord again. Bear witness, Heav'n, I call'd on thee in death, And while I call'd, a billow stop'd my breath. Think not, that flying fame reports my fate; I present, I appear, and my own wreck relate. Rise, wretched widow, rise; nor undeplor'd Permit my soul to pass the Stygian ford; But rise, prepar'd in black, to mourn thy perish'd lord. Thus said the player-God; and adding art Of voice and gesture, so perform'd his part, She thought (so like her love the shade appears) That Ceyx spake the words, and Ceyx shed the tears; She groan'd, her inward soul with grief opprest, She sigh'd, she wept, and sleeping beat her breast; Then stretch'd her arms t' embrace his body bare; Her clasping arms inclose but empty air: At this, not yet awake, she cry'd, O stay; One is our fate, and common is our way! So dreadful was the dream, so loud she spoke, That starting sudden up, the slumber broke: Then cast her eyes around, in hope to view Her vanish'd lord, and find the vision true: For now the maids, who waited her commands, Ran in with lighted tapers in their hands. Tir'd with the search, not finding what she seeks, With cruel blows she pounds her blubber'd cheeks; Then from her beaten breast the linnen tare, And cut the golden caul that bound her hair. Her nurse demands the cause; with louder cries She prosecutes her griefs, and thus replies. No more Alcyone; she suffer'd death With her lov'd lord, when Ceyx lost his breath: No flatt'ry, no false comfort, give me none, My shipwreck'd Ceyx is for ever gone: I saw, I saw him manifest in view, His voice, his figure, and his gestures knew: His lustre lost, and ev'ry living grace, Yet I retain'd the features of his face; Tho' with pale cheeks, wet beard, and dropping hair, None but my Ceyx could appear so fair: I would have strain'd him with a strict embrace, But thro' my arms he slipt, and vanish'd from the place: There, ev'n just there he stood; and as she spoke, Where last the spectre was she cast her look: Fain would she hope, and gaz'd upon the ground, If any printed footsteps might be found. Then sigh'd, and said: This I too well foreknew, And my prophetick fears presag'd too true: 'Twas what I begg'd, when with a bleeding heart I took my leave, and suffer'd thee to part; Or I to go along, or thou to stay, Never, ah never to divide our way! Happier for me, that all our hours assign'd Together we had liv'd; ev'n not in death disjoin'd! So had my Ceyx still been living here, Or with my Ceyx I had perish'd there: Now I die absent, in the vast profound; And me, without my self, the seas have drown'd. The storms were not so cruel: should I strive To leng then life, and such a grief survive; But neither will I strive, nor wretched thee In death forsake, but keep thee company. If not one common sepulchre contains Our bodies, or one urn our last remains, Yet Ceyx and Alcyone shall join, Their names remember'd in one common line. No farther voice her mighty grief affords, For sighs come rushing in betwixt her words, And stop'd her tongue; but what her tongue deny'd, Soft tears, and groans, and dumb complaints supply'd. 'Twas morning; to the port she takes her way, And stands upon the margin of the sea: That place, that very spot of ground she sought, Or thither by her destiny was brought, Where last he stood: and while she sadly said, 'Twas here he left me, lingring here delay'd His parting kiss, and there his anchors weigh'd. Thus speaking, while her thoughts past actions trace, And call to mind, admonish'd by the place, Sharp at her utmost ken she cast her eyes, And somewhat floating from afar descries: It seems a corps a-drift to distant sight, But at a distance who could judge aright? It wafted nearer yet, and then she knew, That what before she but surmis'd, was true: A corps it was, but whose it was, unknown, Yet mov'd, howe'er, she made the cause her own. Took the bad omen of a shipwreck'd man, As for a stranger wept, and thus began. Poor wretch, on stormy seas to lose thy life, Unhappy thou, but more thy widow'd wife; At this she paus'd: for now the flowing tide Had brought the body nearer to the side: The more she looks, the more her fears increase, At nearer sight; and she's her self the less: Now driv'n ashore, and at her feet it lies, She knows too much in knowing whom she sees: Her husband's corps; at this she loudly shrieks, 'Tis he, 'tis he, she cries, and tears her cheeks, Her hair, and vest; and stooping to the sands, About his neck she cast her trembling hands. And is it thus, o dearer than my life, Thus, thus return'st thou to thy longing wife! She said, and to the neighbouring mole she strode, (Rais'd there to break th' incursions of the flood). Headlong from hence to plunge her self she springs, But shoots along, supported on her wings; A bird new-made, about the banks she plies, Not far from shore, and short excursions tries; Nor seeks in air her humble flight to raise, Content to skim the surface of the seas: Her bill tho' slender, sends a creaking noise, And imitates a lamentable voice. Now lighting where the bloodless body lies, She with a fun'ral note renews her cries: At all her stretch, her little wings she spread, And with her feather'd arms embrac'd the dead: Then flick'ring to his palid lips, she strove To print a kiss, the last essay of love. Whether the vital touch reviv'd the dead, Or that the moving waters rais'd his head To meet the kiss, the vulgar doubt alone; For sure a present miracle was shown. The Gods their shapes to winter-birds translate, But both obnoxious to their former fate. Their conjugal affection still is ty'd, And still the mournful race is multiply'd: They bill, they tread; Alcyone compress'd, Sev'n days sits brooding on her floating nest: A wintry queen: her sire at length is kind, Calms ev'ry storm, and hushes ev'ry wind; Prepares his empire for his daughter's ease, And for his hatching nephews smooths the seas. Aesacus transform'd into a Cormorant These some old man sees wanton in the air, And praises the unhappy constant pair. Then to his friend the long-neck'd corm'rant shows, The former tale reviving others' woes: That sable bird, he cries, which cuts the flood With slender legs, was once of royal blood; His ancestors from mighty Tros proceed, The brave Laomedon, and Ganymede (Whose beauty tempted Jove to steal the boy), And Priam, hapless prince! who fell with Troy: Himself was Hector's brother, and (had Fate But giv'n this hopeful youth a longer date) Perhaps had rival'd warlike Hector's worth, Tho' on the mother's side of meaner birth; Fair Alyxothoe, a country maid, Bare Aesacus by stealth in Ida's shade. He fled the noisy town, and pompous court, Lov'd the lone hills, and simple rural sport. And seldom to the city would resort. Yet he no rustick clownishness profest, Nor was soft love a stranger to his breast: The youth had long the nymph Hesperie woo'd, Oft thro' the thicket, or the mead pursu'd: Her haply on her father's bank he spy'd, While fearless she her silver tresses dry'd; Away she fled: not stags with half such speed, Before the prowling wolf, scud o'er the mead; Not ducks, when they the safer flood forsake, Pursu'd by hawks, so swift regain the lake. As fast he follow'd in the hot career; Desire the lover wing'd, the virgin fear. A snake unseen now pierc'd her heedless foot; Quick thro' the veins the venom'd juices shoot: She fell, and 'scap'd by death his fierce pursuit; Her lifeless body, frighted, he embrac'd, And cry'd, Not this I dreaded, but thy haste: O had my love been less, or less thy fear! The victory, thus bought, is far too dear. Accursed snake! yet I more curs'd than he! He gave the wound; the cause was given by me. Yet none shall say, that unreveng'd you dy'd. He spoke; then climb'd a cliff's o'er-hanging side, And, resolute, leap'd on the foaming tide. Tethys receiv'd him gently on the wave; The death he sought deny'd, and feathers gave. Debarr'd the surest remedy of grief, And forc'd to live, he curst th' unask'd relief. Then on his airy pinions upward flies, And at a second fall successless tries; The downy plume a quick descent denies. Enrag'd, he often dives beneath the wave, And there in vain expects to find a grave. His ceaseless sorrow for th' unhappy maid, Meager'd his look, and on his spirits prey'd. Still near the sounding deep he lives; his name From frequent diving and emerging came. ---------------------------------------------------------------------- ~ Ovid, BOOK THE ELEVENTH ,

448:BOOK THE FOURTH The Story of Alcithoe and her Sisters Yet still Alcithoe perverse remains, And Bacchus still, and all his rites, disdains. Too rash, and madly bold, she bids him prove Himself a God, nor owns the son of Jove. Her sisters too unanimous agree, Faithful associates in impiety. Be this a solemn feast, the priest had said; Be, with each mistress, unemploy'd each maid. With skins of beasts your tender limbs enclose, And with an ivy-crown adorn your brows, The leafy Thyrsus high in triumph bear, And give your locks to wanton in the air. These rites profan'd, the holy seer foreshow'd A mourning people, and a vengeful God. Matrons and pious wives obedience show, Distaffs, and wooll, half spun, away they throw: Then incense burn, and, Bacchus, thee adore, Or lov'st thou Nyseus, or Lyaeus more? O! doubly got, O! doubly born, they sung, Thou mighty Bromius, hail, from light'ning sprung! Hail, Thyon, Eleleus! each name is thine: Or, listen parent of the genial vine! Iachus! Evan! loudly they repeat, And not one Grecian attri bute forget, Which to thy praise, great Deity, belong, Stil'd justly Liber in the Roman song. Eternity of youth is thine! enjoy Years roul'd on years, yet still a blooming boy. In Heav'n thou shin'st with a superior grace; Conceal thy horns, and 'tis a virgin's face. Thou taught'st the tawny Indian to obey, And Ganges, smoothly flowing, own'd thy sway. Lycurgus, Pentheus, equally profane, By thy just vengeance equally were slain. By thee the Tuscans, who conspir'd to keep Thee captive, plung'd, and cut with finns the deep. With painted reins, all-glitt'ring from afar, The spotted lynxes proudly draw thy car. Around, the Bacchae, and the satyrs throng; Behind, Silenus, drunk, lags slow along: On his dull ass he nods from side to side, Forbears to fall, yet half forgets to ride. Still at thy near approach, applauses loud Are heard, with yellings of the female crowd. Timbrels, and boxen pipes, with mingled cries, Swell up in sounds confus'd, and rend the skies. Come, Bacchus, come propitious, all implore, And act thy sacred orgies o'er and o'er. But Mineus' daughters, while these rites were pay'd, At home, impertinently busie, stay'd. Their wicked tasks they ply with various art, And thro' the loom the sliding shuttle dart; Or at the fire to comb the wooll they stand, Or twirl the spindle with a dext'rous hand. Guilty themselves, they force the guiltless in; Their maids, who share the labour, share the sin. At last one sister cries, who nimbly knew To draw nice threads, and winde the finest clue, While others idly rove, and Gods revere, Their fancy'd Gods! they know not who, or where; Let us, whom Pallas taught her better arts, Still working, cheer with mirthful chat our hearts, And to deceive the time, let me prevail With each by turns to tell some antique tale. She said: her sisters lik'd the humour well, And smiling, bad her the first story tell. But she a-while profoundly seem'd to muse, Perplex'd amid variety to chuse: And knew not, whether she should first relate The poor Dircetis, and her wond'rous fate. The Palestines believe it to a man, And show the lake, in which her scales began. Or if she rather should the daughter sing, Who in the hoary verge of life took wing; Who soar'd from Earth, and dwelt in tow'rs on high, And now a dove she flits along the sky. Or how lewd Nais, when her lust was cloy'd, To fishes turn'd the youths, she had enjoy'd, By pow'rful verse, and herbs; effect most strange! At last the changer shar'd herself the change. Or how the tree, which once white berries bore, Still crimson bears, since stain'd with crimson gore. The tree was new; she likes it, and begins To tell the tale, and as she tells, she spins. The Story of Pyramus and Thisbe In Babylon, where first her queen, for state Rais'd walls of brick magnificently great, Liv'd Pyramus, and Thisbe, lovely pair! He found no eastern youth his equal there, And she beyond the fairest nymph was fair. A closer neighbourhood was never known, Tho' two the houses, yet the roof was one. Acquaintance grew, th' acquaintance they improve To friendship, friendship ripen'd into love: Love had been crown'd, but impotently mad, What parents could not hinder, they forbad. For with fierce flames young Pyramus still burn'd, And grateful Thisbe flames as fierce return'd. Aloud in words their thoughts they dare not break, But silent stand; and silent looks can speak. The fire of love the more it is supprest, The more it glows, and rages in the breast. When the division-wall was built, a chink Was left, the cement unobserv'd to shrink. So slight the cranny, that it still had been For centuries unclos'd, because unseen. But oh! what thing so small, so secret lies, Which scapes, if form'd for love, a lover's eyes? Ev'n in this narrow chink they quickly found A friendly passage for a trackless sound. Safely they told their sorrows, and their joys, In whisper'd murmurs, and a dying noise, By turns to catch each other's breath they strove, And suck'd in all the balmy breeze of love. Oft as on diff'rent sides they stood, they cry'd, Malicious wall, thus lovers to divide! Suppose, thou should'st a-while to us give place To lock, and fasten in a close embrace: But if too much to grant so sweet a bliss, Indulge at least the pleasure of a kiss. We scorn ingratitude: to thee, we know, This safe conveyance of our minds we owe. Thus they their vain petition did renew 'Till night, and then they softly sigh'd adieu. But first they strove to kiss, and that was all; Their kisses dy'd untasted on the wall. Soon as the morn had o'er the stars prevail'd, And warm'd by Phoebus, flow'rs their dews exhal'd, The lovers to their well-known place return, Alike they suffer, and alike they mourn. At last their parents they resolve to cheat (If to deceive in love be call'd deceit), To steal by night from home, and thence unknown To seek the fields, and quit th' unfaithful town. But, to prevent their wand'ring in the dark, They both agree to fix upon a mark; A mark, that could not their designs expose: The tomb of Ninus was the mark they chose. There they might rest secure beneath the shade, Which boughs, with snowy fruit encumber'd, made: A wide-spread mulberry its rise had took Just on the margin of a gurgling brook. Impatient for the friendly dusk they stay; And chide the slowness of departing day; In western seas down sunk at last the light, From western seas up-rose the shades of night. The loving Thisbe ev'n prevents the hour, With cautious silence she unlocks the door, And veils her face, and marching thro' the gloom Swiftly arrives at th' assignation-tomb. For still the fearful sex can fearless prove; Boldly they act, if spirited by love. When lo! a lioness rush'd o'er the plain, Grimly besmear'd with blood of oxen slain: And what to the dire sight new horrors brought, To slake her thirst the neighb'ring spring she sought. Which, by the moon, when trembling Thisbe spies, Wing'd with her fear, swift, as the wind, she flies; And in a cave recovers from her fright, But drop'd her veil, confounded in her flight. When sated with repeated draughts, again The queen of beasts scour'd back along the plain, She found the veil, and mouthing it all o'er, With bloody jaws the lifeless prey she tore. The youth, who could not cheat his guards so soon, Late came, and noted by the glimm'ring moon Some savage feet, new printed on the ground, His cheeks turn'd pale, his limbs no vigour found; But when, advancing on, the veil he spied Distain'd with blood, and ghastly torn, he cried, One night shall death to two young lovers give, But she deserv'd unnumber'd years to live! 'Tis I am guilty, I have thee betray'd, Who came not early, as my charming maid. Whatever slew thee, I the cause remain, I nam'd, and fix'd the place where thou wast slain. Ye lions from your neighb'ring dens repair, Pity the wretch, this impious body tear! But cowards thus for death can idly cry; The brave still have it in their pow'r to die. Then to th' appointed tree he hastes away, The veil first gather'd, tho' all rent it lay: The veil all rent yet still it self endears, He kist, and kissing, wash'd it with his tears. Tho' rich (he cry'd) with many a precious stain, Still from my blood a deeper tincture gain. Then in his breast his shining sword he drown'd, And fell supine, extended on the ground. As out again the blade lie dying drew, Out spun the blood, and streaming upwards flew. So if a conduit-pipe e'er burst you saw, Swift spring the gushing waters thro' the flaw: Then spouting in a bow, they rise on high, And a new fountain plays amid the sky. The berries, stain'd with blood, began to show A dark complexion, and forgot their snow; While fatten'd with the flowing gore, the root Was doom'd for ever to a purple fruit. Mean-time poor Thisbe fear'd, so long she stay'd, Her lover might suspect a perjur'd maid. Her fright scarce o'er, she strove the youth to find With ardent eyes, which spoke an ardent mind. Already in his arms, she hears him sigh At her destruction, which was once so nigh. The tomb, the tree, but not the fruit she knew, The fruit she doubted for its alter'd hue. Still as she doubts, her eyes a body found Quiv'ring in death, and gasping on the ground. She started back, the red her cheeks forsook, And ev'ry nerve with thrilling horrors shook. So trembles the smooth surface of the seas, If brush'd o'er gently with a rising breeze. But when her view her bleeding love confest, She shriek'd, she tore her hair, she beat her breast. She rais'd the body, and embrac'd it round, And bath'd with tears unfeign'd the gaping wound. Then her warm lips to the cold face apply'd, And is it thus, ah! thus we meet, she cry'd! My Pyramus! whence sprung thy cruel fate? My Pyramus!- ah! speak, ere 'tis too late. I, thy own Thisbe, but one word implore, One word thy Thisbe never ask'd before. At Thisbe's name, awak'd, he open'd wide His dying eyes; with dying eyes he try'd On her to dwell, but clos'd them slow, and dy'd. The fatal cause was now at last explor'd, Her veil she knew, and saw his sheathless sword: From thy own hand thy ruin thou hast found, She said, but love first taught that hand to wound, Ev'n I for thee as bold a hand can show, And love, which shall as true direct the blow. I will against the woman's weakness strive, And never thee, lamented youth, survive. The world may say, I caus'd, alas! thy death, But saw thee breathless, and resign'd my breath. Fate, tho' it conquers, shall no triumph gain, Fate, that divides us, still divides in vain. Now, both our cruel parents, hear my pray'r; My pray'r to offer for us both I dare; Oh! see our ashes in one urn confin'd, Whom love at first, and fate at last has join'd. The bliss, you envy'd, is not our request; Lovers, when dead, may sure together rest. Thou, tree, where now one lifeless lump is laid, Ere-long o'er two shalt cast a friendly shade. Still let our loves from thee be understood, Still witness in thy purple fruit our blood. She spoke, and in her bosom plung'd the sword, All warm and reeking from its slaughter'd lord. The pray'r, which dying Thisbe had preferr'd, Both Gods, and parents, with compassion heard. The whiteness of the mulberry soon fled, And rip'ning, sadden'd in a dusky red: While both their parents their lost children mourn, And mix their ashes in one golden urn. Thus did the melancholy tale conclude, And a short, silent interval ensu'd. The next in birth unloos'd her artful tongue, And drew attentive all the sister-throng. The Story of Leucothoe and the Sun The Sun, the source of light, by beauty's pow'r Once am'rous grew; then hear the Sun's amour. Venus, and Mars, with his far-piercing eyes This God first spy'd; this God first all things spies. Stung at the sight, and swift on mischief bent, To haughty Juno's shapeless son he went: The Goddess, and her God gallant betray'd, And told the cuckold, where their pranks were play'd. Poor Vulcan soon desir'd to hear no more, He drop'd his hammer, and he shook all o'er: Then courage takes, and full of vengeful ire He heaves the bellows, and blows fierce the fire: From liquid brass, tho' sure, yet subtile snares He forms, and next a wond'rous net prepares, Drawn with such curious art, so nicely sly, Unseen the mashes cheat the searching eye. Not half so thin their webs the spiders weave, Which the most wary, buzzing prey deceive. These chains, obedient to the touch, he spread In secret foldings o'er the conscious bed: The conscious bed again was quickly prest By the fond pair, in lawless raptures blest. Mars wonder'd at his Cytherea's charms, More fast than ever lock'd within her arms. While Vulcan th' iv'ry doors unbarr'd with care, Then call'd the Gods to view the sportive pair: The Gods throng'd in, and saw in open day, Where Mars, and beauty's queen, all naked, lay. O! shameful sight, if shameful that we name, Which Gods with envy view'd, and could not blame; But, for the pleasure, wish'd to bear the shame. Each Deity, with laughter tir'd, departs, Yet all still laugh'd at Vulcan in their hearts. Thro' Heav'n the news of this surprizal run, But Venus did not thus forget the Sun. He, who stol'n transports idly had betray'd, By a betrayer was in kind repay'd. What now avails, great God, thy piercing blaze, That youth, and beauty, and those golden rays? Thou, who can'st warm this universe alone, Feel'st now a warmth more pow'rful than thy own: And those bright eyes, which all things should survey, Know not from fair Leucothoe to stray. The lamp of light, for human good design'd, Is to one virgin niggardly confin'd. Sometimes too early rise thy eastern beams, Sometimes too late they set in western streams: 'Tis then her beauty thy swift course delays, And gives to winter skies long summer days. Now in thy face thy love-sick mind appears, And spreads thro' impious nations empty fears: For when thy beamless head is wrapt in night, Poor mortals tremble in despair of light. 'Tis not the moon, that o'er thee casts a veil 'Tis love alone, which makes thy looks so pale. Leucothoe is grown thy only care, Not Phaeton's fair mother now is fair. The youthful Rhodos moves no tender thought, And beauteous Porsa is at last forgot. Fond Clytie, scorn'd, yet lov'd, and sought thy bed, Ev'n then thy heart for other virgins bled. Leucothoe has all thy soul possest, And chas'd each rival passion from thy breast. To this bright nymph Eurynome gave birth In the blest confines of the spicy Earth. Excelling others, she herself beheld By her own blooming daughter far excell'd. The sire was Orchamus, whose vast command, The sev'nth from Belus, rul'd the Persian Land. Deep in cool vales, beneath th' Hesperian sky, For the Sun's fiery steeds the pastures lye. Ambrosia there they eat, and thence they gain New vigour, and their daily toils sustain. While thus on heav'nly food the coursers fed, And night, around, her gloomy empire spread, The God assum'd the mother's shape and air, And pass'd, unheeded, to his darling fair. Close by a lamp, with maids encompass'd round, The royal spinster, full employ'd, he found: Then cry'd, A-while from work, my daughter, rest; And, like a mother, scarce her lips he prest. Servants retire!- nor secrets dare to hear, Intrusted only to a daughter's ear. They swift obey'd: not one, suspicious, thought The secret, which their mistress would be taught. Then he: since now no witnesses are near, Behold! the God, who guides the various year! The world's vast eye, of light the source serene, Who all things sees, by whom are all things seen. Believe me, nymph! (for I the truth have show'd) Thy charms have pow'r to charm so great a God. Confus'd, she heard him his soft passion tell, And on the floor, untwirl'd, the spindle fell: Still from the sweet confusion some new grace Blush'd out by stealth, and languish'd in her face. The lover, now inflam'd, himself put on, And out at once the God, all-radiant, shone. The virgin startled at his alter'd form, Too weak to bear a God's impetuous storm: No more against the dazling youth she strove, But silent yielded, and indulg'd his love. This Clytie knew, and knew she was undone, Whose soul was fix'd, and doated on the Sun. She rag'd to think on her neglected charms, And Phoebus, panting in another's arms. With envious madness fir'd, she flies in haste, And tells the king, his daughter was unchaste. The king, incens'd to hear his honour stain'd, No more the father nor the man retain'd. In vain she stretch'd her arms, and turn'd her eyes To her lov'd God, th' enlightner of the skies. In vain she own'd it was a crime, yet still It was a crime not acted by her will. The brutal sire stood deaf to ev'ry pray'r, And deep in Earth entomb'd alive the fair. What Phoebus could do, was by Phoebus done: Full on her grave with pointed beams he shone: To pointed beams the gaping Earth gave way; Had the nymph eyes, her eyes had seen the day, But lifeless now, yet lovely still, she lay. Not more the God wept, when the world was fir'd, And in the wreck his blooming boy expir'd. The vital flame he strives to light again, And warm the frozen blood in ev'ry vein: But since resistless Fates deny'd that pow'r, On the cold nymph he rain'd a nectar show'r. Ah! undeserving thus (he said) to die, Yet still in odours thou shalt reach the sky. The body soon dissolv'd, and all around Perfum'd with heav'nly fragrancies the ground, A sacrifice for Gods up-rose from thence, A sweet, delightful tree of frankincense. The Transformation of Clytie Tho' guilty Clytie thus the sun betray'd, By too much passion she was guilty made. Excess of love begot excess of grief, Grief fondly bad her hence to hope relief. But angry Phoebus hears, unmov'd, her sighs, And scornful from her loath'd embraces flies. All day, all night, in trackless wilds, alone She pin'd, and taught the list'ning rocks her moan. On the bare earth she lies, her bosom bare, Loose her attire, dishevel'd is her hair. Nine times the morn unbarr'd the gates of light, As oft were spread th' alternate shades of night, So long no sustenance the mourner knew, Unless she drunk her tears, or suck'd the dew. She turn'd about, but rose not from the ground, Turn'd to the Sun, still as he roul'd his round: On his bright face hung her desiring eyes, 'Till fix'd to Earth, she strove in vain to rise. Her looks their paleness in a flow'r retain'd, But here, and there, some purple streaks they gain'd. Still the lov'd object the fond leafs pursue, Still move their root, the moving Sun to view, And in the Heliotrope the nymph is true. The sisters heard these wonders with surprise, But part receiv'd them as romantick lies; And pertly rally'd, that they could not see In Pow'rs divine so vast an energy. Part own'd, true Gods such miracles might do, But own'd not Bacchus, one among the true. At last a common, just request they make, And beg Alcithoe her turn to take. I will (she said) and please you, if I can. Then shot her shuttle swift, and thus began. The fate of Daphnis is a fate too known, Whom an enamour'd nymph transform'd to stone, Because she fear'd another nymph might see The lovely youth, and love as much as she: So strange the madness is of jealousie! Nor shall I tell, what changes Scython made, And how he walk'd a man, or tripp'd a maid. You too would peevish frown, and patience want To hear, how Celmis grew an adamant. He once was dear to Jove, and saw of old Jove, when a child; but what he saw, he told. Crocus, and Smilax may be turn'd to flow'rs, And the Curetes spring from bounteous show'rs; I pass a hundred legends stale, as these, And with sweet novelty your taste will please. The Story of Salmacis and Hermaphroditus How Salmacis, with weak enfeebling streams Softens the body, and unnerves the limbs, And what the secret cause, shall here be shown; The cause is secret, but th' effect is known. The Naids nurst an infant heretofore, That Cytherea once to Hermes bore: From both th' illustrious authors of his race The child was nam'd, nor was it hard to trace Both the bright parents thro' the infant's face. When fifteen years in Ida's cool retreat The boy had told, he left his native seat, And sought fresh fountains in a foreign soil: The pleasure lessen'd the attending toil, With eager steps the Lycian fields he crost, A river here he view'd so lovely bright, It shew'd the bottom in a fairer light, Nor kept a sand conceal'd from human sight. The stream produc'd nor slimy ooze, nor weeds, Nor miry rushes, nor the spiky reeds; But dealt enriching moisture all around, The fruitful banks with chearful verdure crown'd, And kept the spring eternal on the ground. A nymph presides, not practis'd in the chace, Nor skilful at the bow, nor at the race; Of all the blue-ey'd daughters of the main, The only stranger to Diana's train: Her sisters often, as 'tis said, wou'd cry, "Fie Salmacis: what, always idle! fie. Or take thy quiver, or thy arrows seize, And mix the toils of hunting with thy ease." Nor quiver she nor arrows e'er wou'd seize, Nor mix the toils of hunting with her ease. But oft would ba the her in the chrystal tide, Oft with a comb her dewy locks divide; Now in the limpid streams she views her face, And drest her image in the floating glass: On beds of leaves she now repos'd her limbs, Now gather'd flow'rs that grew about her streams, And then by chance was gathering, as he stood To view the boy, and long'd for what she view'd. Fain wou'd she meet the youth with hasty feet, She fain wou'd meet him, but refus'd to meet Before her looks were set with nicest care, And well deserv'd to be reputed fair. "Bright youth," she cries, "whom all thy features prove A God, and, if a God, the God of love; But if a mortal, blest thy nurse's breast, Blest are thy parents, and thy sisters blest: But oh how blest! how more than blest thy bride, Ally'd in bliss, if any yet ally'd. If so, let mine the stoln enjoyments be; If not, behold a willing bride in me." The boy knew nought of love, and toucht with shame, He strove, and blusht, but still the blush became: In rising blushes still fresh beauties rose; The sunny side of fruit such blushes shows, And such the moon, when all her silver white Turns in eclipses to a ruddy light. The nymph still begs, if not a nobler bliss, A cold salute at least, a sister's kiss: And now prepares to take the lovely boy Between her arms. He, innocently coy, Replies, "Or leave me to my self alone, You rude uncivil nymph, or I'll be gone." "Fair stranger then," says she, "it shall be so"; And, for she fear'd his threats, she feign'd to go: But hid within a covert's neighbouring green, She kept him still in sight, herself unseen. The boy now fancies all the danger o'er, And innocently sports about the shore, Playful and wanton to the stream he trips, And dips his foot, and shivers as he dips. The coolness pleas'd him, and with eager haste His airy garments on the banks he cast; His godlike features, and his heav'nly hue, And all his beauties were expos'd to view. His naked limbs the nymph with rapture spies, While hotter passions in her bosom rise, Flush in her cheeks, and sparkle in her eyes. She longs, she burns to clasp him in her arms, And looks, and sighs, and kindles at his charms. Now all undrest upon the banks he stood, And clapt his sides, and leapt into the flood: His lovely limbs the silver waves divide, His limbs appear more lovely through the tide; As lillies shut within a chrystal case, Receive a glossy lustre from the glass. He's mine, he's all my own, the Naid cries, And flings off all, and after him she flies. And now she fastens on him as he swims, And holds him close, and wraps about his limbs. The more the boy resisted, and was coy, The more she clipt, and kist the strugling boy. So when the wrigling snake is snatcht on high In Eagle's claws, and hisses in the sky, Around the foe his twirling tail he flings, And twists her legs, and wriths about her wings. The restless boy still obstinately strove To free himself, and still refus'd her love. Amidst his limbs she kept her limbs intwin'd, "And why, coy youth," she cries, "why thus unkind! Oh may the Gods thus keep us ever join'd! Oh may we never, never part again!" So pray'd the nymph, nor did she pray in vain: For now she finds him, as his limbs she prest, Grow nearer still, and nearer to her breast; 'Till, piercing each the other's flesh, they run Together, and incorporate in one: Last in one face are both their faces join'd, As when the stock and grafted twig combin'd Shoot up the same, and wear a common rind: Both bodies in a single body mix, A single body with a double sex. The boy, thus lost in woman, now survey'd The river's guilty stream, and thus he pray'd. (He pray'd, but wonder'd at his softer tone, Surpriz'd to hear a voice but half his own.) You parent-Gods, whose heav'nly names I bear, Hear your Hermaphrodite, and grant my pray'r; Oh grant, that whomsoe'er these streams contain, If man he enter'd, he may rise again Supple, unsinew'd, and but half a man! The heav'nly parents answer'd from on high, Their two-shap'd son, the double votary Then gave a secret virtue to the flood, And ting'd its source to make his wishes good. Alcithoe and her Sisters transform'd to Bats But Mineus' daughters still their tasks pursue, To wickedness most obstinately true: At Bacchus still they laugh, when all around, Unseen, the timbrels hoarse were heard to sound. Saffron and myrrh their fragrant odours shed, And now the present deity they dread. Strange to relate! Here ivy first was seen, Along the distaff crept the wond'rous green. Then sudden-springing vines began to bloom, And the soft tendrils curl'd around the loom: While purple clusters, dangling from on high, Ting'd the wrought purple with a second die. Now from the skies was shot a doubtful light, The day declining to the bounds of night. The fabrick's firm foundations shake all o'er, False tigers rage, and figur'd lions roar. Torches, aloft, seem blazing in the air, And angry flashes of red light'nings glare. To dark recesses, the dire sight to shun, Swift the pale sisters in confusion run. Their arms were lost in pinions, as they fled, And subtle films each slender limb o'er-spread. Their alter'd forms their senses soon reveal'd; Their forms, how alter'd, darkness still conceal'd. Close to the roof each, wond'ring, upwards springs, Born on unknown, transparent, plumeless wings. They strove for words; their little bodies found No words, but murmur'd in a fainting sound. In towns, not woods, the sooty bats delight, And, never, 'till the dusk, begin their flight; 'Till Vesper rises with his ev'ning flame; From whom the Romans have deriv'd their name. The Transformation of Ino and Melicerta to Sea-Gods The pow'r of Bacchus now o'er Thebes had flown: With awful rev'rence soon the God they own. Proud Ino, all around the wonder tells, And on her nephew deity still dwells. Of num'rous sisters, she alone yet knew No grief, but grief, which she from sisters drew. Imperial Juno saw her with disdain, Vain in her offspring, in her consort vain, Who rul'd the trembling Thebans with a nod, But saw her vainest in her foster-God. Could then (she cry'd) a bastard-boy have pow'r To make a mother her own son devour? Could he the Tuscan crew to fishes change, And now three sisters damn to forms so strange? Yet shall the wife of Jove find no relief? Shall she, still unreveng'd, disclose her grief? Have I the mighty freedom to complain? Is that my pow'r? is that to ease my pain? A foe has taught me vengeance; and who ought To scorn that vengeance, which a foe has taught? What sure destruction frantick rage can throw, The gaping wounds of slaughter'd Pentheus show. Why should not Ino, fir'd with madness, stray, Like her mad sisters her own kindred slay? Why, she not follow, where they lead the way? Down a steep, yawning cave, where yews display'd In arches meet, and lend a baleful shade, Thro' silent labyrinths a passage lies To mournful regions, and infernal skies. Here Styx exhales its noisome clouds, and here, The fun'ral rites once paid, all souls appear. Stiff cold, and horror with a ghastly face And staring eyes, infest the dreary place. Ghosts, new-arriv'd, and strangers to these plains, Know not the palace, where grim Pluto reigns. They journey doubtful, nor the road can tell, Which leads to the metropolis of Hell. A thousand avenues those tow'rs command, A thousand gates for ever open stand. As all the rivers, disembogu'd, find room For all their waters in old Ocean's womb: So this vast city worlds of shades receives, And space for millions still of worlds she leaves. Th' unbody'd spectres freely rove, and show Whate'er they lov'd on Earth, they love below. The lawyers still, or right, or wrong, support, The courtiers smoothly glide to Pluto's court. Still airy heroes thoughts of glory fire, Still the dead poet strings his deathless lyre, And lovers still with fancy'd darts expire. The Queen of Heaven, to gratify her hate, And sooth immortal wrath, forgets her state. Down from the realms of day, to realms of night, The Goddess swift precipitates her flight. At Hell arriv'd, the noise Hell's porter heard, Th' enormous dog his triple head up-rear'd: Thrice from three grizly throats he howl'd profound, Then suppliant couch'd, and stretch'd along the ground. The trembling threshold, which Saturnia prest, The weight of such divinity confest. Before a lofty, adamantine gate, Which clos'd a tow'r of brass, the Furies sate: Mis-shapen forms, tremendous to the sight, Th' implacable foul daughters of the night. A sounding whip each bloody sister shakes, Or from her tresses combs the curling snakes. But now great Juno's majesty was known; Thro' the thick gloom, all heav'nly bright, she shone: The hideous monsters their obedience show'd, And rising from their seats, submissive bow'd. This is the place of woe, here groan the dead; Huge Tityus o'er nine acres here is spread. Fruitful for pain th' immortal liver breeds, Still grows, and still th' insatiate vulture feeds. Poor Tantalus to taste the water tries, But from his lips the faithless water flies: Then thinks the bending tree he can command, The tree starts backwards, and eludes his hand. The labour too of Sisyphus is vain, Up the steep mount he heaves the stone with pain, Down from the summet rouls the stone again. The Belides their leaky vessels still Are ever filling, and yet never fill: Doom'd to this punishment for blood they shed, For bridegrooms slaughter'd in the bridal bed. Stretch'd on the rolling wheel Ixion lies; Himself he follows, and himself he flies. Ixion, tortur'd, Juno sternly ey'd, Then turn'd, and toiling Sisyphus espy'd: And why (she said) so wretched is the fate Of him, whose brother proudly reigns in state? Yet still my altars unador'd have been By Athamas, and his presumptuous queen. What caus'd her hate, the Goddess thus confest, What caus'd her journey now was more than guest. That hate, relentless, its revenge did want, And that revenge the Furies soon could grant: They could the glory of proud Thebes efface, And hide in ruin the Cadmean race. For this she largely promises, entreats, And to intreaties adds imperial threats. Then fell Tisiphone with rage was stung, And from her mouth th' untwisted serpents flung. To gain this trifling boon, there is no need (She cry'd) in formal speeches to proceed. Whatever thou command'st to do, is done; Believe it finish'd, tho' not yet begun. But from these melancholly seats repair To happier mansions, and to purer air. She spoke: the Goddess, darting upwards, flies, And joyous re-ascends her native skies: Nor enter'd there, till 'round her Iris threw Ambrosial sweets, and pour'd celestial dew. The faithful Fury, guiltless of delays, With cruel haste the dire comm and obeys. Girt in a bloody gown, a torch she shakes, And round her neck twines speckled wreaths of snakes. Fear, and dismay, and agonizing pain, With frantick rage, compleat her loveless train. To Thebes her flight she sped, and Hell forsook; At her approach the Theban turrets shook: The sun shrunk back, thick clouds the day o'er-cast, And springing greens were wither'd as she past. Now, dismal yellings heard, strange spectres seen, Confound as much the monarch as the queen. In vain to quit the palace they prepar'd, Tisiphone was there, and kept the ward. She wide extended her unfriendly arms, And all the Fury lavish'd all her harms. Part of her tresses loudly hiss, and part Spread poyson, as their forky tongues they dart. Then from her middle locks two snakes she drew, Whose merit from superior mischief grew: Th' envenom'd ruin, thrown with spiteful care, Clung to the bosoms of the hapless pair. The hapless pair soon with wild thoughts were fir'd, And madness, by a thousand ways inspir'd. 'Tis true, th' unwounded body still was sound, But 'twas the soul which felt the deadly wound. Nor did th' unsated monster here give o'er, But dealt of plagues a fresh, unnumber'd store. Each baneful juice too well she understood, Foam, churn'd by Cerberus, and Hydra's blood. Hot hemlock, and cold aconite she chose, Delighted in variety of woes. Whatever can untune th' harmonious soul, And its mild, reas'ning faculties controul, Give false ideas, raise desires profane, And whirl in eddies the tumultuous brain, Mix'd with curs'd art, she direfully around Thro' all their nerves diffus'd the sad compound. Then toss'd her torch in circles still the same, Improv'd their rage, and added flame to flame. The grinning Fury her own conquest spy'd, And to her rueful shades return'd with pride, And threw th' exhausted, useless snakes aside. Now Athamas cries out, his reason fled, Here, fellow-hunters, let the toils be spread. I saw a lioness, in quest of food, With her two young, run roaring in this wood. Again the fancy'd savages were seen, As thro' his palace still he chac'd his queen; Then tore Learchus from her breast: the child Stretch'd little arms, and on its father smil'd: A father now no more, who now begun Around his head to whirl his giddy son, And, quite insensible to Nature's call, The helpless infant flung against the wall. The same mad poyson in the mother wrought, Young Melicerta in her arms she caught, And with disorder'd tresses, howling, flies, O! Bacchus, Evoe, Bacchus! loud she cries. The name of Bacchus Juno laugh'd to hear, And said, Thy foster-God has cost thee dear. A rock there stood, whose side the beating waves Had long consum'd, and hollow'd into caves. The head shot forwards in a bending steep, And cast a dreadful covert o'er the deep. The wretched Ino, on destruction bent, Climb'd up the cliff; such strength her fury lent: Thence with her guiltless boy, who wept in vain, At one bold spring she plung'd into the main. Her neice's fate touch'd Cytherea's breast, And in soft sounds she Neptune thus addrest: Great God of waters, whose extended sway Is next to his, whom Heav'n and Earth obey: Let not the suit of Venus thee displease, Pity the floaters on th' Ionian seas. Encrease thy Subject-Gods, nor yet disdain To add my kindred to that glorious train. If from the sea I may such honours claim, If 'tis desert, that from the sea I came, As Grecian poets artfully have sung, And in the name confest, from whence I sprung. Pleas'd Neptune nodded his assent, and free Both soon became from frail mortality. He gave them form, and majesty divine, And bad them glide along the foamy brine. For Melicerta is Palaemon known, And Ino once, Leucothoe is grown. The Transformation of the Theban Matrons The Theban matrons their lov'd queen pursu'd, And tracing to the rock, her footsteps view'd. Too certain of her fate, they rend the skies With piteous shrieks, and lamentable cries. All beat their breasts, and Juno all upbraid, Who still remember'd a deluded maid: Who, still revengeful for one stol'n embrace, Thus wreak'd her hate on the Cadmean race. This Juno heard: And shall such elfs, she cry'd, Dispute my justice, or my pow'r deride? You too shall feel my wrath not idly spent; A Goddess never for insults was meant. She, who lov'd most, and who most lov'd had been, Said, Not the waves shall part me from my queen. She strove to plunge into the roaring flood; Fix'd to the stone, a stone her self she stood. This, on her breast would fain her blows repeat, Her stiffen'd hands refus'd her breast to beat. That, stretch'd her arms unto the seas; in vain Her arms she labour'd to unstretch again. To tear her comely locks another try'd, Both comely locks, and fingers petryfi'd. Part thus; but Juno with a softer mind Part doom'd to mix among the feather'd kind. Transform'd, the name of Theban birds they keep, And skim the surface of that fatal deep. Cadmus and his Queen transform'd to Serpents Mean-time, the wretched Cadmus mourns, nor knows, That they who mortal fell, immortal rose. With a long series of new ills opprest, He droops, and all the man forsakes his breast. Strange prodigies confound his frighted eyes; From the fair city, which he rais'd, he flies: As if misfortune not pursu'd his race, But only hung o'er that devoted place. Resolv'd by sea to seek some distant land, At last he safely gain'd th' Illyrian strand. Chearless himself, his consort still he chears, Hoary, and loaden'd both with woes and years. Then to recount past sorrows they begin, And trace them to the gloomy origin. That serpent sure was hallow'd, Cadmus cry'd, Which once my spear transfix'd with foolish pride; When the big teeth, a seed before unknown, By me along the wond'ring glebe were sown, And sprouting armies by themselves o'erthrown. If thence the wrath of Heav'n on me is bent, May Heav'n conclude it with one sad event; To an extended serpent change the man: And while he spoke, the wish'd-for change began. His skin with sea-green spots was vary'd 'round, And on his belly prone he prest the ground. He glitter'd soon with many a golden scale, And his shrunk legs clos'd in a spiry tail. Arms yet remain'd, remaining arms he spread To his lov'd wife, and human tears yet shed. Come, my Harmonia, come, thy face recline Down to my face; still touch, what still is mine. O! let these hands, while hands, be gently prest, While yet the serpent has not all possest. More he had spoke, but strove to speak in vain, The forky tongue refus'd to tell his pain, And learn'd in hissings only to complain. Then shriek'd Harmonia, Stay, my Cadmus, stay, Glide not in such a monstrous shape away! Destruction, like impetuous waves, rouls on. Where are thy feet, thy legs, thy shoulders gone? Chang'd is thy visage, chang'd is all thy frame; Cadmus is only Cadmus now in name. Ye Gods, my Cadmus to himself restore, Or me like him transform; I ask no more. The husband-serpent show'd he still had thought, With wonted fondness an embrace he sought; Play'd 'round her neck in many a harmless twist, And lick'd that bosom, which, a man, he kist. The lookers-on (for lookers-on there were) Shock'd at the sight, half-dy'd away with fear. The transformation was again renew'd, And, like the husband, chang'd the wife they view'd. Both, serpents now, with fold involv'd in fold, To the next covert amicably roul'd. There curl'd they lie, or wave along the green, Fearless see men, by men are fearless seen, Still mild, and conscious what they once have been. The Story of Perseus Yet tho' this harsh, inglorious fate they found, Each in the deathless grandson liv'd renown'd. Thro' conquer'd India Bacchus nobly rode, And Greece with temples hail'd the conqu'ring God. In Argos only proud Acrisius reign'd, Who all the consecrated rites profan'd. Audacious wretch! thus Bacchus to deny, And the great Thunderer's great son defie! Nor him alone: thy daughter vainly strove, Brave Perseus of celestial stem to prove, And her self pregnant by a golden Jove. Yet this was true, and truth in time prevails; Acrisius now his unbelief bewails. His former thought, an impious thought he found, And both the heroe, and the God were own'd. He saw, already one in Heav'n was plac'd, And one with more than mortal triumphs grac'd, The victor Perseus with the Gorgon-head, O'er Libyan sands his airy journey sped. The gory drops distill'd, as swift he flew, And from each drop envenom'd serpents grew, The mischiefs brooded on the barren plains, And still th' unhappy fruitfulness remains. Atlas transform'd to a Mountain Thence Perseus, like a cloud, by storms was driv'n, Thro' all th' expanse beneath the cope of Heaven. The jarring winds unable to controul, He saw the southern, and the northern pole: And eastward thrice, and westward thrice was whirl'd, And from the skies survey'd the nether world. But when grey ev'ning show'd the verge of night, He fear'd in darkness to pursue his flight. He pois'd his pinions, and forgot to soar, And sinking, clos'd them on th' Hesperian shore: Then beg'd to rest, 'till Lucifer begun To wake the morn, the morn to wake the sun. Here Atlas reign'd, of more than human size, And in his kingdom the world's limit lies. Here Titan bids his weary'd coursers sleep, And cools the burning axle in the deep. The mighty monarch, uncontrol'd, alone, His sceptre sways: no neighb'ring states are known. A thousand flocks on shady mountains fed, A thousand herds o'er grassy plains were spread. Here wond'rous trees their shining stores unfold, Their shining stores too wond'rous to be told, Their leafs, their branches, and their apples, gold. Then Perseus the gigantick prince addrest, Humbly implor'd a hospitable rest. If bold exploits thy admiration fire, He said, I fancy, mine thou wilt admire. Or if the glory of a race can move, Not mean my glory, for I spring from Jove. At this confession Atlas ghastly star'd, Mindful of what an oracle declar'd, That the dark womb of Time conceal'd a day, Which should, disclos'd, the bloomy gold betray: All should at once be ravish'd from his eyes, And Jove's own progeny enjoy the prize. For this, the fruit he loftily immur'd, And a fierce dragon the strait pass secur'd. For this, all strangers he forbad to land, And drove them from th' inhospitable strand. To Perseus then: Fly quickly, fly this coast, Nor falsly dare thy acts and race to boast. In vain the heroe for one night entreats, Threat'ning he storms, and next adds force to threats. By strength not Perseus could himself defend, For who in strength with Atlas could contend? But since short rest to me thou wilt not give, A gift of endless rest from me receive, He said, and backward turn'd, no more conceal'd The present, and Medusa's head reveal'd. Soon the high Atlas a high mountain stood, His locks, and beard became a leafy wood. His hands, and shoulders, into ridges went, The summit-head still crown'd the steep ascent. His bones a solid, rocky hardness gain'd: He, thus immensely grown (as fate ordain'd), The stars, the Heav'ns, and all the Gods sustain'd. Andromeda rescu'd from the Sea Monster Now Aeolus had with strong chains confin'd, And deep imprison'd e'vry blust'ring wind, The rising Phospher with a purple light Did sluggish mortals to new toils invite. His feet again the valiant Perseus plumes, And his keen sabre in his hand resumes: Then nobly spurns the ground, and upwards springs, And cuts the liquid air with sounding wings. O'er various seas, and various lands he past, 'Till Aethiopia's shore appear'd at last. Andromeda was there, doom'd to attone By her own ruin follies not her own: And if injustice in a God can be, Such was the Libyan God's unjust decree. Chain'd to a rock she stood; young Perseus stay'd His rapid flight, to view the beauteous maid. So sweet her frame, so exquisitely fine, She seem'd a statue by a hand divine, Had not the wind her waving tresses show'd, And down her cheeks the melting sorrows flow'd. Her faultless form the heroe's bosom fires; The more he looks, the more he still admires. Th' admirer almost had forgot to fly, And swift descended, flutt'ring from on high. O! Virgin, worthy no such chains to prove, But pleasing chains in the soft folds of love; Thy country, and thy name (he said) disclose, And give a true rehearsal of thy woes. A quick reply her bashfulness refus'd, To the free converse of a man unus'd. Her rising blushes had concealment found From her spread hands, but that her hands were bound. She acted to her full extent of pow'r, And bath'd her face with a fresh, silent show'r. But by degrees in innocence grown bold, Her name, her country, and her birth she told: And how she suffer'd for her mother's pride, Who with the Nereids once in beauty vy'd. Part yet untold, the seas began to roar, And mounting billows tumbled to the shore. Above the waves a monster rais'd his head, His body o'er the deep was widely spread: Onward he flounc'd; aloud the virgin cries; Each parent to her shrieks in shrieks replies: But she had deepest cause to rend the skies. Weeping, to her they cling; no sign appears Of help, they only lend their helpless tears. Too long you vent your sorrows, Perseus said, Short is the hour, and swift the time of aid, In me the son of thund'ring Jove behold, Got in a kindly show'r of fruitful gold. Medusa's snaky head is now my prey, And thro' the clouds I boldly wing my way. If such desert be worthy of esteem, And, if your daughter I from death redeem, Shall she be mine? Shall it not then be thought, A bride, so lovely, was too cheaply bought? For her my arms I willingly employ, If I may beauties, which I save, enjoy. The parents eagerly the terms embrace: For who would slight such terms in such a case? Nor her alone they promise, but beside, The dowry of a kingdom with the bride. As well-rigg'd gallies, which slaves, sweating, row, With their sharp beaks the whiten'd ocean plough; So when the monster mov'd, still at his back The furrow'd waters left a foamy track. Now to the rock he was advanc'd so nigh, Whirl'd from a sling a stone the space would fly. Then bounding, upwards the brave Perseus sprung, And in mid air on hov'ring pinions hung. His shadow quickly floated on the main; The monster could not his wild rage restrain, But at the floating shadow leap'd in vain. As when Jove's bird, a speckl'd serpent spies, Which in the shine of Phoebus basking lies, Unseen, he souses down, and bears away, Truss'd from behind, the vainly-hissing prey. To writh his neck the labour nought avails, Too deep th' imperial talons pierce his scales. Thus the wing'd heroe now descends, now soars, And at his pleasure the vast monster gores. Full in his back, swift stooping from above, The crooked sabre to its hilt he drove. The monster rag'd, impatient of the pain, First bounded high, and then sunk low again. Now, like a savage boar, when chaf'd with wounds, And bay'd with opening mouths of hungry hounds, He on the foe turns with collected might, Who still eludes him with an airy flight; And wheeling round, the scaly armour tries Of his thick sides; his thinner tall now plies: 'Till from repeated strokes out gush'd a flood, And the waves redden'd with the streaming blood. At last the dropping wings, befoam'd all o'er, With flaggy heaviness their master bore: A rock he spy'd, whose humble head was low, Bare at an ebb, but cover'd at a flow. A ridgy hold, he, thither flying, gain'd, And with one hand his bending weight sustain'd; With th' other, vig'rous blows he dealt around, And the home-thrusts the expiring monster own'd. In deaf'ning shouts the glad applauses rise, And peal on peal runs ratling thro' the skies. The saviour-youth the royal pair confess, And with heav'd hands their daughter's bridegroom bless. The beauteous bride moves on, now loos'd from chains, The cause, and sweet reward of all the heroe's pains, Mean-time, on shore triumphant Perseus stood, And purg'd his hands, smear'd with the monster's blood: Then in the windings of a sandy bed Compos'd Medusa's execrable head. But to prevent the roughness, leafs he threw, And young, green twigs, which soft in waters grew, There soft, and full of sap; but here, when lay'd, Touch'd by the head, that softness soon decay'd. The wonted flexibility quite gone, The tender scyons harden'd into stone. Fresh, juicy twigs, surpriz'd, the Nereids brought, Fresh, juicy twigs the same contagion caught. The nymphs the petrifying seeds still keep, And propagate the wonder thro' the deep. The pliant sprays of coral yet declare Their stiff'ning Nature, when expos'd to air. Those sprays, which did, like bending osiers, move, Snatch'd from their element, obdurate prove, And shrubs beneath the waves, grow stones above. The great immortals grateful Perseus prais'd, And to three Pow'rs three turfy altars rais'd. To Hermes this; and that he did assign To Pallas: the mid honours, Jove, were thine, He hastes for Pallas a white cow to cull, A calf for Hermes, but for Jove a bull. Then seiz'd the prize of his victorious fight, Andromeda, and claim'd the nuptial rite. Andromeda alone he greatly sought, The dowry kingdom was not worth his thought. Pleas'd Hymen now his golden torch displays; With rich oblations fragrant altars blaze, Sweet wreaths of choicest flow'rs are hung on high, And cloudless pleasure smiles in ev'ry eye. The melting musick melting thoughts inspires, And warbling songsters aid the warbling lyres. The palace opens wide in pompous state, And by his peers surrounded, Cepheus sate. A feast was serv'd, fit for a king to give, And fit for God-like heroes to receive. The banquet ended, the gay, chearful bowl Mov'd round, and brighten'd, and enlarg'd each soul. Then Perseus ask'd, what customs there obtain'd, And by what laws the people were restrain'd. Which told; the teller a like freedom takes, And to the warrior his petition makes, To know, what arts had won Medusa's snakes. The Story of Medusa's Head The heroe with his just request complies, Shows, how a vale beneath cold Atlas lies, Where, with aspiring mountains fenc'd around, He the two daughters of old Phorcus found. Fate had one common eye to both assign'd, Each saw by turns, and each by turns was blind. But while one strove to lend her sister sight, He stretch'd his hand, and stole their mutual light, And left both eyeless, both involv'd in night. Thro' devious wilds, and trackless woods he past, And at the Gorgon-seats arriv'd at last: But as he journey'd, pensive he survey'd, What wasteful havock dire Medusa made. Here, stood still breathing statues, men before; There, rampant lions seem'd in stone to roar. Nor did he, yet affrighted, quit the field, But in the mirror of his polish'd shield Reflected saw Medusa slumbers take, And not one serpent by good chance awake. Then backward an unerring blow he sped, And from her body lop'd at once her head. The gore prolifick prov'd; with sudden force Sprung Pegasus, and wing'd his airy course. The Heav'n-born warrior faithfully went on, And told the num'rous dangers which he run. What subject seas, what lands he had in view, And nigh what stars th' advent'rous heroe flew. At last he silent sate; the list'ning throng Sigh'd at the pause of his delightful tongue. Some beg'd to know, why this alone should wear, Of all the sisters, such destructive hair. Great Perseus then: With me you shall prevail, Worth the relation, to relate a tale. Medusa once had charms; to gain her love A rival crowd of envious lovers strove. They, who have seen her, own, they ne'er did trace More moving features in a sweeter face. Yet above all, her length of hair, they own, In golden ringlets wav'd, and graceful shone. Her Neptune saw, and with such beauties fir'd, Resolv'd to compass, what his soul desir'd. In chaste Minerva's fane, he, lustful, stay'd, And seiz'd, and rifled the young, blushing maid. The bashful Goddess turn'd her eyes away, Nor durst such bold impurity survey; But on the ravish'd virgin vengeance takes, Her shining hair is chang'd to hissing snakes. These in her Aegis Pallas joys to bear, The hissing snakes her foes more sure ensnare, Than they did lovers once, when shining hair. ---------------------------------------------------------------------- ~ Ovid, BOOK THE FOURTH ,

449:BOOK THE TENTH The Story of Orpheus and Eurydice Thence, in his saffron robe, for distant Thrace, Hymen departs, thro' air's unmeasur'd space; By Orpheus call'd, the nuptial Pow'r attends, But with ill-omen'd augury descends; Nor chearful look'd the God, nor prosp'rous spoke, Nor blaz'd his torch, but wept in hissing smoke. In vain they whirl it round, in vain they shake, No rapid motion can its flames awake. With dread these inauspicious signs were view'd, And soon a more disastrous end ensu'd; For as the bride, amid the Naiad train, Ran joyful, sporting o'er the flow'ry plain, A venom'd viper bit her as she pass'd; Instant she fell, and sudden breath'd her last. When long his loss the Thracian had deplor'd, Not by superior Pow'rs to be restor'd; Inflam'd by love, and urg'd by deep despair, He leaves the realms of light, and upper air; Daring to tread the dark Tenarian road, And tempt the shades in their obscure abode; Thro' gliding spectres of th' interr'd to go, And phantom people of the world below: Persephone he seeks, and him who reigns O'er ghosts, and Hell's uncomfortable plains. Arriv'd, he, tuning to his voice his strings, Thus to the king and queen of shadows sings. Ye Pow'rs, who under Earth your realms extend, To whom all mortals must one day descend; If here 'tis granted sacred truth to tell: I come not curious to explore your Hell; Nor come to boast (by vain ambition fir'd) How Cerberus at my approach retir'd. My wife alone I seek; for her lov'd sake These terrors I support, this journey take. She, luckless wandring, or by fate mis-led, Chanc'd on a lurking viper's crest to tread; The vengeful beast, enflam'd with fury, starts, And thro' her heel his deathful venom darts. Thus was she snatch'd untimely to her tomb; Her growing years cut short, and springing bloom. Long I my loss endeavour'd to sustain, And strongly strove, but strove, alas, in vain: At length I yielded, won by mighty love; Well known is that omnipotence above! But here, I doubt, his unfelt influence fails; And yet a hope within my heart prevails. That here, ev'n here, he has been known of old; At least if truth be by tradition told; If fame of former rapes belief may find, You both by love, and love alone, were join'd. Now, by the horrors which these realms surround; By the vast chaos of these depths profound; By the sad silence which eternal reigns O'er all the waste of these wide-stretching plains; Let me again Eurydice receive, Let Fate her quick-spun thread of life re-weave. All our possessions are but loans from you, And soon, or late, you must be paid your due; Hither we haste to human-kind's last seat, Your endless empire, and our sure retreat. She too, when ripen'd years she shall attain, Must, of avoidless right, be yours again: I but the transient use of that require, Which soon, too soon, I must resign entire. But if the destinies refuse my vow, And no remission of her doom allow; Know, I'm determin'd to return no more; So both retain, or both to life restore. Thus, while the bard melodiously complains, And to his lyre accords his vocal strains, The very bloodless shades attention keep, And silent, seem compassionate to weep; Ev'n Tantalus his flood unthirsty views, Nor flies the stream, nor he the stream pursues; Ixion's wond'ring wheel its whirl suspends, And the voracious vulture, charm'd, attends; No more the Belides their toil bemoan, And Sisiphus reclin'd, sits list'ning on his stone. Then first ('tis said) by sacred verse subdu'd, The Furies felt their cheeks with tears bedew'd: Nor could the rigid king, or queen of Hell, Th' impulse of pity in their hearts repell. Now, from a troop of shades that last arriv'd, Eurydice was call'd, and stood reviv'd: Slow she advanc'd, and halting seem to feel The fatal wound, yet painful in her heel. Thus he obtains the suit so much desir'd, On strict observance of the terms requir'd: For if, before he reach the realms of air, He backward cast his eyes to view the fair, The forfeit grant, that instant, void is made, And she for ever left a lifeless shade. Now thro' the noiseless throng their way they bend, And both with pain the rugged road ascend; Dark was the path, and difficult, and steep, And thick with vapours from the smoaky deep. They well-nigh now had pass'd the bounds of night, And just approach'd the margin of the light, When he, mistrusting lest her steps might stray, And gladsome of the glympse of dawning day, His longing eyes, impatient, backward cast To catch a lover's look, but look'd his last; For, instant dying, she again descends, While he to empty air his arms extends. Again she dy'd, nor yet her lord reprov'd; What could she say, but that too well he lov'd? One last farewell she spoke, which scarce he heard; So soon she drop'd, so sudden disappear'd. All stunn'd he stood, when thus his wife he view'd By second Fate, and double death subdu'd: Not more amazement by that wretch was shown, Whom Cerberus beholding, turn'd to stone; Nor Olenus cou'd more astonish'd look, When on himself Lethaea's fault he took, His beauteous wife, who too secure had dar'd Her face to vye with Goddesses compar'd: Once join'd by love, they stand united still, Turn'd to contiguous rocks on Ida's hill. Now to repass the Styx in vain he tries, Charon averse, his pressing suit denies. Sev'n days entire, along th' infernal shores, Disconsolate, the bard Eurydice deplores; Defil'd with filth his robe, with tears his cheeks, No sustenance but grief, and cares, he seeks: Of rigid Fate incessant he complains, And Hell's inexorable Gods arraigns. This ended, to high Rhodope he hastes, And Haemus' mountain, bleak with northern blasts. And now his yearly race the circling sun Had thrice compleat thro' wat'ry Pisces run, Since Orpheus fled the face of womankind, And all soft union with the sex declin'd. Whether his ill success this change had bred, Or binding vows made to his former bed; Whate'er the cause, in vain the nymphs contest, With rival eyes to warm his frozen breast: For ev'ry nymph with love his lays inspir'd, But ev'ry nymph repuls'd, with grief retir'd. A hill there was, and on that hill a mead, With verdure thick, but destitute of shade. Where, now, the Muse's son no sooner sings, No sooner strikes his sweet resounding strings. But distant groves the flying sounds receive, And list'ning trees their rooted stations leave; Themselves transplanting, all around they grow, And various shades their various kinds bestow. Here, tall Chaonian oaks their branches spread, While weeping poplars there erect their head. The foodful Esculus here shoots his leaves, That turf soft lime-tree, this, fat beach receives; Here, brittle hazels, lawrels here advance, And there tough ash to form the heroe's lance; Here silver firs with knotless trunks ascend, There, scarlet oaks beneath their acorns bend. That spot admits the hospitable plane, On this, the maple grows with clouded grain; Here, watry willows are with Lotus seen; There, tamarisk, and box for ever green. With double hue here mirtles grace the ground, And laurestines, with purple berries crown'd. With pliant feet, now, ivies this way wind, Vines yonder rise, and elms with vines entwin'd. Wild Ornus now, the pitch-tree next takes root, And Ar butus adorn'd with blushing fruit. Then easy-bending palms, the victor's prize, And pines erect with bristly tops arise. For Rhea grateful still the pine remains, For Atys still some favour she retains; He once in human shape her breast had warm'd, And now is cherish'd, to a tree transform'd. The Fable of Cyparissus Amid the throng of this promiscuous wood, With pointed top, the taper cypress stood; A tree, which once a youth, and heav'nly fair, Was of that deity the darling care, Whose hand adapts, with equal skill, the strings To bows with which he kills, and harps to which he sings. For heretofore, a mighty stag was bred, Which on the fertile fields of Caea fed; In shape and size he all his kind excell'd, And to Carthaean nymphs was sacred held. His beamy head, with branches high display'd, Afforded to itself an ample shade; His horns were gilt, and his smooth neck was grac'd With silver collars thick with gems enchas'd: A silver boss upon his forehead hung, And brazen pendants in his ear-rings rung. Frequenting houses, he familiar grew, And learnt by custom, Nature to subdue; 'Till by degrees, of fear, and wildness, broke, Ev'n stranger hands his proffer'd neck might stroak. Much was the beast by Caea's youth caress'd, But thou, sweet Cyparissus, lov'dst him best: By thee, to pastures fresh, he oft was led, By thee oft water'd at the fountain's head: His horns with garlands, now, by thee were ty'd, And, now, thou on his back wou'dst wanton ride; Now here, now there wou'dst bound along the plains, Ruling his tender mouth with purple reins. 'Twas when the summer sun, at noon of day, Thro' glowing Cancer shot his burning ray, 'Twas then, the fav'rite stag, in cool retreat, Had sought a shelter from the scorching heat; Along the grass his weary limbs he laid, Inhaling freshness from the breezy shade: When Cyparissus with his pointed dart, Unknowing, pierc'd him to the panting heart. But when the youth, surpriz'd, his error found, And saw him dying of the cruel wound, Himself he would have slain thro' desp'rate grief: What said not Phoebus, that might yield relief! To cease his mourning, he the boy desir'd, Or mourn no more than such a loss requir'd. But he, incessant griev'd: at length address'd To the superior Pow'rs a last request; Praying, in expiation of his crime, Thenceforth to mourn to all succeeding time. And now, of blood exhausted he appears, Drain'd by a torrent of continual tears; The fleshy colour in his body fades, And a green tincture all his limbs invades; From his fair head, where curling locks late hung, A horrid bush with bristled branches sprung, Which stiffning by degrees, its stem extends, 'Till to the starry skies the spire ascends. Apollo sad look'd on, and sighing, cry'd, Then, be for ever, what thy pray'r imply'd: Bemoan'd by me, in others grief excite; And still preside at ev'ry fun'ral rite. Thus the sweet artist in a wondrous shade Of verdant trees, which harmony had made, Encircled sate, with his own triumphs crown'd, Of listning birds, and savages around. Again the trembling strings he dext'rous tries, Again from discord makes soft musick rise. Then tunes his voice: O Muse, from whom I sprung, Jove be my theme, and thou inspire my song. To Jove my grateful voice I oft have rais'd, Oft his almighty pow'r with pleasure prais'd. I sung the giants in a solemn strain, Blasted, and thunder-struck on Phlegra's plain. Now be my lyre in softer accents mov'd, To sing of blooming boys by Gods belov'd; And to relate what virgins, void of shame, Have suffer'd vengeance for a lawless flame. The King of Gods once felt the burning joy, And sigh'd for lovely Ganimede of Troy: Long was he puzzled to assume a shape Most fit, and expeditious for the rape; A bird's was proper, yet he scorns to wear Any but that which might his thunder bear. Down with his masquerading wings he flies, And bears the little Trojan to the skies; Where now, in robes of heav'nly purple drest, He serves the nectar at th' Almighty's feast, To slighted Juno an unwelcome guest. Hyacinthus transform'd into a Flower Phoebus for thee too, Hyacinth, design'd A place among the Gods, had Fate been kind: Yet this he gave; as oft as wintry rains Are past, and vernal breezes sooth the plains, From the green turf a purple flow'r you rise, And with your fragrant breath perfume the skies. You when alive were Phoebus' darling boy; In you he plac'd his Heav'n, and fix'd his joy: Their God the Delphic priests consult in vain; Eurotas now he loves, and Sparta's plain: His hands the use of bow and harp forget, And hold the dogs, or bear the corded net; O'er hanging cliffs swift he pursues the game; Each hour his pleasure, each augments his flame. The mid-day sun now shone with equal light Between the past, and the succeeding night; They strip, then, smooth'd with suppling oyl, essay To pitch the rounded quoit, their wonted play: A well-pois'd disk first hasty Phoebus threw, It cleft the air, and whistled as it flew; It reach'd the mark, a most surprizing length; Which spoke an equal share of art, and strength. Scarce was it fall'n, when with too eager hand Young Hyacinth ran to snatch it from the sand; But the curst orb, which met a stony soil, Flew in his face with violent recoil. Both faint, both pale, and breathless now appear, The boy with pain, the am'rous God with fear. He ran, and rais'd him bleeding from the ground, Chafes his cold limbs, and wipes the fatal wound: Then herbs of noblest juice in vain applies; The wound is mortal, and his skill defies. As in a water'd garden's blooming walk, When some rude hand has bruis'd its tender stalk, A fading lilly droops its languid head, And bends to earth, its life, and beauty fled: So Hyacinth, with head reclin'd, decays, And, sickning, now no more his charms displays. O thou art gone, my boy, Apollo cry'd, Defrauded of thy youth in all its pride! Thou, once my joy, art all my sorrow now; And to my guilty hand my grief I owe. Yet from my self I might the fault remove, Unless to sport, and play, a fault should prove, Unless it too were call'd a fault to love. Oh cou'd I for thee, or but with thee, dye! But cruel Fates to me that pow'r deny. Yet on my tongue thou shalt for ever dwell; Thy name my lyre shall sound, my verse shall tell; And to a flow'r transform'd, unheard-of yet, Stamp'd on thy leaves my cries thou shalt repeat. The time shall come, prophetick I foreknow, When, joyn'd to thee, a mighty chief shall grow, And with my plaints his name thy leaf shall show. While Phoebus thus the laws of Fate reveal'd, Behold, the blood which stain'd the verdant field, Is blood no longer; but a flow'r full blown, Far brighter than the Tyrian scarlet shone. A lilly's form it took; its purple hue Was all that made a diff'rence to the view, Nor stop'd he here; the God upon its leaves The sad expression of his sorrow weaves; And to this hour the mournful purple wears Ai, Ai, inscrib'd in funeral characters. Nor are the Spartans, who so much are fam'd For virtue, of their Hyacinth asham'd; But still with pompous woe, and solemn state, The Hyacinthian feasts they yearly celebrate The Transformations of the Cerastae and Propoetides Enquire of Amathus, whose wealthy ground With veins of every metal does abound, If she to her Propoetides wou'd show, The honour Sparta does to him allow? Nor more, she'd say, such wretches wou'd we grace, Than those whose crooked horns deform'd their face, From thence Cerastae call'd, an impious race: Before whose gates a rev'rend altar stood, To Jove inscrib'd, the hospitable God: This had some stranger seen with gore besmear'd, The blood of lambs, and bulls it had appear'd: Their slaughter'd guests it was; nor flock nor herd. Venus these barb'rous sacrifices view'd With just abhorrence, and with wrath pursu'd: At first, to punish such nefarious crimes, Their towns she meant to leave, her once-lov'd climes: But why, said she, for their offence shou'd I My dear delightful plains, and cities fly? No, let the impious people, who have sinn'd, A punishment in death, or exile, find: If death, or exile too severe be thought, Let them in some vile shape bemoan their fault. While next her mind a proper form employs, Admonish'd by their horns, she fix'd her choice. Their former crest remains upon their heads, And their strong limbs an ox's shape invades. The blasphemous Propoetides deny'd Worship of Venus, and her pow'r defy'd: But soon that pow'r they felt, the first that sold Their lewd embraces to the world for gold. Unknowing how to blush, and shameless grown, A small transition changes them to stone. The Story of Pygmalion and the Statue Pygmalion loathing their lascivious life, Abhorr'd all womankind, but most a wife: So single chose to live, and shunn'd to wed, Well pleas'd to want a consort of his bed. Yet fearing idleness, the nurse of ill, In sculpture exercis'd his happy skill; And carv'd in iv'ry such a maid, so fair, As Nature could not with his art compare, Were she to work; but in her own defence Must take her pattern here, and copy hence. Pleas'd with his idol, he commends, admires, Adores; and last, the thing ador'd, desires. A very virgin in her face was seen, And had she mov'd, a living maid had been: One wou'd have thought she cou'd have stirr'd, but strove With modesty, and was asham'd to move. Art hid with art, so well perform'd the cheat, It caught the carver with his own deceit: He knows 'tis madness, yet he must adore, And still the more he knows it, loves the more: The flesh, or what so seems, he touches oft, Which feels so smooth, that he believes it soft. Fir'd with this thought, at once he strain'd the breast, And on the lips a burning kiss impress'd. 'Tis true, the harden'd breast resists the gripe, And the cold lips return a kiss unripe: But when, retiring back, he look'd again, To think it iv'ry, was a thought too mean: So wou'd believe she kiss'd, and courting more, Again embrac'd her naked body o'er; And straining hard the statue, was afraid His hands had made a dint, and hurt his maid: Explor'd her limb by limb, and fear'd to find So rude a gripe had left a livid mark behind: With flatt'ry now he seeks her mind to move, And now with gifts (the pow'rful bribes of love), He furnishes her closet first; and fills The crowded shelves with rarities of shells; Adds orient pearls, which from the conchs he drew, And all the sparkling stones of various hue: And parrots, imitating human tongue, And singing-birds in silver cages hung: And ev'ry fragrant flow'r, and od'rous green, Were sorted well, with lumps of amber laid between: Rich fashionable robes her person deck, Pendants her ears, and pearls adorn her neck: Her taper'd fingers too with rings are grac'd, And an embroider'd zone surrounds her slender waste. Thus like a queen array'd, so richly dress'd, Beauteous she shew'd, but naked shew'd the best. Then, from the floor, he rais'd a royal bed, With cov'rings of Sydonian purple spread: The solemn rites perform'd, he calls her bride, With blandishments invites her to his side; And as she were with vital sense possess'd, Her head did on a plumy pillow rest. The feast of Venus came, a solemn day, To which the Cypriots due devotion pay; With gilded horns the milk-white heifers led, Slaughter'd before the sacred altars, bled. Pygmalion off'ring, first approach'd the shrine, And then with pray'rs implor'd the Pow'rs divine: Almighty Gods, if all we mortals want, If all we can require, be yours to grant; Make this fair statue mine, he wou'd have said, But chang'd his words for shame; and only pray'd, Give me the likeness of my iv'ry maid. The golden Goddess, present at the pray'r, Well knew he meant th' inanimated fair, And gave the sign of granting his desire; For thrice in chearful flames ascends the fire. The youth, returning to his mistress, hies, And impudent in hope, with ardent eyes, And beating breast, by the dear statue lies. He kisses her white lips, renews the bliss, And looks, and thinks they redden at the kiss; He thought them warm before: nor longer stays, But next his hand on her hard bosom lays: Hard as it was, beginning to relent, It seem'd, the breast beneath his fingers bent; He felt again, his fingers made a print; 'Twas flesh, but flesh so firm, it rose against the dint: The pleasing task he fails not to renew; Soft, and more soft at ev'ry touch it grew; Like pliant wax, when chasing hands reduce The former mass to form, and frame for use. He would believe, but yet is still in pain, And tries his argument of sense again, Presses the pulse, and feels the leaping vein. Convinc'd, o'erjoy'd, his studied thanks, and praise, To her, who made the miracle, he pays: Then lips to lips he join'd; now freed from fear, He found the savour of the kiss sincere: At this the waken'd image op'd her eyes, And view'd at once the light, and lover with surprize. The Goddess, present at the match she made, So bless'd the bed, such fruitfulness convey'd, That ere ten months had sharpen'd either horn, To crown their bliss, a lovely boy was born; Paphos his name, who grown to manhood, wall'd The city Paphos, from the founder call'd. The Story of of Cinyras and Myrrha Nor him alone produc'd the fruitful queen; But Cinyras, who like his sire had been A happy prince, had he not been a sire. Daughters, and fathers, from my song retire; I sing of horror; and could I prevail, You shou'd not hear, or not believe my tale. Yet if the pleasure of my song be such, That you will hear, and credit me too much, Attentive listen to the last event, And, with the sin, believe the punishment: Since Nature cou'd behold so dire a crime, I gratulate at least my native clime, That such a land, which such a monster bore, So far is distant from our Thracian shore. Let Araby extol her happy coast, Her cinamon, and sweet Amomum boast, Her fragrant flow'rs, her trees with precious tears, Her second harvests, and her double years; How can the land be call'd so bless'd, that Myrrha bears? Nor all her od'rous tears can cleanse her crime; Her Plant alone deforms the happy clime: Cupid denies to have inflam'd thy heart, Disowns thy love, and vindicates his dart: Some Fury gave thee those infernal pains, And shot her venom'd vipers in thy veins. To hate thy sire, had merited a curse; But such an impious love deserv'd a worse. The neighb'ring monarchs, by thy beauty led, Contend in crowds, ambitious of thy bed: The world is at thy choice; except but one, Except but him, thou canst not chuse, alone. She knew it too, the miserable maid, Ere impious love her better thoughts betray'd, And thus within her secret soul she said: Ah Myrrha! whither wou'd thy wishes tend? Ye Gods, ye sacred laws, my soul defend From such a crime as all mankind detest, And never lodg'd before in human breast! But is it sin? Or makes my mind alone Th' imagin'd sin? For Nature makes it none. What tyrant then these envious laws began, Made not for any other beast, but Man! The father-bull his daughter may bestride, The horse may make his mother-mare a bride; What piety forbids the lusty ram, Or more salacious goat, to rut their dam? The hen is free to wed the chick she bore, And make a husband, whom she hatch'd before. All creatures else are of a happier kind, Whom nor ill-natur'd laws from pleasure bind, Nor thoughts of sin disturb their peace of mind. But Man a slave of his own making lives; The fool denies himself what Nature gives: Too-busie senates, with an over-care, To make us better than our kind can bear, Have dash'd a spice of envy in the laws, And straining up too high, have spoil'd the cause. Yet some wise nations break their cruel chains, And own no laws, but those which love ordains; Where happy daughters with their sires are join'd, And piety is doubly paid in kind. O that I had been born in such a clime, Not here, where 'tis the country makes the crime! But whither wou'd my impious fancy stray? Hence hopes, and ye forbidden thoughts away! His worth deserves to kindle my desires, But with the love, that daughters bear to sires. Then had not Cinyras my father been, What hinder'd Myrrha's hopes to be his queen? But the perverseness of my fate is such, That he's not mine, because he's mine too much: Our kindred-blood debars a better tie; He might be nearer, were he not so nigh. Eyes, and their objects, never must unite; Some distance is requir'd to help the sight: Fain wou'd I travel to some foreign shore, Never to see my native country more, So might I to my self my self restore; So might my mind these impious thoughts remove, And ceasing to behold, might cease to love. But stay I must, to feed my famish'd sight, To talk, to kiss, and more, if more I might: More, impious maid! What more canst thou design? To make a monstrous mixture in thy line, And break all statutes human and divine! Can'st thou be call'd (to save thy wretched life) Thy mother's rival, and thy father's wife? Confound so many sacred names in one, Thy brother's mother! Sister to thy son! And fear'st thou not to see th' infernal bands, Their heads with snakes; with torches arm'd their hands Full at thy face th' avenging brands to bear, And shake the serpents from their hissing hair; But thou in time th' increasing ill controul, Nor first debauch the body by the soul; Secure the sacred quiet of thy mind, And keep the sanctions Nature has design'd. Suppose I shou'd attempt, th' attempt were vain, No thoughts like mine, his sinless soul profane; Observant of the right: and o that he Cou'd cure my madness, or be mad like me! Thus she: but Cinyras, who daily sees A crowd of noble suitors at his knees, Among so many, knew not whom to chuse, Irresolute to grant, or to refuse. But having told their names, enquir'd of her Who pleas'd her best, and whom she would prefer. The blushing maid stood silent with surprize, And on her father fix'd her ardent eyes, And looking sigh'd, and as she sigh'd, began Round tears to shed, that scalded as they ran. The tender sire, who saw her blush, and cry, Ascrib'd it all to maiden modesty, And dry'd the falling drops, and yet more kind, He stroak'd her cheeks, and holy kisses join'd. She felt a secret venom fire her blood, And found more pleasure, than a daughter shou'd; And, ask'd again what lover of the crew She lik'd the best, she answer'd, One like you. Mistaking what she meant, her pious will He prais'd, and bid her so continue still: The word of pious heard, she blush'd with shame Of secret guilt, and cou'd not bear the name. 'Twas now the mid of night, when slumbers close Our eyes, and sooth our cares with soft repose; But no repose cou'd wretched Myrrha find, Her body rouling, as she roul'd her mind: Mad with desire, she ruminates her sin, And wishes all her wishes o'er again: Now she despairs, and now resolves to try; Wou'd not, and wou'd again, she knows not why; Stops, and returns; makes, and retracts the vow; Fain wou'd begin, but understands not how. As when a pine is hew'd upon the plains, And the last mortal stroke alone remains, Lab'ring in pangs of death, and threatning all, This way, and that she nods, consid'ring where to fall: So Myrrha's mind, impell'd on either side, Takes ev'ry bent, but cannot long abide; Irresolute on which she shou'd relie, At last, unfix'd in all, is only fix'd to die. On that sad thought she rests, resolv'd on death, She rises, and prepares to choak her breath: Then while about the beam her zone she ties, Dear Cinyras farewell, she softly cries; For thee I die, and only wish to be Not hated, when thou know'st die I for thee: Pardon the crime, in pity to the cause: This said, about her neck the noose she draws. The nurse, who lay without, her faithful guard, Though not the words, the murmurs over-heard; And sighs, and hollow sounds: surpriz'd with fright, She starts, and leaves her bed, and springs a light; Unlocks the door, and entring out of breath, The dying saw, and instruments of death; She shrieks, she cuts the zone with trembling haste, And in her arms her fainting charge embrac'd: Next (for she now had leisure for her tears), She weeping ask'd, in these her blooming years, What unforeseen misfortune caus'd her care, To loath her life, and languish in despair! The maid, with down-cast eyes, and mute with grief For death unfinish'd, and ill-tim'd relief, Stood sullen to her suit: the beldame press'd The more to know, and bar'd her wither'd breast, Adjur'd her by the kindly food she drew From those dry founts, her secret ill to shew. Sad Myrrha sigh'd, and turn'd her eyes aside: The nurse still urg'd, and wou'd not be deny'd: Nor only promis'd secresie, but pray'd She might have leave to give her offer'd aid. Good-will, she said, my want of strength supplies, And diligence shall give what age denies: If strong desires thy mind to fury move, With charms and med'cines I can cure thy love: If envious eyes their hurtuful rays have cast, More pow'rful verse shall free thee from the blast: If Heav'n offended sends thee this disease, Offended Heav'n with pray'rs we can appease. What then remains, that can these cares procure? Thy house is flourishing, thy fortune sure: Thy careful mother yet in health survives, And, to thy comfort, thy kind father lives. The virgin started at her father's name, And sigh'd profoundly, conscious of the shame Nor yet the nurse her impious love divin'd, But yet surmis'd that love disturb'd her mind: Thus thinking, she pursu'd her point, and laid, And lull'd within her lap the mourning maid; Then softly sooth'd her thus; I guess your grief: You love, my child; your love shall find relief. My long-experienc'd age shall be your guide; Rely on that, and lay distrust aside. No breath of air shall on the secret blow, Nor shall (what most you fear) your father know. Struck once again, as with a thunder-clap, The guilty virgin bounded from her lap, And threw her body prostrate on the bed. And, to conceal her blushes, hid her head; There silent lay, and warn'd her with her hand To go: but she receiv'd not the command; Remaining still importunate to know: Then Myrrha thus: Or ask no more, or go; I pr'ythee go, or staying spare my shame; What thou would'st hear, is impious ev'n to name. At this, on high the beldame holds her hands, And trembling both with age, and terror stands; Adjures, and falling at her feet intreats, Sooths her with blandishments, and frights with threats, To tell the crime intended, or disclose What part of it she knew, if she no farther knows. And last, if conscious to her counsel made, Confirms anew the promise of her aid. Now Myrrha rais'd her head; but soon oppress'd With shame, reclin'd it on her nurse's breast; Bath'd it with tears, and strove to have confess'd: Twice she began, and stopp'd; again she try'd; The falt'ring tongue its office still deny'd. At last her veil before her face she spread, And drew a long preluding sigh, and said, O happy mother, in thy marriage-bed! Then groan'd, and ceas'd. The good old woman shook, Stiff were her eyes, and ghastly was her look: Her hoary hair upright with horror stood, Made (to her grief) more knowing than she wou'd. Much she reproach'd, and many things she said, To cure the madness of th' unhappy maid, In vain: for Myrrha stood convict of ill; Her reason vanquish'd, but unchang'd her will: Perverse of mind, unable to reply; She stood resolv'd, or to possess, or die. At length the fondness of a nurse prevail'd Against her better sense, and virtue fail'd: Enjoy, my child, since such is thy desire, Thy love, she said; she durst not say, thy sire: Live, though unhappy, live on any terms; Then with a second oath her faith confirms. The solemn feast of Ceres now was near, When long white linnen stoles the matrons wear; Rank'd in procession walk the pious train, Off'ring first-fruits, and spikes of yellow grain: For nine long nights the nuptial-bed they shun, And sanctifying harvest, lie alone. Mix'd with the crowd, the queen forsook her lord, And Ceres' pow'r with secret rites ador'd: The royal couch, now vacant for a time, The crafty crone, officious in her crime, The first occasion took: the king she found Easie with wine, and deep in pleasures drown'd, Prepar'd for love: the beldame blew the flame, Confess'd the passion, but conceal'd the name. Her form she prais'd; the monarch ask'd her years; And she reply'd, The same thy Myrrha bears. Wine, and commended beauty fir'd his thought; Impatient, he commands her to be brought. Pleas'd with her charge perform'd, she hies her home, And gratulates the nymph, the task was overcome. Myrrha was joy'd the welcome news to hear; But clog'd with guilt, the joy was unsincere: So various, so discordant is the mind, That in our will a diff'rent will we find. Ill she presag'd, and yet pursu'd her lust; For guilty pleasures give a double gust. 'Twas depth of night: Arctophylax had driv'n His lazy wain half round the northern Heav'n, When Myrrha hasten'd to the crime desir'd: The moon beheld her first, and first retir'd: The stars amaz'd, ran backward from the sight, And (shrunk within their sockets) lost their light. Icarius first withdraws his holy flame: The virgin sign, in Heav'n the second name, Slides down the belt, and from her station flies, And night with sable clouds involves the skies. Bold Myrrha still pursues her black intent; She stumbled thrice (an omen of th' event); Thrice shriek'd the fun'ral owl, yet on she went, Secure of shame, because secure of sight; Ev'n bashful sins are impudent by night. Link'd hand in hand, th' accomplice, and the dame, Their way exploring, to the chamber came: The door was ope; they blindly grope their way, Where dark in bed th' expecting monarch lay. Thus far her courage held, but here forsakes; Her faint knees knock at ev'ry step she makes. The nearer to her crime, the more within She feels remorse, and horror of her sin; Repents too late her criminal desire, And wishes, that unknown she could retire. Her lingring thus, the nurse (who fear'd delay The fatal secret might at length betray) Pull'd forward, to compleat the work begun, And said to Cinyras, Receive thy own. Thus saying, she deliver'd kind to kind, Accurs'd, and their devoted bodies join'd. The sire, unknowing of the crime, admits His bowels, and prophanes the hallow'd sheets; He found she trembled, but believ'd she strove With maiden modesty against her love, And sought with flatt'ring words vain fancies to remove. Perhaps he said, My daughter, cease thy fears (Because the title suited with her years); And, Father, she might whisper him again, That names might not be wanting to the sin. Full of her sire, she left th' incestuous bed, And carry'd in her womb the crime she bred. Another, and another night she came; For frequent sin had left no sense of shame: 'Till Cinyras desir'd to see her face, Whose body he had held in close embrace, And brought a taper; the revealer, light, Expos'd both crime, and criminal to sight. Grief, rage, amazement, could no speech afford, But from the sheath he drew th' avenging sword: The guilty fled: the benefit of night, That favour'd first the sin, secur'd the flight. Long wand'ring thro' the spacious fields, she bent Her voyage to th' Arabian continent; Then pass'd the region which Panchaea join'd, And flying, left the palmy plains behind. Nine times the moon had mew'd her horns; at length With travel weary, unsupply'd with strength, And with the burden of her womb oppress'd, Sabaean fields afford her needful rest: There, loathing life, and yet of death afraid, In anguish of her spirit, thus she pray'd: Ye Pow'rs, if any so propitious are T' accept my penitence, and hear my pray'r; Your judgments, I confess, are justly sent; Great sins deserve as great a punishment: Yet since my life the living will profane, And since my death the happy dead will stain, A middle state your mercy may bestow, Betwixt the realms above, and those below: Some other form to wretched Myrrha give, Nor let her wholly die, nor wholly live. The pray'rs of penitents are never vain; At least she did her last request obtain: For while she spoke, the ground began to rise, And gather'd round her feet, her legs, and thighs; Her toes in roots descend, and spreading wide, A firm foundation for the trunk provide: Her solid bones convert to solid wood, To pith her marrow, and to sap her blood: Her arms are boughs, her fingers change their kind, Her tender skin is harden'd into rind. And now the rising tree her womb invests, Now shooting upwards still, invades her breasts, And shades the neck; when weary with delay, She sunk her head within, and met it half the way. And tho' with outward shape she lost her sense, With bitter tears she wept her last offence; And still she weeps, nor sheds her tears in vain; For still the precious drops her name retain. Mean-time the mis-begotten infant grows, And ripe for birth, distends with deadly throes The swelling rind, with unavailing strife, To leave the wooden womb, and pushes into life. The mother-tree, as if oppress'd with pain, Writhes here, and there, to break the bark, in vain; And, like a lab'ring woman, wou'd have pray'd, But wants a voice to call Lucina's aid: The bending bole sends out a hollow sound, And trickling tears fall thicker on the ground. The mild Lucina came uncall'd, and stood Beside the struggling boughs, and heard the groaning wood; Then reach'd her midwife-hand to speed the throes, And spoke the pow'rful spells, that babes to birth disclose. The bark divides, the living load to free, And safe delivers the convulsive tree. The ready nymphs receive the crying child, And wash him in the tears the parent plant distill'd. They swath'd him with their scarfs; beneath him spread The ground with herbs; with roses rais'd his head. The lovely babe was born with ev'ry grace, Ev'n envy must have prais'd so fair a face: Such was his form, as painters when they show Their utmost art, on naked loves bestow: And that their arms no diff'rence might betray, Give him a bow, or his from Cupid take away. Time glides along with undiscover'd haste, The future but a length behind the past; So swift are years. The babe, whom just before His grandsire got, and whom his sister bore; The drop, the thing, which late the tree inclos'd, And late the yawning bark to life expos'd; A babe, a boy, a beauteous youth appears, And lovelier than himself at riper years. Now to the queen of love he gave desires, And, with her pains, reveng'd his mother's fires. The Story of Venus and Adonis For Cytherea's lips while Cupid prest, He with a heedless arrow raz'd her breast, The Goddess felt it, and with fury stung, The wanton mischief from her bosom flung: Yet thought at first the danger slight, but found The dart too faithful, and too deep the wound. Fir'd with a mortal beauty, she disdains To haunt th' Idalian mount, or Phrygian plains. She seeks not Cnidos, nor her Paphian shrines, Nor Amathus, that teems with brazen mines: Ev'n Heav'n itself with all its sweets unsought, Adonis far a sweeter Heav'n is thought. On him she hangs, and fonds with ev'ry art, And never, never knows from him to part. She, whose soft limbs had only been display'd On rosie beds beneath the myrtle shade, Whose pleasing care was to improve each grace, And add more charms to an unrival'd face, Now buskin'd, like the virgin huntress, goes Thro' woods, and pathless wilds, and mountain-snows With her own tuneful voice she joys to cheer The panting hounds, that chace the flying deer. She runs the labyrinth of fearful hares, But fearless beasts, and dang'rous prey forbears, Hunts not the grinning wolf, or foamy boar, And trembles at the lion's hungry roar. Thee too, Adonis, with a lover's care She warns, if warn'd thou wou'dst avoid the snare, To furious animals advance not nigh, Fly those that follow, follow those that fly; 'Tis chance alone must the survivors save, Whene'er brave spirits will attempt the brave. O! lovely youth! in harmless sports delight; Provoke not beasts, which, arm'd by Nature, fight. For me, if not thy self, vouchsafe to fear; Let not thy thirst of glory cost me dear. Boars know not bow to spare a blooming age; No sparkling eyes can sooth the lion's rage. Not all thy charms a savage breast can move, Which have so deeply touch'd the queen of love. When bristled boars from beaten thickets spring, In grinded tusks a thunderbolt they bring. The daring hunters lions rouz'd devour, Vast is their fury, and as vast their pow'r: Curst be their tawny race! If thou would'st hear What kindled thus my hate, then lend an ear: The wond'rous tale I will to thee unfold, How the fell monsters rose from crimes of old. But by long toils I faint: see! wide-display'd, A grateful poplar courts us with a shade. The grassy turf, beneath, so verdant shows, We may secure delightfully repose. With her Adonis here be Venus blest; And swift at once the grass and him she prest. Then sweetly smiling, with a raptur'd mind, On his lov'd bosom she her head reclin'd, And thus began; but mindful still of bliss, Seal'd the soft accents with a softer kiss. Perhaps thou may'st have heard a virgin's name, Who still in swiftness swiftest youths o'ercame. Wondrous! that female weakness should outdo A manly strength; the wonder yet is true. 'Twas doubtful, if her triumphs in the field Did to her form's triumphant glories yield; Whether her face could with more ease decoy A crowd of lovers, or her feet destroy. For once Apollo she implor'd to show If courteous Fates a consort would allow: A consort brings thy ruin, he reply'd; O! learn to want the pleasures of a bride! Nor shalt thou want them to thy wretched cost, And Atalanta living shall be lost. With such a rueful Fate th' affrighted maid Sought green recesses in the wood-land glade. Nor sighing suiters her resolves could move, She bad them show their speed, to show their love. He only, who could conquer in the race, Might hope the conquer'd virgin to embrace; While he, whose tardy feet had lagg'd behind, Was doom'd the sad reward of death to find. Tho' great the prize, yet rigid the decree, But blind with beauty, who can rigour see? Ev'n on these laws the fair they rashly sought, And danger in excess of love forgot. There sat Hippomenes, prepar'd to blame In lovers such extravagance of flame. And must, he said, the blessing of a wife Be dearly purchas'd by a risk of life? But when he saw the wonders of her face, And her limbs naked, springing to the race, Her limbs, as exquisitely turn'd, as mine, Or if a woman thou, might vie with thine, With lifted hands, he cry'd, forgive the tongue Which durst, ye youths, your well-tim'd courage wrong. I knew not that the nymph, for whom you strove, Deserv'd th' unbounded transports of your love. He saw, admir'd, and thus her spotless frame He prais'd, and praising, kindled his own flame. A rival now to all the youths who run, Envious, he fears they should not be undone. But why (reflects he) idly thus is shown The fate of others, yet untry'd my own? The coward must not on love's aid depend; The God was ever to the bold a friend. Mean-time the virgin flies, or seems to fly, Swift as a Scythian arrow cleaves the sky: Still more and more the youth her charms admires. The race itself t' exalt her charms conspires. The golden pinions, which her feet adorn, In wanton flutt'rings by the winds are born. Down from her head, the long, fair tresses flow, And sport with lovely negligence below. The waving ribbands, which her buskins tie, Her snowy skin with waving purple die; As crimson veils in palaces display'd, To the white marble lend a blushing shade. Nor long he gaz'd, yet while he gaz'd, she gain'd The goal, and the victorious wreath obtain'd. The vanquish'd sigh, and, as the law decreed, Pay the dire forfeit, and prepare to bleed. Then rose Hippomenes, not yet afraid, And fix'd his eyes full on the beauteous maid. Where is (he cry'd) the mighty conquest won, To distance those, who want the nerves to run? Here prove superior strength, nor shall it be Thy loss of glory, if excell'd by me. High my descent, near Neptune I aspire, For Neptune was grand-parent to my sire. From that great God the fourth my self I trace, Nor sink my virtues yet beneath my race. Thou from Hippomenes, o'ercome, may'st claim An envy'd triumph, and a deathless fame. While thus the youth the virgin pow'r defies, Silent she views him still with softer eyes. Thoughts in her breast a doubtful strife begin, If 'tis not happier now to lose, than win. What God, a foe to beauty, would destroy The promis'd ripeness of this blooming boy? With his life's danger does he seek my bed? Scarce am I half so greatly worth, she said. Nor has his beauty mov'd my breast to love, And yet, I own, such beauty well might move: 'Tis not his charms, 'tis pity would engage My soul to spare the greenness of his age. What, that heroick conrage fires his breast, And shines thro' brave disdain of Fate confest? What, that his patronage by close degrees Springs from th' imperial ruler of the seas? Then add the love, which bids him undertake The race, and dare to perish for my sake. Of bloody nuptials, heedless youth, beware! Fly, timely fly from a too barb'rous fair. At pleasure chuse; thy love will be repaid By a less foolish, and more beauteous maid. But why this tenderness, before unknown? Why beats, and pants my breast for him alone? His eyes have seen his num'rous rivals yield; Let him too share the rigour of the field, Since, by their fates untaught, his own he courts, And thus with ruin insolently sports. Yet for what crime shall he his death receive? Is it a crime with me to wish to live? Shall his kind passion his destruction prove? Is this the fatal recompence of love? So fair a youth, destroy'd, would conquest shame, Aud nymphs eternally detest my fame. Still why should nymphs my guiltless fame upbraid? Did I the fond adventurer persuade? Alas! I wish thou would'st the course decline, Or that my swiftness was excell'd by thine. See! what a virgin's bloom adorns the boy! Why wilt thou run, and why thy self destroy? Hippomenes! O that I ne'er had been By those bright eyes unfortunately seen! Ah! tempt not thus a swift, untimely Fate; Thy life is worthy of the longest date. Were I less wretched, did the galling chain Of rigid Gods not my free choice restrain, By thee alone I could with joy be led To taste the raptures of a nuptial bed. Thus she disclos'd the woman's secret heart, Young, innocent, and new to Cupid's dart. Her thoughts, her words, her actions wildly rove, With love she burns, yet knows not that 'tis love. Her royal sire now with the murm'ring crowd Demands the race impatiently aloud. Hippomenes then with true fervour pray'd, My bold attempt let Venus kindly aid. By her sweet pow'r I felt this am'rous fire, Still may she succour, whom she did inspire. A soft, unenvious wind, with speedy care, Wafted to Heav'n the lover's tender pray'r. Pity, I own, soon gain'd the wish'd consent, And all th' assistance he implor'd I lent. The Cyprian lands, tho' rich, in richness yield To that, surnam'd the Tamasenian field. That field of old was added to my shrine, And its choice products consecrated mine. A tree there stands, full glorious to behold, Gold are the leafs, the crackling branches gold. It chanc'd, three apples in my hand I bore, Which newly from the tree I sportive tore; Seen by the youth alone, to him I brought The fruit, and when, and how to use it, taught. The signal sounding by the king's command, Both start at once, and sweep th' imprinted sand. So swiftly mov'd their feet, they might with ease, Scarce moisten'd, skim along the glassy seas; Or with a wondrous levity be born O'er yellow harvests of unbending corn. Now fav'ring peals resound from ev'ry part, Spirit the youth, and fire his fainting heart. Hippomenes! (they cry'd) thy life preserve, Intensely labour, and stretch ev'ry nerve. Base fear alone can baffle thy design, Shoot boldly onward, and the goal is thine. 'Tis doubtful whether shouts, like these, convey'd More pleasures to the youth, or to the maid. When a long distance oft she could have gain'd, She check'd her swiftness, and her feet restrain'd: She sigh'd, and dwelt, and languish'd on his face, Then with unwilling speed pursu'd the race. O'er-spent with heat, his breath he faintly drew, Parch'd was his mouth, nor yet the goal in view, And the first apple on the plain he threw. The nymph stop'd sudden at th' unusual sight, Struck with the fruit so beautifully bright. Aside she starts, the wonder to behold, And eager stoops to catch the rouling gold. Th' observant youth past by, and scour'd along, While peals of joy rung from th' applauding throng. Unkindly she corrects the short delay, And to redeem the time fleets swift away, Swift, as the lightning, or the northern wind, And far she leaves the panting youth behind. Again he strives the flying nymph to hold With the temptation of the second gold: The bright temptation fruitlessly was tost, So soon, alas! she won the distance lost. Now but a little interval of space Remain'd for the decision of the race. Fair author of the precious gift, he said, Be thou, O Goddess, author of my aid! Then of the shining fruit the last he drew, And with his full-collected vigour threw: The virgin still the longer to detain, Threw not directly, but a-cross the plain. She seem'd a-while perplex'd in dubious thought, If the far-distant apple should be sought: I lur'd her backward mind to seize the bait, And to the massie gold gave double weight. My favour to my votary was show'd, Her speed I lessen'd, and encreas'd her load. But lest, tho' long, the rapid race be run, Before my longer, tedious tale is done, The youth the goal, and so the virgin won. Might I, Adonis, now not hope to see His grateful thanks pour'd out for victory? His pious incense on my altars laid? But he nor grateful thanks, nor incense paid. Enrag'd I vow'd, that with the youth the fair, For his contempt, should my keen vengeance share; That future lovers might my pow'r revere, And, from their sad examples, learn to fear. The silent fanes, the sanctify'd abodes, Of Cybele, great mother of the Gods, Rais'd by Echion in a lonely wood, And full of brown, religious horror stood. By a long painful journey faint, they chose! Their weary limbs here secret to repose. But soon my pow'r inflam'd the lustful boy, Careless of rest he sought untimely joy. A hallow'd gloomy cave, with moss o'er-grown, The temple join'd, of native pumice-stone, Where antique images by priests were kept. And wooden deities securely slept. Thither the rash Hippomenes retires, And gives a loose to all his wild desires, And the chaste cell pollutes with wanton fires. The sacred statues trembled with surprize, The tow'ry Goddess, blushing, veil'd her eyes; And the lewd pair to Stygian sounds had sent, But unrevengeful seem'd that punishment, A heavier doom such black prophaneness draws, Their taper figures turn to crooked paws. No more their necks the smoothness can retain, Now cover'd sudden with a yellow mane. Arms change to legs: each finds the hard'ning breast Of rage unknown, and wond'rous strength possest. Their alter'd looks with fury grim appear, And on the ground their brushing tails they hear. They haunt the woods: their voices, which before Were musically sweet, now hoarsly roar. Hence lions, dreadful to the lab'ring swains, Are tam'd by Cybele, and curb'd with reins, And humbly draw her car along the plains. But thou, Adonis, my delightful care, Of these, and beasts, as fierce as these, beware! The savage, which not shuns thee, timely shun, For by rash prowess should'st thou be undone, A double ruin is contain'd in one. Thus cautious Venus school'd her fav'rite boy; But youthful heat all cautions will destroy. His sprightly soul beyond grave counsels flies, While with yok'd swans the Goddess cuts the skies. His faithful hounds, led by the tainted wind, Lodg'd in thick coverts chanc'd a boar to find. The callow hero show'd a manly heart, And pierc'd the savage with a side-long dart. The flying savage, wounded, turn'd again, Wrench'd out the gory dart, and foam'd with pain. The trembling boy by flight his safety sought, And now recall'd the lore, which Venus taught; But now too late to fly the boar he strove, Who in the groin his tusks impetuous drove, On the discolour'd grass Adonis lay, The monster trampling o'er his beauteous prey. Fair Cytherea, Cyprus scarce in view, Heard from afar his groans, and own'd them true, And turn'd her snowy swans, and backward flew. But as she saw him gasp his latest breath, And quiv'ring agonize in pangs of death, Down with swift flight she plung'd, nor rage forbore, At once her garments, and her hair she tore. With cruel blows she beat her guiltless breast, The Fates upbraided, and her love confest. Nor shall they yet (she cry'd) the whole devour With uncontroul'd, inexorable pow'r: For thee, lost youth, my tears, and restless pain Shall in immortal monuments remain, With solemn pomp in annual rites return'd, Be thou for ever, my Adonis, mourn'd, Could Pluto's queen with jealous fury storm, And Men the to a fragrant herb transform? Yet dares not Venus with a change surprise, And in a flow'r bid her fall'n heroe rise? Then on the blood sweet nectar she bestows, The scented blood in little bubbles rose: Little as rainy drops, which flutt'ring fly, Born by the winds, along a low'ring sky. Short time ensu'd, 'till where the blood was shed, A flow'r began to rear its purple head: Such, as on Punick apples is reveal'd, Or in the filmy rind but half conceal'd. Still here the Fate of lovely forms we see, So sudden fades the sweet Anemonie. The feeble stems, to stormy blasts a prey, Their sickly beauties droop, and pine away. The winds forbid the flow'rs to flourish long, Which owe to winds their names in Grecian song. ---------------------------------------------------------------------- ~ Ovid, BOOK THE TENTH ,

450:MANTIS EIM ESQLWN AGWNWN --Oedip. Colon. TO HIS EXCELLENCY PRINCE ALEXANDER MAVROCORDATO LATE SECRETARY FOR FOREIGN AFFAIRS TO THE HOSPODAR OF WALLACHIA THE DRAMA OF HELLAS IS INSCRIBED AS AN IMPERFECT TOKEN OF THE ADMIRATION, SYMPATHY, AND FRIENDSHIP OF THE AUTHOR. PROLOGUE TO HELLAS Herald of Eternity. It is the day when all the sons of God Wait in the roofless senate-house, whose floor Is Chaos, and the immovable abyss Frozen by His steadfast word to hyaline... The shadow of God, and delegate Of that before whose breath the universe Is as a print of dew.            Hierarchs and kings Who from your thrones pinnacled on the past Sway the reluctant present, ye who sit Pavilioned on the radiance or the gloom Of mortal thought, which like an exhalation Steaming from earth, conceals the...of heaven Which gave it birth,...assemble here Before your Father's throne; the swift decree Yet hovers, and the fiery incarnation Is yet withheld, clothd in which it shall ...annul The fairest of those wandering isles that gem The sapphire space of interstellar air, That green and azure sphere, that earth enwrapped Less in the beauty of its tender light Than in an atmosphere of living spirit Which interpenetrating all the... ...it rolls from realm to realm And age to age, and in its ebb and flow Impels the generations To their appointed place, Whilst the high Arbiter Beholds the strife, and at the appointed time Sends His decrees veiled in eternal... Within the circuit of this pendent orb There lies an antique region, on which fell The dews of thought in the world's golden dawn Earliest and most benign, and from it sprung Temples and cities and immortal forms And harmonies of wisdom and of song, And thoughts, and deeds worthy of thoughts so fair. And when the sun of its dominion failed, And when the winter of its glory came, The winds that stripped it bare blew on and swept That dew into the utmost wildernesses In wandering clouds of sunny rain that thawed The unmaternal bosom of the North. Haste, sons of God,...for ye beheld, Reluctant, or consenting, or astonished, The stern decrees go forth, which heaped on Greece Ruin and degradation and despair. A fourth now waits: assemble, sons of God, To speed or to prevent or to suspend, If, as ye dream, such power be not withheld, The unaccomplished destiny... Chorus. The curtain of the Universe Is rent and shattered, The splendour-wingd worlds disperse Like wild doves scattered.   Space is roofless and bare, And in the midst a cloudy shrine, Dark amid thrones of light. In the blue glow of hyaline Golden worlds revolve and shine. In...flight From every point of the Infinite, Like a thousand dawns on a single night The splendours rise and spread; And through thunder and darkness dread Light and music are radiated, And in their pavilioned chariots led By living wings high overhead The giant Powers move, Gloomy or bright as the thrones they fill... A chaos of light and motion Upon that glassy ocean... The senate of the Gods is met, Each in his rank and station set;   There is silence in the spaces Lo! Satan, Christ, and Mahomet Start from their places! Christ.              Almighty Father! Low-kneeling at the feet of Destiny. . . There are two fountains in which spirits weep When mortals err, Discord and Slavery named, And with their bitter dew two Destinies Filled each their irrevocable urns; the third, Fiercest and mightiest, mingled both, and added Chaos and Death, and slow Oblivion's lymph, And hate and terror, and the poisoned rain. . . The Aurora of the nations. By this brow Whose pores wept tears of blood, by these wide wounds, By this imperial crown of agony, By infamy and solitude and death, For this I underwent, and by the pain Of pity for those who would...for me The unremembered joy of a revenge, For this I feltby Plato's sacred light, Of which my spirit was a burning morrow By Greece and all she cannot cease to be, Her quenchless words, sparks of immortal truth, Stars of all nighther harmonies and forms, Echoes and shadows of what Love adores In thee, I do compel thee, send forth Fate, Thy irrevocable child: let her descend, A seraph-wingd Victory [arrayed] In tempest of the omnipotence of God Which sweeps through all things. From hollow leagues, from Tyranny which arms Adverse miscreeds and emulous anarchies To stamp, as on a wingd serpent's seed, Upon the name of Freedom; from the storm Of faction, which like earthquake shakes and sickens The solid heart of enterprise; from all By which the holiest dreams of highest spirits Are stars beneath the dawn...                  She shall arise Victorious as the world arose from Chaos! And as the Heavens and the Earth arrayed Their presence in the beauty and the light Of Thy first smile, O Father,as they gather The spirit of Thy love which paves for them Their path o'er the abyss, till every sphere Shall be one living Spirit,-- so shall Greece-- Satan. Be as all things beneath the empyrean, Mine! Art thou eyeless like old Destiny, Thou mockery-king, crowned with a wreath of thorns? Whose sceptre is a reed, the broken reed Which pierces thee! whose throne a chair of scorn; For seest thou not beneath this crystal floor The innumerable worlds of golden light Which are my empire, and the least of them ...which thou wouldst redeem from me? Know'st thou not them my portion? Or wouldst rekindle the...strife Which our great Father then did arbitrate Which he assigned to his competing sons Each his apportioned realm?                Thou Destiny, Thou who art mailed in the omnipotence Of Him who sends thee forth, whate'er thy task, Speed, spare not to accomplish, and be mine Thy trophies, whether Greece again become The fountain in the desert whence the earth Shall drink of freedom, which shall give it strength To suffer, or a gulf of hollow death To swallow all delight, all life, all hope. Go, thou Vicegerent of my will, no less Than of the Father's; but lest thou shouldst faint, The wingd hounds, Famine and Pestilence, Shall wait on thee, the hundred-forkd snake Insatiate Superstition still shall... The earth behind thy steps, and War shall hover Above, and Fraud shall gape below, and Change Shall flit before thee on her dragon wings, Convulsing and consuming, and I add Three vials of the tears which daemons weep When virtuous spirits through the gate of Death Pass triumphing over the thorns of life, Sceptres and crowns, mitres and swords and snares, Trampling in scorn, like Him and Socrates. The first is Anarchy; when Power and Pleasure, Glory and science and security, On Freedom hang like fruit on the green tree, Then pour it forth, and men shall gather ashes. The second Tyranny-- Christ.            Obdurate spirit! Thou seest but the Past in the To-come. Pride is thy error and thy punishment. Boast not thine empire, dream not that thy worlds Are more than furnace-sparks or rainbow-drops Before the Power that wields and kindles them. True greatness asks not space, true excellence Lives in the Spirit of all things that live, Which lends it to the worlds thou callest thine... Mahomet. Haste thou and fill the waning crescent With beams as keen as those which pierced the shadow Of Christian night rolled back upon the West, When the orient moon of Islam rode in triumph From Tmolus to the Acroceraunian snow...                        Wake, thou Word Of God, and from the throne of Destiny Even to the utmost limit of thy way May Triumph........... Be thou a curse on them whose creed Divides and multiplies the most high God. HELLAS DRAMATIS PERSONAE Mahmud. Hassan. Daood. Ahasuerus, a Jew. Chorus of Greek Captive Women. The Phantom of Mahomet II. Messengers, Slaves, and Attendants. Scene, Constantinople. Time, Sunset. Scene--A Terrace on the Seraglio. Mahmud sleeping, an Indian Slave sitting beside his Couch. Chorus of Greek Captive Women. We strew these opiate flowers   On thy restless pillow, They were stripped from Orient bowers,   By the Indian billow.    Be thy sleep    Calm and deep, Like theirs who fellnot ours who weep! Indian. Away, unlovely dreams!   Away, false shapes of sleep! Be his, as Heaven seems,   Clear, and bright, and deep! Soft as love, and calm as death, Sweet as a summer night without a breath. Chorus. Sleep, sleep! our song is laden   With the soul of slumber; It was sung by a Samian maiden,   Whose lover was of the number    Who now keep    That calm sleep Whence none may wake, where none shall weep. Indian. I touch thy temples pale!   I breathe my soul on thee! And could my prayers avail,   All my joy should be Dead, and I would live to weep, So thou mightst win one hour of quiet sleep. Chorus.   Breathe low, low The spell of the mighty mistress now! When Conscience lulls her sated snake, And Tyrants sleep, let Freedom wake.   Breathe lowlow The words which, like secret fire, shall flow Through the veins of the frozen earthlow, low! Semichorus I. Life may change, but it may fly not; Hope may vanish, but can die not; Truth be veiled, but still it burneth; Love repulsed,but it returneth! Semichorus II. Yet were life a charnel where Hope lay coffined with Despair; Yet were truth a sacred lie, Love were lust Semichorus I.          If Liberty Lent not life its soul of light, Hope its iris of delight, Truth its prophet's robe to wear, Love its power to give and bear. Chorus. In the great morning of the world, The Spirit of God with might unfurled The flag of Freedom over Chaos, And all its banded anarchs fled, Like vultures frighted from Imaus, Before an earthquake's tread. So from Time's tempestuous dawn Freedom's splendour burst and shone: Thermopylae and Marathon Caught, like mountains beacon-lighted, The springing Fire.The wingd glory On Philippi half-alighted, Like an eagle on a promontory. Its unwearied wings could fan The quenchless ashes of Milan.[1] From age to age, from man to man, It lived; and lit from land to land Florence, Albion, Switzerland. Then night fell; and, as from night, Reassuming fiery flight, From the West swift Freedom came, Against the course of Heaven and doom, A second sun arrayed in flame, To burn, to kindle, to illume. From far Atlantis its young beams Chased the shadows and the dreams. France, with all her sanguine steams, Hid, but quenched it not; again Through clouds its shafts of glory rain From utmost Germany to Spain. As an eagle fed with morning Scorns the embattled tempest's warning, When she seeks her aerie hanging In the mountain-cedar's hair, And her brood expect the clanging Of her wings through the wild air, Sick with famine:Freedom, so To what of Greece remaineth now Returns; her hoary ruins glow Like Orient mountains lost in day; Beneath the safety of her wings Her renovated nurslings prey, And in the naked lightenings Of truth they purge their dazzled eyes. Let Freedom leavewhere'er she flies, A Desert, or a Paradise: Let the beautiful and the brave Share her glory, or a grave. Semichorus I. With the gifts of gladness Greece did thy cradle strew; Semichorus II. With the tears of sadness Greece did thy shroud bedew! Semichorus I. With an orphan's affection She followed thy bier through Time; Semichorus II. And at thy resurrection Reappeareth, like thou, sublime! Semichorus I. If Heaven should resume thee, To Heaven shall her spirit ascend; Semichorus II. If Hell should entomb thee, To Hell shall her high hearts bend. Semichorus I. If Annihilation Semichorus II. Dust let her glories be! And a name and a nation Be forgotten, Freedom, with thee! Indian. His brow grows darkerbreathe notmove not! He startshe shuddersye that love not, With your panting loud and fast, Have awakened him at last. Mahmud (starting from his sleep). Man the Seraglio-guard! make fast the gate! What! from a cannonade of three short hours? 'Tis false! that breach towards the Bosphorus Cannot be practicable yetwho stirs? Stand to the match; that when the foe prevails One spark may mix in reconciling ruin The conqueror and the conquered! Heave the tower Into the gapwrench off the roof! (Enter Hassan.)                   Ha! what! The truth of day lightens upon my dream And I am Mahmud still. Hassan.             Your Sublime Highness Is strangely moved. Mahmud.           The times do cast strange shadows On those who watch and who must rule their course, Lest they, being first in peril as in glory, Be whelmed in the fierce ebb:and these are of them. Thrice has a gloomy vision hunted me As thus from sleep into the troubled day; It shakes me as the tempest shakes the sea, Leaving no figure upon memory's glass. Would thatno matter. Thou didst say thou knewest A Jew, whose spirit is a chronicle Of strange and secret and forgotten things. I bade thee summon him:'tis said his tribe Dream, and are wise interpreters of dreams. Hassan. The Jew of whom I spake is old,so old He seems to have outlived a world's decay; The hoary mountains and the wrinkled ocean Seem younger still than he;his hair and beard Are whiter than the tempest-sifted snow; His cold pale limbs and pulseless arteries Are like the fibres of a cloud instinct With light, and to the soul that quickens them Are as the atoms of the mountain-drift To the winter wind:but from his eye looks forth A life of unconsumd thought which pierces The Present, and the Past, and the To-come. Some say that this is he whom the great prophet Jesus, the son of Joseph, for his mockery, Mocked with the curse of immortality. Some feign that he is Enoch: others dream He was pre-adamite and has survived Cycles of generation and of ruin. The sage, in truth, by dreadful abstinence And conquering penance of the mutinous flesh, Deep contemplation, and unwearied study, In years outstretched beyond the date of man, May have attained to sovereignty and science Over those strong and secret things and thoughts Which others fear and know not. Mahmud.                  I would talk With this old Jew. Hassan.           Thy will is even now Made known to him, where he dwells in a sea-cavern 'Mid the Demonesi, less accessible Than thou or God! He who would question him Must sail alone at sunset, where the stream Of Ocean sleeps around those foamless isles, When the young moon is westering as now, And evening airs wander upon the wave; And when the pines of that bee-pasturing isle, Green Erebinthus, quench the fiery shadow Of his gilt prow within the sapphire water, Then must the lonely helmsman cry aloud 'Ahasuerus!' and the caverns round Will answer 'Ahasuerus!' If his prayer Be granted, a faint meteor will arise Lighting him over Marmora, and a wind Will rush out of the sighing pine-forest, And with the wind a storm of harmony Unutterably sweet, and pilot him Through the soft twilight to the Bosphorus: Thence at the hour and place and circumstance Fit for the matter of their conference The Jew appears. Few dare, and few who dare Win the desired communionbut that shout Bodes [A shout within. Mahmud.     Evil, doubtless; like all human sounds. Let me converse with spirits. Hassan.                 That shout again.                 Mahmud. This Jew whom thou hast summoned Hassan.                   Will be here                   Mahmud. When the omnipotent hour to which are yoked He, I, and all things shall compelenough! Silence those mutineersthat drunken crew, That crowd about the pilot in the storm. Ay! strike the foremost shorter by a head! They weary me, and I have need of rest. Kings are like starsthey rise and set, they have The worship of the world, but no repose. [Exeunt severally. Chorus[2]. Worlds on worlds are rolling ever From creation to decay, Like the bubbles on a river Sparkling, bursting, borne away.   But they are still immortal   Who, through birth's orient portal And death's dark chasm hurrying to and fro,   Clothe their unceasing flight   In the brief dust and light Gathered around their chariots as they go;   New shapes they still may weave,   New gods, new laws receive, Bright or dim are they as the robes they last   On Death's bare ribs had cast.    A power from the unknown God,   A Promethean conqueror, came; Like a triumphal path he trod   The thorns of death and shame.   A mortal shape to him   Was like the vapour dim Which the orient planet animates with light;   Hell, Sin, and Slavery came,   Like bloodhounds mild and tame, Nor preyed, until their Lord had taken flight;   The moon of Mahomet   Arose, and it shall set: While blazoned as on Heaven's immortal noon The cross leads generations on.   Swift as the radiant shapes of sleep   From one whose dreams are Paradise Fly, when the fond wretch wakes to weep,   And Day peers forth with her blank eyes;   So fleet, so faint, so fair,   The Powers of earth and air Fled from the folding-star of Bethlehem:   Apollo, Pan, and Love,   And even Olympian Jove Grew weak, for killing Truth had glared on them;   Our hills and seas and streams,   Dispeopled of their dreams, Their watrs turned to blood, their dew to tears,   Wailed for the golden years.   Enter Mahmud, Hassan, Daood, and others. Mahmud. More gold? our ancestors bought gold with victory, And shall I sell it for defeat? Daood.                  The Janizars Clamour for pay. Mahmud.          Go! bid them pay themselves With Christian blood! Are there no Grecian virgins Whose shrieks and spasms and tears they may enjoy? No infidel children to impale on spears? No hoary priests after that Patriarch[3] Who bent the curse against his country's heart, Which clove his own at last? Go! bid them kill, Blood is the seed of gold. Daood.               It has been sown, And yet the harvest to the sicklemen Is as a grain to each. Mahmud.             Then, take this signet, Unlock the seventh chamber in which lie The treasures of victorious Solyman, An empire's spoil stored for a day of ruin. O spirit of my sires! is it not come? The prey-birds and the wolves are gorged and sleep; But these, who spread their feast on the red earth, Hunger for gold, which fills not.See them fed; Then, lead them to the rivers of fresh death. [Exit Daood. O miserable dawn, after a night More glorious than the day which it usurped! O faith in God! O power on earth! O word Of the great prophet, whose o'ershadowing wings Darkened the thrones and idols of the West, Now bright!For thy sake cursd be the hour, Even as a father by an evil child, When the orient moon of Islam rolled in triumph From Caucasus to White Ceraunia! Ruin above, and anarchy below; Terror without, and treachery within; The Chalice of destruction full, and all Thirsting to drink; and who among us dares To dash it from his lips? and where is Hope? Hassan. The lamp of our dominion still rides high; One God is GodMahomet is His prophet. Four hundred thousand Moslems, from the limits Of utmost Asia, irresistibly Throng, like full clouds at the Sirocco's cry; But not like them to weep their strength in tears: They bear destroying lightning, and their step Wakes earthquake to consume and overwhelm, And reign in ruin. Phrygian Olympus, Tmolus, and Latmos, and Mycale, roughen With horrent arms; and lofty ships even now, Like vapours anchored to a mountain's edge, Freighted with fire and whirlwind, wait at Scala The convoy of the ever-veering wind. Samos is drunk with blood;the Greek has paid Brief victory with swift loss and long despair. The false Moldavian serfs fled fast and far, When the fierce shout of 'Allah-illa-Allah!' Rose like the war-cry of the northern wind Which kills the sluggish clouds, and leaves a flock Of wild swans struggling with the naked storm. So were the lost Greeks on the Danube's day! If night is mute, yet the returning sun Kindles the voices of the morning birds; Nor at thy bidding less exultingly Than birds rejoicing in the golden day, The Anarchies of Africa unleash Their tempest-wingd cities of the sea, To speak in thunder to the rebel world. Like sulphurous clouds, half-shattered by the storm, They sweep the pale Aegean, while the Queen Of Ocean, bound upon her island-throne, Far in the West, sits mourning that her sons Who frown on Freedom spare a smile for thee: Russia still hovers, as an eagle might Within a cloud, near which a kite and crane Hang tangled in inextricable fight, To stoop upon the victor;for she fears The name of Freedom, even as she hates thine. But recreant Austria loves thee as the Grave Loves Pestilence, and her slow dogs of war Fleshed with the chase, come up from Italy, And howl upon their limits; for they see The panther, Freedom, fled to her old cover, Amid seas and mountains, and a mightier brood Crouch round. What Anarch wears a crown or mitre, Or bears the sword, or grasps the key of gold, Whose friends are not thy friends, whose foes thy foes? Our arsenals and our armouries are full; Our forts defy assault; ten thousand cannon Lie ranged upon the beach, and hour by hour Their earth-convulsing wheels affright the city; The galloping of fiery steeds makes pale The Christian merchant; and the yellow Jew Hides his hoard deeper in the faithless earth. Like clouds, and like the shadows of the clouds, Over the hills of Anatolia, Swift in wide troops the Tartar chivalry Sweep;the far flashing of their starry lances Reverberates the dying light of day. We have one God, one King, one Hope, one Law; But many-headed Insurrection stands Divided in itself, and soon must fall. Mahmud. Proud words, when deeds come short, are seasonable: Look, Hassan, on yon crescent moon, emblazoned Upon that shattered flag of fiery cloud Which leads the rear of the departing day; Wan emblem of an empire fading now! See how it trembles in the blood-red air, And like a mighty lamp whose oil is spent Shrinks on the horizon's edge, while, from above, One star with insolent and victorious light Hovers above its fall, and with keen beams, Like arrows through a fainting antelope, Strikes its weak from to death. Hassan.                  Even as that moon Renews itself Mahmud.         Shall we be not renewed! Far other bark than ours were needed now To stem the torrent of descending time: The Spirit that lifts the slave before his lord Stalks through the capitals of armd kings, And spreads his ensign in the wilderness: Exults in chains; and, when the rebel falls, Cries like the blood of Abel from the dust; And the inheritors of the earth, like beasts When earthquake is unleashed, with idiot fear Cower in their kingly densas I do now. What were Defeat when Victory must appal? Or Danger, when Security looks pale? How said the messengerwho, from the fort Islanded in the Danube, saw the battle Of Bucharest?that Hassan.            Ibrahim's scimitar Drew with its gleam swift victory from Heaven, To burn before him in the night of battle A light and a destruction. Mahmud.               Ay! the day Was ours: but how? Hassan.            The light Wallachians, The Arnaut, Servian, and Albanian allies Fled from the glance of our artillery Almost before the thunderstone alit. One half the Grecian army made a bridge Of safe and slow retreat, with Moslem dead; The other Mahmud.       Speaktremble not.       Hassan.                  Islanded By victor myriads, formed in hollow square With rough and steadfast front, and thrice flung back The deluge of our foaming cavalry; Thrice their keen wedge of battle pierced our lines. Our baffled army trembled like one man Before a host, and gave them space; but soon, From the surrounding hills, the batteries blazed, Kneading them down with fire and iron rain: Yet none approached; till, like a field of corn Under the hook of the swart sickleman, The band, intrenched in mounds of Turkish dead, Grew weak and few.Then said the Pacha, 'Slaves, Render yourselvesthey have abandoned you What hope of refuge, or retreat, or aid? We grant your lives.' 'Grant that which is thine own!' Cried one, and fell upon his sword and died! Another'God, and man, and hope abandon me; But I to them, and to myself, remain Constant:'he bowed his head, and his heart burst. A third exclaimed, 'There is a refuge, tyrant, Where thou darest not pursue, and canst not harm Shouldst thou pursue; there we shall meet again.' Then held his breath, and, after a brief spasm, The indignant spirit cast its mortal garment Among the slaindead earth upon the earth! So these survivors, each by different ways, Some strange, all sudden, none dishonourable, Met in triumphant death; and when our army Closed in, while yet wonder, and awe, and shame Held back the base hyaenas of the battle That feed upon the dead and fly the living, One rose out of the chaos of the slain: And if it were a corpse which some dread spirit Of the old saviours of the land we rule Had lifted in its anger, wandering by; Or if there burned within the dying man Unquenchable disdain of death, and faith Creating what it feigned;I cannot tell But he cried, 'Phantoms of the free, we come! Armies of the Eternal, ye who strike To dust the citadels of sanguine kings, And shake the souls throned on their stony hearts, And thaw their frostwork diadems like dew; O ye who float around this clime, and weave The garment of the glory which it wears, Whose fame, though earth betray the dust it clasped, Lies sepulchred in monumental thought; Progenitors of all that yet is great, Ascribe to your bright senate, O accept In your high ministrations, us, your sons Us first, and the more glorious yet to come! And ye, weak conquerors! giants who look pale When the crushed worm rebels beneath your tread, The vultures and the dogs, your pensioners tame, Are overgorged; but, like oppressors, still They crave the relic of Destruction's feast. The exhalations and the thirsty winds Are sick with blood; the dew is foul with death; Heaven's light is quenched in slaughter: thus, where'er Upon your camps, cities, or towers, or fleets, The obscene birds the reeking remnants cast Of these dead limbs,upon your streams and mountains, Upon your fields, your gardens, and your housetops, Where'er the winds shall creep, or the clouds fly, Or the dews fall, or the angry sun look down With poisoned lightFamine, and Pestilence, And Panic, shall wage war upon our side! Nature from all her boundaries is moved Against ye: Time has found ye light as foam. The Earth rebels; and Good and Evil stake Their empire o'er the unborn world of men On this one cast;but ere the die be thrown, The renovated genius of our race, Proud umpire of the impious game, descends, A seraph-wingd Victory, bestriding The tempest of the Omnipotence of God, Which sweeps all things to their appointed doom, And you to oblivion!'More he would have said, But Mahmud.    Diedas thou shouldst ere thy lips had painted Their ruin in the hues of our success. A rebel's crime, gilt with a rebel's tongue! Your heart is Greek, Hassan. Hassan.                It may be so: A spirit not my own wrenched me within, And I have spoken words I fear and hate; Yet would I die for Mahmud.            Live! oh live! outlive Me and this sinking empire. But the fleet Hassan. Alas! Mahmud.     The fleet which, like a flock of clouds Chased by the wind, flies the insurgent banner! Our wingd castles from their merchant ships! Our myriads before their weak pirate bands! Our arms before their chains! our years of empire Before their centuries of servile fear! Death is awake! Repulse is on the waters! They own no more the thunder-bearing banner Of Mahmud; but, like hounds of a base breed, Gorge from a stranger's hand, and rend their master. Hassan. Latmos, and Ampelos, and Phanae saw The wreck Mahmud.       The caves of the Icarian isles Told each to the other in loud mockery, And with the tongue as of a thousand echoes, First of the sea-convulsing fightand, then, Thou darest to speaksenseless are the mountains: Interpret thou their voice! Hassan.                My presence bore A part in that day's shame. The Grecian fleet Bore down at daybreak from the North, and hung As multitudinous on the ocean line, As cranes upon the cloudless Thracian wind. Our squadron, convoying ten thousand men, Was stretching towards Nauplia when the battle Was kindled. First through the hail of our artillery The agile Hydriote barks with press of sail Dashed:ship to ship, cannon to cannon, man To man were grappled in the embrace of war, Inextricable but by death or victory. The tempest of the raging fight convulsed To its crystlline depths that stainless sea, And shook Heaven's roof of golden morning clouds, Poised on an hundred azure mountain-isles. In the brief trances of the artillery One cry from the destroyed and the destroyer Rose, and a cloud of desolation wrapped The unforeseen event, till the north wind Sprung from the sea, lifting the heavy veil Of battle-smokethen victoryvictory! For, as we thought, three frigates from Algiers Bore down from Naxos to our aid, but soon The abhorrd cross glimmered behind, before, Among, around us; and that fatal sign Dried with its beams the strength in Moslem hearts, As the sun drinks the dew.What more? We fled! Our noonday path over the sanguine foam Was beaconed,and the glare struck the sun pale, By our consuming transports: the fierce light Made all the shadows of our sails blood-red, And every countenance blank. Some ships lay feeding The ravening fire, even to the water's level; Some were blown up; some, settling heavily, Sunk; and the shrieks of our companions died Upon the wind, that bore us fast and far, Even after they were dead. Nine thousand perished! We met the vultures legioned in the air Stemming the torrent of the tainted wind; They, screaming from their cloudy mountain-peaks, Stooped through the sulphurous battle-smoke and perched Each on the weltering carcase that we loved, Like its ill angel or its damnd soul, Riding upon the bosom of the sea. We saw the dog-fish hastening to their feast. Joy waked the voiceless people of the sea, And ravening Famine left his ocean cave To dwell with War, with us, and with Despair. We met night three hours to the west of Patmos, And with night, tempest Mahmud.               Cease!               Enter a Messenger. Messenger.                  Your Sublime Highness, That Christian hound, the Muscovite Ambassador, Has left the city.If the rebel fleet Had anchored in the port, had victory Crowned the Greek legions in the Hippodrome, Panic were tamer.Obedience and Mutiny, Like giants in contention planet-struck, Stand gazing on each other.There is peace In Stamboul. Mahmud.        Is the grave not calmer still? Its ruins shall be mine. Hassan.              Fear not the Russian: The tiger leagues not with the stag at bay Against the hunter.Cunning, base, and cruel, He crouches, watching till the spoil be won, And must be paid for his reserve in blood. After the war is fought, yield the sleek Russian That which thou canst not keep, his deserved portion Of blood, which shall not flow through streets and fields, Rivers and seas, like that which we may win, But stagnate in the veins of Christian slaves! Enter second Messenger. Second Messenger. Nauplia, Tripolizza, Mothon, Athens, Navarin, Artas, Monembasia, Corinth, and Thebes are carried by assault, And every Islamite who made his dogs Fat with the flesh of Galilean slaves Passed at the edge of the sword: the lust of blood, Which made our warriors drunk, is quenched in death; But like a fiery plague breaks out anew In deeds which make the Christian cause look pale In its own light. The garrison of Patras Has store but for ten days, nor is there hope But from the Briton: at once slave and tyrant, His wishes still are weaker than his fears, Or he would sell what faith may yet remain From the oaths broke in Genoa and in Norway; And if you buy him not, your treasury Is empty even of promiseshis own coin. The freedman of a western poet-chief[4] Holds Attica with seven thousand rebels, And has beat back the Pacha of Negropont: The agd Ali sits in Yanina A crownless metaphor of empire: His name, that shadow of his withered might, Holds our besieging army like a spell In prey to famine, pest, and mutiny; He, bastioned in his citadel, looks forth Joyless upon the sapphire lake that mirrors The ruins of the city where he reigned Childless and sceptreless. The Greek has reaped The costly harvest his own blood matured, Not the sower, Aliwho has bought a truce From Ypsilanti with ten camel-loads Of Indian gold. Enter a third Messenger. Mahmud.         What more?         Third Messenger.               The Christian tribes Of Lebanon and the Syrian wilderness Are in revolt;Damascus, Hems, Aleppo Tremble;the Arab menaces Medina, The Aethiop has intrenched himself in Sennaar, And keeps the Egyptian rebel well employed, Who denies homage, claims investiture As price of tardy aid. Persia demands The cities on the Tigris, and the Georgians Refuse their living tribute. Crete and Cyprus, Like mountain-twins that from each other's veins Catch the volcano-fire and earthquake-spasm, Shake in the general fever. Through the city, Like birds before a storm, the Santons shriek, And prophesyings horrible and new Are heard among the crowd: that sea of men Sleeps on the wrecks it made, breathless and still. A Dervise, learnd in the Koran, preaches That it is written how the sins of Islam Must raise up a destroyer even now. The Greeks expect a Saviour from the West[5], Who shall not come, men say, in clouds and glory, But in the omnipresence of that Spirit In which all live and are. Ominous signs Are blazoned broadly on the noonday sky: One saw a red cross stamped upon the sun; It has rained blood; and monstrous births declare The secret wrath of Nature and her Lord. The army encamped upon the Cydaris Was roused last night by the alarm of battle, And saw two hosts conflicting in the air, The shadows doubtless of the unborn time Cast on the mirror of the night. While yet The fight hung balanced, there arose a storm Which swept the phantoms from among the stars. At the third watch the Spirit of the Plague Was heard abroad flapping among the tents; Those who relieved watch found the sentinels dead. The last news from the camp is, that a thousand Have sickened, and Enter a fourth Messenger. Mahmud.            And thou, pale ghost, dim shadow Of some untimely rumour, speak! Fourth Messenger.                  One comes Fainting with toil, covered with foam and blood: He stood, he says, on Chelonites' Promontory, which o'erlooks the isles that groan Under the Briton's frown, and all their waters Then trembling in the splendour of the moon, When as the wandering clouds unveiled or hid Her boundless light, he saw two adverse fleets Stalk through the night in the horizon's glimmer, Mingling fierce thunders and sulphureous gleams, And smoke which strangled every infant wind That soothed the silver clouds through the deep air. At length the battle slept, but the Sirocco Awoke, and drove his flock of thunder-clouds Over the sea-horizon, blotting out All objectssave that in the faint moon-glimpse He saw, or dreamed he saw, the Turkish admiral And two the loftiest of our ships of war, With the bright image of that Queen of Heaven, Who hid, perhaps, her face for grief, reversed; And the abhorrd cross Enter an Attendant. Attendant.              Your Sublime Highness, The Jew, who Mahmud.        Could not come more seasonably: Bid him attend. I'll hear no more! too long We gaze on danger through the mist of fear, And multiply upon our shattered hopes The images of ruin. Come what will! To-morrow and to-morrow are as lamps Set in our path to light us to the edge Through rough and smooth, nor can we suffer aught Which He inflicts not in whose hand we are. [Exeunt. Semichorus I. Would I were the wingd cloud Of a tempest swift and loud!   I would scorn   The smile of morn And the wave where the moonrise is born!   I would leave   The spirits of eve A shroud for the corpse of the day to weave From other threads than mine! Bask in the deep blue noon divine.    Who would? Not I.    Semichorus II. Whither to fly? Semichorus I. Where the rocks that gird th'Aegean Echo to the battle paean   Of the free   I would flee A tempestuous herald of victory!   My golden rain   For the Grecian slain Should mingle in tears with the bloody main, And my solemn thunder-knell Should ring to the world the passing-bell   Of Tyranny!   Semichorus II. Ah king! wilt thou chain The rack and the rain? Wilt thou fetter the lightning and hurricane? The storms are free,   But we   Chorus. O Slavery! thou frost of the world's prime, Killing its flowers and leaving its thorns bare! Thy touch has stamped these limbs with crime, These brows thy branding garland bear,   But the free heart, the impassive soul    Scorn thy control!    Semichorus I. Let there be light! said Liberty, And like sunrise from the sea, Athens arose!Around her born, Shone like mountains in the morn Glorious states;and are they now Ashes, wrecks, oblivion? Semichorus II.              Go, Where Thermae and Asopus swallowed Persia, as the sand does foam; Deluge upon deluge followed, Discord, Macedon, and Rome: And lastly thou! Semichorus I.          Temples and towers, Citadels and marts, and they Who live and die there, have been ours, And may be thine, and must decay; But Greece and her foundations are Built below the tide of war, Based on the crystlline sea Of thought and its eternity; Her citizens, imperial spirits, Rule the present from the past, On all this world of men inherits Their seal is set. Semichorus II.            Hear ye the blast, Whose Orphic thunder thrilling calls From ruin her Titanian walls? Whose spirit shakes the sapless bones Of Slavery? Argos, Corinth, Crete Hear, and from their mountain thrones The daemons and the nymphs repeat The harmony. Semichorus I.       I hear! I hear!       Semichorus II. The world's eyeless charioteer,   Destiny, is hurrying by! What faith is crushed, what empire bleeds Beneath her earthquake-footed steeds? What eagle-wingd victory sits At her right hand? what shadow flits Before? what splendour rolls behind?   Ruin and renovation cry 'Who but We?' Semichorus I.        I hear! I hear! The hiss as of a rushing wind, The roar as of an ocean foaming, The thunder as of earthquake coming.   I hear! I hear! The crash as of an empire falling, The shrieks as of a people calling 'Mercy! mercy!'How they thrill! Then a shout of 'kill! kill! kill!' And then a small still voice, thus Semichorus II.                     For Revenge and Wrong bring forth their kind, The foul cubs like their parents are, Their den is in the guilty mind, And Conscience feeds them with despair. Semichorus I. In sacred Athens, near the fane Of Wisdom, Pity's altar stood: Serve not the unknown God in vain, But pay that broken shrine again, Love for hate and tears for blood. Enter Mahmud and Ahasuerus. Mahmud. Thou art a man, thou sayest, even as we. Ahasuerus. No more! Mahmud.     But raised above thy fellow-men By thought, as I by power. Ahasuerus.               Thou sayest so.               Mahmud. Thou art an adept in the difficult lore Of Greek and Frank philosophy; thou numberest The flowers, and thou measurest the stars; Thou severest element from element; Thy spirit is present in the Past, and sees The birth of this old world through all its cycles Of desolation and of loveliness, And when man was not, and how man became The monarch and the slave of this low sphere, And all its narrow circlesit is much I honour thee, and would be what thou art Were I not what I am; but the unborn hour, Cradled in fear and hope, conflicting storms, Who shall unveil? Nor thou, nor I, nor any Mighty or wise. I apprehended not What thou hast taught me, but I now perceive That thou art no interpreter of dreams; Thou dost not own that art, device, or God, Can make the Future presentlet it come! Moreover thou disdainest us and ours; Thou art as God, whom thou contemplatest. Ahasuerus. Disdain thee?not the worm beneath thy feet! The Fathomless has care for meaner things Than thou canst dream, and has made pride for those Who would be what they may not, or would seem That which they are not. Sultan! talk no more Of thee and me, the Future and the Past; But look on that which cannot changethe One, The unborn and the undying. Earth and ocean, Space, and the isles of life or light that gem The sapphire floods of interstellar air, This firmament pavilioned upon chaos, With all its cressets of immortal fire, Whose outwall, bastioned impregnably Against the escape of boldest thoughts, repels them As Calpe the Atlantic cloudsthis Whole Of suns, and worlds, and men, and beasts, and flowers, With all the silent or tempestuous workings By which they have been, are, or cease to be, Is but a vision;all that it inherits Are motes of a sick eye, bubbles and dreams; Thought is its cradle and its grave, nor less The Future and the Past are idle shadows Of thought's eternal flightthey have no being: Nought is but that which feels itself to be. Mahmud. What meanest thou? Thy words stream like a tempest Of dazzling mist within my brainthey shake The earth on which I stand, and hang like night On Heaven above me. What can they avail? They cast on all things surest, brightest, best, Doubt, insecurity, astonishment. Ahasuerus. Mistake me not! All is contained in each. Dodona's forest to an acorn's cup Is that which has been, or will be, to that Which isthe absent to the present. Thought Alone, and its quick elements, Will, Passion, Reason, Imagination, cannot die; They are, what that which they regard appears, The stuff whence mutability can weave All that it hath dominion o'er, worlds, worms, Empires, and superstitions. What has thought To do with time, or place, or circumstance? Wouldst thou behold the Future?ask and have! Knock and it shall be openedlook, and lo! The coming age is shadowed on the Past As on a glass. Mahmud.        Wild, wilder thoughts convulse My spiritDid not Mahomet the Second Win Stamboul? Ahasuerus.        Thou wouldst ask that giant spirit The written fortunes of thy house and faith. Thou wouldst cite one out of the grave to tell How what was born in blood must die. Mahmud.                     Thy words Have power on me! I see Ahasuerus.               What hearest thou?               Mahmud. A far whisper Terrible silence. Ahasuerus.          What succeeds?          Mahmud.                  The sound As of the assault of an imperial city[6], The hiss of inextinguishable fire, The roar of giant cannon; the earthquaking Fall of vast bastions and precipitous towers, The shock of crags shot from strange enginery, The clash of wheels, and clang of armd hoofs, And crash of brazen mail as of the wreck Of adamantine mountainsthe mad blast Of trumpets, and the neigh of raging steeds, The shrieks of women whose thrill jars the blood, And one sweet laugh, most horrible to hear, As of a joyous infant waked and playing With its dead mother's breast, and now more loud The mingled battle-cry,ha! hear I not 'En toutwi nikh!' 'Allah-illa-Allah!'? Ahasuerus. The sulphurous mist is raisedthou seest Mahmud.                        A chasm, As of two mountains, in the wall of Stamboul; And in that ghastly breach the Islamites, Like giants on the ruins of a world, Stand in the light of sunrise. In the dust Glimmers a kingless diadem, and one Of regal port has cast himself beneath The stream of war. Another proudly clad In golden arms spurs a Tartarian barb Into the gap, and with his iron mace Directs the torrent of that tide of men, And seemshe isMahomet! Ahasuerus.               What thou seest Is but the ghost of thy forgotten dream. A dream itself, yet less, perhaps, than that Thou call'st reality. Thou mayst behold How cities, on which Empire sleeps enthroned, Bow their towered crests to mutability. Poised by the flood, e'en on the height thou holdest, Thou mayst now learn how the full tide of power Ebbs to its depths.Inheritor of glory, Conceived in darkness, born in blood, and nourished With tears and toil, thou seest the mortal throes Of that whose birth was but the same. The Past Now stands before thee like an Incarnation Of the To-come; yet wouldst thou commune with That portion of thyself which was ere thou Didst start for this brief race whose crown is death, Dissolve with that strong faith and fervent passion Which called it from the uncreated deep, Yon cloud of war, with its tempestuous phantoms Of raging death; and draw with mighty will The imperial shade hither. [Exit Ahasuerus. The Phantom of Mahomet the Second appears. Mahmud.               Approach!               Phantom.                    I come Thence whither thou must go! The grave is fitter To take the living than give up the dead; Yet has thy faith prevailed, and I am here. The heavy fragments of the power which fell When I arose, like shapeless crags and clouds, Hang round my throne on the abyss, and voices Of strange lament soothe my supreme repose, Wailing for glory never to return. A later Empire nods in its decay: The autumn of a greener faith is come, And wolfish change, like winter, howls to strip The foliage in which Fame, the eagle, built Her aerie, while Dominion whelped below. The storm is in its branches, and the frost Is on its leaves, and the blank deep expects Oblivion on oblivion, spoil on spoil, Ruin on ruin:Thou art slow, my son; The Anarchs of the world of darkness keep A throne for thee, round which thine empire lies Boundless and mute; and for thy subjects thou, Like us, shalt rule the ghosts of murdered life, The phantoms of the powers who rule thee now Mutinous passions, and conflicting fears, And hopes that sate themselves on dust, and die! Stripped of their mortal strength, as thou of thine. Islam must fall, but we will reign together Over its ruins in the world of death: And if the trunk be dry, yet shall the seed Unfold itself even in the shape of that Which gathers birth in its decay. Woe! woe! To the weak people tangled in the grasp Of its last spasms. Mahmud.           Spirit, woe to all! Woe to the wronged and the avenger! Woe To the destroyer, woe to the destroyed! Woe to the dupe, and woe to the deceiver! Woe to the oppressed, and woe to the oppressor! Woe both to those that suffer and inflict; Those who are born and those who die! but say, Imperial shadow of the thing I am, When, how, by whom, Destruction must accomplish Her consummation! Phantom.          Ask the cold pale Hour, Rich in reversion of impending death, When he shall fall upon whose ripe gray hairs Sit Care, and Sorrow, and Infirmity The weight which Crime, whose wings are plumed with years, Leaves in his flight from ravaged heart to heart Over the heads of men, under which burthen They bow themselves unto the grave: fond wretch! He leans upon his crutch, and talks of years To come, and how in hours of youth renewed He will renew lost joys, and Voice without.                 Victory! Victory!                 [The Phantom vanishes. Mahmud. What sound of the importunate earth has broken My mighty trance? Voice without.          Victory! Victory!          Mahmud. Weak lightning before darkness! poor faint smile Of dying Islam! Voice which art the response Of hollow weakness! Do I wake and live? Were there such things, or may the unquiet brain, Vexed by the wise mad talk of the old Jew, Have shaped itself these shadows of its fear? It matters not!for nought we see or dream, Possess, or lose, or grasp at, can be worth More than it gives or teaches: Come what may, The Future must become the Past, and I As they were to whom once this present hour, This gloomy crag of time to which I cling, Seemed an Elysian isle of peace and joy Never to be attained.I must rebuke This drunkenness of triumph ere it die, And dying, bring despair. Victory! poor slaves! Exit Mahmud. Voice without. Shout in the jubilee of death! The Greeks Are as a brood of lions in the net Round which the kingly hunters of the earth Stand smiling. Anarchs, ye whose daily food Are curses, groans, and gold, the fruit of death, From Thule to the girdle of the world, Come, feast! the board groans with the flesh of men; The cup is foaming with a nation's blood, Famine and Thirst await! eat, drink, and die! Semichorus I. Victorious Wrong, with vulture scream, Salutes the rising sun, pursues the flying day! I saw her, ghastly as a tyrant's dream, Perch on the trembling pyramid of night, Beneath which earth and all her realms pavilioned lay In visions of the dawning undelight.   Who shall impede her flight?   Who rob her of her prey?   Voice without. Victory! Victory! Russia's famished eagles Dare not to prey beneath the crescent's light. Impale the remnant of the Greeks! despoil! Violate! make their flesh cheaper than dust! Semichorus II. Thou voice which art The herald of the ill in splendour hid! Thou echo of the hollow heart Of monarchy, bear me to thine abode When desolation flashes o'er a world destroyed: Oh, bear me to those isles of jaggd cloud Which float like mountains on the earthquake, mid The momentary oceans of the lightning, Or to some toppling promontory proud Of solid tempest whose black pyramid, Riven, overhangs the founts intensely bright'ning Of those dawn-tinted deluges of fire Before their waves expire, When heaven and earth are light, and only light   In the thunder-night!   Voice without. Victory! Victory! Austria, Russia, England, And that tame serpent, that poor shadow, France, Cry peace, and that means death when monarchs speak. Ho, there! bring torches, sharpen those red stakes, These chains are light, fitter for slaves and poisoners Than Greeks. Kill! plunder! burn! let none remain. Semichorus I.    Alas! for Liberty! If numbers, wealth, or unfulfilling years, Or fate, can quell the free!    Alas! for Virtue, when Torments, or contumely, or the sneers    Of erring judging men   Can break the heart where it abides. Alas! if Love, whose smile makes this obscure world splendid,   Can change with its false times and tides,    Like hope and terror,     Alas for Love! And Truth, who wanderest lone and unbefriended, If thou canst veil thy lie-consuming mirror Before the dazzled eyes of Error, Alas for thee! Image of the Above. Semichorus II.   Repulse, with plumes from conquest torn, Led the ten thousand from the limits of the morn   Through many an hostile Anarchy! At length they wept aloud, and cried, 'The Sea! the Sea!'   Through exile, persecution, and despair,    Rome was, and young Atlantis shall become    The wonder, or the terror, or the tomb Of all whose step wakes Power lulled in her savage lair: But Greece was as a hermit-child,   Whose fairest thoughts and limbs were built To woman's growth, by dreams so mild,   She knew not pain or guilt; And now, O Victory, blush! and Empire, tremble    When ye desert the free    If Greece must be A wreck, yet shall its fragments reassemble, And build themselves again impregnably    In a diviner clime, To Amphionic music on some Cape sublime, Which frowns above the idle foam of Time. Semichorus I. Let the tyrants rule the desert they have made; Let the free possess the Paradise they claim; Be the fortune of our fierce oppressors weighed With our ruin, our resistance, and our name! Semichorus II. Our dead shall be the seed of their decay, Our survivors be the shadow of their pride, Our adversity a dream to pass away Their dishonour a remembrance to abide! Voice without. Victory! Victory! The bought Briton sends The keys of ocean to the Islamite. Now shall the blazon of the cross be veiled, And British skill directing Othman might, Thunder-strike rebel victory. Oh, keep holy This jubilee of unrevengd blood! Kill! crush! despoil! Let not a Greek escape! Semichorus I. Darkness has dawned in the East On the noon of time: The death-birds descend to their feast From the hungry clime. Let Freedom and Peace flee far To a sunnier strand, And follow Love's folding-star To the Evening land! Semichorus II.     The young moon has fed      Her exhausted horn       With the sunset's fire:     The weak day is dead,      But the night is not born; And, like loveliness panting with wild desire While it trembles with fear and delight, Hesperus flies from awakening night, And pants in its beauty and speed with light Fast-flashing, soft, and bright. Thou beacon of love! thou lamp of the free!    Guide us far, far away, To climes where now veiled by the ardour of day     Thou art hidden   From waves on which weary Noon   Faints in her summer swoon,   Between kingless continents sinless as Eden,   Around mountains and islands inviolably     Pranked on the sapphire sea.     Semichorus I. Through the sunset of hope, Like the shapes of a dream, What Paradise islands of glory gleam!   Beneath Heaven's cope, Their shadows more clear float by The sound of their oceans, the light of their sky, The music and fragrance their solitudes breathe Burst, like morning on dream, or like Heaven on death,   Through the walls of our prison; And Greece, which was dead, is arisen! Chorus[7]. The world's great age begins anew, The golden years return, The earth doth like a snake renew Her winter weeds outworn: Heaven smiles, and faiths and empires gleam, Like wrecks of a dissolving dream. A brighter Hellas rears its mountains From waves serener far; A new Peneus rolls his fountains Against the morning star. Where fairer Tempes bloom, there sleep Young Cyclads on a sunnier deep. A loftier Argo cleaves the main, Fraught with a later prize; Another Orpheus sings again, And loves, and weeps, and dies. A new Ulysses leaves once more Calypso for his native shore. Oh, write no more the tale of Troy, If earth Death's scroll must be! Nor mix with Laian rage the joy Which dawns upon the free: Although a subtler Sphinx renew Riddles of death Thebes never knew. Another Athens shall arise, And to remoter time Bequeath, like sunset to the skies, The splendour of its prime; And leave, if nought so bright may live, All earth can take or Heaven can give. Saturn and Love their long repose Shall burst[8], more bright and good Than all who fell, than One who rose, Than many unsubdued: Not gold, not blood, their altar dowers, But votive tears and symbol flowers. Oh, cease! must hate and death return? Cease! must men kill and die? Cease! drain not to its dregs the urn Of bitter prophecy. The world is weary of the past, Oh, might it die or rest at last! Hellas was composed at Pisa in the autumn of 1821, and dispatched to London, November 11. It was published, with the author's name, by C. & J. Ollier in the spring of 1822. A transcript of the poem by Edward Williams is in the Rowfant Library. Note by Mrs. Shelley: 'Hellas was among the last of his compositions, and is among the most beautiful. The choruses are singularly imaginative, and melodious in their versification. There are some stanzas that beautifully exemplify Shelley's peculiar style; as, for instance, the assertion of the intellectual empire which must be for ever the inheritance of the country of Homer, Sophocles, and Plato:-- ''But Greece and her foundations are Built below the tide of war, Based on the crystalline sea Of thought and its eternity.''' ~ Percy Bysshe Shelley, Hellas - A Lyrical Drama ,

451:BOOK THE EIGHTH The Story of Nisus and Scylla Now shone the morning star in bright array, To vanquish night, and usher in the day: The wind veers southward, and moist clouds arise, That blot with shades the blue meridian skies. Cephalus feels with joy the kindly gales, His new allies unfurl the swelling sails; Steady their course, they cleave the yielding main, And, with a wish, th' intended harbour gain. Mean-while King Minos, on the Attick strand, Displays his martial skill, and wastes the land. His army lies encampt upon the plains, Before Alcathoe's walls, where Nisus reigns; On whose grey head a lock of purple hue, The strength, and fortune of his kingdom, grew. Six moons were gone, and past, when still from far Victoria hover'd o'er the doubtful war. So long, to both inclin'd, th' impartial maid Between 'em both her equal wings display'd. High on the walls, by Phoebus vocal made, A turret of the palace rais'd its head; And where the God his tuneful harp resign'd. The sound within the stones still lay enshrin'd: Hither the daughter of the purple king Ascended oft, to hear its musick ring; And, striking with a pebble, wou'd release Th' enchanted notes, in times of happy peace. But now, from thence, the curious maid beheld Rough feats of arms, and combats of the field: And, since the siege was long, had learnt the name Of ev'ry chief, his character, and fame; Their arms, their horse, and quiver she descry'd, Nor cou'd the dress of war the warriour hide. Europa's son she knew above the rest, And more, than well became a virgin breast: In vain the crested morion veils his face, She thinks it adds a more peculiar grace: His ample shield, embost with burnish'd gold, Still makes the bearer lovelier to behold: When the tough jav'lin, with a whirl, he sends, His strength and skill the sighing maid commends; Or, when he strains to draw the circling bow, And his fine limbs a manly posture show, Compar'd with Phoebus, he performs so well, Let her be judge, and Minos shall excell. But when the helm put off, display'd to sight, And set his features in an open light; When, vaulting to his seat, his steed he prest, Caparison'd in gold, and richly drest; Himself in scarlet sumptuously array'd, New passions rise, and fire the frantick maid. O happy spear! she cries, that feels his touch; Nay, ev'n the reins he holds are blest too much. Oh! were it lawful, she cou'd wing her way Thro' the stern hostile troops without dismay; Or throw her body to the distant ground, And in the Cretans happy camp be found. Wou'd Minos but desire it! she'd expose Her native country to her country's foes; Unbar the gates, the town with flames infest, Or any thing that Minos shou'd request. And as she sate, and pleas'd her longing sight, Viewing the king's pavilion veil'd with white, Shou'd joy, or grief, she said, possess my breast, To see my country by a war opprest? I'm in suspense! For, tho' 'tis grief to know I love a man that is declar'd my foe; Yet, in my own despite, I must approve That lucky war, which brought the man I love. Yet, were I tender'd as a pledge of peace, The cruelties of war might quickly cease. Oh! with what joy I'd wear the chains he gave! A patient hostage, and a willing slave. Thou lovely object! if the nymph that bare Thy charming person, were but half so fair; Well might a God her virgin bloom desire, And with a rape indulge his amorous fire. Oh! had I wings to glide along the air, To his dear tent I'd fly, and settle there: There tell my quality, confess my flame, And grant him any dowry that he'd name. All, all I'd give; only my native land, My dearest country, shou'd excepted stand, For, perish love, and all expected joys, E're, with so base a thought, my soul complies. Yet, oft the vanquish'd some advantage find, When conquer'd by a noble, gen'rous mind. Brave Minos justly has the war begun, Fir'd with resentment for his murder'd son: The righteous Gods a righteous cause regard, And will, with victory, his arms reward: We must be conquer'd; and the captive's fate Will surely seize us, tho' it seize us late. Why then shou'd love be idle, and neglect What Mars, by arms and perils, will effect? Oh! Prince, I dye, with anxious fear opprest, Lest some rash hand shou'd wound my charmer's breast: For, if they saw, no barb'rous mind cou'd dare Against that lovely form to raise a spear. But I'm resolv'd, and fix'd in this decree, My father's country shall my dowry be. Thus I prevent the loss of life and blood, And, in effect, the action must be good. Vain resolution! for, at ev'ry gate The trusty centinels, successive, wait: The keys my father keeps; ah! there's my grief; 'Tis he obstructs all hopes of my relief. Gods! that this hated light I'd never seen! Or, all my life, without a father been! But Gods we all may be; for those that dare, Are Gods, and Fortune's chiefest favours share. The ruling Pow'rs a lazy pray'r detest, The bold adventurer succeeds the best. What other maid, inspir'd with such a flame, But wou'd take courage, and abandon shame? But wou'd, tho' ruin shou'd ensue, remove Whate'er oppos'd, and clear the way to love? This, shall another's feeble passion dare? While I sit tame, and languish in despair: No; for tho' fire and sword before me lay, Impatient love thro' both shou'd force its way. Yet I have no such enemies to fear, My sole obstruction is my father's hair; His purple lock my sanguine hope destroys, And clouds the prospect of my rising joys. Whilst thus she spoke, amid the thick'ning air Night supervenes, the greatest nurse of care: And, as the Goddess spreads her sable wings, The virgin's fears decay, and courage springs. The hour was come, when Man's o'er-labour'd breast Surceas'd its care, by downy sleep possest: All things now hush'd, Scylla with silent tread Urg'd her approach to Nisus' royal bed: There, of the fatal lock (accursed theft!) She her unwitting father's head bereft. In safe possession of her impious prey, Out at a postern gate she takes her way. Embolden'd, by the merit of the deed She traverses the adverse camp with speed, 'Till Minos' tent she reach'd: the righteous king She thus bespoke, who shiver'd at the thing. Behold th' effect of love's resistless sway! I, Nisus' royal seed, to thee betray My country, and my Gods. For this strange task, Minos, no other boon but thee I ask. This purple lock, a pledge of love, receive; No worthless present, since in it I give My father's head.- Mov'd at a crime so new, And with abhorrence fill'd, back Minos drew, Nor touch'd th' unhallow'd gift; but thus exclaim'd (With mein indignant, and with eyes inflam'd), Perdition seize thee, thou, thy kind's disgrace! May thy devoted carcass find no place In earth, or air, or sea, by all out-cast! Shall Minos, with so foul a monster, blast His Cretan world, where cradled Jove was nurst? Forbid it Heav'n!- away, thou most accurst! And now Alcathoe, its lord exchang'd, Was under Minos' domination rang'd. While the most equal king his care applies To curb the conquer'd, and new laws devise, The fleet, by his command, with hoisted sails, And ready oars, invites the murm'ring gales. At length the Cretan hero anchor weigh'd, Repaying, with neglect, th' abandon'd maid. Deaf to her cries, he furrows up the main: In vain she prays, sollicits him in vain. And now she furious grows in wild despair, She wrings her hands, and throws aloft her hair. Where run'st thou? (thus she vents her deep distress) Why shun'st thou her that crown'd thee with success? Her, whose fond love to thee cou'd sacrifice Her country, and her parent, sacred ties! Can nor my love, nor proffer'd presents find A passage to thy heart, and make thee kind? Can nothing move thy pity? O ingrate, Can'st thou behold my lost, forlorn estate, And not be soften'd? Can'st thou throw off one Who has no refuge left but thee alone? Where shall I seek for comfort? whither fly? My native country does in ashes lye: Or were't not so, my treason bars me there, And bids me wander. Shall I next repair To a wrong'd father, by my guilt undone?- Me all Mankind deservedly will shun. I, out of all the world, my self have thrown, To purchase an access to Crete alone; Which, since refus'd, ungen'rous man, give o'er To boast thy race; Europa never bore A thing so savage. Thee some tygress bred, On the bleak Syrt's inhospitable bed; Or where Charybdis pours its rapid tide Tempestuous. Thou art not to Jove ally'd; Nor did the king of Gods thy mother meet Beneath a bull's forg'd shape, and bear to Crete. That fable of thy glorious birth is feign'd; Some wild outrageous bull thy dam sustain'd. O father Nisus, now my death behold; Exult, o city, by my baseness sold: Minos, obdurate, has aveng'd ye all; But 'twere more just by those I wrong'd to fall: For why shou'dst thou, who only didst subdue By my offending, my offence pursue? Well art thou matcht to one whose am'rous flame Too fiercely rag'd, for human-kind to tame; One who, within a wooden heifer thrust, Courted a low'ring bull's mistaken lust; And, from whose monster-teeming womb, the Earth Receiv'd, what much it mourn'd, a bi-form birth. But what avails my plaints? the whistling wind, Which bears him far away, leaves them behind. Well weigh'd Pasiphae, when she prefer'd A bull to thee, more brutish than the herd. But ah! Time presses, and the labour'd oars To distance drive the fleet, and lose the less'ning shores. Think not, ungrateful man, the liquid way And threat'ning billows shall inforce my stay. I'll follow thee in spite: My arms I'll throw Around thy oars, or grasp thy crooked prow, And drag thro' drenching seas. Her eager tongue Had hardly clos'd the speech, when forth she sprung And prov'd the deep. Cupid with added force Recruits each nerve, and aids her wat'ry course. Soon she the ship attains, unwelcome guest; And, as with close embrace its sides she prest, A hawk from upper air came pouring down ('Twas Nisus cleft the sky with wings new grown). At Scylla's head his horny bill he aims; She, fearful of the blow, the ship disclaims, Quitting her hold: and yet she fell not far, But wond'ring, finds her self sustain'd in air. Chang'd to a lark, she mottled pinions shook, And, from the ravish'd lock, the name of Ciris took. The Labyrinth Now Minos, landed on the Cretan shore, Performs his vows to Jove's protecting pow'r; A hundred bullocks of the largest breed, With flowrets crown'd, before his altar bleed: While trophies of the vanquish'd, brought from far Adorn the palace with the spoils of war. Mean-while the monster of a human-beast, His family's reproach, and stain, increas'd. His double kind the rumour swiftly spread, And evidenc'd the mother's beastly deed. When Minos, willing to conceal the shame That sprung from the reports of tatling Fame, Resolves a dark inclosure to provide, And, far from sight, the two-form'd creature hide. Great Daedalus of Athens was the man That made the draught, and form'd the wondrous plan; Where rooms within themselves encircled lye, With various windings, to deceive the eye. As soft Maeander's wanton current plays, When thro' the Phrygian fields it loosely strays; Backward and forward rouls the dimpl'd tide, Seeming, at once, two different ways to glide: While circling streams their former banks survey, And waters past succeeding waters see: Now floating to the sea with downward course, Now pointing upward to its ancient source, Such was the work, so intricate the place, That scarce the workman all its turns cou'd trace; And Daedalus was puzzled how to find The secret ways of what himself design'd. These private walls the Minotaur include, Who twice was glutted with Athenian blood: But the third tri bute more successful prov'd, Slew the foul monster, and the plague remov'd. When Theseus, aided by the virgin's art, Had trac'd the guiding thread thro' ev'ry part, He took the gentle maid, that set him free, And, bound for Dias, cut the briny sea. There, quickly cloy'd, ungrateful, and unkind, Left his fair consort in the isle behind, Whom Bacchus saw, and straining in his arms Her rifled bloom, and violated charms, Resolves, for this, the dear engaging dame Shou'd shine for ever in the rolls of Fame; And bids her crown among the stars be plac'd, With an eternal constellation grac'd. The golden circlet mounts; and, as it flies, Its diamonds twinkle in the distant skies; There, in their pristin form, the gemmy rays Between Alcides, and the dragon blaze. The Story of Daedalus and Icarus In tedious exile now too long detain'd, Daedalus languish'd for his native land: The sea foreclos'd his flight; yet thus he said: Tho' Earth and water in subjection laid, O cruel Minos, thy dominion be, We'll go thro' air; for sure the air is free. Then to new arts his cunning thought applies, And to improve the work of Nature tries. A row of quils in gradual order plac'd, Rise by degrees in length from first to last; As on a cliff th' ascending thicket grows, Or, different reeds the rural pipe compose. Along the middle runs a twine of flax, The bottom stems are joyn'd by pliant wax. Thus, well compact, a hollow bending brings The fine composure into real wings. His boy, young Icarus, that near him stood, Unthinking of his fate, with smiles pursu'd The floating feathers, which the moving air Bore loosely from the ground, and wasted here and there. Or with the wax impertinently play'd, And with his childish tricks the great design delay'd. The final master-stroke at last impos'd, And now, the neat machine compleatly clos'd; Fitting his pinions on, a flight he tries, And hung self-ballanc'd in the beaten skies. Then thus instructs his child: My boy, take care To wing your course along the middle air; If low, the surges wet your flagging plumes; If high, the sun the melting wax consumes: Steer between both: nor to the northern skies, Nor south Orion turn your giddy eyes; But follow me: let me before you lay Rules for the flight, and mark the pathless way. Then teaching, with a fond concern, his son, He took the untry'd wings, and fix'd 'em on; But fix'd with trembling hands; and as he speaks, The tears roul gently down his aged cheeks. Then kiss'd, and in his arms embrac'd him fast, But knew not this embrace must be the last. And mounting upward, as he wings his flight, Back on his charge he turns his aking sight; As parent birds, when first their callow care Leave the high nest to tempt the liquid air. Then chears him on, and oft, with fatal art, Reminds the stripling to perform his part. These, as the angler at the silent brook, Or mountain-shepherd leaning on his crook, Or gaping plowman, from the vale descries, They stare, and view 'em with religious eyes, And strait conclude 'em Gods; since none, but they, Thro' their own azure skies cou'd find a way. Now Delos, Paros on the left are seen, And Samos, favour'd by Jove's haughty queen; Upon the right, the isle Lebynthos nam'd, And fair Calymne for its honey fam'd. When now the boy, whose childish thoughts aspire To loftier aims, and make him ramble high'r, Grown wild, and wanton, more embolden'd flies Far from his guide, and soars among the skies. The soft'ning wax, that felt a nearer sun, Dissolv'd apace, and soon began to run. The youth in vain his melting pinions shakes, His feathers gone, no longer air he takes: Oh! Father, father, as he strove to cry, Down to the sea he tumbled from on high, And found his Fate; yet still subsists by fame, Among those waters that retain his name. The father, now no more a father, cries, Ho Icarus! where are you? as he flies; Where shall I seek my boy? he cries again, And saw his feathers scatter'd on the main. Then curs'd his art; and fun'ral rites confer'd, Naming the country from the youth interr'd. A partridge, from a neighb'ring stump, beheld The sire his monumental marble build; Who, with peculiar call, and flutt'ring wing, Chirpt joyful, and malicious seem'd to sing: The only bird of all its kind, and late Transform'd in pity to a feather'd state: From whence, O Daedalus, thy guilt we date. His sister's son, when now twelve years were past, Was, with his uncle, as a scholar plac'd; The unsuspecting mother saw his parts, And genius fitted for the finest arts. This soon appear'd; for when the spiny bone In fishes' backs was by the stripling known, A rare invention thence he learnt to draw, Fil'd teeth in ir'n, and made the grating saw. He was the first, that from a knob of brass Made two strait arms with widening stretch to pass; That, while one stood upon the center's place, The other round it drew a circling space. Daedalus envy'd this, and from the top Of fair Minerva's temple let him drop; Feigning, that, as he lean'd upon the tow'r, Careless he stoop'd too much, and tumbled o'er. The Goddess, who th' ingenious still befriends, On this occasion her asssistance lends; His arms with feathers, as he fell, she veils, And in the air a new made bird he sails. The quickness of his genius, once so fleet, Still in his wings remains, and in his feet: Still, tho' transform'd, his ancient name he keeps, And with low flight the new-shorn stubble sweeps, Declines the lofty trees, and thinks it best To brood in hedge-rows o'er its humble nest; And, in remembrance of the former ill, Avoids the heights, and precipices still. At length, fatigu'd with long laborious flights, On fair Sicilia's plains the artist lights; Where Cocalus the king, that gave him aid, Was, for his kindness, with esteem repaid. Athens no more her doleful tri bute sent, That hardship gallant Theseus did prevent; Their temples hung with garlands, they adore Each friendly God, but most Minerva's pow'r: To her, to Jove, to all, their altars smoak, They each with victims, and perfumes invoke. Now talking Fame, thro' every Grecian town, Had spread, immortal Theseus, thy renown. From him the neighb'ring nations in distress, In suppliant terms implore a kind redress. The Story of Meleager and Atalanta From him the Caledonians sought relief; Though valiant Meleagros was their chief. The cause, a boar, who ravag'd far and near: Of Cynthia's wrath, th' avenging minister. For Oeneus with autumnal plenty bless'd, By gifts to Heav'n his gratitude express'd: Cull'd sheafs, to Ceres; to Lyaeus, wine; To Pan, and Pales, offer'd sheep and kine; And fat of olives, to Minerva's shrine. Beginning from the rural Gods, his hand Was lib'ral to the Pow'rs of high command: Each deity in ev'ry kind was bless'd, 'Till at Diana's fane th' invidious honour ceas'd. Wrath touches ev'n the Gods; the Queen of Night, Fir'd with disdain, and jealous of her right, Unhonour'd though I am, at least, said she, Not unreveng'd that impious act shall be. Swift as the word, she sped the boar away, With charge on those devoted fields to prey. No larger bulls th' Aegyptian pastures feed, And none so large Sicilian meadows breed: His eye-balls glare with fire suffus'd with blood; His neck shoots up a thick-set thorny wood; His bristled back a trench impal'd appears, And stands erected, like a field of spears; Froth fills his chaps, he sends a grunting sound, And part he churns, and part befoams the ground, For tusks with Indian elephants he strove, And Jove's own thunder from his mouth he drove. He burns the leaves; the scorching blast invades The tender corn, and shrivels up the blades: Or suff'ring not their yellow beards to rear, He tramples down the spikes, and intercepts the year: In vain the barns expect their promis'd load, Nor barns at home, nor recks are heap'd abroad: In vain the hinds the threshing-floor prepare, And exercise their flail in empty air. With olives ever-green the ground is strow'd, And grapes ungather'd shed their gen'rous blood. Amid the fold he rages, nor the sheep Their shepherds, nor the grooms their bulls can keep. From fields to walls the frighted rabble run, Nor think themselves secure within the town: 'Till Meleagros, and his chosen crew, Contemn the danger, and the praise pursue. Fair Leda's twins (in time to stars decreed) One fought on foot, one curb'd the fiery steed; Then issu'd forth fam'd Jason after these, Who mann'd the foremost ship that sail'd the seas; Then Theseus join'd with bold Perithous came; A single concord in a double name: The Thestian sons, Idas who swiftly ran, And Ceneus, once a woman, now a man. Lynceus, with eagle's eyes, and lion's heart; Leucippus, with his never-erring dart; Acastus, Phileus, Phoenix, Telamon, Echion, Lelix, and Eurytion, Achilles' father, and great Phocus' son; Dryas the fierce, and Hippasus the strong; With twice old Iolas, and Nestor then but young. Laertes active, and Ancaeus bold; Mopsus the sage, who future things foretold; And t' other seer, yet by his wife unsold. A thousand others of immortal fame; Among the rest, fair Atalanta came, Grace of the woods: a diamond buckle bound Her vest behind, that else had flow'd upon the ground, And shew'd her buskin'd legs; her head was bare, But for her native ornament of hair; Which in a simple knot was ty'd above, Sweet negligence! unheeded bait of love! Her sounding quiver, on her shoulder ty'd, One hand a dart, and one a bow supply'd. Such was her face, as in a nymph display'd A fair fierce boy, or in a boy betray'd The blushing beauties of a modest maid. The Caledonian chief at once the dame Beheld, at once his heart receiv'd the flame, With Heav'ns averse. O happy youth, he cry'd; For whom thy fates reserve so fair a bride! He sigh'd, and had no leisure more to say; His honour call'd his eyes another way, And forc'd him to pursue the now-neglected prey. There stood a forest on a mountain's brow, Which over-look'd the shaded plains below. No sounding ax presum'd those trees to bite; Coeval with the world, a venerable sight. The heroes there arriv'd, some spread around The toils; some search the footsteps on the ground: Some from the chains the faithful dogs unbound. Of action eager, and intent in thought, The chiefs their honourable danger sought: A valley stood below; the common drain Of waters from above, and falling rain: The bottom was a moist, and marshy ground, Whose edges were with bending oziers crown'd: The knotty bulrush next in order stood, And all within of reeds a trembling wood. From hence the boar was rous'd, and sprung amain, Like lightning sudden, on the warrior train; Beats down the trees before him, shakes the ground. The forest echoes to the crackling sound; Shout the fierce youth, and clamours ring around. All stood with their protended spears prepar'd, With broad steel heads the brandish'd weapons glar'd. The beast impetuous with his tusks aside Deals glancing wounds; the fearful dogs divide: All spend their mouths aloof, but none abide. Echion threw the first, but miss'd his mark, And stuck his boar-spear on a maple's bark. Then Jason; and his javelin seem'd to take, But fail'd with over-force, and whiz'd above his back. Mopsus was next; but e'er he threw, address'd To Phoebus, thus: O patron, help thy priest: If I adore, and ever have ador'd Thy pow'r divine, thy present aid afford; That I may reach the beast. The God allow'd His pray'r, and smiling, gave him what he cou'd: He reach'd the savage, but no blood he drew: Dian unarm'd the javelin, as it flew. This chaf'd the boar, his nostrils flames expire, And his red eye-balls roul with living fire. Whirl'd from a sling, or from an engine thrown, Amid the foes, so flies a mighty stone, As flew the beast: the left wing put to flight, The chiefs o'er-born, he rushes on the right. Eupalamos and Pelagon he laid In dust, and next to death, but for their fellows' aid. Onesimus far'd worse, prepar'd to fly, The fatal fang drove deep within his thigh, And cut the nerves: the nerves no more sustain The bulk; the bulk unprop'd, falls headlong on the plain. Nestor had fail'd the fall of Troy to see, But leaning on his lance, he vaulted on a tree; Then gath'ring up his feet, look'd down with fear, And thought his monstrous foe was still too near. Against a stump his tusk the monster grinds, And in the sharpen'd edge new vigour finds; Then, trusting to his arms, young Othrys found, And ranch'd his hips with one continu'd wound. Now Leda's twins, the future stars, appear; White were their habits, white their horses were: Conspicuous both, and both in act to throw, Their trembling lances brandish'd at the foe: Nor had they miss'd; but he to thickets fled, Conceal'd from aiming spears, not pervious to the steed. But Telamon rush'd in, and happ'd to meet A rising root, that held his fastned feet; So down he fell, whom, sprawling on the ground, His brother from the wooden gyves unbound. Mean-time the virgin-huntress was not slow T' expel the shaft from her contracted bow: Beneath his ear the fastned arrow stood, And from the wound appear'd the trickling blood. She blush'd for joy: but Meleagros rais'd His voice with loud applause, and the fair archer prais'd. He was the first to see, and first to show His friends the marks of the successful blow. Nor shall thy valour want the praises due, He said; a virtuous envy seiz'd the crew. They shout; the shouting animates their hearts, And all at once employ their thronging darts: But out of order thrown, in air they joyn, And multitude makes frustrate the design. With both his hands the proud Ancaeus takes, And flourishes his double-biting ax: Then, forward to his fate, he took a stride Before the rest, and to his fellows cry'd, Give place, and mark the diff'rence, if you can, Between a woman warrior, and a man, The boar is doom'd; nor though Diana lend Her aid, Diana can her beast defend. Thus boasted he; then stretch'd, on tiptoe stood, Secure to make his empty promise good. But the more wary beast prevents the blow, And upward rips the groin of his audacious foe. Ancaeus falls; his bowels from the wound Rush out, and clotted blood distains the ground. Perithous, no small portion of the war, Press'd on, and shook his lance: to whom from far Thus Theseus cry'd; O stay, my better part, My more than mistress; of my heart, the heart. The strong may fight aloof; Ancaeus try'd His force too near, and by presuming dy'd: He said, and while he spake his javelin threw, Hissing in air th' unerring weapon flew; But on an arm of oak, that stood betwixt The marks-man and the mark, his lance he fixt. Once more bold Jason threw, but fail'd to wound The boar, and slew an undeserving hound, And thro' the dog the dart was nail'd to ground. Two spears from Meleager's hand were sent, With equal force, but various in th' event: The first was fix'd in earth, the second stood On the boar's bristled back, and deeply drank his blood. Now while the tortur'd savage turns around, And flings about his foam, impatient of the wound, The wound's great author close at hand provokes His rage, and plies him with redoubled strokes; Wheels, as he wheels; and with his pointed dart Explores the nearest passage to his heart. Quick, and more quick he spins in giddy gires, Then falls, and in much foam his soul expires. This act with shouts heav'n-high the friendly band Applaud, and strain in theirs the victor's hand. Then all approach the slain with vast surprize, Admire on what a breadth of earth he lies, And scarce secure, reach out their spears afar, And blood their points, to prove their partnership of war. But he, the conqu'ring chief, his foot impress'd On the strong neck of that destructive beast; And gazing on the nymph with ardent eyes, Accept, said he, fair Nonacrine, my prize, And, though inferior, suffer me to join My labours, and my part of praise, with thine: At this presents her with the tusky head And chine, with rising bristles roughly spread. Glad she receiv'd the gift; and seem'd to take With double pleasure, for the giver's sake. The rest were seiz'd with sullen discontent, And a deaf murmur through the squadron went: All envy'd; but the Thestyan brethren show'd The least respect, and thus they vent their spleen aloud: Lay down those honour'd spoils, nor think to share, Weak woman as thou art, the prize of war: Ours is the title, thine a foreign claim, Since Meleagrus from our lineage came. Trust not thy beauty; but restore the prize, Which he, besotted on that face, and eyes, Would rend from us: at this, enflam'd with spite, From her they snatch the gift, from him the giver's right. But soon th' impatient prince his fauchion drew, And cry'd, Ye robbers of another's due, Now learn the diff'rence, at your proper cost, Betwixt true valour, and an empty boast. At this advanc'd, and sudden as the word, In proud Plexippus' bosom plung'd the sword: Toxeus amaz'd, and with amazement slow, Or to revenge, or ward the coming blow, Stood doubting; and while doubting thus he stood, Receiv'd the steel bath'd in his brother's blood. Pleas'd with the first, unknown the second news; Althaea to the temples pays their dues For her son's conquest; when at length appear Her grisly brethren stretch'd upon the bier: Pale at the sudden sight, she chang'd her cheer, And with her cheer her robes; but hearing tell The cause, the manner, and by whom they fell, 'Twas grief no more, or grief and rage were one Within her soul; at last 'twas rage alone; Which burning upwards in succession, dries The tears, that stood consid'ring in her eyes. There lay a log unlighted on the hearth, When she was lab'ring in the throws of birth For th' unborn chief; the fatal sisters came, And rais'd it up, and toss'd it on the flame: Then on the rock a scanty measure place Of vital flax, and turn'd the wheel apace; And turning sung, To this red brand and thee, O new born babe, we give an equal destiny; So vanish'd out of view. The frighted dame Sprung hasty from her bed, and quench'd the flame: The log, in secret lock'd, she kept with care, And that, while thus preserv'd, preserv'd her heir. This brand she now produc'd; and first she strows The hearth with heaps of chips, and after blows; Thrice heav'd her hand, and heav'd, she thrice repress'd: The sister and the mother long contest, Two doubtful titles, in one tender breast: And now her eyes, and cheeks with fury glow, Now pale her cheeks, her eyes with pity flow: Now low'ring looks presage approaching storms, And now prevailing love her face reforms: Resolv'd, she doubts again; the tears she dry'd With burning rage, are by new tears supply'd; And as a ship, which winds and waves assail Now with the current drives, now with the gale, Both opposite, and neither long prevail: She feels a double force, by turns obeys Th' imperious tempest, and th' impetuous seas: So fares Althaea's mind, she first relents With pity, of that pity then repents: Sister, and mother long the scales divide, But the beam nodded on the sister's side. Sometimes she softly sigh'd, then roar'd aloud; But sighs were stifled in the cries of blood. The pious, impious wretch at length decreed, To please her brothers' ghost, her son should bleed: And when the fun'ral flames began to rise, Receive, she said, a sister's sacrifice; A mother's bowels burn: high in her hand, Thus while she spoke, she held the fatal brand; Then thrice before the kindled pile she bow'd, And the three Furies thrice invok'd aloud: Come, come, revenging sisters, come, and view A sister paying her dead brothers due: A crime I punish, and a crime commit; But blood for blood, and death for death is fit: Great crimes must be with greater crimes repaid, And second fun'rals on the former laid. Let the whole houshold in one ruin fall, And may Diana's curse o'ertake us all. Shall Fate to happy Oenus still allow One son, while Thestius stands depriv'd of two? Better three lost, than one unpunish'd go. Take then, dear ghosts (while yet admitted new In Hell you wait my duty), take your due: A costly off'ring on your tomb is laid, When with my blood the price of yours is paid. Ah! whither am I hurry'd? Ah! forgive, Ye shades, and let your sister's issue live; A mother cannot give him death; tho' he Deserves it, he deserves it not from me. Then shall th' unpunish'd wretch insult the slain, Triumphant live, nor only live, but reign? While you, thin shades, the sport of winds, are tost O'er dreary plains, or tread the burning coast. I cannot, cannot bear; 'tis past, 'tis done; Perish this impious, this detested son: Perish his sire, and perish I withal; And let the house's heir, and the hop'd kingdom fall. Where is the mother fled, her pious love, And where the pains with which ten months I strove! Ah! had'st thou dy'd, my son, in infant years, Thy little herse had been bedew'd with tears. Thou liv'st by me; to me thy breath resign; Mine is the merit, the demerit thine. Thy life by double title I require; Once giv'n at birth, and once preserv'd from fire: One murder pay, or add one murder more, And me to them who fell by thee restore. I would, but cannot: my son's image stands Before my sight; and now their angry hands My brothers hold, and vengeance these exact; This pleads compassion, and repents the fact. He pleads in vain, and I pronounce his doom: My brothers, though unjustly, shall o'ercome. But having paid their injur'd ghosts their due, My son requires my death, and mine shall his pursue. At this, for the last time, she lifts her hand, Averts her eyes, and, half unwilling, drops the brand. The brand, amid the flaming fewel thrown, Or drew, or seem'd to draw, a dying groan; The fires themselves but faintly lick'd their prey, Then loath'd their impious food, and would have shrunk away. Just then the heroe cast a doleful cry, And in those absent flames began to fry: The blind contagion rag'd within his veins; But he with manly patience bore his pains: He fear'd not Fate, but only griev'd to die Without an honest wound, and by a death so dry. Happy Ancaeus, thrice aloud he cry'd, With what becoming fate in arms he dy'd! Then call'd his brothers, sisters, sire around, And, her to whom his nuptial vows were bound, Perhaps his mother; a long sigh she drew, And his voice failing, took his last adieu. For as the flames augment, and as they stay At their full height, then languish to decay, They rise and sink by fits; at last they soar In one bright blaze, and then descend no more: Just so his inward heats, at height, impair, 'Till the last burning breath shoots out the soul in air. Now lofty Calidon in ruins lies; All ages, all degrees unsluice their eyes, And Heav'n, and Earth resound with murmurs, groans, and cries. Matrons and maidens beat their breasts, and tear Their habits, and root up their scatter'd hair: The wretched father, father now no more, With sorrow sunk, lies prostrate on the floor, Deforms his hoary locks with dust obscene, And curses age, and loaths a life prolong'd with pain. By steel her stubborn soul his mother freed, And punish'd on her self her impious deed. Had I a hundred tongues, a wit so large As could their hundred offices discharge; Had Phoebus all his Helicon bestow'd In all the streams, inspiring all the God; Those tongues, that wit, those streams, that God in vain Would offer to describe his sisters' pain: They beat their breasts with many a bruizing blow, 'Till they turn livid, and corrupt the snow. The corps they cherish, while the corps remains, And exercise, and rub with fruitless pains; And when to fun'ral flames 'tis born away, They kiss the bed on which the body lay: And when those fun'ral flames no longer burn (The dust compos'd within a pious urn), Ev'n in that urn their brother they confess, And hug it in their arms, and to their bosoms press. His tomb is rais'd; then, stretch'd along the ground, Those living monuments his tomb surround: Ev'n to his name, inscrib'd, their tears they pay, 'Till tears, and kisses wear his name away. But Cynthia now had all her fury spent, Not with less ruin than a race content: Excepting Gorge, perish'd all the seed, And her whom Heav'n for Hercules decreed. Satiate at last, no longer she pursu'd The weeping sisters; but With Wings endu'd, And horny beaks, and sent to flit in air; Who yearly round the tomb in feather'd flocks repair. The Transformation of the Naiads Theseus mean-while acquitting well his share In the bold chace confed'rate like a war, To Athens' lofty tow'rs his march ordain'd, By Pallas lov'd, and where Erectheus reign'd. But Achelous stop'd him on the way, By rains a deluge, and constrain'd his stay. O fam'd for glorious deeds, and great by blood, Rest here, says he, nor trust the rapid flood; It solid oaks has from its margin tore, And rocky fragments down its current bore, The murmur hoarse, and terrible the roar. Oft have I seen herds with their shelt'ring fold Forc'd from the banks, and in the torrent roul'd; Nor strength the bulky steer from ruin freed, Nor matchless swiftness sav'd the racing steed. In cataracts when the dissolving snow Falls from the hills, and floods the plains below; Toss'd by the eddies with a giddy round, Strong youths are in the sucking whirlpools drown'd. 'Tis best with me in safety to abide, 'Till usual bounds restrain the ebbing tide, And the low waters in their channel glide. Theseus perswaded, in compliance bow'd: So kind an offer, and advice so good, O Achelous, cannot be refus'd; I'll use them both, said he; and both he us'd. The grot he enter'd, pumice built the hall, And tophi made the rustick of the wall; The floor, soft moss, an humid carpet spread, And various shells the chequer'd roof inlaid. 'Twas now the hour when the declining sun Two thirds had of his daily journey run; At the spread table Theseus took his place, Next his companions in the daring chace; Perithous here, there elder Lelex lay, His locks betraying age with sprinkled grey. Acharnia's river-God dispos'd the rest, Grac'd with the equal honour of the feast, Elate with joy, and proud of such a guest. The nymphs were waiters, and with naked feet In order serv'd the courses of the meat. The banquet done, delicious wine they brought, Of one transparent gem the cup was wrought. Then the great heroe of this gallant train, Surveying far the prospect of the main: What is that land, says he, the waves embrace? (And with his finger pointed at the place); Is it one parted isle which stands alone? How nam'd? and yet methinks it seems not one. To whom the watry God made this reply; 'Tis not one isle, but five; distinct they lye; 'Tis distance which deceives the cheated eye. But that Diana's act may seem less strange, These once proud Naiads were, before their change. 'Twas on a day more solemn than the rest, Ten bullocks slain, a sacrificial feast: The rural Gods of all the region near They bid to dance, and taste the hallow'd cheer. Me they forgot: affronted with the slight, My rage, and stream swell'd to the greatest height; And with the torrent of my flooding store, Large woods from woods, and fields from fields I tore. The guilty nymphs, oh! then, remembring me, I, with their country, wash'd into the sea; And joining waters with the social main, Rent the gross land, and split the firm champagne. Since, the Echinades, remote from shore Are view'd as many isles, as nymphs before. Perimele turn'd into an Island But yonder far, lo, yonder does appear An isle, a part to me for ever dear. From that (it sailors Perimele name) I doating, forc'd by rape a virgin's fame. Hippodamas's passion grew so strong, Gall'd with th' abuse, and fretted at the wrong, He cast his pregnant daughter from a rock; I spread my waves beneath, and broke the shock; And as her swimming weight my stream convey'd, I su'd for help divine, and thus I pray'd: O pow'rful thou, whose trident does comm and The realm of waters, which surround the land; We sacred rivers, wheresoe'er begun, End in thy lot, and to thy empire run. With favour hear, and help with present aid; Her whom I bear 'twas guilty I betray'd. Yet if her father had been just, or mild, He would have been less impious to his child; In her, have pity'd force in the abuse; In me, admitted love for my excuse. O let relief for her hard case be found, Her, whom paternal rage expell'd from ground, Her, whom paternal rage relentless drown'd. Grant her some place, or change her to a place, Which I may ever clasp with my embrace. His nodding head the sea's great ruler bent, And all his waters shook with his assent. The nymph still swam, tho' with the fright distrest, I felt her heart leap trembling in her breast; But hardning soon, whilst I her pulse explore, A crusting Earth cas'd her stiff body o'er; And as accretions of new-cleaving soil Inlarg'd the mass, the nymph became an isle. The Story of Baucis and Philemon Thus Achelous ends: his audience hear With admiration, and admiring, fear The Pow'rs of Heav'n; except Ixion's Son, Who laugh'd at all the Gods, believ'd in none: He shook his impious head, and thus replies. These legends are no more than pious lies: You attri bute too much to heav'nly sway, To think they give us forms, and take away. The rest of better minds, their sense declar'd Against this doctrine, and with horror heard. Then Lelex rose, an old experienc'd man, And thus with sober gravity began; Heav'n's pow'r is infinite: Earth, Air, and Sea, The manufacture mass, the making Pow'r obey: By proof to clear your doubt; in Phrygian ground Two neighb'ring trees, with walls encompass'd round, Stand on a mod'rate rise, with wonder shown, One a hard oak, a softer linden one: I saw the place, and them, by Pittheus sent To Phrygian realms, my grandsire's government. Not far from thence is seen a lake, the haunt Of coots, and of the fishing cormorant: Here Jove with Hermes came; but in disguise Of mortal men conceal'd their deities; One laid aside his thunder, one his rod; And many toilsome steps together trod: For harbour at a thousand doors they knock'd, Not one of all the thousand but was lock'd. At last an hospitable house they found, A homely shed; the roof, not far from ground, Was thatch'd with reeds, and straw, together bound. There Baucis and Philemon liv'd, and there Had liv'd long marry'd, and a happy pair: Now old in love, though little was their store, Inur'd to want, their poverty they bore, Nor aim'd at wealth, professing to be poor. For master, or for servant here to call, Was all alike, where only two were all. Command was none, where equal love was paid, Or rather both commanded, both obey'd. From lofty roofs the Gods repuls'd before, Now stooping, enter'd through the little door: The man (their hearty welcome first express'd) A common settle drew for either guest, Inviting each his weary limbs to rest. But ere they sate, officious Baucis lays Two cushions stuff'd with straw, the seat to raise; Coarse, but the best she had; then rakes the load Of ashes from the hearth, and spreads abroad The living coals; and, lest they should expire, With leaves, and bark she feeds her infant fire: It smoaks; and then with trembling breath she blows, 'Till in a chearful blaze the flames arose. With brush-wood, and with chips she streng thens these, And adds at last the boughs of rotten trees. The fire thus form'd, she sets the kettle on (Like burnish'd gold the little seether shone), Next took the coleworts which her husb and got From his own ground (a small well-water'd spot); She stripp'd the stalks of all their leaves; the best She cull'd, and them with handy care she drest. High o'er the hearth a chine of bacon hung; Good old Philemon seiz'd it with a prong, And from the sooty rafter drew it down, Then cut a slice, but scarce enough for one; Yet a large portion of a little store, Which for their sakes alone he wish'd were more. This in the pot he plung'd without delay, To tame the flesh, and drain the salt away. The time beween, before the fire they sat, And shorten'd the delay by pleasing chat. A beam there was, on which a beechen pail Hung by the handle, on a driven nail: This fill'd with water, gently warm'd, they set Before their guests; in this they bath'd their feet, And after with clean towels dry'd their sweat. This done, the host produc'd the genial bed, Sallow the feet, the borders, and the sted, Which with no costly coverlet they spread, But coarse old garments; yet such robes as these They laid alone, at feasts, on holidays. The good old housewife, tucking up her gown, The table sets; th' invited Gods lie down. The trivet-table of a foot was lame, A blot which prudent Baucis overcame, Who thrusts beneath the limping leg a sherd, So was the mended board exactly rear'd: Then rubb'd it o'er with newly gather'd mint, A wholsom herb, that breath'd a grateful scent. Pallas began the feast, where first was seen The party-colour'd olive, black, and green: Autumnal cornels next in order serv'd, In lees of wine well pickled, and preserv'd. A garden-sallad was the third supply, Of endive, radishes, and succory: Then curds, and cream, the flow'r of country fare, And new-laid eggs, which Baucis' busie care Turn'd by a gentle fire, and roasted rare. All these in ear then ware were serv'd to board; And next in place, an ear then pitcher stor'd, With liquor of the best the cottage could afford. This was the table's ornament and pride, With figures wrought: like pages at his side Stood beechen bowls; and these were shining clean, Varnish'd with wax without, and lin'd within. By this the boiling kettle had prepar'd, And to the table sent the smoaking lard; On which with eager appetite they dine, A sav'ry bit, that serv'd to relish wine: The wine itself was suiting to the rest, Still working in the must, and lately press'd. The second course succeeds like that before, Plums, apples, nuts, and of their wintry store Dry figs, and grapes, and wrinkled dates were set In canisters, t' enlarge the little treat: All these a milk-white honey-comb surround, Which in the midst the country-banquet crown'd: But the kind hosts their entertainment grace With hearty welcome, and an open face: In all they did, you might discern with ease, A willing mind, and a desire to please. Mean-time the beechen bowls went round, and still, Though often empty'd, were observ'd to fill; Fill'd without hands, and of their own accord Ran without feet, and danc'd about the board. Devotion seiz'd the pair, to see the feast With wine, and of no common grape, increas'd; And up they held their hands, and fell to pray'r, Excusing, as they could, their country fare. One goose they had ('twas all they could allow), A wakeful centry, and on duty now, Whom to the Gods for sacrifice they vow: Her with malicious zeal the couple view'd; She ran for life, and limping they pursu'd: Full well the fowl perceiv'd their bad intent, And would not make her master's compliment; But persecuted, to the Pow'rs she flies, And close between the legs of Jove she lies: He with a gracious ear the suppliant heard, And sav'd her life; then what he has declar'd, And own'd the God. The neighbourhood, said he, Shall justly perish for impiety: You stand alone exempted; but obey With speed, and follow where we lead the way: Leave these accurs'd; and to the mountain's height Ascend; nor once look backward in your flight. They haste, and what their tardy feet deny'd, The trusty staff (their better leg) supply'd. An arrow's flight they wanted to the top, And there secure, but spent with travel, stop; Then turn their now no more forbidden eyes; Lost in a lake the floated level lies: A watry desart covers all the plains, Their cot alone, as in an isle, remains. Wondring, with weeping eyes, while they deplore Their neighbours' fate, and country now no more, Their little shed, scarce large enough for two, Seems, from the ground increas'd, in height and bulk to grow. A stately temple shoots within the skies, The crotches of their cot in columns rise: The pavement polish'd marble they behold, The gates with sculpture grac'd, the spires and tiles of gold. Then thus the sire of Gods, with looks serene, Speak thy desire, thou only just of men; And thou, o woman, only worthy found To be with such a man in marriage bound. A-while they whisper; then, to Jove address'd, Philemon thus prefers their joint request: We crave to serve before your sacred shrine, And offer at your altars rites divine: And since not any action of our life Has been polluted with domestick strife; We beg one hour of death, that neither she With widow's tears may live to bury me, Nor weeping I, with wither'd arms may bear My breathless Baucis to the sepulcher. The Godheads sign their suit. They run their race In the same tenour all th' appointed space: Then, when their hour was come, while they relate These past adventures at the temple gate, Old Baucis is by old Philemon seen Sprouting with sudden leaves of spritely green: Old Baucis look'd where old Philemon stood, And saw his leng then'd arms a sprouting wood: New roots their fasten'd feet begin to bind, Their bodies stiffen in a rising rind: Then, ere the bark above their shoulders grew, They give, and take at once their last adieu. At once, Farewell, o faithful spouse, they said; At once th' incroaching rinds their closing lips invade. Ev'n yet, an ancient Tyanaean shows A spreading oak, that near a linden grows; The neighbourhood confirm the prodigy, Grave men, not vain of tongue, or like to lie. I saw my self the garlands on their boughs, And tablets hung for gifts of granted vows; And off'ring fresher up, with pious pray'r, The good, said I, are God's peculiar care, And such as honour Heav'n, shall heav'nly honour share. The Changes of Proteus He ceas'd in his relation to proceed, Whilst all admir'd the author, and the deed; But Theseus most, inquisitive to know From Gods what wondrous alterations grow. Whom thus the Calydonian stream address'd, Rais'd high to speak, the couch his elbow press'd. Some, when transform'd, fix in the lasting change; Some with more right, thro' various figures range. Proteus, thus large thy privilege was found, Thou inmate of the seas, which Earth surround. Sometimes a bloming youth you grac'd the shore; Oft a fierce lion, or a furious boar: With glist'ning spires now seem'd an hissing snake, The bold would tremble in his hands to take: With horns assum'd a bull; sometimes you prov'd A tree by roots, a stone by weight unmov'd: Sometimes two wav'ring contraries became, Flow'd down in water, or aspir'd in flame. The Story of Erisichthon In various shapes thus to deceive the eyes, Without a settled stint of her disguise, Rash Erisichthon's daughter had the pow'r, And brought it to Autolicus in dow'r. Her atheist sire the slighted Gods defy'd, And ritual honours to their shrines deny'd. As fame reports, his hand an ax sustain'd, Which Ceres' consecrated grove prophan'd; Which durst the venerable gloom invade, And violate with light the awful shade. An ancient oak in the dark center stood, The covert's glory, and itself a wood: Garlands embrac'd its shaft, and from the boughs Hung tablets, monuments of prosp'rous vows. In the cool dusk its unpierc'd verdure spread, The Dryads oft their hallow'd dances led; And oft, when round their gaging arms they cast, Full fifteen ells it measu'rd in the waste: Its height all under standards did surpass, As they aspir'd above the humbler grass. These motives, which would gentler minds restrain, Could not make Triope's bold son abstain; He sternly charg'd his slaves with strict decree, To fell with gashing steel the sacred tree. But whilst they, lingring, his commands delay'd, He snatch'd an Ax, and thus blaspheming said: Was this no oak, nor Ceres' favourite care, But Ceres' self, this arm, unaw'd, shou'd dare Its leafy honours in the dust to spread, And level with the earth its airy head. He spoke, and as he poiz'd a slanting stroak, Sighs heav'd, and tremblings shook the frighted oak; Its leaves look'd sickly, pale its acorns grew, And its long branches sweat a chilly dew. But when his impious hand a wound bestow'd, Blood from the mangled bark in currents flow'd. When a devoted bull of mighty size, A sinning nation's grand atonement, dies; With such a plenty from the spouting veins, A crimson stream the turfy altars stains. The wonder all amaz'd; yet one more bold, The fact dissuading, strove his ax to hold. But the Thessalian, obstinately bent, Too proud to change, too harden'd to repent, On his kind monitor, his eyes, which burn'd With rage, and with his eyes his weapon turn'd; Take the reward, says he, of pious dread: Then with a blow lopp'd off his parted head. No longer check'd, the wretch his crime pursu'd, Doubled his strokes, and sacrilege renew'd; When from the groaning trunk a voice was heard, A Dryad I, by Ceres' love preferr'd, Within the circle of this clasping rind Coeval grew, and now in ruin join'd; But instant vengeance shall thy sin pursue, And death is chear'd with this prophetick view. At last the oak with cords enforc'd to bow, Strain'd from the top, and sap'd with wounds below, The humbler wood, partaker of its fate, Crush'd with its fall, and shiver'd with its weight. The grove destroy'd, the sister Dryads moan, Griev'd at its loss, and frighted at their own. Strait, suppliants for revenge to Ceres go, In sable weeds, expressive of their woe. The beauteous Goddess with a graceful air Bow'd in consent, and nodded to their pray'r. The awful motion shook the fruitful ground, And wav'd the fields with golden harvests crown'd. Soon she contriv'd in her projecting mind A plague severe, and piteous in its kind (If plagues for crimes of such presumptuous height Could pity in the softest breast create). With pinching want, and hunger's keenest smart, To tear his vitals, and corrode his heart. But since her near approach by Fate's deny'd To famine, and broad climes their pow'rs divide, A nymph, the mountain's ranger, she address'd, And thus resolv'd, her high commands express'd. The Description of Famine Where frozen Scythia's utmost bound is plac'd, A desart lies, a melancholy waste: In yellow crops there Nature never smil'd, No fruitful tree to shade the barren wild. There sluggish cold its icy station makes, There paleness, frights, and aguish trembling shakes, Of pining famine this the fated seat, To whom my orders in these words repeat: Bid her this miscreant with her sharpest pains Chastise, and sheath herself into his veins; Be unsubdu'd by plenty's baffled store, Reject my empire, and defeat my pow'r. And lest the distance, and the tedious way, Should with the toil, and long fatigue dismay, Ascend my chariot, and convey'd on high, Guide the rein'd dragons thro' the parting sky. The nymph, accepting of the granted carr, Sprung to the seat, and posted thro' the air; Nor stop'd 'till she to a bleak mountain came Of wondrous height, and Caucasus its name. There in a stony field the fiend she found, Herbs gnawing, and roots scratching from the ground. Her elfelock hair in matted tresses grew, Sunk were her eyes, and pale her ghastly hue, Wan were her lips, and foul with clammy glew. Her throat was furr'd, her guts appear'd within With snaky crawlings thro' her parchment skin. Her jutting hips seem'd starting from their place, And for a belly was a belly's space, Her dugs hung dangling from her craggy spine, Loose to her breast, and fasten'd to her chine. Her joints protuberant by leanness grown, Consumption sunk the flesh, and rais'd the bone. Her knees large orbits bunch'd to monstrous size, And ancles to undue proportion rise. This plague the nymph, not daring to draw near, At distance hail'd, and greeted from afar. And tho' she told her charge without delay, Tho' her arrival late, and short her stay, She felt keen famine, or she seem'd to feel, Invade her blood, and on her vitals steal. She turn'd, from the infection to remove, And back to Thessaly the serpents drove. The fiend obey'd the Goddess' comm and (Tho' their effects in opposition stand), She cut her way, supported by the wind, And reach'd the mansion by the nymph assign'd. 'Twas night, when entring Erisichthon's room, Dissolv'd in sleep, and thoughtless of his doom, She clasp'd his limbs, by impious labour tir'd, With battish wings, but her whole self inspir'd; Breath'd on his throat and chest a tainting blast, And in his veins infus'd an endless fast. The task dispatch'd, away the Fury flies From plenteous regions, and from rip'ning skies; To her old barren north she wings her speed, And cottages distress'd with pinching need. Still slumbers Erisichthon's senses drown, And sooth his fancy with their softest down. He dreams of viands delicate to eat, And revels on imaginary meat, Chaws with his working mouth, but chaws in vain, And tires his grinding teeth with fruitless pain; Deludes his throat with visionary fare, Feasts on the wind, and banquets on the air. The morning came, the night, and slumbers past, But still the furious pangs of hunger last; The cank'rous rage still gnaws with griping pains, Stings in his throat, and in his bowels reigns. Strait he requires, impatient in demand, Provisions from the air, the seas, the land. But tho' the land, air, seas, provisions grant, Starves at full tables, and complains of want. What to a people might in dole be paid, Or victual cities for a long blockade, Could not one wolfish appetite asswage; For glutting nourishment increas'd its rage. As rivers pour'd from ev'ry distant shore, The sea insatiate drinks, and thirsts for more; Or as the fire, which all materials burns, And wasted forests into ashes turns, Grows more voracious, as the more it preys, Recruits dilate the flame, and spread the blaze: So impious Erisichthon's hunger raves, Receives refreshments, and refreshments craves. Food raises a desire for food, and meat Is but a new provocative to eat. He grows more empty, as the more supply'd, And endless cramming but extends the void. The Transformations of Erisichthon's Daughter Now riches hoarded by paternal care Were sunk, the glutton swallowing up the heir. Yet the devouring flame no stores abate, Nor less his hunger grew with his estate. One daughter left, as left his keen desire, A daughter worthy of a better sire: Her too he sold, spent Nature to sustain; She scorn'd a lord with generous disdain, And flying, spread her hand upon the main. Then pray'd: Grant, thou, I bondage may escape, And with my liberty reward thy rape; Repay my virgin treasure with thy aid ('Twas Neptune who deflower'd the beauteous maid). The God was mov'd, at what the fair had su'd, When she so lately by her master view'd In her known figure, on a sudden took A fisher's habit, and a manly look. To whom her owner hasted to enquire; O thou, said he, whose baits hide treach'rous wire; Whose art can manage, and experienc'd skill The taper angle, and the bobbing quill, So may the sea be ruffled with no storm, But smooth with calms, as you the truth inform; So your deceit may no shy fishes feel, 'Till struck, and fasten'd on the bearded steel. Did not you standing view upon the strand, A wand'ring maid? I'm sure I saw her stand; Her hair disorder'd, and her homely dress Betray'd her want, and witness'd her distress. Me heedless, she reply'd, whoe'er you are, Excuse, attentive to another care. I settled on the deep my steady eye; Fix'd on my float, and bent on my employ. And that you may not doubt what I impart, So may the ocean's God assist my art, If on the beach since I my sport pursu'd, Or man, or woman but my self I view'd. Back o'er the sands, deluded, he withdrew, Whilst she for her old form put off her new. Her sire her shifting pow'r to change perceiv'd; And various chapmen by her sale deceiv'd. A fowl with spangled plumes, a brinded steer, Sometimes a crested mare, or antler'd deer: Sold for a price, she parted, to maintain Her starving parent with dishonest gain. At last all means, as all provisions, fail'd; For the disease by remedies prevail'd; His muscles with a furious bite he tore, Gorg'd his own tatter'd flesh, and gulph'd his gore. Wounds were his feast, his life to life a prey, Supporting Nature by its own decay. But foreign stories why shou'd I relate? I too my self can to new forms translate, Tho' the variety's not unconfin'd, But fix'd, in number, and restrain'd in kind: For often I this present shape retain, Oft curl a snake the volumes of my train. Sometimes my strength into my horns transfer'd, A bull I march, the captain of the herd. But whilst I once those goring weapons wore, Vast wresting force one from my forehead tore. Lo, my maim'd brows the injury still own; He ceas'd; his words concluding with a groan. ---------------------------------------------------------------------- ~ Ovid, BOOK THE EIGHTH ,

452:class:Classics BOOK THE THIRTEENTH The Speeches of Ajax and Ulysses The chiefs were set; the soldiers crown'd the field: To these the master of the seven-fold shield Upstarted fierce: and kindled with disdain. Eager to speak, unable to contain His boiling rage, he rowl'd his eyes around The shore, and Graecian gallies hall'd a-ground. Then stretching out his hands, O Jove, he cry'd, Must then our cause before the fleet be try'd? And dares Ulysses for the prize contend, In sight of what he durst not once defend? But basely fled that memorable day, When I from Hector's hands redeem'd the flaming prey. So much 'tis safer at the noisie bar With words to flourish, than ingage in war. By diff'rent methods we maintain our right, Nor am I made to talk, nor he to fight. In bloody fields I labour to be great; His arms are a smooth tongue, and soft deceit: Nor need I speak my deeds, for those you see, The sun, and day are witnesses for me. Let him who fights unseen, relate his own, And vouch the silent stars, and conscious moon. Great is the prize demanded, I confess, But such an abject rival makes it less; That gift, those honours, he but hop'd to gain, Can leave no room for Ajax to be vain: Losing he wins, because his name will be Ennobled by defeat, who durst contend with me. Were my known valour question'd, yet my blood Without that plea wou'd make my title good: My sire was Telamon, whose arms, employ'd With Hercules, these Trojan walls destroy'd; And who before with Jason sent from Greece, In the first ship brought home the golden fleece. Great Telamon from Aeacus derives His birth (th' inquisitor of guilty lives In shades below; where Sisyphus, whose son This thief is thought, rouls up the restless heavy stone), Just Aeacus, the king of Gods above Begot: thus Ajax is the third from Jove. Nor shou'd I seek advantage from my line, Unless (Achilles) it was mix'd with thine: As next of kin, Achilles' arms I claim; This fellow wou'd ingraft a foreign name Upon our stock, and the Sisyphian seed By fraud, and theft asserts his father's breed: Then must I lose these arms, because I came To fight uncall'd, a voluntary name, Nor shunn'd the cause, but offer'd you my aid? While he long lurking was to war betray'd: Forc'd to the field he came, but in the reer; And feign'd distraction to conceal his fear: 'Till one more cunning caught him in the snare (Ill for himself); and dragg'd him into war. Now let a hero's arms a coward vest, And he who shunn'd all honours, gain the best: And let me stand excluded from my right, Robb'd of my kinsman's arms, who first appear'd in fight, Better for us, at home had he remain'd, Had it been true the madness which he feign'd, Or so believ'd; the less had been our shame, The less his counsell'd crime, which brands the Grecian name; Nor Philoctetes had been left inclos'd In a bare isle, to wants and pains expos'd, Where to the rocks, with solitary groans, His suff'rings, and our baseness he bemoans: And wishes (so may Heav'n his wish fulfill) The due reward to him, who caus'd his ill. Now he, with us to Troy's destruction sworn, Our brother of the war, by whom are born Alcides' arrows, pent in narrow bounds, With cold and hunger pinch'd, and pain'd with wounds, To find him food and cloathing, must employ Against the birds the shafts due to the fate of Troy. Yet still he lives, and lives from treason free, Because he left Ulysses' company; Poor Palamede might wish, so void of aid, Rather to have been left, than so to death betray'd. The coward bore the man immortal spight, Who sham'd him out of madness into fight: Nor daring otherwise to vent his hate, Accus'd him first of treason to the state; And then for proof produc'd the golden store, Himself had hidden in his tent before: Thus of two champions he depriv'd our host, By exile one, and one by treason lost. Thus fights Ulysses, thus his fame extends, A formidable man, but to his friends: Great, for what greatness is in words, and sound, Ev'n faithful Nestor less in both is found: But that he might without a rival reign, He left this faithful Nestor on the plain; Forsook his friend ev'n at his utmost need, Who tir'd, and tardy with his wounded steed, Cry'd out for aid, and call'd him by his name; But cowardice has neither ears nor shame; Thus fled the good old man, bereft of aid, And, for as much as lay in him, betray'd: That this is not a fable forg'd by me, Like one of his, an Ulyssean lie, I vouch ev'n Diomede, who tho' his friend, Cannot that act excuse, much less defend: He call'd him back aloud, and tax'd his fear; And sure enough he heard, but durst not hear. The Gods with equal eyes on mortal look, He justly was forsaken, who forsook: Wanted that succour, he refus'd to lend, Found ev'ry fellow such another friend: No wonder, if he roar'd that all might hear; His elocution was increas'd by fear: I heard, I ran, I found him out of breath, Pale, trembling, and half dead with fear of death. Though he had judg'd himself by his own laws, And stood condemn'd, I help'd the common cause: With my broad buckler hid him from the foe (Ev'n the shield trembled as he lay below); And from impending Fate the coward freed: Good Heav'n forgive me for so bad a deed! If still he will persist, and urge the strife, First let him give me back his forfeit life: Let him return to that opprobrious field; Again creep under my protecting shield: Let him lie wounded, let the foe be near, And let his quiv'ring heart confess his fear; There put him in the very jaws of Fate; And let him plead his cause in that estate: And yet when snatch'd from death, when from below My lifted shield I loos'd, and let him go; Good Heav'ns, how light he rose, with what a bound He sprung from earth, forgetful of his wound; How fresh, how eager then his feet to ply; Who had not strength to stand, had speed to fly! Hector came on, and brought the Gods along; Fear seiz'd alike the feeble, and the strong: Each Greek was an Ulysses; such a dread Th' approach, and ev'n the sound of Hector bred: Him, flesh'd with slaughter, and with conquest crown'd, I met, and over-turn'd him to the ground; When after, matchless as he deem'd in might, He challeng'd all our host to single fight; All eyes were fix'd on me: the lots were thrown; But for your champion I was wish'd alone: Your vows were heard; we fought, and neither yield; Yet I return'd unvanquish'd from the field. With Jove to friend, th' insulting Trojan came, And menac'd us with force, our fleet with flame. Was it the strength of this tongue-valiant lord, In that black hour, that sav'd you from the sword? Or was my breast expos'd alone, to brave A thousand swords, a thousand ships to save? The hopes of your return! And can you yield, For a sav'd fleet, less than a single shield? Think it no boast, o Grecians, if I deem These arms want Ajax, more than Ajax them: Or, I with them an equal honour share; They honour'd to be worn, and I to wear. Will he compare my courage with his sleight? As well he may compare the day with night. Night is indeed the province of his reign: Yet all his dark exploits no more contain Than a spy taken, and a sleeper slain; A priest made pris'ner, Pallas made a prey: But none of all these actions done by day: Nor ought of these was done, and Diomede away. If on such petty merits you confer So vast a prize, let each his portion share; Make a just dividend; and if not all, The greater part to Diomede will fall. But why for Ithacus such arms as those, Who naked, and by night invades his foes? The glitt'ring helm by moonlight will proclaim The latent robber, and prevent his game: Nor cou'd he hold his tott'ring head upright Beneath that morion, or sustain the weight; Nor that right arm cou'd toss the beamy lance; Much less the left that ampler shield advance; Pond'rous with precious weight, and rough with cost Of the round world in rising gold emboss'd. That orb would ill become his hand to wield, And look as for the gold he stole the shield; Which, shou'd your error on the wretch bestow, It would not frighten, but allure the foe: Why asks he, what avails him not in fight, And wou'd but cumber, and retard his flight, In which his only excellence is plac'd? You give him death, that intercept his haste. Add, that his own is yet a maiden-shield, Nor the least dint has suffer'd in the field, Guiltless of fight: mine batter'd, hew'd, and bor'd, Worn out of service, must forsake his lord, What farther need of words our right to scan? My arguments are deeds, let action speak the man. Since from a champion's arms the strife arose, Go cast the glorious prize amid the foes; Then send us to redeem both arms, and shield, And let him wear, who wins 'em in the field. He said: a murmur from a multitude, Or somewhat like a stifled shout, ensu'd: 'Till from his seat arose Laertes' son, Look'd down a while, and paus'd, e'er he begun; Then, to th' expecting audience, rais'd his look, And not without prepar'd attention spoke: Soft was his tone, and sober was his face; Action his words, and words his action grace. If Heav'n, my lords, had heard our common pray'r, These arms had caus'd no quarrel for an heir; Still great Achilles had his own possess'd, And we with great Achilles had been bless'd; But since hard Fate, and Heav'n's severe decree, Have ravish'd him away from you, and me (At this he sigh'd, and wip'd his eyes, and drew, Or seem'd to draw, some drops of kindly dew), Who better can succeed Achilles lost, Than he, who gave Achilles to your hoast? This only I request, that neither he May gain, by being what he seems to be, A stupid thing; nor I may lose the prize, By having sense, which Heav'n to him denies: Since great or small, the talent I enjoy'd Was ever in the common cause employ'd; Nor let my wit, and wonted eloquence, Which often has been us'd in your defense, And in my own, this only time be brought To bear against my self, and deem'd a fault. Make not a crime, where Nature made it none; For ev'ry man may freely use his own. The deeds of long-descended ancestors Are but by grace of imputation ours, Theirs in effect; but since he draws his line From Jove, and seems to plead a right divine; From Jove, like him, I claim my pedigree, And am descended in the same degree: My sire Laertes was Arcesius' heir, Arcesius was the son of Jupiter: No parricide, no banish'd man, is known In all my line: let him excuse his own. Hermes ennobles too my mother's side, By both my parents to the Gods ally'd. But not because that on the female part My blood is better, dare I claim desert, Or that my sire from parricide is free; But judge by merit betwixt him, and me: The prize be to the best; provided yet That Ajax for a while his kin forget, And his great sire, and greater uncle's name, To fortifie by them his feeble claim: Be kindred and relation laid aside, And honour's cause by laws of honour try'd: For if he plead proximity of blood; That empty title is with ease withstood. Peleus, the hero's sire, more nigh than he, And Pyrrhus, his undoubted progeny, Inherit first these trophies of the field; To Scyros, or to Pthia, send the shield: And Teucer has an uncle's right; yet he Waves his pretensions, nor contends with me. Then since the cause on pure desert is plac'd, Whence shall I take my rise, what reckon last? I not presume on ev'ry act to dwell, But take these few, in order as they fell. Thetis, who knew the Fates, apply'd her care To keep Achilles in disguise from war; And 'till the threatning influence was past, A woman's habit on the hero cast: All eyes were cozen'd by the borrow'd vest, And Ajax (never wiser than the rest) Found no Pelides there: at length I came With proffer'd wares to this pretended dame; She, not discover'd by her mien, or voice, Betray'd her manhood by her manly choice; And while on female toys her fellows look, Grasp'd in her warlike hand, a javelin shook; Whom, by this act reveal'd, I thus bespoke: O Goddess-born! resist not Heav'n's decree, The fall of Ilium is reserv'd for thee; Then seiz'd him, and produc'd in open light, Sent blushing to the field the fatal knight. Mine then are all his actions of the war; Great Telephus was conquer'd by my spear, And after cur'd: to me the Thebans owe, Lesbos, and Tenedos, their overthrow; Syros and Cylla: not on all to dwell, By me Lyrnesus, and strong Chrysa fell: And since I sent the man who Hector slew, To me the noble Hector's death is due: Those arms I put into his living hand, Those arms, Pelides dead, I now demand. When Greece was injur'd in the Spartan prince, And met at Aulis to avenge th' offence, 'Twas a dead calm, or adverse blasts, that reign'd, And in the port the wind-bound fleet detain'd: Bad signs were seen, and oracles severe Were daily thunder'd in our gen'ral's ear; That by his daughter's blood we must appease Diana's kindled wrath, and free the seas. Affection, int'rest, fame, his heart assail'd: But soon the father o'er the king prevail'd: Bold, on himself he took the pious crime, As angry with the Gods, as they with him. No subject cou'd sustain their sov'reign's look, 'Till this hard enterprize I undertook: I only durst th' imperial pow'r controul, And undermin'd the parent in his soul; Forc'd him t' exert the king for common good, And pay our ransom with his daughter's blood. Never was cause more difficult to plead, Than where the judge against himself decreed: Yet this I won by dint of argument; The wrongs his injur'd brother underwent, And his own office, sham'd him to consent. 'Tis harder yet to move the mother's mind, And to this heavy task was I design'd: Reasons against her love I knew were vain; I circumvented whom I could not gain: Had Ajax been employ'd, our slacken'd sails Had still at Aulis waited happy gales. Arriv'd at Troy, your choice was fix'd on me, A fearless envoy, fit for a bold embassy: Secure, I enter'd through the hostile court, Glitt'ring with steel, and crowded with resort: There, in the midst of arms, I plead our cause, Urge the foul rape, and violated laws; Accuse the foes, as authors of the strife, Reproach the ravisher, demand the wife. Priam, Antenor, and the wiser few, I mov'd; but Paris, and his lawless crew Scarce held their hands, and lifted swords; but stood In act to quench their impious thirst of blood: This Menelaus knows; expos'd to share With me the rough preludium of the war. Endless it were to tell, what I have done, In arms, or council, since the siege begun: The first encounter's past, the foe repell'd, They skulk'd within the town, we kept the field. War seem'd asleep for nine long years; at length Both sides resolv'd to push, we try'd our strength Now what did Ajax, while our arms took breath, Vers'd only in the gross mechanick trade of death? If you require my deeds, with ambush'd arms I trapp'd the foe, or tir'd with false alarms; Secur'd the ships, drew lines along the plain, The fainting chear'd, chastis'd the rebel-train, Provided forage, our spent arms renew'd; Employ'd at home, or sent abroad, the common cause pursu'd. The king, deluded in a dream by Jove, Despair'd to take the town, and order'd to remove. What subject durst arraign the Pow'r supream, Producing Jove to justifie his dream? Ajax might wish the soldiers to retain From shameful flight, but wishes were in vain: As wanting of effect had been his words, Such as of course his thundring tongue affords. But did this boaster threaten, did he pray, Or by his own example urge their stay? None, none of these: but ran himself away. I saw him run, and was asham'd to see; Who ply'd his feet so fast to get aboard, as he? Then speeding through the place, I made a stand, And loudly cry'd, O base degenerate band, To leave a town already in your hand! After so long expence of blood, for fame, To bring home nothing, but perpetual shame! These words, or what I have forgotten since (For grief inspir'd me then with eloquence), Reduc'd their minds; they leave the crowded port, And to their late forsaken camp resort: Dismay'd the council met: this man was there, But mute, and not recover'd of his fear: Thersites tax'd the king, and loudly rail'd, But his wide opening mouth with blows I seal'd. Then, rising, I excite their souls to fame, And kindle sleeping virtue into flame. From thence, whatever he perform'd in fight Is justly mine, who drew him back from flight. Which of the Grecian chiefs consorts with thee? But Diomede desires my company, And still communicates his praise with me. As guided by a God, secure he goes, Arm'd with my fellowship, amid the foes: And sure no little merit I may boast, Whom such a man selects from such an hoast; Unforc'd by lots I went without affright, To dare with him the dangers of the night: On the same errand sent, we met the spy Of Hector, double-tongu'd, and us'd to lie; Him I dispatch'd, but not 'till undermin'd, I drew him first to tell, what treach'rous Troy design'd: My task perform'd, with praise I had retir'd, But not content with this, to greater praise aspir'd: Invaded Rhesus, and his Thracian crew, And him, and his, in their own strength I slew; Return'd a victor, all my vows compleat, With the king's chariot, in his royal seat: Refuse me now his arms, whose fiery steeds Were promis'd to the spy for his nocturnal deeds: Yet let dull Ajax bear away my right, When all his days out-balance this one night. Nor fought I darkling still: the sun beheld With slaughter'd Lycians when I strew'd the field: You saw, and counted as I pass'd along, Alastor, Chromius, Ceranos the strong, Alcander, Prytanis, and Halius, Noemon, Charopes, and Ennomus; Coon, Chersidamas; and five beside, Men of obscure descent, but courage try'd: All these this hand laid breathless on the ground; Nor want I proofs of many a manly wound: All honest, all before: believe not me; Words may deceive, but credit what you see. At this he bar'd his breast, and show'd his scars, As of a furrow'd field, well plow'd with wars; Nor is this part unexercis'd, said he; That gyant-bulk of his from wounds is free: Safe in his shield he fears no foe to try, And better manages his blood, than I: But this avails me not; our boaster strove Not with our foes alone, but partial Jove, To save the fleet: this I confess is true (Nor will I take from any man his due): But thus assuming all, he robs from you. Some part of honour to your share will fall, He did the best indeed, but did not all. Patroclus in Achilles' arms, and thought The chief he seem'd, with equal ardour fought; Preserv'd the fleet, repell'd the raging fire, And forc'd the fearful Trojans to retire. But Ajax boasts, that he was only thought A match for Hector, who the combat sought: Sure he forgets the king, the chiefs, and me: All were as eager for the fight, as he: He but the ninth, and not by publick voice, Or ours preferr'd, was only Fortune's choice: They fought; nor can our hero boast th' event, For Hector from the field unwounded went. Why am I forc'd to name that fatal day, That snatch'd the prop and pride of Greece away? I saw Pelides sink, with pious grief, And ran in vain, alas! to his relief; For the brave soul was fled: full of my friend I rush'd amid the war, his relicks to defend: Nor ceas'd my toil, 'till I redeem'd the prey, And, loaded with Achilles, march'd away: Those arms, which on these shoulders then I bore, 'Tis just you to these shoulders should restore. You see I want not nerves, who cou'd sustain The pond'rous ruins of so great a man: Or if in others equal force you find, None is endu'd with a more grateful mind. Did Thetis then, ambitious in her care, These arms thus labour'd for her son prepare; That Ajax after him the heav'nly gift shou'd wear! For that dull soul to stare with stupid eyes, On the learn'd unintelligible prize! What are to him the sculptures of the shield, Heav'n's planets, Earth, and Ocean's watry field? The Pleiads, Hyads; less, and greater Bear, Undipp'd in seas; Orion's angry star; Two diff'ring cities, grav'd on either hand; Would he wear arms he cannot understand? Beside, what wise objections he prepares Against my late accession to the wars? Does not the fool perceive his argument Is with more force against Achilles bent? For if dissembling be so great a crime, The fault is common, and the same in him: And if he taxes both of long delay, My guilt is less, who sooner came away. His pious mother, anxious for his life, Detain'd her son; and me, my pious wife. To them the blossoms of our youth were due, Our riper manhood we reserv'd for you. But grant me guilty, 'tis not much my care, When with so great a man my guilt I share: My wit to war the matchless hero brought, But by this fool I never had been caught. Nor need I wonder, that on me he threw Such foul aspersions, when he spares not you: If Palamede unjustly fell by me, Your honour suffer'd in th' unjust decree: I but accus'd, you doom'd: and yet he dy'd, Convinc'd of treason, and was fairly try'd: You heard not he was false; your eyes beheld The traytor manifest; the bribe reveal'd. That Philoctetes is on Lemnos left, Wounded, forlorn, of human aid bereft, Is not my crime, or not my crime alone; Defend your justice, for the fact's your own: 'Tis true, th' advice was mine; that staying there He might his weary limbs with rest repair, From a long voyage free, and from a longer war. He took the counsl, and he lives at least; Th' event declares I counsell'd for the best: Though faith is all in ministers of state; For who can promise to be fortunate? Now since his arrows are the Fate of Troy, Do not my wit, or weak address, employ; Send Ajax there, with his persuasive sense, To mollifie the man, and draw him thence: But Xanthus shall run backward; Ida stand A leafless mountain; and the Grecian band Shall fight for Troy; if, when my councils fail, The wit of heavy Ajax can prevail. Hard Philoctetes, exercise thy spleen Against thy fellows, and the king of men; Curse my devoted head, above the rest, And wish in arms to meet me breast to breast: Yet I the dang'rous task will undertake, And either die my self, or bring thee back. Nor doubt the same success, as when before The Phrygian prophet to these tents I bore, Surpriz'd by night, and forc'd him to declare In what was plac'd the fortune of the war, Heav'n's dark decrees, and answers to display, And how to take the town, and where the secret lay: Yet this I compass'd, and from Troy convey'd The fatal image of their guardian-maid; That work was mine; for Pallas, though our friend, Yet while she was in Troy, did Troy defend. Now what has Ajax done, or what design'd? A noisie nothing, and an empty wind. If he be what he promises in show, Why was I sent, and why fear'd he to go? Our boasting champion thought the task not light To pass the guards, commit himself to night; Not only through a hostile town to pass, But scale, with steep ascent, the sacred place; With wand'ring steps to search the cittadel, And from the priests their patroness to steal: Then through surrounding foes to force my way, And bear in triumph home the heavn'ly prey; Which had I not, Ajax in vain had held, Before that monst'rous bulk, his sev'nfold shield. That night to conquer Troy I might be said, When Troy was liable to conquest made. Why point'st thou to my partner of the war? Tydides had indeed a worthy share In all my toil, and praise; but when thy might Our ships protected, did'st thou singly fight? All join'd, and thou of many wert but one; I ask'd no friend, nor had, but him alone: Who, had he not been well assur'd, that art, And conduct were of war the better part, And more avail'd than strength, my valiant friend Had urg'd a better right, than Ajax can pretend: As good at least Eurypilus may claim, And the more mod'rate Ajax of the name: The Cretan king, and his brave charioteer, And Menelaus bold with sword, and spear: All these had been my rivals in the shield, And yet all these to my pretensions yield. Thy boist'rous hands are then of use, when I With this directing head those hands apply. Brawn without brain is thine: my prudent care Foresees, provides, administers the war: Thy province is to fight; but when shall be The time to fight, the king consults with me: No dram of judgment with thy force is join'd: Thy body is of profit, and my mind. By how much more the ship her safety owes To him who steers, than him that only rows; By how much more the captain merits praise, Than he who fights, and fighting but obeys; By so much greater is my worth than thine, Who canst but execute, what I design. What gain'st thou, brutal man, if I confess Thy strength superior, when thy wit is less? Mind is the man: I claim my whole desert, From the mind's vigour, and th' immortal part. But you, o Grecian chiefs, reward my care, Be grateful to your watchman of the war: For all my labours in so long a space, Sure I may plead a title to your grace: Enter the town, I then unbarr'd the gates, When I remov'd their tutelary Fates. By all our common hopes, if hopes they be Which I have now reduc'd to certainty; By falling Troy, by yonder tott'ring tow'rs, And by their taken Gods, which now are ours; Or if there yet a farther task remains, To be perform'd by prudence, or by pains; If yet some desp'rate action rests behind, That asks high conduct, and a dauntless mind; If ought be wanting to the Trojan doom, Which none but I can manage, and o'ercome, Award, those arms I ask, by your decree: Or give to this, what you refuse to me. He ceas'd: and ceasing with respect he bow'd, And with his hand at once the fatal statue show'd. Heav'n, air and ocean rung, with loud applause, And by the gen'ral vote he gain'd his cause. Thus conduct won the prize, when courage fail'd, And eloquence o'er brutal force prevail'd. The Death of Ajax He who cou'd often, and alone, withstand The foe, the fire, and Jove's own partial hand, Now cannot his unmaster'd grief sustain, But yields to rage, to madness, and disdain; Then snatching out his fauchion, Thou, said he, Art mine; Ulysses lays no claim to thee. O often try'd, and ever-trusty sword, Now do thy last kind office to thy lord: 'Tis Ajax who requests thy aid, to show None but himself, himself cou'd overthrow: He said, and with so good a will to die, Did to his breast the fatal point apply, It found his heart, a way 'till then unknown, Where never weapon enter'd, but his own. No hands cou'd force it thence, so fix'd it stood, 'Till out it rush'd, expell'd by streams of spouting blood. The fruitful blood produc'd a flow'r, which grew On a green stem; and of a purple hue: Like his, whom unaware Apollo slew: Inscrib'd in both, the letters are the same, But those express the grief, and these the name. The Story of Polyxena and Hecuba The victor with full sails for Lemnos stood (Once stain'd by matrons with their husbands' blood), Thence great Alcides' fatal shafts to bear, Assign'd to Philoctetes' secret care. These with their guardian to the Greeks convey'd, Their ten years' toil with wish'd success repaid. With Troy old Priam falls: his queen survives; 'Till all her woes compleat, transform'd she grieves In borrow'd sounds, nor with an human face, Barking tremendous o'er the plains of Thrace. Still Ilium's flames their pointed columns raise, And the red Hellespont reflects the blaze. Shed on Jove's altar are the poor remains Of blood, which trickl'd from old Priam's veins. Cassandra lifts her hands to Heav'n in vain, Drag'd by her sacred hair; the trembling train Of matrons to their burning temples fly: There to their Gods for kind protection cry; And to their statues cling 'till forc'd away, The victor Greeks bear off th' invidious prey. From those high tow'rs Astyanax is thrown, Whence he was wont with pleasure to look down. When oft his mother with a fond delight Pointed to view his father's rage in fight, To win renown, and guard his country's right. The winds now call to sea; brisk northern gales Sing in the shrowds, and court the spreading sails. Farewel, dear Troy, the captive matrons cry; Yes, we must leave our long-lov'd native sky. Then prostrate on the shore they kiss the sand, And quit the smoking ruines of the land. Last Hecuba on board, sad sight! appears; Found weeping o'er her children's sepulchres: Drag'd by Ulysses from her slaughter'd sons, Whilst yet she graspt their tombs, and kist their mouldring bones. Yet Hector's ashes from his urn she bore, And in her bosom the sad relique wore: Then scatter'd on his tomb her hoary hairs, A poor oblation mingled with her tears. Oppos'd to Ilium lye the Thracian plains, Where Polymestor safe in plenty reigns. King Priam to his care commits his son, Young Polydore, the chance of war to shun. A wise precaution! had not gold, consign'd For the child's use, debauch'd the tyrant's mind. When sinking Troy to its last period drew, With impious hands his royal charge he slew; Then in the sea the lifeless coarse is thrown; As with the body he the guilt could drown. The Greeks now riding on the Thracian shore, 'Till kinder gales invite, their vessels moor. Here the wide-op'ning Earth to sudden view Disclos'd Achilles, great as when he drew The vital air, but fierce with proud disdain, As when he sought Briseis to regain; When stern debate, and rash injurious strife Unsheath'd his sword, to reach Atrides' life. And will ye go? he said. Is then the name Of the once great Achilles lost to fame? Yet stay, ungrateful Greeks; nor let me sue In vain for honours to my Manes due. For this just end, Polyxena I doom With victim-rites to grace my slighted tomb. The phantom spoke; the ready Greeks obey'd, And to the tomb led the devoted maid Snatch'd from her mother, who with pious care Cherish'd this last relief of her despair. Superior to her sex, the fearless maid, Approach'd the altar, and around survey'd The cruel rites, and consecrated knife, Which Pyrrhus pointed at her guiltless life, Then as with stern amaze intent he stood, "Now strike," she said; "now spill my genr'ous blood; Deep in my breast, or throat, your dagger sheath, Whilst thus I stand prepar'd to meet my death. For life on terms of slav'ry I despise: Yet sure no God approves this sacrifice. O cou'd I but conceal this dire event From my sad mother, I should dye content. Yet should she not with tears my death deplore, Since her own wretched life demands them more. But let not the rude touch of man pollute A virgin-victim; 'tis a modest suit. It best will please, whoe'er demands my blood, That I untainted reach the Stygian flood. Yet let one short, last, dying prayer be heard; To Priam's daughter pay this last regard; 'Tis Priam's daughter, not a captive, sues; Do not the rites of sepulture refuse. To my afflicted mother, I implore, Free without ransom my dead corpse restore: Nor barter me for gain, when I am cold; But be her tears the price, if I am sold: Time was she could have ransom'd me with gold". Thus as she pray'd, one common shower of tears Burst forth, and stream'd from ev'ry eye but hers. Ev'n the priest wept, and with a rude remorse Plung'd in her heart the steel's resistless force. Her slacken'd limbs sunk gently to the ground, Dauntless her looks, unalter'd by the wound. And as she fell, she strove with decent pride To hide, what suits a virgin's care to hide. The Trojan matrons the pale corpse receive, And the whole slaughter'd race of Priam grieve, Sad they recount the long disastrous tale; Then with fresh tears, thee, royal maid, bewail; Thy widow'd mother too, who flourish'd late The royal pride of Asia's happier state: A captive lot now to Ulysses born; Whom yet the victor would reject with scorn, Were she not Hector's mother: Hector's fame Scarce can a master for his mother claim! With strict embrace the lifeless coarse she view'd; And her fresh grief that flood of tears renew'd, With which she lately mourn'd so many dead; Tears for her country, sons, and husb and shed. With the thick gushing stream she bath'd the wound; Kiss'd her pale lips; then weltring on the ground, With wonted rage her frantick bosom tore; Sweeping her hair amidst the clotted gore; Whilst her sad accents thus her loss deplore. "Behold a mother's last dear pledge of woe! Yes, 'tis the last I have to suffer now. Thou, my Polyxena, my ills must crown: Already in thy Fate, I feel my own. 'Tis thus, lest haply of my numerous seed One should unslaughter'd fall, even thou must bleed: And yet I hop'd thy sex had been thy guard; But neither has thy tender sex been spar'd. The same Achilles, by whose deadly hate Thy brothers fell, urg'd thy untimely fate! The same Achilles, whose destructive rage Laid waste my realms, has robb'd my childless age. When Paris' shafts with Phoebus' certain aid At length had pierc'd this dreaded chief, I said, Secure of future ills, he can no more: But see, he still pursues me as before. With rage rekindled his dead ashes burn; And his yet murd'ring ghost my wretched house must mourn. This tyrant's lust of slaughter I have fed With large supplies from my too-fruitful bed. Troy's tow'rs lye waste; and the wide ruin ends The publick woe; but me fresh woe attends. Troy still survives to me; to none but me; And from its ills I never must be free. I, who so late had power, and wealth, and ease, Bless'd with my husband, and a large encrease, Must now in poverty an exile mourn; Ev'n from the tombs of my dead offspring torn: Giv'n to Penelope, who proud of spoil, Allots me to the loom's ungrateful toil; Points to her dames, and crys with scorning mien: See Hector's mother, and great Priam's queen! And thou, my child, sole hope of all that's lost, Thou now art slain, to sooth this hostile ghost. Yes, my child falls an offering to my foe! Then what am I, who still survive this woe? Say, cruel Gods! for what new scenes of death Must a poor aged wretch prolong this hated breath? Troy fal'n, to whom could Priam happy seem? Yet was he so; and happy must I deem His death; for O! my child, he saw not thine, When he his life did with his Troy resign. Yet sure due obsequies thy tomb might grace; And thou shalt sleep amidst thy kingly race. Alas! my child, such fortune does not wait Our suffering house in this abandon'd state. A foreign grave, and thy poor mother's tears Are all the honours that attend thy herse. All now is lost!- Yet no; one comfort more Of life remains, my much-lov'd Polydore. My youngest hope: here on this coast he lives, Nurs'd by the guardian-king, he still survives. Then let me hasten to the cleansing flood, And wash away these stains of guiltless blood." Streit to the shore her feeble steps repair With limping pace, and torn dishevell'd hair Silver'd with age. "Give me an urn," she cry'd, "To bear back water from this swelling tide": When on the banks her son in ghastly hue Transfix'd with Thracian arrows strikes her view. The matrons shriek'd; her big-swoln grief surpast The pow'r of utterance; she stood aghast; She had nor speech, nor tears to give relief; Excess of woe suppress'd the rising grief. Lifeless as stone, on Earth she fix'd her eyes; And then look'd up to Heav'n with wild surprise. Now she contemplates o'er with sad delight Her son's pale visage; then her aking sight Dwells on his wounds: she varys thus by turns, Wild as the mother-lion, when among The haunts of prey she seeks her ravish'd young: Swift flies the ravisher; she marks his trace, And by the print directs her anxious chase. So Hecuba with mingled grief, and rage Pursues the king, regardless of her age. She greets the murd'rer with dissembled joy Of secret treasure hoarded for her boy. The specious tale th' unwary king betray'd. Fir'd with the hopes of prey: "Give quick," he said With soft enticing speech, "the promis'd store: Whate'er you give, you give to Polydore. Your son, by the immortal Gods I swear, Shall this with all your former bounty share." She stands attentive to his soothing lyes, And darts avenging horrour from her eyes. Then full resentment fires her boyling blood: She springs upon him, 'midst the captive crowd (Her thirst of vengeance want of strength supplies): Fastens her forky fingers in his eyes: Tears out the rooted balls; her rage pursues, And in the hollow orbs her hand imbrews. The Thracians, fir'd, at this inhuman scene, With darts, and stones assail the frantick queen. She snarls, and growls, nor in an human tone; Then bites impatient at the bounding stone; Extends her jaws, as she her voice would raise To keen invectives in her wonted phrase; But barks, and thence the yelping brute betrays. Still a sad monument the place remains, And from this monstrous change its name obtains: Where she, in long remembrance of her ills, With plaintive howlings the wide desart fills. Greeks, Trojans, friends, and foes, and Gods above Her num'rous wrongs to just compassion move. Ev'n Juno's self forgets her ancient hate, And owns, she had deserv'd a milder fate. The Funeral of Memnon Yet bright Aurora, partial as she was To Troy, and those that lov'd the Trojan cause, Nor Troy, nor Hecuba can now bemoan, But weeps a sad misfortune, more her own. Her offspring Memnon, by Achilles slain, She saw extended on the Phrygian plain: She saw, and strait the purple beams, that grace The rosie morning, vanish'd from her face; A deadly pale her wonted bloom invades, And veils the lowring skies with mournful shades. But when his limbs upon the pile were laid, The last kind duty that by friends is paid, His mother to the skies directs her flight, Nor cou'd sustain to view the doleful sight: But frantick, with her loose neglected hair, Hastens to Jove, and falls a suppliant there. O king of Heav'n, o father of the skies, The weeping Goddess passionately cries, Tho' I the meanest of immortals am, And fewest temples celebrate my fame, Yet still a Goddess, I presume to come Within the verge of your etherial dome: Yet still may plead some merit, if my light With purple dawn controuls the Pow'rs of night; If from a female hand that virtue springs, Which to the Gods, and men such pleasure brings. Yet I nor honours seek, nor rites divine, Nor for more altars, or more fanes repine; Oh! that such trifles were the only cause, From whence Aurora's mind its anguish draws! For Memnon lost, my dearest only child, With weightier grief my heavy heart is fill'd; My warrior son! that liv'd but half his time, Nipt in the bud, and blasted in his prime; Who for his uncle early took the field, And by Achilles' fatal spear was kill'd. To whom but Jove shou'd I for succour come? For Jove alone cou'd fix his cruel doom. O sov'reign of the Gods accept my pray'r, Grant my request, and sooth a mother's care; On the deceas'd some solemn boon bestow, To expiate the loss, and ease my woe. Jove, with a nod, comply'd with her desire; Around the body flam'd the fun'ral fire; The pile decreas'd, that lately seem'd so high, And sheets of smoak roll'd upward to the sky: As humid vapours from a marshy bog, Rise by degrees, condensing into fog, That intercept the sun's enliv'ning ray, And with a cloud infect the chearful day. The sooty ashes wafted by the air, Whirl round, and thicken in a body there; Then take a form, which their own heat, and fire With active life, and energy inspire. Its lightness makes it seem to fly, and soon It skims on real wings, that are its own; A real bird, it beats the breezy wind, Mix'd with a thousand sisters of the kind, That, from the same formation newly sprung, Up-born aloft on plumy pinions hung. Thrice round the pile advanc'd the circling throng. Thrice, with their wings, a whizzing consort rung. In the fourth flight their squadron they divide, Rank'd in two diff'rent troops, on either side: Then two, and two, inspir'd with martial rage, From either troop in equal pairs engage. Each combatant with beak, and pounces press'd, In wrathful ire, his adversary's breast; Each falls a victim, to preserve the fame Of that great hero, whence their being came. From him their courage, and their name they take, And, as they liv'd, they dye for Memnon's sake. Punctual to time, with each revolving year, In fresh array the champion birds appear; Again, prepar'd with vengeful minds, they come To bleed, in honour of the souldier's tomb. Therefore in others it appear'd not strange, To grieve for Hecuba's unhappy change: But poor Aurora had enough to do With her own loss, to mind another's woe; Who still in tears, her tender nature shews, Besprinkling all the world with pearly dews. The Voyage of Aeneas Troy thus destroy'd, 'twas still deny'd by Fate, The hopes of Troy should perish with the state. His sire, the son of Cytherea bore, And household-Gods from burning Ilium's shore, The pious prince (a double duty paid) Each sacred bur then thro' the flames convey'd. With young Ascanius, and this only prize, Of heaps of wealth, he from Antandros flies; But struck with horror, left the Thracian shore, Stain'd with the blood of murder'd Polydore. The Delian isle receives the banish'd train, Driv'n by kind gales, and favour'd by the main. Here pious Anius, priest, and monarch reign'd, And either charge, with equal care sustain'd, His subjects rul'd, to Phoebus homage pay'd, His God obeying, and by those obey'd. The priest displays his hospitable gate, And shows the riches of his church, and state The sacred shrubs, which eas'd Latona's pain, The palm, and olive, and the votive fane. Here grateful flames with fuming incense fed, And mingled wine, ambrosial odours shed; Of slaughter'd steers the crackling entrails burn'd: And then the strangers to the court return'd. On beds of tap'stry plac'd aloft, they dine With Ceres' gift, and flowing bowls of wine; When thus Anchises spoke, amidst the feast: Say, mitred monarch, Phoebus' chosen priest, Or (e'er from Troy by cruel Fate expell'd) When first mine eyes these sacred walls beheld, A son, and twice two daughters crown'd thy bliss? Or errs my mem'ry, and I judge amiss? The royal prophet shook his hoary head, With snowy fillets bound, and sighing, said: Thy mem'ry errs not, prince; thou saw'st me then, The happy father of so large a train; Behold me now (such turns of chance befall The race of man!), almost bereft of all. For (ah!) what comfort can my son bestow, What help afford, to mitigate my woe! While far from hence, in Andros' isle he reigns, (From him so nam'd) and there my place sustains. Him Delius praescience gave; the twice-born God A boon more wond'rous on the maids bestow'd. Whate'er they touch'd, he gave them to transmute (A gift past credit, and above their suit) To Ceres, Bacchus, and Minerva's fruit. How great their value, and how rich their use, Whose only touch such treasures could produce! The dire destroyer of the Trojan reign, Fierce Agamemnon, such a prize to gain (A proof we also were design'd by Fate To feel the tempest, that o'erturn'd your state), With force superior, and a ruffian crew, From these weak arms, the helpless virgins drew: And sternly bad them use the grant divine, To keep the fleet in corn, and oil, and wine. Each, as they could, escap'd: two strove to gain Euboea's isle, and two their brother's reign. The soldier follows, and demands the dames; If held by force, immediate war proclaims. Fear conquer'd Nature in their brother's mind, And gave them up to punishment assign'd. Forgive the deed; nor Hector's arm was there, Nor thine, Aeneas, to maintain the war; Whose only force upheld your Ilium's tow'rs, For ten long years, against the Grecian pow'rs. Prepar'd to bind their captive arms in bands, To Heav'n they rear'd their yet unfetter'd hands, Help, Bacchus, author of the gift, they pray'd; The gift's great author gave immediate aid; If such destruction of their human frame By ways so wond'rous, may deserve the name; Nor could I hear, nor can I now relate Exact, the manner of their alter'd state; But this in gen'ral of my loss I knew, Transform'd to doves, on milky plumes they flew, Such as on Ida's mount thy consort's chariot drew. With such discourse, they entertain'd the feast; Then rose from table, and withdrew to rest. The following morn, ere Sol was seen to shine, Th' inquiring Trojans sought the sacred shrine; The mystick Pow'r commands them to explore Their ancient mother, and a kindred shore. Attending to the sea, the gen'rous prince Dismiss'd his guests with rich munificence, In old Anchises' hand a sceptre plac'd, A vest, and quiver young Ascanius grac'd, His sire, a cup; which from th' Aonian coast, Ismenian Therses sent his royal host. Alcon of Myle made what Therses sent, And carv'd thereon this ample argument. A town with sev'n distinguish'd gates was shown, Which spoke its name, and made the city known; Before it, piles, and tombs, and rising flames, The rites of death, and quires of mourning dames, Who bar'd their breasts, and gave their hair to flow, The signs of grief, and marks of publick woe. Their fountains dry'd, the weeping Naiads mourn'd, The trees stood bare, with searing cankers burn'd, No herbage cloath'd the ground, a ragged flock Of goats half-famish'd, lick'd the naked rock, Of manly courage, and with mind serene, Orion's daughters in the town were seen; One heav'd her chest to meet the lifted knife, One plung'd the poyniard thro' the seat of life, Their country's victims; mourns the rescu'd state, The bodies burns, and celebrates their Fate. To save the failure of th' illustrious line, From the pale ashes rose, of form divine, Two gen'rous youths; these, fame Coronae calls, Who join the pomp, and mourn their mother's falls. These burnish'd figures form'd of antique mold, Shone on the brass, with rising sculpture bold; A wreath of gilt Acanthus round the brim was roll'd. Nor less expence the Trojan gifts express'd; A fuming censer for the royal priest, A chalice, and a crown of princely cost, With ruddy gold, and sparkling gems emboss'd. Now hoisting sail, to Crete the Trojans stood, Themselves remembring sprung from Teucer's blood; But Heav'n forbids, and pestilential Jove From noxious skies, the wand'ring navy drove. Her hundred cities left, from Crete they bore, And sought the destin'd land, Ausonia's shore; But toss'd by storms at either Strophas lay, 'Till scar'd by Harpies from the faithless bay. Then passing onward with a prosp'rous wind, Left sly Ulysses' spacious realms behind; Ambracia's state, in former ages known. The strife of Gods, the judge transform'd to stone They saw; for Actian Phoebus since renown'd, Who Caesar's arms with naval conquest crown'd; Next pass'd Dodona, wont of old to boast Her vocal forest; and Chaonia's coast, Where king Molossus' sons on wings aspir'd, And saw secure the harmless fewel fir'd. Now to Phaeacia's happy isle they came, For fertile orchards known to early fame; Epirus past, they next beheld with joy A second Ilium, and fictitious Troy; Here Trojan Helenus the sceptre sway'd, Who show'd their fate and mystick truths display'd. By him confirm'd Sicilia's isle they reach'd, Whose sides to sea three promontories stretch'd, Pachynos to the stormy south is plac'd, On Lilybaeum blows the gentle west, Peloro's cliffs the northern bear survey, Who rolls above, and dreads to touch the sea. By this they steer, and favour'd by the tide, Secure by night in Zancle's harbour ride. Here cruel Scylla guards the rocky shore, And there the waves of loud Charybdis roar: This sucks, and vomits ships, and bodies drown'd; And rav'nous dogs the womb of that surround, In face a virgin; and (if ought be true By bards recorded) once a virgin too. A train of youths in vain desir'd her bed; By sea-nymphs lov'd, to nymphs of seas she fled; The maid to these, with female pride, display'd Their baffled courtship, and their love betray'd. When Galatea thus bespoke the fair (But first she sigh'd), while Scylla comb'd her hair: You, lovely maid, a gen'rous race pursues, Whom safe you may (as now you do) refuse; To me, tho' pow'rful in a num'rous train Of sisters, sprung from Gods, who rule the main, My native seas could scarce a refuge prove, To shun the fury of the Cyclops' love, Tears choak'd her utt'rance here; the pity'ng maid With marble fingers wip'd them off, and said: My dearest Goddess, let thy Scylla know, (For I am faithful) whence these sorrows flow. The maid's intreaties o'er the nymph prevail, Who thus to Scylla tells the mournful tale. The Story of Acis, Polyphemus and Galatea Acis, the lovely youth, whose loss I mourn, From Faunus, and the nymph Symethis born, Was both his parents' pleasure; but, to me Was all that love could make a lover be. The Gods our minds in mutual bands did join: I was his only joy, and he was mine. Now sixteen summers the sweet youth had seen; And doubtful down began to shade his chin: When Polyphemus first disturb'd our joy; And lov'd me fiercely, as I lov'd the boy. Ask not which passion in my soul was high'r, My last aversion, or my first desire: Nor this the greater was, nor that the less; Both were alike, for both were in excess. Thee, Venus, thee both Heav'n, and Earth obey; Immense thy pow'r, and boundless is thy sway. The Cyclops, who defy'd th' aetherial throne, And thought no thunder louder than his own, The terror of the woods, and wilder far Than wolves in plains, or bears in forests are, Th' inhuman host, who made his bloody feasts On mangl'd members of his butcher'd guests, Yet felt the force of love, and fierce desire, And burnt for me, with unrelenting fire. Forgot his caverns, and his woolly care, Assum'd the softness of a lover's air; And comb'd, with teeth of rakes, his rugged hair. Now with a crooked scy the his beard he sleeks; And mows the stubborn stubble of his cheeks: Now in the crystal stream he looks, to try His simagres, and rowls his glaring eye. His cruelty, and thirst of blood are lost; And ships securely sail along the coast. The prophet Telemus (arriv'd by chance Where Aetna's summets to the seas advance, Who mark'd the tracts of every bird that flew, And sure presages from their flying drew) Foretold the Cyclops, that Ulysses' hand In his broad eye shou'd thrust a flaming brand. The giant, with a scornful grin, reply'd, Vain augur, thou hast falsely prophesy'd; Already love his flaming brand has tost; Looking on two fair eyes, my sight I lost, Thus, warn'd in vain, with stalking pace he strode, And stamp'd the margin of the briny flood With heavy steps; and weary, sought agen The cool retirement of his gloomy den. A promontory, sharp'ning by degrees, Ends in a wedge, and overlooks the seas: On either side, below, the water flows; This airy walk the giant lover chose. Here on the midst he sate; his flocks, unled, Their shepherd follow'd, and securely fed. A pine so burly, and of length so vast, That sailing ships requir'd it for a mast, He wielded for a staff, his steps to guide: But laid it by, his whistle while he try'd. A hundred reeds of a prodigious growth, Scarce made a pipe, proportion'd to his mouth: Which when he gave it wind, the rocks around, And watry plains, the dreadful hiss resound. I heard the ruffian-shepherd rudely blow, Where, in a hollow cave, I sat below; On Acis' bosom I my head reclin'd: And still preserve the poem in my mind. Oh lovely Galatea, whiter far Than falling snows, and rising lillies are; More flowry than the meads, as chrystal bright: Erect as alders, and of equal height: More wanton than a kid, more sleek thy skin, Than orient shells, that on the shores are seen, Than apples fairer, when the boughs they lade; Pleasing, as winter suns, or summer shade: More grateful to the sight, than goodly plains; And softer to the touch, than down of swans; Or curds new turn'd; and sweeter to the taste Than swelling grapes, that to the vintage haste: More clear than ice, or running streams, that stray Through garden plots, but ah! more swift than they. Yet, Galatea, harder to be broke Than bullocks, unreclaim'd, to bear the yoke, And far more stubborn, than the knotted oak: Like sliding streams, impossible to hold; Like them, fallacious, like their fountains, cold. More warping, than the willow, to decline My warm embrace, more brittle, than the vine; Immovable, and fixt in thy disdain: Tough, as these rocks, and of a harder grain. More violent, than is the rising flood; And the prais'd peacock is not half so proud. Fierce, as the fire, and sharp, as thistles are, And more outragious, than a mother-bear: Deaf, as the billows to the vows I make; And more revengeful, than a trodden snake. In swiftness fleeter, than the flying hind, Or driven tempests, or the driving wind. All other faults, with patience I can bear; But swiftness is the vice I only fear. Yet if you knew me well, you wou'd not shun My love, but to my wish'd embraces run: Wou'd languish in your turn, and court my stay; And much repent of your unwise delay. My palace, in the living rock, is made By Nature's hand; a spacious pleasing shade: Which neither heat can pierce, nor cold invade. My garden fill'd with fruits you may behold, And grapes in clusters, imitating gold; Some blushing bunches of a purple hue: And these, and those, are all reserv'd for you. Red strawberries, in shades, expecting stand, Proud to be gather'd by so white a hand. Autumnal cornels latter fruit provide; And plumbs, to tempt you, turn their glossy side: Not those of common kinds; but such alone, As in Phaeacian orchards might have grown: Nor chestnuts shall be wanting to your food, Nor garden-fruits, nor wildings of the wood; The laden boughs for you alone shall bear; And yours shall be the product of the year. The flocks you see, are all my own; beside The rest that woods, and winding vallies hide; And those that folded in the caves abide. Ask not the numbers of my growing store; Who knows how many, knows he has no more. Nor will I praise my cattle; trust not me, But judge your self, and pass your own decree: Behold their swelling dugs; the sweepy weight Of ewes, that sink beneath the milky freight; In the warm folds their tender lambkins lye; Apart from kids, that call with human cry. New milk in nut-brown bowls is duely serv'd For daily drink; the rest for cheese reserv'd. Nor are these household dainties all my store: The fields, and forests will afford us more; The deer, the hare, the goat, the savage boar. All sorts of ven'son; and of birds the best; A pair of turtles taken from the nest. I walk'd the mountains, and two cubs I found (Whose dam had left 'em on the naked ground), So like, that no distinction could be seen: So pretty, they were presents for a queen; And so they shall; I took them both away; And keep, to be companions of your play. Oh raise, fair nymph, your beauteous face above The waves; nor scorn my presents, and my love. Come, Galatea, come, and view my face; I late beheld it, in the watry glass; And found it lovelier, than I fear'd it was. Survey my towring stature, and my size: Not Jove, the Jove you dream, that rules the skies, Bears such a bulk, or is so largely spread: My locks (the plenteous harvest of my head) Hang o'er my manly face; and dangling down, As with a shady grove, my shoulders crown. Nor think, because my limbs and body bear A thick-set underwood of bristling hair, My shape deform'd; what fouler sight can be, Than the bald branches of a leafless tree? Foul is the steed without a flowing mane: And birds, without their feathers, and their train. Wool decks the sheep; and Man receives a grace From bushy limbs, and from a bearded face. My forehead with a single eye is fill'd, Round, as a ball, and ample, as a shield. The glorious lamp of Heav'n, the radiant sun, Is Nature's eye; and she's content with one. Add, that my father sways your seas, and I, Like you, am of the watry family. I make you his, in making you my own; You I adore; and kneel to you alone: Jove, with his fabled thunder, I despise, And only fear the lightning of your eyes. Frown not, fair nymph; yet I cou'd bear to be Disdain'd, if others were disdain'd with me. But to repulse the Cyclops, and prefer The love of Acis (Heav'ns!) I cannot bear. But let the stripling please himself; nay more, Please you, tho' that's the thing I most abhor; The boy shall find, if e'er we cope in fight, These giant limbs, endu'd with giant might. His living bowels from his belly torn, And scatter'd limbs shall on the flood be born: Thy flood, ungrateful nymph; and fate shall find, That way for thee, and Acis to be join'd. For oh! I burn with love, and thy disdain Augments at once my passion, and my pain. Translated Aetna flames within my heart, And thou, inhuman, wilt not ease my smart. Lamenting thus in vain, he rose, and strode With furious paces to the neighb'ring wood: Restless his feet, distracted was his walk; Mad were his motions, and confus'd his talk. Mad, as the vanquish'd bull, when forc'd to yield His lovely mistress, and forsake the field. Thus far unseen I saw: when fatal chance, His looks directing, with a sudden glance, Acis and I were to his sight betray'd; Where, nought suspecting, we securely play'd. From his wide mouth a bellowing cry he cast, I see, I see; but this shall be your last: A roar so loud made Aetna to rebound: And all the Cyclops labour'd in the sound. Affrighted with his monstrous voice, I fled, And in the neighbouring ocean plung'd my head. Poor Acis turn'd his back, and Help, he cry'd, Help, Galatea, help, my parent Gods, And take me dying to your deep abodes. The Cyclops follow'd; but he sent before A rib, which from the living rock he tore: Though but an angle reach'd him of the stone, The mighty fragment was enough alone, To crush all Acis; 'twas too late to save, But what the Fates allow'd to give, I gave: That Acis to his lineage should return; And rowl, among the river Gods, his urn. Straight issu'd from the stone a stream of blood; Which lost the purple, mingling with the flood, Then, like a troubled torrent, it appear'd: The torrent too, in little space, was clear'd. The stone was cleft, and through the yawning chink New reeds arose, on the new river's brink. The rock, from out its hollow womb, disclos'd A sound like water in its course oppos'd, When (wond'rous to behold), full in the flood, Up starts a youth, and navel high he stood. Horns from his temples rise; and either horn Thick wreaths of reeds (his native growth) adorn. Were not his stature taller than before, His bulk augmented, and his beauty more, His colour blue; for Acis he might pass: And Acis chang'd into a stream he was, But mine no more; he rowls along the plains With rapid motion, and his name retains. The Story of Glaucus and Scylla Here ceas'd the nymph; the fair assembly broke, The sea-green Nereids to the waves betook: While Scylla, fearful of the wide-spread main, Swift to the safer shore returns again. There o'er the sandy margin, unarray'd, With printless footsteps flies the bounding maid; Or in some winding creek's secure retreat She baths her weary limbs, and shuns the noonday's heat. Her Glaucus saw, as o'er the deep he rode, New to the seas, and late receiv'd a God. He saw, and languish'd for the virgin's love; With many an artful blandishment he strove Her flight to hinder, and her fears remove. The more he sues, the more she wings her flight, And nimbly gains a neighb'ring mountain's height. Steep shelving to the margin of the flood, A neighb'ring mountain bare, and woodless stood; Here, by the place secur'd, her steps she stay'd, And, trembling still, her lover's form survey'd. His shape, his hue, her troubled sense appall, And dropping locks that o'er his shoulders fall; She sees his face divine, and manly brow, End in a fish's wreathy tail below: She sees, and doubts within her anxious mind, Whether he comes of God, or monster kind. This Glaucus soon perceiv'd; and, Oh! forbear (His hand supporting on a rock lay near), Forbear, he cry'd, fond maid, this needless fear. Nor fish am I, nor monster of the main, But equal with the watry Gods I reign; Nor Proteus, nor Palaemon me excell, Nor he whose breath inspires the sounding shell. My birth, 'tis true, I owe to mortal race, And I my self but late a mortal was: Ev'n then in seas, and seas alone, I joy'd; The seas my hours, and all my cares employ'd, In meshes now the twinkling prey I drew; Now skilfully the slender line I threw, And silent sat the moving float to view. Not far from shore, there lies a verdant mead, With herbage half, and half with water spread: There, nor the horned heifers browsing stray, Nor shaggy kids, nor wanton lambkins play; There, nor the sounding bees their nectar cull, Nor rural swains their genial chaplets pull, Nor flocks, nor herds, nor mowers haunt the place, To crop the flow'rs, or cut the bushy grass: Thither, sure first of living race came I, And sat by chance, my dropping nets to dry. My scaly prize, in order all display'd, By number on the greensward there I lay'd, My captives, whom or in my nets I took, Or hung unwary on my wily hook. Strange to behold! yet what avails a lye? I saw 'em bite the grass, as I sate by; Then sudden darting o'er the verdant plain, They spread their finns, as in their native main: I paus'd, with wonder struck, while all my prey Left their new master, and regain'd the sea. Amaz'd, within my secret self I sought, What God, what herb the miracle had wrought: But sure no herbs have pow'r like this, I cry'd; And strait I pluck'd some neighb'ring herbs, and try'd. Scarce had I bit, and prov'd the wond'rous taste, When strong convulsions shook my troubled breast; I felt my heart grow fond of something strange, And my whole Nature lab'ring with a change. Restless I grew, and ev'ry place forsook, And still upon the seas I bent my look. Farewel for ever! farewel, land! I said; And plung'd amidst the waves my sinking head. The gentle Pow'rs, who that low empire keep, Receiv'd me as a brother of the deep; To Tethys, and to Ocean old, they pray To purge my mortal earthy parts away. The watry parents to their suit agreed, And thrice nine times a secret charm they read, Then with lustrations purify my limbs, And bid me ba the beneath a hundred streams: A hundred streams from various fountains run, And on my head at once come rushing down. Thus far each passage I remember well, And faithfully thus far the tale I tell; But then oblivion dark, on all my senses fell. Again at length my thought reviving came, When I no longer found my self the same; Then first this sea-green beard I felt to grow, And these large honours on my spreading brow; My long-descending locks the billows sweep, And my broad shoulders cleave the yielding deep; My fishy tail, my arms of azure hue, And ev'ry part divinely chang'd, I view. But what avail these useless honours now? What joys can immortality bestow? What, tho' our Nereids all my form approve? What boots it, while fair Scylla scorns my love? Thus far the God; and more he wou'd have said; When from his presence flew the ruthless maid. Stung with repulse, in such disdainful sort, He seeks Titanian Circe's horrid court. ---------------------------------------------------------------------- ~ Ovid, BOOK THE THIRTEENTH ,

453:The Door Of Humility ENGLAND We lead the blind by voice and hand, And not by light they cannot see; We are not framed to understand The How and Why of such as He; But natured only to rejoice At every sound or sign of hope, And, guided by the still small voice, In patience through the darkness grope; Until our finer sense expands, And we exchange for holier sight The earthly help of voice and hands, And in His light behold the Light. Let there be Light! The self-same Power That out of formless dark and void Endued with life's mysterious dower Planet, and star, and asteroid; That moved upon the waters' face, And, breathing on them His intent, Divided, and assigned their place To, ocean, air, and firmament; That bade the land appear, and bring Forth herb and leaf, both fruit and flower, Cattle that graze, and birds that sing, Ordained the sunshine and the shower; That, moulding man and woman, breathed In them an active soul at birth In His own image, and bequeathed To them dominion over Earth; That, by whatever is, decreed 418 His Will and Word shall be obeyed, From loftiest star to lowliest seed;The worm and me He also made. And when, for nuptials of the Spring With Summer, on the vestal thorn The bridal veil hung flowering, A cry was heard, and I was born. II To be by blood and long descent A member of a mighty State, Whose greatness, sea-girt, but unpent By ocean, makes the world more great; That, ranging limitless, hath won A Rule more wide than that of Rome, And, journeying onward with the sun, In every zone hath found a home; That, keeping old traditions fast, Still hails the things that are to be, And, firmly rooted in the Past, On Law hath grafted Liberty;That is a birthright nobler far Than princely claim or Right Divine From far-off rapine, wanton war, And I could feel this birthright mine. And not the lowliest hand that drives Or share or loom, if so it be Of British strain, but thence derives A patent of nobility. III The guiding of the infant years Onward to good, away from guile, A mother's humanising tears, A father's philosophic smile; 419 Refining beauty, gentle ways, The admonitions of the wise, The love that watches, helps, and prays, And pities, but doth ne'er despise; An ancient Faith, abiding hope, The charity that suffers long, But flames with sacred zeal to cope With man's injustice, nature's wrong; Melodious leisure, learnëd shelf, Discourse of earnest, temperate mind, The playful wit that of itself Flashes, but leaves no wound behind; The knowledge gleaned from Greece and Rome, From studious Teuton, sprightly Gaul, The lettered page, the mellow tome, And poets' wisdom more than all;These, when no lips severe upbraid, But counsel rather than control, In budding boyhood lend their aid To sensibility of soul. IV But, more than mentor, mother, sire, Can lend to shape the future man With help of learning or of lyre, Of ancient rule, or modern plan, Is that which with our breath we bring Into the world, we know not whence, That needs nor care nor fostering, Because an instinct and a sense. And days and years are all forgot When Nature's aspect, growth, and grace, And veering moods, to me were not The features of the Loved One's face. 420 The The The The cloud whose shadow skims the lake, shimmering haze of summer noon, voice of April in the brake, silence of the mounting moon, Swaying of bracken on the hill, The murmur of the vagrant stream, These motions of some unseen Will, These babblings of some heavenly dream, Seemed tokens of divine desire To hold discourse with me, and so To touch my lips with hallowed fire, And tell me things I ought to know. I gazed and listened, all intent, As to the face and voice of Fate, But what they said, or what they meant, I could surmise not, nor translate. They did but lure me to unrest, Unanswered questioning, longings vain, As when one scans some palimpsest No erudition can explain; But left me with a deep distaste For common speech, that still did seem More meaningless than mountain waste, Less human than the far-off stream. So that a stranger in the land Wherein I moved, where'er I went, I dwelt, whom none could understand, Or exorcise my discontent. And I to them, and they to me Seemed from two different planets come, And, save to flower and wild-bird's glee, My heart was deaf, my soul was dumb. 421 But slowly dawned a happier time When I began to apprehend, And catch, as in some poet's rhyme, The intimations of a friend; When Nature spake no unknown tongue, But language kindred to my thought, Till everything She said, I sung, In notes unforced, in words unsought. And I to Her so closely drew, The seasons round, in mind and mood, I felt at length as if we knew Self-same affection, self-same feud: That both alike scorned worldly aim, Profit, applause, parade, and pride, Whereby the love of generous fame And worthy deeds grows petrified. I did as yet not understand Nature is far more vast than I, Deep as the ocean, wide as land, And overarching as the sky; And but responded to my call, And only felt and fed my need, Because She doth the same for all Who to her pity turn and plead. VI Shall man have mind, and Nature none, Shall I, not she, have soul and heart? Nay, rather, if we be not one, Each is of each the counterpart. She too may have within her breast A conscience, if not like to yours, A sense of rightness ill at rest, Long as her waywardness endures. 422 And hence her thunder, earthquakes, hail, Her levin bolts, her clouds' discharge: She sins upon a larger scale, Because She is herself more large. Hence, too, when She hath pierced with pain The heart of man, and wrecked his years, The pity of the April rain, And late repentance of her tears. She is no better, worse, than we; We can but say she seems more great, That half her will, like ours, is free, And half of it is locked in Fate. Nor need we fear that we should err Beyond our scope in reasoning thus,That there must be a God for Her, If that there be a God for us. VII The chiming of the Sabbath bell, The silence of the Sabbath fields, Over the hamlet cast a spell To which the gracious spirit yields. Sound is there none of wheel or wain, Husht stands the anvil, husht the forge, No shout is heard in rustic lane, No axe resounds in timbered gorge. No flail beats time on granary floor, The windmill's rushing wings are stayed, And children's glee rings out no more From hedgerow bank or primrose glade. The big-boned team that firm and slow Draw yoked, are free to couch or stray; The basking covey seem to know None will invade their peace to-day. 423 And speckless swains, and maidens neat, Through rustic porch, down cottage stair, Demurely up the village street Stream onward to the House of Prayer. They kneel as they were taught to kneel In childhood, and demand not why, But, as they chant or answer, feel A vague communion with the sky. VIII But when the impetuous mind is spurred To range through epochs great but gone, And, heedless of dogmatic word, With fearless ardour presses on, Confronting pulpit, sceptre, shrine, With point by Logic beaten out, And, questioning tenets deemed divine With human challenge, human doubt, Hoists Reason's sail, and for the haze Of ocean quits Tradition's shore, Awhile he comes, and kneels, and prays, Then comes and kneels, but prays no more; And only for the love he bears To those who love him, and who reared His frame to genuflexion, shares In ritual, vain, if still revered. His Gods are many or are none, Saturn and Mithra, Christ and Jove, Consorting, as the Ages run, With Vestal choir or Pagan drove. Abiding still by Northern shores, He sees far off on Grecian coast Veiled Aphrodite, but adores Minerva and Apollo most. 424 Beauty of vision, voice, and mind, Enthrall him so, that unto him All Creeds seem true, if he but find Siren, or saint, or seraphim. And thus once more he dwells apart, His inward self enswathed in mist, Blending with poet's pious heart The dreams of pagan Hedonist. IX If Beauty be the Spirit's quest, Its adoration, creed, and shrine, Wherein its restlessness finds rest, And earthly type of the Divine, Must there for such not somewhere be A blending of all beauteous things In some one form wherein we see The sum of our imaginings? The smile on mountain's musing brow, Sunrise and sunset, moon and star, Wavelets around the cygnet's prow, Glamour anear and charm afar; The silence of the silvery pool, Autumn's reserve and Summer's fire, Slow vanishings of Winter's rule To free full voice of April's choir;The worshippers of Beauty find In maiden form, and face, and tress; Faint intimations of her mind And undulating loveliness. Bound, runnels, bound, bound on, and flow! Sing, merle and mavis, pair and sing! 425 Gone is the Winter, fled the snow, And all that lives is flushed with Spring. Harry the woods, young truant folk, For flowers to deck your cottage sills, And, underneath my orchard oak, Cluster, ye golden daffodils! Unfettered by domestic vow, Cuckoo, proclaim your vagrant loves, And coo upon the self-same bough, Inseparable turtle-doves. Soar, laverock, soar on song to sky, And with the choir of Heaven rejoice! You cannot be more glad than I, Who feel Her gaze, and hear Her voice: Who see Her cheek more crimson glow, And through Her veins love's current stream, And feel a fear She doth but know Is kin to joy and dawning dream. Bound, rivulets, bound, bound on, and flow! Sing, merle and mavis, pair and sing! Gone from the world are want and woe, And I myself am one with Spring. XI They err who say that Love is blind, Or, if it be, 'tis but in part, And that, if for fair face it find No counterpart in mind and heart, It dwells on that which it beholds, Fair fleshly vision void of soul, Deeming, illusioned, this enfolds, Longing's fulfilment, end, and whole. Were such my hapless carnal lot, I too might evanescent bliss 426 Embrace, fierce-fancied, fast forgot, Then leave for some fresh loveliness. But April gaze, and Summer tress, With something of Autumnal thought, In Her seem blent to crown and bless A bond I long in dreams have sought. She looks as though She came to grace The earth, from world less soiled than this, Around her head and virgin face Halo of heavenly holiness. XII He who hath roamed through various lands, And, wheresoe'er his steps are set, The kindred meaning understands Of spire, and dome, and minaret; By Roman river, Stamboul's sea, In Peter's or Sophia's shrine, Acknowledges with reverent knee The presence of the One Divine; Who, to the land he loves so well Returning, towards the sunset hour Wends homeward, feels yet stronger spell In lichened roof and grey church-tower; Round whose foundations, side by side, Sleep hamlet wit and village sage, While loud the blackbird cheers his bride Deep in umbrageous Vicarage. XIII Was it that sense which some aver Foreshadows Fate it doth not see, That gave unwittingly to Her The name, for ever dear to me, 427 Borne by that tearful Mother whom, Nigh unto Ostia's shelving sand, Augustine laid in lonely tomb, Ere sailing for his Afric land? But I at least should have foreseen, When Monica to me had grown Familiar word, that names may mean More than by word and name is shown; That nought can keep two lives apart More than divorce 'twixt mind and mind, Even though heart be one with heart;Alas! Alas! Yes, Love is blind. XIV How could I think of jarring Creeds, And riddles that unread remain, Or ask if Heaven's indulgence heeds Broils born of man's polemic brain, And pause because my venturous mind Had roamed through tracks of polar thought, Whence mightiest spirits turn back blind, Since finding not the thing they sought, When Love, with luring gifts in hand, Beauty, refinement, smile, caress, Heart to surmise and understand, And crowning grace of holiness, Stood there before me, and, with gaze I had been purblind not to see, Said, ``I to you will, all my days, Give what you yearn to give to me''? Must both then sorrow, while we live, Because, rejoicing, I forgot Something there was I could not give, Because, alas! I had it not. 428 XV She comes from Vicarage Garden, see! Radiant as morning, lithe and tall, Fresh lilies in her hand, but She The loveliest lily of them all. The thrushes in their fluting pause, The bees float humming round her head, Earth, air, and heaven shine out because They hear her voice, and feel her tread. Up in the fretted grey church-tower, That rustic gaze for miles can see, The belfry strikes the silvery hour, Announcing her propinquity. And I who, fearful to be late, Passed long since through the deerpark pale, And loitered by the churchyard gate, Once more exclaim, ``Hail! loved one! hail!'' We pass within, and up the nave, Husht, because Heaven seems always there, Wend choirward, where, devoutly grave, She kneels, to breathe a silent prayer. She takes the flowers I too have brought, Blending them deftly with her own, And ranges them, as quick as thought, Around the white-draped altar-throne. How could she know my gaze was not On things unseen, but fixed on Her, That, as She prayed, I all forgot The worship in the worshipper?While She beheld, as in a glass, The Light Divine, that I but sought Sight of her soul?-Alas! Alas! Love is yet blinder than I thought. 429 XVI Who hath not seen a little cloud Up from the clear horizon steal, And, mounting lurid, mutter loud Premonitory thunder-peal? Husht grows the grove, the summer leaf Trembles and writhes, as if in pain, And then the sky, o'ercharged with grief, Bursts into drenching tears of rain. I through the years had sought to hide My darkening doubts from simple sight. 'Tis sacrilegious to deride Faith of unquestioning neophyte. And what, methought, is Doubt at best? A sterile wind through seeded sedge Blowing for nought, an empty nest That lingers in a leafless hedge. Pain, too, there is we should not share With others lest it mar their joy; There is a quiet bliss in prayer None but the heartless would destroy. But just as Love is quick divined From heightened glow or visage pale, The meditations of the Mind Disclose themselves through densest veil. And 'tis the unloving and least wise Who through life's inmost precincts press, And with unsympathetic eyes Outrage our sacred loneliness. Then, when their sacrilegious gaze The mournful void hath half surmised, To some more tender soul they raise The veil of ignorance it prized. 430 XVII `What though I write farewell I could Not utter, lest your gaze should chide, 'Twill by your love be understood My love is still, dear, at your side. ``Nor must we meet to speak goodbye, Lest that my Will should lose its choice, And conscience waver, for then I Should see your face and hear your voice. ``But, when you find yourself once more, Come back, come back and look for me, Beside the little lowly door, The Doorway of Humility.'' XVIII There! Peace at last! The far-off roar Of human passion dies away. ``Welcome to our broad shade once more,'' The waning woodlands seem to say: The music of the vagrant wind, That wandered aimlessly, is stilled; The songless branches all remind That Summer's glory is fulfilled. The fluttering of the falling leaves Dimples the leaden pool awhile; So Age impassively receives Youth's tale of troubles with a smile. Thus, as the seasons steal away, How much is schemed, how little done, What splendid plans at break of day! What void regrets at set of sun! The world goes round, for you, for me, For him who sleeps, for him who strives, And the cold Fates indifferent see 431 Crowning or failure of our lives. Then fall, ye leaves, fade, summer breeze! Grow, sedges, sere on every pool! Let each old glowing impulse freeze, Let each old generous project cool! It is not wisdom, wit, nor worth, Self-sacrifice nor friendship true, Makes venal devotees of earth Prostrate themselves and worship you. The consciousness of sovran powers, The stubborn purpose, steadfast will, Have ever, in this world of ours, Achieved success, achieve it still. Farewell, ye woods! No more I sit; Great voices in the distance call. If this be peace, enough of it! I go. Fall, unseen foliage, fall! XIX Nay, but repress rebellious woe! In grief 'tis not that febrile fool, Passion, that can but overthrow, But Resignation, that should rule. In patient sadness lurks a gift To purify the life it stings, And, as the days move onward, lift The lonely heart to loftier things; Bringing within one's ripening reach The sceptre of majestic Thought, Wherefrom one slowly learns to teach The Wisdom to oneself it taught. And unto what can man aspire, On earth, more worth the striving for, Than to be Reason's loftier lyre, 432 And reconciling monitor; To strike a more resounding string And deeper notes of joy and pain, Than such as but lamenting sing, Or warble but a sensuous strain: So, when my days are nearly sped, And my last harvest labours done, That I may have around my head The halo of a setting sun. Yet even if be heard above Such selfish hope, presumptuous claim, Better one hour of perfect love Than an eternity of Fame! XX Where then for grief seek out the cure? What scenes will bid my smart to cease? High peaks should teach one to endure, And lakes secluded bring one peace. Farewell awhile, then, village bells, Autumnal wood and harvest wain! And welcome, as it sinks or swells, The music of the mighty main, That seems to say, now loud, now low, Rising or falling, sweet or shrill, ``I pace, a sentry, to and fro, To guard your Island fortress still.'' The roses falter on their stalk, The late peach reddens on the wall, The flowers along the garden walk Unheeded fade, unheeded fall. My gates unopened drip with rain, The wolf-hound wends from floor to floor, And, listening for my voice in vain, 433 Waileth along the corridor. Within the old accustomed place Where we so oft were wont to be, Kneeling She prays, while down her face The fruitless tears fall silently. SWITZERLAND XXI Rain, wind, and rain. The writhing lake Scuds to and fro to scape their stroke: The mountains veil their heads, and make Of cloud and mist a wintry cloak. Through where the arching pinewoods make Dusk cloisters down the mountain side, The loosened avalanches take Valeward their way, with death for guide, And toss their shaggy manes and fling To air their foam and tawny froth, From ledge and precipice bound and spring, With hungry roar and deepening wrath; Till, hamlet homes and orchards crushed, And, rage for further ravin stayed, They slumber, satiated, husht, Upon the ruins they have made. I rise from larch-log hearth, and, lone, Gaze on the spears of serried rain, That faster, nigher, still are blown, Then stream adown the window pane. The peasant's goatskin garments drip, As home he wends with lowered head, Shakes off the drops from lid and lip, Then slinks within his châlet shed. 434 The cattle bells sound dull and hoarse, The boats rock idly by the shore; Only the swollen torrents course With faster feet and fuller roar. Mournful, I shape a mournful song, And ask the heavens, but ask in vain, ``How long, how long?'' Ah! not so long As, in my heart, rain, wind, and rain. XXII I ask the dark, the dawn, the sun, The domeward-pointing peaks of snow, Lofty and low alike, but none Will tell me what I crave to know. My mind demands, ``Whence, Whither, Why?'' From mountain slope and green defile, And wait the answer. The replyA far-off irresponsive smile. I ask the stars, when mortals sleep, The pensive moon, the lonely winds; But, haply if they know, they keep The secret of secluded minds. Shall I in Straining Where in Where in vain, then, strive to find, towards merely fancied goal? the lily lurks the mind, the rose discern the soul? More mindless still, stream, pasture, lake, The mountains yet more heartless seem, And life's unceasing quest and ache Only a dream within a dream. We know no more, though racked with thought Than he who, in yon châlet born, Gives not the riddle, Life, a thought, But lays him down and sleeps till morn. 435 Sometimes he kneels; I cannot kneel, So suffer from a wider curse Than Eden's outcasts, for I feel An exile in the universe. The rudeness of his birth enures His limbs to every season's stings, And, never probing, so endures The sadness at the heart of things. When lauwine growls, and thunder swells, Their far-off clamour sounds to me But as the noise of clanging bells Above a silent sanctuary. It is their silence that appals, Their aspect motionless that awes, When searching spirit vainly calls On the effect to bare the Cause. I get no answer, near or far; The mountains, though they soar so high, And scale the pathless ether, are No nearer unto God than I. There dwells nor mystery nor veil Round the clear peaks no foot hath trod; I, gazing on their frontage pale, See but the waning ghost of God. Is Faith then but a drug for sleep, And Hope a fondly soothing friend That bids us, when it sees us weep, Wait for the End that hath no end? Then do I hear voice unforgot Wailing across the distance dim, ``Think, dear! If God existeth not, Why are you always seeking Him?'' XXIII 436 Like glowing furnace of the forge, How the winds rise and roar, as they Up twisting valley, craggy gorge, Seek, and still seek, to storm their way; Then, baffled, up the open slope With quickening pulses scale and pant, Indomitably bent to cope With bristling fronts of adamant. All through the day resounds the strife, Then doth at sunset hour subside: So the fierce passions of our life Slowly expire at eventide. By Nature we are ne'er misled; We see most truly when we dream. A singer wise was he who said, ``Follow the gleam! Follow the gleam!'' XXIV I dreamed, last night, again I stood, Silent, without the village shrine, While She in modest maidenhood Left, fondly clasped, her hand in mine. And, with a face as cerecloth white, And tears like those that by the bier Of loved one lost make dim the sight, She poured her sorrows in mine ear. ``I love your voice, I love your gaze, But there is something dearer still, The faith that kneels, the hope that prays, And bows before the Heavenly Will. ``Not where hills rise, or torrents roll, Seek Him, nor yet alone, apart; He dwells within the troubled soul, His home is in the human heart. 437 ``Withal, the peaceful mountains may 'Twixt doubt and yearning end the strife: So ponder, though you cannot pray, And think some meaning into life: ``Nor like to those that cross the main To wander witless through strange land, Hearing unmastered tongues, disdain The speech they do not understand. ``Firm stands my faith that they who sound The depths of doubt Faith yet will save: They are like children playing round A still remembered mother's grave; ``Not knowing, when they wax more old, And somewhat can her vision share, She will the winding-sheet unfold, And beckon them to evening prayer.'' Then, with my hand betwixt her hands, She laid her lips upon my brow, And, as to one who understands, Said, ``Take once more my vestal vow. ``No other gaze makes mine to glow, No other footstep stirs my heart, To me you only dearer grow, Dearer and nearer, more apart. ``Whene'er you come with humble mind, The little Door stands open wide, And, bending low, you still will find Me waiting on the other side.'' Her silence woke me. . . . To your breast Fold me, O sleep! and seal mine ears; That She may roam through my unrest Till all my dreams are drenched with tears! XXV 438 Why linger longer, subject, here, Where Nature sits and reigns alone, Inspiring love not, only fear, Upon her autocratic throne? Her edicts are the rigid snow, The wayward winds, the swaying branch; She hath no pity to bestow, Her law the lawless avalanche. Though soon cascades will bound and sing, That now but drip with tears of ice, And upland meadows touched by Spring Blue gentian blend with edelweiss, Hence to the Land of youthful dreams, The Land that taught me all I know. Farewell, lone mountain-peaks and streams; Yet take my thanks before I go. You gave me shelter when I fled, But sternly bade me stem my tears, Nor aimless roam with rustling tread 'Mong fallen leaves of fruitless years. ITALY XXVI Upon the topmost wheel-track steep, The parting of two nations' ways, Athwart stone cross engraven deep, The name ``Italia'' greets the gaze! I trembled, when I saw it first, With joy, my boyish longings fed, The headspring of my constant thirst, The altar of my pilgrim tread. Now once again the magic word, So faintly borne to Northern home, Sounds like a silvery trumpet heard 439 Beneath some universal dome. The forests soften to a smile, A smile the very mountains wear, Through mossy gorge and grassed defile Torrents race glad and debonair. From casement, balcony and door, Hang golden gourds, droops tear-tipped vine, And sun-bronzed faces bask before Thin straw-swathed flasks of last year's wine. Unyoked, the patient sleek-skinned steers Take, like their lords, no heed of time. Hark! now the evening star appears, Ave Maria belfries chime. The maidens knit, and glance, and sing, With glowing gaze 'neath ebon tress, And, like to copse-buds sunned by Spring, Seem burgeoning into tenderness. On waveless lake where willows weep, The Borromean Islands rest As motionless as babe asleep Upon a slumbering Mother's breast. O Land of sunshine, song, and Love! Whether thy children reap or sow, Of Love they chant on hills above, Of Love they sing in vale below. But what avail the love-linked hands, And love-lit eyes, to them that roam Passionless through impassioned lands, Since they have left their heart at home! XXVII Among my dreams, now known as dreams In this my reawakened life, I thought that by historic streams, 440 Apart from stress, aloof from strife, By rugged paths that twist and twine Through olive slope and chesnut wood Upward to mediaeval shrine, Or high conventual brotherhood, Along the mountain-curtained track Round peaceful lake where wintry bands Halt briefly but to bivouac Ere blustering on to Northern lands;Through these, through all I first did see, With me to share my raptures none, That nuptialled Monica would be My novice and companion: That we should float from mere to mere, And sleep within some windless cove, With nightingales to lull the ear, From ilex wood and orange grove; Linger at hamlets lost to fame, That still wise-wandering feet beguile, To gaze on frescoed wall or frame Lit by Luini's gracious smile. Now, but companioned by my pain, Among each well-remembered scene I can but let my Fancy feign The happiness that might have been; Imagine that I hear her voice, Imagine that I feel her hand, And I, enamoured guide, rejoice To see her swift to understand. Alack! Imagination might As lief with rustic Virgil roam, Reverent, or, welcomed guest, alight At Pliny's philosophic home; 441 Hear one majestically trace Rome's world-wide sway from wattled wall, And read upon the other's face The omens of an Empire's fall. XXVIII Like moonlight seen through forest leaves, She shines upon me from afar, What time men reap the ripened sheaves, And Heaven rains many a falling star. I gaze up to her lofty height, And feel how far we dwell apart: O if I could, this night, this night, Fold her full radiance to my heart! But She in Heaven, and I on earth, Still journey on, but each alone; She, maiden Queen of sacred birth, Who with no consort shares her throne. XXIX What if She ever thought She saw The self within myself prefer Communion with the silent awe Of far-off mountains more than Her; That Nature hath the mobile grace To make life with our moods agree, And so had grown the Loved One's face, Since it nor checked nor chided me; Or from the tasks that irk and tire I sought for comfort from the Muse, Because it grants the mind's desire All that familiar things refuse. How vain such thought! The face, the form, Of mountain summits but express, Clouded or clear, in sun or storm, 442 Feebly Her spirit's loftiness. Did I explore from pole to pole, In Nature's aspect I should find But faint reflections of Her soul, Dim adumbrations of Her mind. O come and test with lake, with stream, With mountain, which the stronger be, Thou, my divinest dearest dream, My Muse, and more than Muse, to me! XXX They tell me that Jehovah speaks In silent grove, on lonely strand, And summit of the mountain peaks; Yet there I do not understand. The stars, disdainful of my thought, Majestic march toward their goal, And to my nightly watch have brought No explanation to my soul. The truth I seek I cannot find, In air or sky, on land or sea; If the hills have their secret mind, They will not yield it up to me: Like one who lost mid lonely hills Still seeks but cannot find his way, Since guide is none save winding rills, That seem themselves, too, gone astray. And so from rise to set of sun, At glimmering dawn, in twilight haze, I but behold the face of One Who veils her face, and weeps, and prays. What know I that She doth not know? What I know not, She understands: With heavenly gifts She overflows, 443 While I have only empty hands. O weary wanderer! Best forego This questioning of wind and wave. For you the sunshine and the snow, The womb, the cradle, and the grave. XXXI How blest, when organ concords swell, And anthems are intoned, are they Who neither reason nor rebel, But meekly bow their heads and pray. And such the peasants mountain-bred, Who hail to-day with blithe accord Her Feast Who to the Angel said, ``Behold the Handmaid of the Lord!'' Downward they wind from pastoral height, Or hamlet grouped round shattered towers, To wend to shrine more richly dight, And bring their gift of wilding flowers; Their gifts, their griefs, their daily needs, And lay these at Her statue's base, Who never, deem they, intercedes Vainly before the Throne of Grace. Shall I, because I stand apart, A stranger to their pious vows, Scorn their humility of heart That pleads before the Virgin Spouse, Confiding that the Son will ne'er, If in His justice wroth with them, Refuse to harken to Her prayer Who suckled Him in Bethlehem? Of all the intercessors born By man's celestial fancy, none 444 Hath helped the sorrowing, the forlorn, Lowly and lone, as She hath done. The maiden faithful to Her shrine Bids demons of temptation flee, And mothers fruitful as the vine Retain their vestal purity. Too trustful love, by lust betrayed, And by cold worldlings unforgiven, Unto Her having wept and prayed, Faces its fate, consoled and shriven. The restless, fiercely probing mind No honey gleans, though still it stings. What comfort doth the spirit find In Reason's endless reasonings? They have no solace for my grief, Compassion none for all my pain: They toss me like the fluttering leaf, And leave me to the wind and rain. XXXII If Conscience be God's Law to Man, Then Conscience must perforce arraign Whatever falls beneath the ban Of that allotted Suzerain. And He, who bids us not to swerve, Whither the wayward passions draw, From its stern sanctions, must observe The limits of the self-same Law. Yet, if obedient Conscience scan The sum of wrongs endured and done Neither by act nor fault of Man, They rouse it to rebellion. Life seems of life by life bereft 445 Through some immitigable curse, And Man sole moral being left In a non-moral Universe. My Conscience would my Will withstand, Did Will project a world like this: Better Eternal vacuum still, Than murder, lust, and heartlessness! If Man makes Conscience, then being good Is only being worldly wise, And universal brotherhood A comfortable compromise. O smoke of War! O blood-steeped sod! O groans of fratricidal strife! Who will explain the ways of God, That I may be at peace with life! The moral riddle 'tis that haunts, Primeval and unending curse, Racking the mind when pulpit vaunts A Heaven-created Universe. Yet whence came Life, and how begin? Rolleth the globe by choice or chance? Dear Lord! Why longer shut me in This prison-house of ignorance! FLORENCE XXXIII City acclaimed ere Dante's days Fair, and baptized in field of flowers, Once more I scan with tender gaze Your glistening domes, your storied towers. I feel as if long years had flown Since first with eager heart I came, 446 And, girdled by your mountain zone, Found you yet fairer than your fame. It was the season purple-sweet When figs are plump, and grapes are pressed, And all your sons with following feet Bore a dead Poet to final rest. You seemed to fling your gates ajar, And softly lead me by the hand, Saying, ``Behold! henceforth you are No stranger in the Tuscan land.'' And though no love my love can wean From native crag and cradling sea, Yet Florence from that hour hath been More than a foster-nurse to me. When mount I terraced slopes arrayed In bridal bloom of peach and pear, While under olive's phantom shade Lupine and beanflower scent the air, The wild-bees hum round golden bay, The green frog sings on fig-tree bole, And, see! down daisy-whitened way Come the slow steers and swaying pole. The fresh-pruned vine-stems, curving, bend Over the peaceful wheaten spears, And with the glittering sunshine blend Their transitory April tears. O'er wall and trellis trailed and wound, Hang roses blushing, roses pale; And, hark! what was that silvery sound? The first note of the nightingale. Curtained, I close my lids and dream Of Beauty seen not but surmised, And, lulled by scent and song, I seem Immortally imparadised. 447 When from the deep sweet swoon I wake And gaze past slopes of grape and grain, Where Arno, like some lonely lake, Silvers the far-off seaward plain, I see celestial sunset fires That lift us from this earthly leaven, And darkly silent cypress spires Pointing the way from hill to Heaven. Then something more than mortal steals Over the wavering twilight air, And, messenger of nightfall, peals From each crowned peak a call to prayer. And now the last meek prayer is said, And, in the hallowed hush, there is Only a starry dome o'erhead, Propped by columnar cypresses. XXXIV Re-roaming through this palaced town, I suddenly, 'neath grim-barred pile, Catch sight of Dante's awful frown, Or Leonardo's mystic smile; Then, swayed by memory's fancy, stroll To where from May-day's flaming pyre Savonarola's austere soul Went up to Heaven in tongues of fire; Or Buonarroti's plastic hand Made marble block from Massa's steep Dawn into Day at his command, Then plunged it into Night and Sleep. No later wanderings can dispel The glamour of the bygone years; And, through the streets I know so well, 448 I scarce can see my way for tears. XXXV A sombre shadow seems to fall On comely altar, transept fair; The saints are still on frescoed wall, But who comes thither now for prayer? Men throng from far-off stranger land, To stare, to wonder, not to kneel, With map and guide-book in their hand To tell them what to think and feel. They scan, they prate, they marvel why The figures still expressive glow, Oblivious they were painted by Adoring Frà Angelico. Did Dante from his tomb afar Return, his wrongs redressed at last, And see you, Florence, as you are, Half alien to your gracious Past, Finding no Donatello now, No reverent Giotto 'mong the quick, To glorify ascetic vow Of Francis or of Dominic; Self-exiled by yet sterner fate Than erst, he would from wandering cease, And, ringing at monastic gate, Plead, ``I am one who craves for peace.'' And what he sought but ne'er could find, Shall I, less worthy, hope to gain, The freedom of the tranquil mind, The lordship over loss and pain? More than such peace I found when I Did first, in unbound youth, repair 449 To Tuscan shrine, Ausonian sky. I found it, for I brought it there. XXXVI Yet Art brings peace, itself is Peace, And, as I on these frescoes gaze, I feel all fretful tumults cease And harvest calm of mellower days. For Soul too hath its seasons. Time, That leads Spring, Summer, Autumn, round, Makes our ephemeral passions chime With something permanent and profound. And, as in Nature, April oft Strives to revert to wintry hours, But shortly upon garth and croft Re-sheds warm smiles and moistening showers, Or, for one day, will Autumn wear The gayer garments of the Spring, And then athwart the wheatfields bare Again her graver shadows fling; So, though the Soul hath moods that veer, And seem to hold no Rule in awe, Like the procession of the year, It too obeys the sovran Law. Nor Art itself brings settled peace, Until the mind is schooled to know That gusts subside and tumults cease Only in sunset's afterglow. Life's contradictions vanish then, Husht thought replacing clashing talk Among the windy ways of men. 'Tis in the twilight Angels walk. 450 ROME XXXVII The last warm gleams of sunset fade From cypress spire and stonepine dome, And, in the twilight's deepening shade, Lingering, I scan the wrecks of Rome. Husht the Madonna's Evening Bell; The steers lie loosed from wain and plough; The vagrant monk is in his cell, The meek nun-novice cloistered now. Pedant's presumptuous voice no more Vexes the spot where Caesar trod, And o'er the pavement's soundless floor Come banished priest and exiled God. The lank-ribbed she-wolf, couched among The regal hillside's tangled scrubs, With doting gaze and fondling tongue Suckles the Vestal's twin-born cubs. Yet once again Evander leads Æneas to his wattled home, And, throned on Tiber's fresh-cut reeds, Talks of burnt Troy and rising Rome. From out the tawny dusk one hears The half-feigned scream of Sabine maids, The rush to arms, then swift the tears That separate the clashing blades. The Lictors with their fasces throng To quell the Commons' rising roar, As Tullia's chariot flames along, Splashed with her murdered father's gore. Her tresses free from band or comb, Love-dimpled Venus, lithe and tall, 451 And fresh as Fiumicino's foam, Mounts her pentelic pedestal. With languid lids, and lips apart, And curving limbs like wave half-furled, Unarmed she dominates the heart, And without sceptre sways the world. Nerved by her smile, avenging Mars Stalks through the Forum's fallen fanes, Or, changed of mien and healed of scars, Threads sylvan slopes and vineyard plains. With waves of song from wakening lyre Apollo routs the wavering night, While, parsley-crowned, the white-robed choir Wind chanting up the Sacred Height, Where Jove, with thunder-garlands wreathed, And crisp locks frayed like fretted foam, Sits with his lightnings half unsheathed, And frowns against the foes of Rome. You cannot kill the Gods. They still Reclaim the thrones where once they reigned, Rehaunt the grove, remount the rill, And renovate their rites profaned. Diana's hounds still lead the chase, Still Neptune's Trident crests the sea, And still man's spirit soars through space On feathered heels of Mercury. No flood can quench the Vestals' Fire; The Flamen's robes are still as white As ere the Salii's armoured choir Were drowned by droning anchorite. The saint may seize the siren's seat, The shaveling frown where frisked the Faun; Ne'er will, though all beside should fleet, The Olympian Presence be withdrawn. 452 Here, even in the noontide glare, The Gods, recumbent, take their ease; Go look, and you will find them there, Slumbering behind some fallen frieze. But most, when sunset glow hath paled, And come, as now, the twilight hour, In vesper vagueness dimly veiled I feel their presence and their power. What though their temples strew the ground, And to the ruin owls repair, Their home, their haunt, is all around; They drive the cloud, they ride the air. And, when the planets wend their way Along the never-ageing skies, ``Revere the Gods'' I hear them say; ``The Gods are old, the Gods are wise.'' Build as man may, Time gnaws and peers Through marble fissures, granite rents; Only Imagination rears Imperishable monuments. Let Gaul and Goth pollute the shrine, Level the altar, fire the fane: There is no razing the Divine; The Gods return, the Gods remain. XXXVIII Christ is arisen. The place wherein They laid Him shows but cerements furled, And belfry answers belfry's din To ring the tidings round the world. Grave Hierarchs come, an endless band, In jewelled mitre, cope embossed, Who bear Rome's will to every land 453 In all the tongues of Pentecost. Majestic, along marble floor, Walk Cardinals in blood-red robe, Martyrs for Faith and Christ no more, Who gaze as though they ruled the globe. With halberds bare and doublets slashed, Emblems that war will never cease, Come martial guardians, unabashed, And march afront the Prince of Peace. Then, in his gestatorial Chair See Christ's vicegerent, bland, benign, To crowds all prostrate as in prayer Lean low, and make the Holy Sign. Then trumpets shrill, and organ peals, Throughout the mighty marble pile, Whileas a myriad concourse kneels In dense-packed nave and crowded aisle. Hark to the sudden hush! Aloft From unseen source in empty dome Swells prayerful music silvery-soft, Borne from far-off celestial Home. Then, when the solemn rite is done, The worshippers stream out to where Dance fountains glittering in the sun, While expectation fills the air. Now on high balcony He stands, And-save for the Colonna curse,Blesses with high-uplifted hands The City and the Universe. Christ is arisen! But scarce as when, On the third day of death and gloom, Came ever-loving Magdalen With tears and spices to His tomb. 454 XXXIX The Tiber winds its sluggish way Through niggard tracts whence Rome's command Once cast the shadow of her sway, O'er Asian city, Afric sand. Nor even yet doth She resign Her sceptre. Still the spell is hers, Though she may seem a rifled shrine 'Mid circumjacent sepulchres. One after one, they came, they come, Gaul, Goth, Savoy, to work their will; She answers, when She most seems dumb, ``I wore the Crown, I wear it still. ``From Jove I first received the gift, I from Jehovah wear it now, Nor shall profane invader lift The diadem from off my brow. ``The Past is mine, and on the Past The Future builds; and Time will rear The next strong structure on the last, Where men behold but shattered tier. ``The Teuton hither hies to teach, To prove, disprove, to delve and probe. Fool! Pedant! Does he think to reach The deep foundations of the globe?'' For me, I am content to tread On Sabine dust and Gothic foe. Leave me to deepening silent dread Of vanished Empire's afterglow. In this Imperial wilderness Why rashly babble and explore? O, let me know a little less, So I may feel a little more! 455 XL For upward of one thousand years, Here men and women prayed to Jove, With smiles and incense, gifts and tears, In secret shrine, or civic grove; And, when Jove did not seem to heed, Sought Juno's mediatorial power, Or begged fair Venus intercede And melt him in his amorous hour. Sages invoked Minerva's might; The Poet, ere he struck the lyre, Prayed to the God of Song and Light To touch the strings with hallowed fire. With flaming herbs were altars smoked Sprinkled with blood and perfumed must, And gods and goddesses invoked To second love or sanction lust. And did they hear and heed the prayer, Or, through that long Olympian reign, Were they divinities of air Begot of man's fantastic brain? In Roman halls their statues still Serenely stand, but no one now Ascends the Capitolian Hill, To render thanks, or urge the vow. Through now long centuries hath Rome Throned other God, preached other Creed, That here still have their central home, And feed man's hope, content his need. Against these, too, will Time prevail? No! Let whatever gestates, be, Secure will last the tender tale 456 From Bethlehem to Calvary. Throughout this world of pain and loss, Man ne'er will cease to bend his knee To Crown of Thorns, to Spear, to Cross, And Doorway of Humility. XLI If Reason be the sole safe guide In man implanted from above, Why crave we for one only face, Why consecrate the name of Love? Faces there are no whit less fair, Yet ruddier lip, more radiant eye, Same rippling smile, same auburn hair, But not for us. Say, Reason, why. Why bound our hearts when April pied Comes singing, or when hawthorn blows? Doth logic in the lily hide, And where's the reason in the rose? Why weld our keels and launch our ships, If Reason urge some wiser part, Kiss England's Flag with dying lips And fold its glories to the heart? In this gross world we touch and see, If Reason be no trusty guide, For world unseen why should it be The sole explorer justified? The homing swallow knows its nest, Sure curves the comet to its goal, Instinct leads Autumn to its rest, And why not Faith the homing soul? Is Reason so aloof, aloft, It doth not 'gainst itself rebel, 457 And are not Reason's reasonings oft By Reason proved unreasonable? He is perplexed no more, who prays, ``Hail, Mary Mother, full of grace!'' O drag me from Doubt's endless maze, And let me see my Loved One's face! XLII ``Upon this rock!'' Yet even here Where Christian God ousts Pagan wraith, Rebellious Reason whets its spear, And smites upon the shield of Faith. On sacred mount, down seven-hilled slopes, Fearless it faces foe and friend, Saying to man's immortal hopes, ``Whatso began, perforce must end.'' Not men alone, but gods too, die; Fanes are, like hearths, left bare and lone; This earth will into fragments fly, And Heaven itself be overthrown. Why then should Man immortal be? He is but fleeting form, to fade, Like momentary cloud, or sea Of waves dispersed as soon as made. Yet if 'tis Force, not Form, survives, Meseems therein that one may find Some comfort for distressful lives; For, if Force ends not, why should Mind? Is Doubt more forceful than Belief? The doctor's cap than friar's cowl? O ripeness of the falling leaf! O wisdom of the moping owl! Man's Mind will ever stand apart 458 From Science, save this have for goal The evolution of the heart, And sure survival of the Soul. XLIII The Umbilicum lonely stands Where once rose porch and vanished dome; But he discerns who understands That every road may lead to Rome. Enthroned in Peter's peaceful Chair, The spiritual Caesar sways A wider Realm of earth and air Than trembled at Octavian's gaze. His universal arms embrace The saint, the sinner, and the sage, And proffer refuge, comfort, grace To tribulation's pilgrimage. Here scientific searchers find Precursors for two thousand years, Who in a drouthy world divined Fresh springs for human doubts and fears. Here fair chaste Agnes veils her face From prowlers of the sensual den, And pity, pardon, and embrace Await repentant Magdalen. Princess and peasant-mother wend To self-same altar, self-same shrine, And Cardinal and Patriarch bend Where lepers kneel, and beggars whine. And is there then, in my distress, No road, no gate, no shrine, for me? The answer comes, ``Yes, surely, yes! The Doorway of Humility.'' 459 O rival Faiths! O clamorous Creeds! Would you but hush your strife in prayer, And raise one Temple for our needs, Then, then, we all might worship there. But dogma new with dogma old Clashes to soothe the spirit's grief, And offer to the unconsoled Polyglot Babel of Belief! XLIV The billows roll, and rise, and break, Around me; fixedly shine the stars In clear dome overhead, and take Their course, unheeding earthly jars. Yet if one's upward gaze could be But stationed where the planets are, The star were restless as the sea, The sea be tranquil as the star. Hollowed like cradle, then like grave, Now smoothly curved, now shapeless spray, Withal the undirected wave Forms, and reforms, and knows its way. Then, waters, bear me on where He, Ere death absolved at Christian font, Removed Rome's menaced majesty Eastward beyond the Hellespont. Foreseeing not what Fate concealed, But Time's caprice would there beget, That Cross would unto Crescent yield, Caesar and Christ to Mahomet. Is it then man's predestined state To search for, ne'er to find, the Light? Arise, my Star, illuminate These empty spaces of the Night! 460 XLV Last night I heard the cuckoo call Among the moist green glades of home, And in the Chase around the Hall Saw the May hawthorn flower and foam. Deep in the wood where primrose stars Paled before bluebell's dazzling reign, The nightingale's sad sobbing bars Rebuked the merle's too joyful strain. The kine streamed forth from stall and byre, The foal frisked round its mother staid, The meads, by sunshine warmed, took fire, And lambs in pasture, bleating, played. The uncurbed rivulets raced to where The statelier river curled and wound, And trout, of human step aware, Shot through the wave without a sound. Adown the village street, as clear As in one's wakeful mid-day hours, Beheld I Monica drawing near, Her vestal lap one crib of flowers. Lending no look to me, she passed By the stone path, as oft before, Between old mounds Spring newly grassed, And entered through the Little Door. Led by her feet, I hastened on, But, ere my feverish steps could get To the low porch, lo! Morning shone On Moslem dome and minaret! CONSTANTINOPLE 461 XLVI Now Vesper brings the sunset hour, And, where crusading Knighthood trod, Muezzin from his minaret tower Proclaims, ``There is no God but God!'' Male God who shares his godhead with No Virgin Mother's sacred tear, But finds on earth congenial kith In wielders of the sword and spear: Male God who on male lust bestows The ruddy lip, the rounded limb, And promises, at battle's close, Houri, not saint nor seraphim. Swift through the doubly-guarded stream, Shoots the caïque 'neath oarsmen brisk, While from its cushioned cradle gleam The eyes of yashmaked odalisque. Unchanged adown the changing years, Here where the Judas blossoms blaze, Against Sophia's marble piers The scowling Muslim lean and gaze; And still at sunset's solemn hour, Where Christ's devout Crusader trod, Defiant from the minaret's tower Proclaim, ``There is no God but God!'' XLVII Three rival Rituals. One revered In that loved English hamlet where, With flowers in Vicarage garden reared, She decks the altar set for prayer: Another, where majestic Rome, With fearless Faith and flag unfurled 462 'Gainst Doubt's ephemeral wave and foam, Demands obedience from the world. The third, where now I stand, and where Two hoary Continents have met, And Islam guards from taint and tare Monistic Creed of Mahomet. Yet older than all three, but banned To suffer still the exile's doom From shrine where Turkish sentries stand, And Christians wrangle round Christ's tomb. Where then find Creed, divine or dead, All may embrace, and none contemn?Remember Who it was that said, ``Not here, nor at Jerusalem!'' ATHENS XLVIII To Acrocorinth's brow I climb, And, lulled in retrospective bliss, Descry, as through the mists of time, Faintly the far Acropolis. Below me, rivers, mountains, vales, Wide stretch of ancient Hellas lies: Symbol of Song that never fails, Parnassus communes with the skies. I linger, dream-bound by the Past, Till sundown joins time's deep abyss, Then skirt, through shadows moonlight-cast, Lone strand of sailless Salamis, Until Eleusis gleams through dawn, Where, though a suppliant soul I come, The veil remains still unwithdrawn, 463 And all the Oracles are dumb. So onward to the clear white Light, Where, though the worshippers be gone, Abides on unmysterious height The calm unquestioning Parthenon. Find I, now there I stand at last, That naked Beauty, undraped Truth, Can satisfy our yearnings vast, The doubts of age, the dreams of youth; That, while we ask, in futile strife, From altar, tripod, fount, or well, Form is the secret soul of life, And Art the only Oracle; That Hera and Athena, linked With Aphrodite, hush distress, And, in their several gifts distinct, Withal are Triune Goddesses? That mortal wiser then was He Who gave the prize to Beauty's smile, Divides his gifts among the Three, And thuswise baffles Discord's guile? But who is wise? The nobler twain, Who the restraining girdle wear, Contend too often all in vain With sinuous curve and frolic hair. Just as one sees in marble, still, Pan o'er Apollo's shoulder lean, Suggesting to the poet's quill The sensual note, the hint obscene. Doth then the pure white Light grow dim, And must it be for ever thus? Listen! I hear a far-off Hymn, Veni, Creator, Spiritus! 464 XLIX The harvest of Hymettus drips As sweet as when the Attic bees Swarmed round the honey-laden lips Of heavenly-human Sophocles. The olives are as green in grove As in the days the poets bless, When Pallas with Poseidon strove To be the City's Patroness. The wine-hued main, white marble frieze, Dome of blue ether over all, One still beholds, but nowhere sees Panathenaic Festival. O'erhead, no Zeus or frowns or nods, Olympus none in air or skies; Below, a sepulchre of Gods, And tombs of dead Divinities. Yet, are they dead? Still stricken blind, Tiresiaslike, are they that see, With bold uncompromising mind, Wisdom in utter nudity; Experiencing a kindred fate With the First Parents of us all, Jehovah thrust through Eden's Gate, When Knowledge brought about their Fall. Hath Aphrodite into foam, Whence She first flowered, sunk back once more, And doth She nowhere find a home, Or worship, upon Christian shore? Her shrine is in the human breast, To find her none need soar or dive. Goodness or Loveliness our quest, The ever-helpful Gods survive. 465 Hellas retorts, when Hebrew gibes At Gods of levity and lust, ``God of Judaea's wandering tribes Was jealous, cruel, and unjust.'' Godhead, withal, remains the same, And Art embalms its symbols still; As Poets, when athirst for Fame, Still dream of Aganippe's rill. Why still pursue a bootless quest, And wander heartsore farther East, Because unanswered, south or west, By Pagan seer or Christian priest? Brahma and Buddha, what have they To offer to my shoreless search? ``Let Contemplation be,'' they say, ``Your ritual, Nothingness your Church. ``Passion and purpose both forsake, Echoes from non-existent wall; We do but dream we are awake, Ourselves the deepest dream of all. ``We dream we think, feel, touch, and see, And what these are, still dreaming, guess, Though there is no Reality Behind their fleeting semblances.'' Thus the East answers my appeal, Denies, and so illudes, my want. Alas! Could I but cease to feel, Brahma should be my Hierophant. But, hampered by my Western mind, I cannot set the Spirit free From Matter, but Illusion find, 466 Of all, the most illusory. DELPHI LI The morning mists that hid the bay And curtained mountains fast asleep, Begin to feel the touch of day, And roll from off both wave and steep. In floating folds they curve and rise, Then slowly melt and merge in air, Till high above me glow the skies, And cloudless sunshine everywhere. Parnassus wears nor veil nor frown, Windless the eagle wings his way, As I from Delphi gaze adown On Salona and Amphissa. It was the sovran Sun that drew Aloft and scattered morning haze, And now fills all the spacious blue With its own glorifying rays. And, no less sovran than the sun, Imagination brings relief Of morning light to shadows dun, To heart's distress, and spirit's grief. Parnassus boasts no loftier peak Than Poet's heavenward song; which, though Harbouring among the sad and weak, Lifteth aloft man's griefs below. Though sun-bronzed Phocian maidens lave Their kerchiefs in Castalia's spring, The Muses linger round its wave, And aid the pilgrim sent to sing. 467 And, listening there, I seem to hear The unseen Oracle say, ``Be strong: Subdue the sigh, repress the tear, And let not sorrow silence Song. ``You now have learnt enough from pain; And, if worse anguish lurk behind, Breathe in it some unselfish strain, And with grief's wisdom aid your kind. ``Who but of his own suffering sings, Is like an eagle, robbed, distressed, That vainly shrieks and beats its wings, Because it cannot find its nest. ``Let male Imagination wed The orphan, Sorrow, to console Its virgin loneness, whence are bred Serenity and self-control. ``Hence let the classic breezes blow You to your Land beyond the sea, That you may make, for others' woe, Your own a healing melody; ``To wintry woe no more a slave, But, having dried your April tears, Behold a helpful harvest wave From ridges of the fallow years.'' LII Rebuked thus by the stately Past, Whose solemn choruses endure Through voices new and visions vast, And centuries of sepulture, Because, serene, it never blinked At sheen or shadow of the sun, But Hades and Olympus linked 468 With Salamis and Marathon; Which held despondency at bay And, while revering Fate's decree, Reconciled with majestic lay Man to the Human Tragedy; To Gods of every land I vowed, Judaea, Hellas, Mecca, Rome, No more to live by sorrow bowed, But, wending backward to my home, Thenceforth to muse on woe more wide Than individual distress, The loftier Muses for my guide, Minerva for my monitress; Nor yet to scorn the tender aid Of Christian martyr, virgin, sage, And, meekly pondering in the shade, Proffer ripe counsel to my Age. And, haply, since 'tis Song alone Can baffle death, and conquer time, Maiden unborn in days unknown, Under the leaves of fragrant lime, Scanning the verse that here is writ, While cherishing some secret smart Of love or loss, may glean from it Some comfort for her weary heart; And, gently warned, grave minds may own The world hath more to bear than they, And, while I dream 'neath mossy stone, Repeat my name, and love my lay. LIII Scarce to the all-indwelling Power That vow was uttered, ere there came 469 A messenger in boyhood's flower, Winged with his search, his face aflame. From Amphissa he straight had clomb, Thridding that devious mountain land, With letter from my far-off home, And written by my Loved One's hand. ``Come to me where I drooping lie. None yet have died of Love, they say: Withal, I sometimes think that I Have prayed and sighed my life away. ``I want your absolution, dear, For whatso wrong I may have done; My conscience waneth less severe, In softness of the setting sun. ``'Twas I, 'twas I, far more than you, That stood in need, as now I see, Stooping, to enter meekly through The Doorway of Humility. ``In vain I turn to Throne of Grace, Where sorrows cease, and tears are dry; I fain once more would see your face, And hear your voice, before I die.'' ENGLAND LIV The oak logs smoulder on my hearth, Though round them hums no household talk; The roses in the garden-garth Hang mournfully on curving stalk. My wolf-hound round me leaps and bays, That wailed lost footsteps when I went: He little knows the grief that weighs 470 On my return from banishment. Half Autumn now, half Summer yet, For Nature hath a human heart, It seems as though they, having met, To take farewell, are loth to part. The splendour of the Year's decline Hath not yet come. One still can see Late honeysuckle intertwine With Maiden's-Bower and briony. The bracken-fronds, fast yellowing, tower From out sere needles of the pine; Now hawkweed blooms where foxgloves flower, And bramble where once eglantine. And, as I wend with hurrying feet Across the park, along the lane That leads unto the hamlet street, And cradle of my bliss and bane, In cottage plots on either side, O'er mignonette and fragrant stock Soar tiger-lilies lithe and tall, And homely-sheltered hollyhock. And when I reach the low grey wall That skirts God's-acre on the hill, I see, awaiting my recall, The Little Door stand open still. A dip, a slight descent, and then Into the Vicarage Walk I passed; It seemed as though the tongues of men Had left it since I saw it last. Round garden-plot, in westering sun, Her agëd parents slowly stepped: Her Mother had the face of one Who oft hath prayed, and oft hath wept. 471 She wore the silent plaintive grace Of Autumn just before its close, And on her slowly fading face The pathos of November rose. With pitying gaze and accents kind, ``Go in,'' she said, ``and mount the stair; And you through open door will find That Monica awaits you there.'' LV I mounted. At half-open door Pausing, I softly called her name, As one would pause and halt before Heaven's Gateway. But no answer came. She lies, methought, in Sleep's caress, So, passing in, I seemed to see, So saintly white the vision, less A chamber than a Sanctuary. Vestured in white, on snow-white bed, She lay, as dreaming something sweet, Madonna lilies at her head, Madonna lilies at her feet. A thought, I did not dare to speak,``Is this the sleep of life or death?'' And, with my cheek against her cheek, Listening, I seemed to hear her breath. 'Twas Love's last blindness not to see Her sinless soul had taken wing Unto the Land, if such there be, Where saints adore, and Seraphs sing. And yet I felt within my heart, Though lids were closed and lips were dumb, That, for Love's sake, her soul in part Had lingered here, till I should come. 472 I kissed her irresponsive hand, I laid my lips on her cold brow, That She, like me, should understand 'Twas thus I sealed our nuptial vow. And then I saw upon her breast A something writ, she fain had said Had I been near, to me addressed, Which, kneeling down, I took and read. LVI ``I prayed I might prolong my years Till you could come and hush my sighs, And dry my penitential tears; But Heaven hath willed it otherwise: ``That I may expiate the wrong By me inflicted on us both, When, yet Love's novice, feebly strong, I sinned against Love's sovran troth. ``Now Death, the mirror unto Life, Shows me that nought should keep apart Those who, though sore perplexed by strife 'Twixt Faith and Doubt, are one in heart. ``For Doubt is one with Faith when they, Who doubt, for Truth's sake suffering live; And Faith meanwhile should hope and pray, Withholding not what Love can give. ``We lead the blind by voice and hand, And not by light they cannot see; We are not framed to understand The How and Why of such as He, ``But natured only to rejoice At every sound or sign of hope, And, guided by the still small voice, 473 In patience through the darkness grope; ``Until our finer sense expands, And we exchange for holier sight The earthly help of voice and hands, And in His light behold the Light. ``Had my poor Love but been more wise, I should have ta'en you to my breast, Striving to hush your plaintive cries, And rock your Reason back to rest. ``But, though alone you now must tread Where we together should have trod, In loneliness you may be led, Through faith in me, to Faith in God. ``With tranquil purpose, fervent mind, Foster, while you abide on earth, And humbly proffer to your kind, The gift assigned to you at birth. ``As in the far-off boyish year When did your singing voice awake, Disinterestedly revere And love it for its own great sake. ``And when life takes autumnal hues, With fervent reminiscence woo All the affections of the Muse, And write the poem lived by you. ``And should, until your days shall end, You still the lyric voice retain, With its seductive music blend A graver note, a loftier strain. ``While buoyant youth and manhood strong Follow where Siren sounds entice, The Deities of Love and Song, Rapture and loveliness, suffice. 474 ``But when decay, and pain, and loss, Remind one of the Goal forgot, And we in turn must bear the Cross, The Pagan Gods can help us not. ``Nor need you then seek, far and near, More sumptuous shrines on alien strand, But with domestic mind revere The Ritual of your native Land. ``The Little Door stands open wide, And, if you meekly pass therethrough, Though I no longer kneel inside, I shall be hovering near to you. ``Farewell! till you shall learn the whole Of what we here but see in part. Now I to God commend my soul, And unto you I leave my heart.'' LVII I wended up the slope once more To where the Church stands lone and still, And passed beneath the Little Door, My will the subject of Her will. The sunset rays through pictured pane Fell, fretted into weft and woof, On transept, nave, and aisle, to wane On column cold and vaulted roof. Within the carven altar screen Were lilies tall, and white, and fair, So like to those I late had seen, It seemed She must be sleeping there. Mutely I knelt, with bended brow And shaded eyes, but heart intent, To learn, should any teach me now, What Life, and Love, and Sorrow meant. 475 And there remained until the shroud Of dusk foretold the coming night; And then I rose, and prayed aloud, ``Let there be Light! Let there be Light!'' ~ Alfred Austin,

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

455:The Third Monarchy, Being The Grecian, Beginning Under Alexander The Great In The 112. Olympiad. Great Alexander was wise Philips son, He to Amyntas, Kings of Macedon; The cruel proud Olympias was his Mother, She to Epirus warlike King was daughter. This Prince (his father by Pausanias slain) The twenty first of's age began to reign. Great were the Gifts of nature which he had, His education much to those did adde: By art and nature both he was made fit, To 'complish that which long before was writ. The very day of his Nativity To ground was burnt Dianaes Temple high: An Omen to their near approaching woe, Whose glory to the earth this king did throw. His Rule to Greece he scorn'd should be confin'd, The Universe scarce bound his proud vast mind. This is the He-Goat which from Grecia came, That ran in Choler on the Persian Ram, That brake his horns, that threw him on the ground To save him from his might no man was found: Philip on this great Conquest had an eye, But death did terminate those thoughts so high. The Greeks had chose him Captain General, Which honour to his Son did now befall. (For as Worlds Monarch now we speak not on, But as the King of little Macedon) Restless both day and night his heart then was, His high resolves which way to bring to pass; Yet for a while in Greece is forc'd to stay, Which makes each moment seem more then a day. Thebes and stiff Athens both 'gainst him rebel, Their mutinies by valour doth he quell. This done against both right and natures Laws, His kinsmen put to death, who gave no cause; That no rebellion in in his absence be, Nor making Title unto Sovereignty. And all whom he suspects or fears will climbe, 129 Now taste of death least they deserv'd in time, Nor wonder is t if he in blood begin, For Cruelty was his parental sin, Thus eased now of troubles and of fears, Next spring his course to Asia he steers; Leavs Sage Antipater, at home to sway, And through the Hellispont his Ships made way. Coming to Land, his dart on shore he throws, Then with alacrity he after goes; And with a bount'ous heart and courage brave, His little wealth among his Souldiers gave. And being ask'd what for himself was left, Reply'd, enough, sith only hope he kept. Thirty two thousand made up his Foot force, To which were joyn'd five thousand goodly horse. Then on he marcht, in's way he view'd old Troy, And on Achilles tomb with wondrous joy He offer'd, and for good success did pray To him, his Mothers Ancestors, (men say) When news of Alexander came to Court, To scorn at him Darius had good sport; Sends him a frothy and contemptuous Letter, Stiles him disloyal servant, and no better; Reproves him for his proud audacity To lift his hand 'gainst such a Monarchy. Then to's Lieftenant he in Asia sends That he be ta'ne alive, for he intends To whip him well with rods, and so to bring That boy so mallipert before the King. Ah! fond vain man, whose pen ere while In lower terms was taught a higher stile. To River Granick Alexander hyes Which in Phrygia near Propontike lyes. The Persians ready for encounter stand, And strive to keep his men from off the land; Those banks so steep the Greeks yet scramble up, And beat the coward Persians from the top, And twenty thousand of their lives bereave, Who in their backs did all their wounds receive. This victory did Alexander gain, With loss of thirty four of his there slain; Then Sardis he, and Ephesus did gain, 130 VVhere stood of late, Diana's wondrous Phane, And by Parmenio (of renowned Fame,) Miletus and Pamphilia overcame. Hallicarnassus and Pisidia He for his Master takes with Lycia. Next Alexander marcht towards the black Sea, And easily takes old Gordium in his way; Of Ass ear'd Midas, once the Regal Seat, VVhose touch turn'd all to gold, yea even his meat VVhere the Prophetick knot he cuts in twain, VVhich who so doth, must Lord of all remain. Now news of Memnon's death (the Kings Viceroy) To Alexanders heart's no little joy, For in that Peer, more valour did abide, Then in Darius multitude beside: In's stead, was Arses plac'd, but durst not stay, Yet set one in his room, and ran away; His substitute as fearfull as his master, Runs after two, and leaves all to Disaster. Then Alexander all Cilicia takes, No stroke for it he struck, their hearts so quakes. To Greece he thirty thousand talents sends, To raise more Force to further his intends: Then o're he goes Darius now to meet, Who came with thousand thousands at his feet. Though some there be (perhaps) more likely write He but four hundred thousand had to fight, The rest Attendants, which made up no less, Both Sexes there was almost numberless. For this wise King had brought to see the sport, With him the greatest Ladyes of the Court, His mother, his beauteous Queen and daughters, It seems to see the Macedonian slaughters. Its much beyond my time and little art, To shew how great Darius plaid his part; The splendor and the pomp he marched in, For since the world was no such Pageant seen. Sure 'twas a goodly sight there to behold, The Persians clad in silk, and glistering gold, The stately horses trapt, the lances gilt, As if addrest now all to run a tilt. The holy fire was borne before the host, 131 (For Sun and Fire the Persians worship most) The Priests in their strange habit follow after, An object, not so much of fear as laughter. The King sate in a chariot made of gold, With crown and Robes most glorious to behold, And o're his head his golden Gods on high, Support a party coloured Canopy. A number of spare horses next were led, Lest he should need them in his Chariots stead; But those that saw him in this state to lye, Suppos'd he neither meant to fight nor flye. He fifteen hundred had like women drest; For thus to fright the Greeks he judg'd was best. Their golden ornaments how to set forth, Would ask more time then was their bodies worth Great Sysigambis she brought up the Reer, Then such a world of waggons did appear, Like several houses moving upon wheels, As if she'd drawn whole Shushan at her heels: This brave Virago to the King was mother, And as much good she did as any other. Now lest this gold, and all this goodly stuff Had not been spoyle and booty rich enough A thousand mules and Camels ready wait Loaden with gold, with jewels and with plate: For sure Darius thought at the first sight, The Greeks would all adore, but none would fight But when both Armies met, he might behold That valour was more worth then pearls or gold, And that his wealth serv'd but for baits to 'lure To make his overthrow more fierce and sure. The Greeks came on and with a gallant grace Let fly their arrows in the Persians face. The cowards feeling this sharp stinging charge Most basely ran, and left their king at large: Who from his golden coach is glad to 'light, And cast away his crown for swifter flight: Of late like some immoveable he lay, Now finds both legs and horse to run away. Two hundred thousand men that day were slain, And forty thousand prisoners also tane, Besides the Queens and Ladies of the court, 132 If Curtius be true in his report. The Regal Ornaments were lost, the treasure Divided at the Macedonians pleasure; Yet all this grief, this loss, this overthrow, Was but beginning of his future woe. The royal Captives brought to Alexander T'ward them demean'd himself like a Commander For though their beauties were unparaled, Conquer'd himself now he had conquered, Preserv'd their honour, us'd them bounteously, Commands no man should doe them injury: And this to Alexander is more fame Then that the Persian King he overcame. Two hundred eighty Greeks he lost in fight, By too much heat, not wounds (as authors write) No sooner had this Victor won the field, But all Phenicia to his pleasure yield, Of which the Goverment he doth commit Unto Parmenio of all most fit. Darius now less lofty then before, To Alexander writes he would restore Those mournfull Ladies from Captivity, For whom he offers him a ransome high: But down his haughty stomach could not bring, To give this Conquerour the Stile of King. This Letter Alexander doth disdain, And in short terms sends this reply again, A King he was, and that not only so, But of Darius King, as he should know. Next Alexander unto Tyre doth goe, His valour and his victoryes they know: To gain his love the Tyrians intend, Therefore a crown and great Provision send, Their present he receives with thankfullness, Desires to offer unto Hercules, Protector of their town, by whom defended, And from whom he lineally descended. But they accept not this in any wise, Lest he intend more fraud then sacrifice, Sent word that Hercules his temple stood In the old town, (which then lay like a wood) With this reply he was so deep enrag'd, 133 To win the town, his honour he ingag'd: And now as Babels King did once before, He leaves not till he made the sea firm shore, But far less time and cost he did expend, The former Ruines forwarded his end: Moreover had a Navy at command, The other by his men fetcht all by land. In seven months time he took that wealthy town, Whose glory now a second time's brought down. Two thousand of the chief he crucifi'd, Eight thousand by the sword then also di'd, And thirteen thousand Gally slaves he made, And thus the Tyrians for mistrust were paid. The rule of this he to Philotas gave Who was the son of that Parmenio brave. Cilicia to Socrates doth give, For now's the time Captains like Kings may live. Zidon he on Ephestion bestowes; (For that which freely comes, as freely goes) He scorns to have one worse then had the other, So gives his little Lordship to another. Ephestion having chief command of th'Fleet, At Gaza now must Alexander meet. Darius finding troubles still increase, By his Ambassadors now sues for peace, And layes before great Alexanders eyes The dangers difficultyes like to rise, First at Euphrates what he's like to 'bide, And then at Tygris and Araxis side, These he may scape, and if he so desire, A league of friendship make firm and entire. His eldest daughter he in mariage profers, And a most princely dowry with her offers. All those rich Kingdomes large that do abide Betwixt the Hellespont and Halys side. But he with scorn his courtesie rejects, And the distressed King no whit respects, Tells him, these proffers great, in truth were none For all he offers now was but his own. But quoth Parmenio that brave Commander, Was I as great, as is great Alexander, Darius offers I would not reject, 134 But th'kingdomes and the Lady soon accept. To which proud Alexander made reply, And so if I Parmenio was, would I. He now to Gaza goes, and there doth meet, His Favorite Ephestion with his Fleet, Where valiant Betis stoutly keeps the town, (A loyal Subject to Darius Crown) For more repulse the Grecians here abide Then in the Persian Monarchy beside; And by these walls so many men were slain, That Greece was forc'd to yield supply again. But yet this well defended Town was taken, For 'twas decree'd, that Empire should be shaken; Thus Betis ta'en had holes bor'd through his feet, And by command was drawn through every street To imitate Achilles in his shame, Who did the like to Hector (of more fame) What hast thou lost thy magnimity, Can Alexander deal thus cruelly? Sith valour with Heroicks is renown'd, Though in an Enemy it should be found; If of thy future fame thou hadst regard, Why didst not heap up honours and reward? From Gaza to Jerusalem he goes, But in no hostile way, (as I suppose) Him in his Priestly Robes high Jaddus meets, Whom with great reverence Alexander greets; The Priest shews him good Daniel's Prophesy, How he should overthrow this Monarchy, By which he was so much encouraged, No future dangers he did ever dread. From thence to fruitful Egypt marcht with speed, Where happily in's wars he did succeed; To see how fast he gain'd was no small wonder, For in few dayes he brought that Kingdome under. Then to the Phane of Jupiter he went, To be install'd a God, was his intent. The Pagan Priest through hire, or else mistake, The Son of Jupiter did streight him make: He Diobolical must needs remain, That his humanity will not retain. Thence back to Egypt goes, and in few dayes; 135 Fair Alexandria from the ground doth raise; Then setling all things in less Asia; In Syria, Egypt, and Phenicia, Unto Euphrates marcht and overgoes, For no man's there his Army to oppose; Had Betis now been there but with his band, Great Alexander had been kept from Land. But as the King, so is the multitude, And now of valour both are destitute. Yet he (poor prince) another Host doth muster, Of Persians, Scythians, Indians in a cluster; Men but in shape and name, of valour none Most fit, to blunt the Swords of Macedon. Two hundred fifty thousand by account, Of Horse and Foot his Army did amount; For in his multitudes his trust still lay, But on their fortitude he had small stay; Yet had some hope that on the spacious plain, His numbers might the victory obtain. About this time Darius beautious Queen, Who had sore travail and much sorrow seen, Now bids the world adue, with pain being spent, Whose death her Lord full sadly did lament. Great Alexander mourns as well as he, The more because not set at liberty; When this sad news (at first Darius hears, Some injury was offered he fears: But when inform'd how royally the King, Had used her, and hers, in every thing, He prays the immortal Gods they would reward Great Alexander for this good regard; And if they down his Monarchy will throw, Let them on him this dignity bestow. And now for peace he sues as once before, And offers all he did and Kingdomes more; His eldest daughter for his princely bride, (Nor was such match in all the world beside) And all those Countryes which (betwixt) did lye Phanisian Sea, and great Euphrates high: With fertile Egypt and rich Syria, And all those Kingdomes in less Asia. With thirty thousand Talents to be paid, 136 For the Queen Mother, and the royal maid; And till all this be well perform'd, and sure, Ochus his Son for Hostage should endure. To this stout Alexander gives no ear, No though Parmenio plead, yet will not hear; Which had he done. (perhaps) his fame he'd kept, Nor Infamy had wak'd, when he had slept, For his unlimited prosperity Him boundless made in vice and Cruelty. Thus to Darius he writes back again, The Firmament, two Suns cannot contain. Two Monarchyes on Earth cannot abide, Nor yet two Monarchs in one world reside; The afflicted King finding him set to jar, Prepares against to morrow, for the war, Parmenio, Alexander, wisht that night, To force his Camp, so vanquish them by flight. For tumult in the night doth cause most dread, And weakness of a Foe is covered, But he disdain'd to steal a victory: The Sun should witness of his valour be, And careless in his bed, next morne he lyes, By Captains twice is call'd before hee'l rise, The Armyes joyn'd a while, the Persians fight, And spilt the Greeks some bloud before their flight But long they stood not e're they're forc'd to run, So made an end, As soon as well begun. Forty five thousand Alexander had, But is not known what slaughter here was made, Some write th'other had a million, some more, But Quintus Curtius as before. At Arbela this victory was gain'd, Together with the Town also obtain'd; Darius stript of all to Media came, Accompan'ed with sorrow, fear, and shame, At Arbela left his Ornaments and Treasure, Which Alexander deals as suits his pleasure. This conqueror to Babylon then goes, Is entertain'd with joy and pompous showes, With showrs of flours the streets along are strown, And incense burnt the silver Altars on. The glory of the Castle he admires, 137 The strong Foundation and the lofty Spires, In this, a world of gold and Treasure lay, Which in few hours was carried all away. With greedy eyes he views this City round, Whose fame throughout the world was so renownd And to possess he counts no little bliss The towres and bowres of proud Semiramis, Though worne by time, and rac'd by foes full sore, Yet old foundations shew'd and somewhat more. With all the pleasures that on earth are found, This city did abundantly abound, Where four and thirty dayes he now did stay, And gave himself to banqueting and play: He and his souldiers wax effeminate, And former discipline begin to hate. Whilst revelling at Babylon he lyes, Antipater from Greece sends fresh supplyes. He then to Shushan goes with his new bands, But needs no force, tis rendred to his hands. He likewise here a world of treasure found; For 'twas the seat of Persian Kings renownd. Here stood the royal Houses of delight, Where Kings have shown their glory wealth and might The sumptuous palace of Queen Esther here, And of good Mordicai, her kinsman dear, Those purple hangings, mixt with green and white Those beds of gold, and couches of delight. And furniture the richest in all lands, Now fall into the Macedonians hands. From Shushan to Persipolis he goes, Which news doth still augment Darius woes. In his approach the governour sends word, For his receipt with joy they all accord, With open gates the wealthy town did stand, And all in it was at his high command. Of all the Cities that on earth was found, None like to this in riches did abound: Though Babylon was rich and Shushan too Yet to compare with this they might not doe: Here lay the bulk of all those precious things That did pertain unto the Persian Kings: For when the souldiers rifled had their pleasure, 138 And taken money plate and golden treasure, Statues some gold, and silver numberless, Yet after all, as storyes do express The share of Alexander did amount To an hundred thousand talents by account. Here of his own he sets a Garison, (As first at Shushan and at Babylon) On their old Governours titles he laid, But on their faithfulness he never staid, Their place gave to his Captains (as was just) For such revolters false, what King can trust? The riches and the pleasures of this town Now makes this King his virtues all to drown, That wallowing in all licentiousness, In pride and cruelty to high excess. Being inflam'd with wine upon a season, Filled with madness, and quite void of reason, He at a bold proud strumpets leud desire, Commands to set this goodly town on fire. Parmenio wise intreats him to desist And layes before his eyes if he persist His fames dishonour, loss unto his state, And just procuring of the Persians hate: But deaf to reason, bent to have his will, Those stately streets with raging flame did fill. Then to Darius he directs his way, Who was retir'd as far as Media, And there with sorrows, fears & cares surrounded Had now his army fourth and last compounded. Which forty thousand made, but his intent Was these in Bactria soon to augment: But hearing Alexander was so near, Thought now this once to try his fortunes here, And rather chose an honourable death, Then still with infamy to draw his breath: But Bessus false, who was his chief Commander Perswades him not to fight with Alexander. With sage advice he sets before his eyes The little hope of profit like to rise: If when he'd multitudes the day he lost, Then with so few, how likely to be crost. This counsel for his safety he pretended, 139 But to deliver him to's foe intended. Next day this treason to Darius known Transported sore with grief and passion, Grinding his teeth, and plucking off his hair, Sate overwhelm'd with sorrow and dispair: Then bids his servant Artabasus true, Look to himself, and leave him to that crew, Who was of hopes and comforts quite bereft, And by his guard and Servitors all left. Straight Bessus comes, & with his trait'rous hands Layes hold on's Lord, and binding him with bands Throws him into a Cart, covered with hides, Who wanting means t'resist these wrongs abides, Then draws the cart along with chains of gold, In more despight the thraled prince to hold, And thus t'ward Alexander on he goes, Great recompence for this, he did propose: But some detesting this his wicked fact, To Alexander flyes and tells this act, Who doubling of his march, posts on amain, Darius from that traitors hands to gain. Bessus gets knowledg his disloyalty Had Alexanders wrath incensed high, Whose army now was almost within sight, His hopes being dasht prepares himself for flight: Unto Darius first he brings a horse, And bids him save himself by speedy course: The wofull King his courtesie refuses, Whom thus the execrable wretch abuses, By throwing darts gave him his mortal wound, Then slew his Servants that were faithfull found, Yea wounds the beasts that drew him unto death, And leaves him thus to gasp out his last breath. Bessus his partner in this tragedy, Was the false Governour of Media. This done, they with their host soon speed away, To hide themselves remote in Bactria. Darius bath'd in blood, sends out his groans, Invokes the heav'ns and earth to hear his moans: His lost felicity did grieve him sore, But this unheard of treachery much more: But above all, that neither Ear nor Eye 140 Should hear nor see his dying misery; As thus he lay, Polistrates a Greek, Wearied with his long march, did water seek, So chanc'd these bloudy Horses to espy, Whose wounds had made their skins of purple dye To them repairs then looking in the Cart, Finds poor Darius pierced to the heart, Who not a little chear'd to have some eye, The witness of this horrid Tragedy; Prays him to Alexander to commend The just revenge of this his woful end: And not to pardon such disloyalty, Of Treason, Murther, and base Cruelty. If not, because Darius thus did pray, Yet that succeeding Kings in safety may Their lives enjoy, their Crowns and dignity, And not by Traitors hands untimely dye. He also sends his humble thankfulness, For all the Kingly grace he did express; To's Mother, Children dear, and wife now gone. Which made their long restraint seem to be none: Praying the immortal Gods, that Sea and Land Might be subjected to his royal hand, And that his Rule as far extended be, As men the rising, setting Sun shall see, This said, the Greek for water doth intreat, To quench his thirst, and to allay his heat: Of all good things (quoth he) once in my power, I've nothing left, at this my dying hour; Thy service and compassion to reward, But Alexander will, for this regard. This said, his fainting breath did fleet away, And though a Monarch late, now lyes like clay; And thus must every Son of Adam lye, Though Gods on Earth like Sons of men they dye. Now to the East, great Alexander goes, To see if any dare his might oppose, For scarce the world or any bounds thereon, Could bound his boundless fond Ambition; Such as submits again he doth restore Their riches, and their honours he makes more, On Artabaces more then all bestow'd, 141 For his fidelity to's Master show'd. Thalestris Queen of th'Amazons now brought Her Train to Alexander, (as 'tis thought.) Though most of reading best and soundest mind, Such Country there, nor yet such people find. Then tell her errand, we had better spare To th'ignorant, her title will declare: As Alexander in his greatness grows, So dayly of his virtues doth he lose. He baseness counts, his former Clemency, And not beseeming such a dignity; His past sobriety doth also bate, As most incompatible to his State; His temperance is but a sordid thing, No wayes becoming such a mighty King; His greatness now he takes to represent His fancy'd Gods above the Firmament. And such as shew'd but reverence before, Now are commanded strictly to adore; With Persian Robes himself doth dignifie, Charging the same on his nobility, His manners habit, gestures, all did fashion After that conquer'd and luxurious Nation. His Captains that were virtuously inclin'd, Griev'd at this change of manners and of mind. The ruder sort did openly deride, His feigned Diety and foolish pride; The certainty of both comes to his Ears, But yet no notice takes of what he hears: With those of worth he still desires esteem, So heaps up gifts his credit to redeem And for the rest new wars and travails finds, That other matters might take up their minds, And hearing Bessus, makes himself a King, Intends that Traitor to his end to bring. Now that his Host from luggage might be free, And with his burthen no man burthened be; Commands forthwith each man his fardle bring, Into the market place before the King; VVhich done, sets fire upon those goodly spoyles, The recompence of travails wars and toyles. And thus unwisely in a mading fume, 142 The wealth of many Kingdomes did consume, But marvell 'tis that without mutiny, The Souldiers should let pass this injury; Nor wonder less to Readers may it bring, Here to observe the rashness of the King. Now with his Army doth he post away False Bessus to find out in Bactria: But much distrest for water in their march, The drought and heat their bodies sore did parch. At length they came to th'river Oxus brink, Where so immoderately these thirsty drink, Which more mortality to them did bring, Then all their warrs against the Persian King. Here Alexander's almost at a stand, To pass the River to the other land. For boats here's none, nor near it any wood, To make them Rafts to waft them o're the flood: But he that was resolved in his mind, Would without means some transportation find. Then from the Carriages the hides he takes, And stuffing them with straw, he bundles makes. On these together ti'd, in six dayes space, They all pass over to the other place. Had Bessus had but valour to his will, With little pain there might have kept them still: But Coward durst not fight, nor could he fly, Hated of all for's former treachery, Is by his own now bound in iron chains, A Coller of the same, his neck contains. And in this sort they rather drag then bring This Malefactor vile before the King, Who to Darius brother gives the wretch, With racks and tortures every limb to stretch. Here was of Greeks a town in Bactria, Whom Xerxes from their Country led away, These not a little joy'd, this day to see, Wherein their own had got the sov'raignty And now reviv'd, with hopes held up their head From bondage long to be Enfranchised. But Alexander puts them to the sword Without least cause from them in deed or word; Nor Sex, nor age, nor one, nor other spar'd, 143 But in his cruelty alike they shar'd: Nor reason could he give for this great wrong, But that they had forgot their mother tongue. While thus some time he spent in Bactria, And in his camp strong and securely lay, Down from the mountains twenty thousand came And there most fiercely set upon the same: Repelling these, two marks of honour got Imprinted in his leg, by arrows shot. The Bactrians against him now rebel; But he their stubborness in time doth quell. From hence he to Jaxartis River goes, Where Scythians rude his army doth oppose, And with their outcryes in an hideous sort Beset his camp, or military court, Of darts and arrows, made so little spare, They flew so thick, they seem'd to dark the air: But soon his souldiers forc'd them to a flight, Their nakedness could not endure their might. Upon this rivers bank in seventeen dayes A goodly City doth compleatly raise, Which Alexandria he doth likewise name, And sixty furlongs could but round the same. A third Supply Antipater now sent, Which did his former forces much augment; And being one hundred twenty thousand strong; He enters then the Indian Kings among: Those that submit, he gives them rule again, Such as do not, both them and theirs are slain. His warrs with sundry nations I'le omit, And also of the Mallians what is writ. His Fights, his dangers, and the hurts he had, How to submit their necks at last they're glad. To Nisa goes by Bacchus built long since, Whose feasts are celebrated by this prince; Nor had that drunken god one who would take His Liquors more devoutly for his sake. When thus ten days his brain with wine he'd soakt, And with delicious meats his palate choakt: To th'River Indus next his course he bends, Boats to prepare, Ephestion first he sends, Who coming thither long before his Lord, 144 Had to his mind made all things to accord, The vessels ready were at his command, And Omphis King of that part of the land, Through his perswasion Alexander meets, And as his Sov'raign Lord him humbly greets Fifty six Elephants he brings to's hand, And tenders him the strength of all his land; Presents himself first with a golden crown, Then eighty talents to his captains down: But Alexander made him to behold He glory sought, no silver nor no gold; His presents all with thanks he did restore, And of his own a thousand talents more. Thus all the Indian Kings to him submit, But Porus stout, who will not yeild as yet: To him doth Alexander thus declare, His pleasure is that forthwith he repair Unto his Kingdomes borders, and as due, His homage to himself as Soveraign doe: But kingly Porus this brave answer sent, That to attend him there was his intent, And come as well provided as he could, But for the rest, his sword advise him should. Great Alexander vext at this reply, Did more his valour then his crown envy, Is now resolv'd to pass Hydaspes flood, And there by force his soveraignty make good. Stout Porus on the banks doth ready stand To give him welcome when he comes to land. A potent army with him like a King, And ninety Elephants for warr did bring: Had Alexander such resistance seen On Tygris side, here now he had not been. Within this spacious River deep and wide Did here and there Isles full of trees abide. His army Alexander doth divide With Ptolemy sends part to th'other side; Porus encounters them and thinks all's there, When covertly the rest get o're else where, And whilst the first he valiantly assail'd, The last set on his back, and so prevail'd. Yet work enough here Alexander found, 145 For to the last stout Porus kept his ground: Nor was't dishonour at the length to yield, When Alexander strives to win the field. The kingly Captive 'fore the Victor's brought, In looks or gesture not abased ought, But him a Prince of an undaunted mind Did Alexander by his answers find: His fortitude his royal foe commends, Restores him and his bounds farther extends. Now eastward Alexander would goe still, But so to doe his souldiers had no will, Long with excessive travails wearied, Could by no means be farther drawn or led, Yet that his fame might to posterity Be had in everlasting memory, Doth for his Camp a greater circuit take, And for his souldiers larger Cabbins make. His mangers he erected up so high As never horse his Provender could eye. Huge bridles made, which here and there he left, Which might be found, and for great wonders kept Twelve altars then for monuments he rears, Whereon his acts and travels long appears. But doubting wearing time might these decay, And so his memory would fade away, He on the fair Hydaspes pleasant side, Two Cities built, his name might there abide, First Nicea, the next Bucephalon, Where he entomb'd his stately Stalion. His fourth and last supply was hither sent, Then down Hydaspes with his Fleet he went; Some time he after spent upon that shore, Whether Ambassadors, ninety or more, Came with submission from the Indian Kings, Bringing their presents rare, and precious things, These all he feasts in state on beds of gold, His Furniture most sumptuous to behold; His meat & drink, attendants, every thing, To th'utmost shew'd the glory of a King. With rich rewards he sent them home again, Acknowledged their Masters sovereign; Then sailing South, and coming to that shore, 146 Those obscure Nations yielded as before: A City here he built, call'd by his Name, Which could not sound too oft with too much fame Then sailing by the mouth of Indus floud, His Gallyes stuck upon the flats and mud; Which the stout Macedonians amazed sore, Depriv'd at once the use of Sail and Oar: Observing well the nature of the Tide, In those their fears they did not long abide. Passing fair Indus mouth his course he steer'd To th'coast which by Euphrates mouth appear'd; Whose inlets near unto, he winter spent, Unto his starved Souldiers small content, By hunger and by cold so many slain, That of them all the fourth did scarce remain. Thus winter, Souldiers, and provisions spent, From hence he then unto Gedrosia went. And thence he marcht into Carmania, And so at length drew near to Persia, Now through these goodly Countryes as he past, Much time in feasts and ryoting did waste; Then visits Cyrus Sepulchre in's way, Who now obscure at Passagardis lay: Upon his Monument his Robe he spread, And set his Crown on his supposed head. From hence to Babylon, some time there spent, He at the last to royal Shushan went; A wedding Feast to's Nobles then he makes, And Statyra, Darius daughter takes, Her Sister gives to his Ephestian dear, That by this match he might be yet more near; He fourscore Persian Ladies also gave, At this same time unto his Captains brave: Six thousand guests unto this Feast invites, Whose Sences all were glutted with delights. It far exceeds my mean abilities To shadow forth these short felicities, Spectators here could scarce relate the story, They were so rapt with this external glory: If an Ideal Paradise a man would frame, He might this Feast imagine by the same; To every guess a cup of gold he sends, 147 So after many dayes the Banquet ends. Now Alexanders conquests all are done, And his long Travails past and overgone; His virtues dead, buried, and quite forgot, But vice remains to his Eternal blot. 'Mongst those that of his cruelty did tast, Philotus was not least, nor yet the last, Accus'd because he did not certifie The King of treason and conspiracy: Upon suspition being apprehended, Nothing was prov'd wherein he had offended But silence, which was of such consequence, He was judg'd guilty of the same offence, But for his fathers great deserts the King His royal pardon gave for this foul thing. Yet is Phylotas unto judgment brought, Must suffer, not for what is prov'd, but thought. His master is accuser, judge and King, Who to the height doth aggravate each thing, Inveighs against his father now absent, And's brethren who for him their lives had spent. But Philotas his unpardonable crime, No merit could obliterate, or time: He did the Oracle of Jove deride, By which his Majesty was diefi'd. Philotas thus o'recharg'd with wrong and grief Sunk in despair without hope of Relief, Fain would have spoke and made his own defence, The King would give no ear, but went from thence To his malicious Foes delivers him, To wreak their spight and hate on every limb. Philotas after him sends out this cry, O Alexander, thy free clemency My foes exceeds in malice, and their hate Thy kingly word can easily terminate. Such torments great as wit could worst invent, Or flesh and life could bear, till both were spent Were now inflicted on Parmenio's son He might accuse himself, as they had done, At last he did, so they were justifi'd, And told the world, that for his guilt he di'd. But how these Captains should, or yet their master 148 Look on Parmenio, after this disaster They knew not, wherefore best now to be done, Was to dispatch the father as the son. This sound advice at heart pleas'd Alexander, Who was so much ingag'd to this Commander, As he would ne're confess, nor yet reward, Nor could his Captains bear so great regard: Wherefore at once, all these to satisfie, It was decreed Parmenio should dye: Polidamus, who seem'd Parmenio's friend To do this deed they into Media send: He walking in his garden to and fro, Fearing no harm, because he none did doe, Most wickedly was slain without least crime, (The most renowned captain of his time) This is Parmenio who so much had done For Philip dead, and his surviving son, Who from a petty King of Macedon By him was set upon the Persian throne, This that Parmenio who still overcame, Yet gave his Master the immortal fame, Who for his prudence, valour, care and trust Had this reward, most cruel and unjust. The next, who in untimely death had part, Was one of more esteem, but less desert; Clitus belov'd next to Ephestian, And in his cups his chief companion; When both were drunk, Clitus was wont to jeer, Alexander to rage, to kill, and swear; Nothing more pleasing to mad Clitus tongue, Then's Masters Godhead to defie and wrong; Nothing toucht Alexander to the quick, Like this against his Diety to kick: Both at a Feast when they had tippled well, Upon this dangerous Theam fond Clitus fell; From jest to earnest, and at last so bold, That of Parmenio's death him plainly told. Which Alexanders wrath incens'd so high, Nought but his life for this could satisfie; From one stood by he snatcht a partizan, And in a rage him through the body ran, Next day he tore his face for what he'd done, 149 And would have slain himself for Clitus gone: This pot Companion he did more bemoan, Then all the wrongs to brave Parmenio done. The next of worth that suffered after these, Was learned, virtuous, wise Calisthenes, VVho lov'd his Master more then did the rest, As did appear, in flattering him the least; In his esteem a God he could not be, Nor would adore him for a Diety: For this alone and for no other cause, Against his Sovereign, or against his Laws, He on the Rack his Limbs in pieces rent, Thus was he tortur'd till his life was spent. Of this unkingly act doth Seneca This censure pass, and not unwisely say, Of Alexander this th'eternal crime, VVhich shall not be obliterate by time. VVhich virtues fame can ne're redeem by far, Nor all felicity of his in war. VVhen e're 'tis said he thousand thousands slew, Yea, and Calisthenes to death he drew. The mighty Persian King he overcame, Yea, and he kill'd Calistthenes of fame. All Countryes, Kingdomes, Provinces, he wan From Hellispont, to th'farthest Ocean. All this he did, who knows' not to be true? But yet withal, Catisthenes he slew. From Macedon, his Empire did extend Unto the utmost bounds o' th'orient: All this he did, yea, and much more, 'tis true, But yet withal, Catisthenes he slew. Now Alexander goes to Media, Finds there the want of wise Parmenio; Here his chief favourite Ephestian dies, He celebrates his mournful obsequies: Hangs his Physitian, the Reason why He suffered, his friend Ephestian dye. This act (me-thinks) his Godhead should a shame, To punish where himself deserved blame; Or of necessity he must imply, The other was the greatest Diety. The Mules and Horses are for sorrow shorne, 150 The battlements from off the walls are torne. Of stately Ecbatane who now must shew, A rueful face in this so general woe; Twelve thousand Talents also did intend, Upon a sumptuous monument to spend: What e're he did, or thought not so content, His messenger to Jupiter he sent, That by his leave his friend Ephestion, Among the Demy Gods they might inthrone. From Media to Babylon he went, To meet him there t'Antipater he'd sent, That he might act also upon the Stage, And in a Tragedy there end his age. The Queen Olimpias bears him deadly hate, Not suffering her to meddle with the State, And by her Letters did her Son incite, This great indignity he should requite; His doing so, no whit displeas'd the King, Though to his Mother he disprov'd the thing. But now Antipater had liv'd so long, He might well dye though he had done no wrong; His service great is suddenly forgot, Or if remembred, yet regarded not: The King doth intimate 'twas his intent, His honours and his riches to augment; Of larger Provinces the rule to give, And for his Counsel near the King to live. So to be caught, Antipater's too wise, Parmenio's death's too fresh before his eyes; He was too subtil for his crafty foe. Nor by his baits could be insnared so: But his excuse with humble thanks he sends, His Age and journy long he then pretends; And pardon craves for his unwilling stay, He shews his grief, he's forc'd to disobey. Before his Answer came to Babylon, The thread of Alexanders life was spun; Poyson had put an end to's dayes ('twas thought) By Philip and Cassander to him brought, Sons to Antipater, and bearers of his Cup, Lest of such like their Father chance to sup; By others thought, and that more generally, 151 That through excessive drinking he did dye: The thirty third of's Age do all agree, This Conquerour did yield to destiny. When this sad news came to Darius Mother, She laid it more to heart, then any other, Nor meat, nor drink, nor comfort would she take, But pin'd in grief till life did her forsake; All friends she shuns, yea, banished the light, Till death inwrapt her in perpetual night. This Monarchs fame must last whilst world doth stand, And Conquests be talkt of whilest there is land; His Princely qualities had he retain'd, Unparalled for ever had remain'd. But with the world his virtues overcame, And so with black beclouded, all his fame; Wise Aristotle Tutor to his youth. Had so instructed him in moral Truth: The principles of what he then had learn'd Might to the last (when sober) be discern'd. Learning and learned men he much regarded, And curious Artist evermore rewarded: The Illiads of Homer he still kept. And under's pillow laid them when he slept. Achilles happiness he did envy, 'Cause Homer kept his acts to memory. Profusely bountifull without desert, For such as pleas'd him had both wealth and heart Cruel by nature and by custome too, As oft his acts throughout his reign doth shew: Ambitious so, that nought could satisfie, Vain, thirsting after immortality, Still fearing that his name might hap to dye, And fame not last unto eternity. This Conqueror did oft lament (tis said) There were no more worlds to be conquered. This folly great Augustus did deride, For had he had but wisdome to his pride, He would had found enough there to be done, To govern that he had already won. His thoughts are perisht, he aspires no more, Nor can he kill or save as heretofore. A God alive, him all must Idolize, 152 Now like a mortal helpless man he lyes. Of all those Kingdomes large which he had got, To his Posterity remain'd no jot; For by that hand which still revengeth bloud, None of his kindred, nor his race long stood: But as he took delight much bloud to spill, So the same cup to his, did others fill. Four of his Captains now do all divide, As Daniel before had prophysi'd. The Leopard down, the four wings 'gan to rise, The great horn broke, the less did tyranize. What troubles and contentions did ensue We may hereafter shew in season due. Aridæus. Great Alexander dead, his Armyes left, Like to that Giant of his Eye bereft; When of his monstrous bulk it was the guide, His matchless force no creature could abide. But by Ulisses having lost his sight, All men began streight to contemn his might; For aiming still amiss, his dreadful blows Did harm himself, but never reacht his Foes. Now Court and Camp all in confusion be, A King they'l have, but who, none can agree; Each Captain wisht this prize to bear away, But none so hardy found as so durst say: Great Alexander did leave Issue none, Except by Artabasus daughter one; And Roxane fair whom late he married, Was near her time to be delivered. By natures right these had enough to claim, But meaness of their mothers bar'd the same, Alledg'd by those who by their subtile Plea Had hope themselves to bear the Crown away. A Sister Alexander had, but she Claim'd not, perhaps, her Sex might hindrance be. After much tumult they at last proclaim'd His base born brother Aridæus nam'd, That so under his feeble wit and reign, Their ends they might the better still attain. This choice Perdiccas vehemently disclaim'd, And Babe unborn of Roxane he proclaim'd; 153 Some wished him to take the style of King, Because his Master gave to him his Ring, And had to him still since Ephestion di'd More then to th'rest his favour testifi'd. But he refus'd, with feigned modesty, Hoping to be elect more generally. He hold on this occasion should have laid, For second offer there was never made. 'Mongst these contentions, tumults, jealousies, Seven dayes the corps of their great master lies Untoucht, uncovered slighted and neglected, So much these princes their own ends respected: A Contemplation to astonish Kings, That he who late possest all earthly things, And yet not so content unless that he Might be esteemed for a Diety; Now lay a Spectacle to testifie, The wretchedness of mans mortality. After some time, when stirs began to calm, His body did the Egyptians embalme; His countenance so lively did appear, That for a while they durst not come so near: No sign of poyson in his intrails sound, But all his bowels coloured, well and sound. Perdiccas seeing Arideus must be King, Under his name began to rule each thing. His chief Opponent who Control'd his sway, Was Meleager whom he would take away, And by a wile he got him in his power, So took his life unworthily that hour. Using the name, and the command of th'King To authorize his acts in every thing. The princes seeing Perdiccas power and pride, For their security did now provide. Antigonus for his share Asia takes, And Ptolemy next sure of Egypt makes: Seleucus afterward held Babylon, Antipater had long rul'd Macedon. These now to govern for the king pretends, But nothing less each one himself intends. Perdiccas took no province like the rest, But held command of th'Army (which was best) 154 And had a higher project in his head, His Masters sister secretly to wed: So to the Lady, covertly he sent, (That none might know, to frustrate his intent) But Cleopatra this Suitor did deny, For Leonatus more lovely in her eye, To whom she sent a message of her mind, That if he came good welcome he should find. In these tumultuous dayes the thralled Greeks, Their Ancient Liberty afresh now seeks. And gladly would the yoke shake off, laid on Sometimes by Philip and his conquering son. The Athenians force Antipater to fly To Lamia where he shut up doth lye. To brave Craterus then he sends with speed For succours to relieve him in his need. The like of Leonatus he requires, (Which at this time well suited his desires) For to Antipater he now might goe, His Lady take in th'way, and no man know. Antiphilus the Athenian General With speed his Army doth together call; And Leonatus seeks to stop, that so He joyne not with Antipater their foe. The Athenian Army was the greater far, (Which did his Match with Cleopatra mar) For fighting still, while there did hope remain The valiant Chief amidst his foes was slain. 'Mongst all the princes of great Alexander For personage, none like to this Commander. Now to Antipater Craterus goes, Blockt up in Lamia still by his foes, Long marches through Cilicia he makes, And the remains of Leonatus takes: With them and his he into Grecia went, Antipater releas'd from prisonment: After which time the Greeks did never more Act any thing of worth, as heretofore: But under servitude their necks remain'd, Nor former liberty or glory gain'd. Now di'd about the end of th'Lamian war Demosthenes, that sweet-tongue'd Orator, 155 Who fear'd Antipater would take his life For animating the Athenian strife: To end his dayes by poison rather chose Then fall into the hands of mortal foes. Craterus and Antipater now joyne, In love and in affinity combine, Craterus doth his daughter Phila wed Their friendship might the more be strengthened. Whilst they in Macedon do thus agree, In Asia they all asunder be. Perdiccas griev'd to see the princes bold So many Kingdomes in their power to hold, Yet to regain them, how he did not know, His souldiers 'gainst those captains would not goe To suffer them go on as they begun, Was to give way himself might be undone. With Antipater to joyne he sometimes thought, That by his help, the rest might low be brought, But this again dislikes; he would remain, If not in stile, in deed a soveraign; (For all the princes of great Alexander Acknowledged for Chief that old Commander) Desires the King to goe to Macedon, Which once was of his Ancestors the throne, And by his presence there to nullifie The acts of his Vice-Roy now grown so high. Antigonus of treason first attaints, And summons him to answer his complaints. This he avoids, and ships himself and son, goes to Antipater and tells what's done. He and Craterus, both with him do joyne, And 'gainst Perdiccas all their strength combine. Brave Ptolemy, to make a fourth then sent To save himself from danger imminent. In midst of these garboyles, with wondrous state His masters funeral doth celebrate: In Alexandria his tomb he plac'd, Which eating time hath scarcely yet defac'd. Two years and more, since natures debt he paid, And yet till now at quiet was not laid. Great love did Ptolemy by this act gain, And made the souldiers on his side remain. 156 Perdiccas hears his foes are all combin'd, 'Gainst which to goe, is not resolv'd in mind. But first 'gainst Ptolemy he judg'd was best, Neer'st unto him, and farthest from the rest, Leaves Eumenes the Asian Coast to free From the invasions of the other three, And with his army unto Egypt goes Brave Ptolemy to th'utmost to oppose. Perdiccas surly cariage, and his pride Did alinate the souldiers from his side. But Ptolemy by affability His sweet demeanour and his courtesie, Did make his own, firm to his cause remain, And from the other side did dayly gain. Perdiccas in his pride did ill intreat Python of haughty mind, and courage great. Who could not brook so great indignity, But of his wrongs his friends doth certifie; The souldiers 'gainst Perdiccas they incense, Who vow to make this captain recompence, And in a rage they rush into his tent, Knock out his brains: to Ptolemy then went And offer him his honours, and his place, With stile of the Protector, him to grace. Next day into the camp came Ptolemy, And is receiv'd of all most joyfully. Their proffers he refus'd with modesty, Yields them to Python for his courtesie. With what he held he was now more content, Then by more trouble to grow eminent. Now comes there news of a great victory That Eumenes got of the other three. Had it but in Perdiccas life ariv'd, With greater joy it would have been receiv'd. Thus Ptolemy rich Egypt did retain, And Python turn'd to Asia again. Whilst Perdiccas encamp'd in Affrica, Antigonus did enter Asia, And fain would Eumenes draw to their side, But he alone most faithfull did abide: The other all had Kingdomes in their eye, But he was true to's masters family, 157 Nor could Craterus, whom he much did love. From his fidelity once make him move: Two Battles fought, and had of both the best, And brave Craterus slew among the rest: For this sad strife he poures out his complaints, And his beloved foe full sore laments. I should but snip a story into bits And his great Acts and glory much eclipse, To shew the dangers Eumenes befel, His stratagems wherein he did excel: His Policies, how he did extricate Himself from out of Lab'rinths intricate: He that at large would satisfie his mind, In Plutarchs Lives his history may find. For all that should be said, let this suffice, He was both valiant, faithfull, patient, wise. Python now chose Protector of the state, His rule Queen Euridice begins to hate, Sees Arrideus must not King it long, If once young Alexander grow more strong, But that her husband serve for supplement, To warm his seat, was never her intent. She knew her birth-right gave her Macedon, Grand-child to him who once sat on that throne Who was Perdiccas, Philips eldest brother, She daughter to his son, who had no other. Pythons commands, as oft she countermands; What he appoints, she purposely withstands. He wearied out at last would needs be gone, Resign'd his place, and so let all alone: In's room the souldiers chose Antipater, Who vext the Queen more then the other far. From Macedon to Asia he came, That he might settle matters in the same. He plac'd, displac'd, control'd rul'd as he list, And this no man durst question or resist; For all the nobles of King Alexander Their bonnets vail'd to him as chief Commander. When to his pleasure all things they had done, The King and Queen he takes to Macedon, Two sons of Alexander, and the rest, All to be order'd there as he thought best. 158 The Army to Antigonus doth leave, And Government of Asia to him gave. And thus Antipater the ground-work layes, On which Antigonus his height doth raise, Who in few years, the rest so overtops, For universal Monarchy he hopes. With Eumenes he diverse Battels fought, And by his slights to circumvent him sought: But vain it was to use his policy, 'Gainst him that all deceits could scan and try. In this Epitome too long to tell How finely Eumenes did here excell, And by the self same Traps the other laid, He to his cost was righteously repaid. But while these Chieftains doe in Asia fight, To Greece and Macedon lets turn our sight. When great Antipater the world must leave, His place to Polisperchon did bequeath, Fearing his son Cassander was unstaid, Too rash to bear that charge, if on him laid. Antigonus hearing of his decease On most part of Assyria doth seize. And Ptolemy next to incroach begins, All Syria and Phenicia he wins, Then Polisperchon 'gins to act in's place, Recalls Olimpias the Court to grace. Antipater had banish'd her from thence Into Epire for her great turbulence; This new Protector's of another mind, Thinks by her Majesty much help to find. Cassander like his Father could not see, This Polisperchons great ability, Slights his Commands, his actions he disclaims, And to be chief himself now bends his aims; Such as his Father had advanc'd to place, Or by his favours any way had grac'd Are now at the devotion of the Son, Prest to accomplish what he would have done; Besides he was the young Queens favourite, On whom (t'was thought) she set her chief delight: Unto these helps at home he seeks out more, Goes to Antigonus and doth implore, 159 By all the Bonds 'twixt him and's Father past, And for that great gift which he gave him last. By these and all to grant him some supply, To take down Polisperchon grown so high; For this Antigonus did need no spurs, Hoping to gain yet more by these new stirs, Streight furnish'd him with a sufficient aid, And so he quick returns thus well appaid, With Ships at Sea, an Army for the Land, His proud opponent hopes soon to withstand. But in his absence Polisperchon takes Such friends away as for his Interest makes By death, by prison, or by banishment, That no supply by these here might be lent, Cassander with his Host to Grecia goes, Whom Polisperchon labours to oppose; But beaten was at Sea, and foil'd at Land, Cassanders forces had the upper hand, Athens with many Towns in Greece beside, Firm (for his Fathers sake) to him abide. Whil'st hot in wars these two in Greece remain, Antigonus doth all in Asia gain; Still labours Eumenes, would with him side, But all in vain, he faithful did abide: Nor Mother could, nor Sons of Alexander, Put trust in any but in this Commander. The great ones now began to shew their mind, And act as opportunity they find. Aridæus the scorn'd and simple King, More then he bidden was could act no thing. Polisperchon for office hoping long, Thinks to inthrone the Prince when riper grown; Euridice this injury disdains, And to Cassandar of this wrong complains. Hateful the name and house of Alexander, Was to this proud vindicative Cassander; He still kept lockt within his memory, His Fathers danger, with his Family; Nor thought he that indignity was small, When Alexander knockt his head to th'wall. These with his love unto the amorous Queen, Did make him vow her servant to be seen. 160 Olimpias, Aridæus deadly hates, As all her Husbands, Children by his mates, She gave him poyson formerly ('tis thought) Which damage both to mind and body brought; She now with Polisperchon doth combine, To make the King by force his Seat resigne: And her young grand-child in his State inthrone, That under him, she might rule, all alone. For aid she goes t'Epire among her friends, The better to accomplish these her ends; Euridice hearing what she intends, In haste unto her friend Cassander sends, To leave his siege at Tegea, and with speed, To save the King and her in this their need: Then by intreaties, promises and Coyne, Some forces did procure with her to joyn. Olimpias soon enters Macedon, The Queen to meet her bravely marches on, But when her Souldiers saw their ancient Queen, Calling to mind what sometime she had been; The wife and Mother of their famous Kings, Nor darts, nor arrows, now none shoots or flings. The King and Queen seeing their destiny, To save their lives t'Amphipolis do fly; But the old Queen pursues them with her hate, And needs will have their lives as well as State: The King by extream torments had his end, And to the Queen these presents she did send; A Halter, cup of poyson, and a Sword, Bids chuse her death, such kindness she'l afford. The Queen with many a curse, and bitter check, At length yields to the Halter her fair neck; Praying that fatal day might quickly haste, On which Olimpias of the like might taste. This done the cruel Queen rests not content, 'Gainst all that lov'd Cassander she was bent; His Brethren, Kinsfolk and his chiefest friends, That fell within her reach came to their ends: Dig'd up his brother dead, 'gainst natures right, And threw his bones about to shew her spight: The Courtiers wondring at her furious mind, Wisht in Epire she had been still confin'd. 161 In Peloponesus then Cassander lay, Where hearing of this news he speeds away, With rage, and with revenge he's hurried on, To find this cruel Queen in Macedon; But being stopt, at streight Thermopoly, Sea passage gets, and lands in Thessaly: His Army he divides, sends post away, Polisperchon to hold a while in play; And with the rest Olimpias pursues, For all her cruelty, to give her dues. She with the chief o' th'Court to Pydna flyes, Well fortifi'd, (and on the Sea it lyes) There by Cassander she's blockt up so long, Untill the Famine grows exceeding strong, Her Couzen of Epire did what he might, To raise the Siege, and put her Foes to flight. Cassander is resolved there to remain, So succours and endeavours proves but vain; Fain would this wretched Queen capitulate, Her foe would give no Ear, (such is his hate) The Souldiers pinched with this scarcity, By stealth unto Cassander dayly fly; Olimpias means to hold out to the last, Expecting nothing but of death to tast: But his occasions calling him away, Gives promise for her life, so wins the day. No sooner had he got her in his hand, But made in judgement her accusers stand; And plead the blood of friends and kindreds spilt, Desiring justice might be done for guilt; And so was he acquitted of his word, For justice sake she being put to th'Sword: This was the end of this most cruel Queen, Whose fury scarcely parallel'd hath been. The daughter, sister, Mother, Wife to Kings, But Royalty no good conditions brings; To Husbands death ('tis thought) she gave consent, The murtherer she did so much lament: With Garlands crown'd his head, bemoan'd his fates, His Sword unto Apollo consecrates. Her Outrages too tedious to relate, How for no cause but her inveterate hate; 162 Her Husbands wives and Children after's death, Some slew, some fry'd, of others stopt the breath: Now in her Age she's forc'd to tast that Cup, Which she had others often made to sup. Now many Towns in Macedon supprest, And Pellas fain to yield among the rest; The Funerals Cassander celebrates, Of Aridæus and his Queen with State: Among their Ancestors by him they're laid, And shews of lamentation for them made. Old Thebes he then rebuilt so much of fame, And Cassandria rais'd after his name. But leave him building, others in their Urne, Let's for a while, now into Asia turn. True Eumenes endeavours by all Skill, To keep Antigonus from Shushan still; Having command o'th' Treasure he can hire, Such as no threats, nor favour could acquire. In divers Battels he had good success, Antigonus came off still honourless; When Victor oft he'd been, and so might still, Peucestes did betray him by a wile. T'Antigonus, who took his Life unjust, Because he never would forgoe his trust; Thus lost he all for his fidelity, Striving t'uphold his Masters Family. But to a period as that did haste, So Eumenes (the prop) of death must tast; All Persia now Antigonus doth gain, And Master of the Treasure sole remain: Then with Seleucus streight at odds doth fall, And he for aid to Ptolomy doth call, The Princes all begin now to envy Antigonus, he growing up so high; Fearing his force, and what might hap e're long, Enters into a Combination strong, Seleucus, Ptolemy, Cassander joynes, Lysimachus to make a fourth combines: Antigonus desirous of the Greeks, To make Cassander odious to them seeks, Sends forth his declarations near and far, And clears what cause he had to make this war, 163 Cassanders outrages at large doth tell, Shews his ambitious practises as well. The mother of their King to death he'd put, His wife and son in prison close had shut: And aiming now to make himself a king, And that some title he might seem to bring, Thessalonica he had newly wed, Daughter to Philip their renowned head: Had built and call'd a City by his name, Which none e're did, but those of royal fame: And in despight of their two famous Kings Hatefull Olinthians to Greece rebrings. Rebellious Thebes he had reedified, Which their late King in dust had damnified, Requires them therefore to take up their arms And to requite this traitor for these harms. Then Ptolemy would gain the Greeks likewise, And he declares the others injuryes: First how he held the Empire in his hands, Seleucus driven from Goverment and lands, The valiant Eumenes unjustly slain, And Lord of royal Shushan did remain; Therefore requests their help to take him down Before he wear the universal Crown. These princes at the sea soon had a fight, Where great Antigonus was put to flight: His son at Gaza likewise lost the field, So Syria to Ptolemy did yield: And Seleucus recovers Babylon, Still gaining Countryes eastward he goes on. Demetrius with Ptolemy did fight, And coming unawares, put him to flight; But bravely sends the prisoners back again, With all the spoyle and booty he had tane. Courteous as noble Ptolemy, or more, VVho at Gaza did the like to him before. Antigonus did much rejoyce, his son VVith victory, his lost repute had won. At last these princes tired out with warrs, Sought for a peace, and laid aside their jarrs: The terms of their agreement, thus express That each should hold what now he did possess, 164 Till Alexander unto age was grown, VVho then should be enstalled in the throne. This toucht Cassander sore for what he'd done, Imprisoning both the mother and the son: He sees the Greeks now favour their young Prince Whom he in durance held, now, and long since, That in few years he must be forc'd or glad, To render up such Kingdomes as he had; Resolves to quit his fears by one deed done, So puts to death the Mother and her Son. This Roxane for her beauty all commend, But for one act she did, just was her end. No sooner was great Alexander dead, But she Darius daughters murthered. Both thrown into a well to hide her blot, Perdiccas was her Partner in this plot. The heavens seem'd slow in paying her the same; But at the last the hand of vengeance came. And for that double fact which she had done, The life of her must goe, and of her son Perdiccas had before for his amiss, But by their hands who thought not once of this. Cassanders deed the princes do detest, But 'twas in shew; in heart it pleas'd them best. That he is odious to the world, they'r glad: And now they were free Lords of what they had. When this foul tragedy was past and done, Polysperchon brings the other son Call'd Hercules, and elder then his brother, (But Olimpias would prefer the other) The Greeks toucht with the murther done of late, This Orphan prince 'gan to compassionate, Begin to mutter much 'gainst proud Cassander, And place their hopes on th'heir of Alexander. Cassander fear'd what might of this ensue, So Polisperchon to his counsel drew, And gives Peloponesus for his hire, Who slew the prince according to desire. Thus was the race and house of Alexander Extinct by this inhumane wretch Cassander. Antigonus, for all this doth not mourn, He knows to's profit, this at last will turn, 165 But that some Title now he might pretend, To Cleopatra doth for marriage send; Lysimachus and Ptolemy the same, And lewd Cassander too, sticks not for shame: She then in Lydia at Sardis lay, Where by Embassage all these Princes pray. Choice above all, of Ptolemy she makes, With his Embassador her journy takes; Antigonus Lieutenant stayes her still, Untill he further know his Masters will: Antigonus now had a Wolf by th'Ears, To hold her still, or let her go he fears. Resolves at last the Princess should be slain, So hinders him of her, he could not gain; Her women are appointed for this deed, They for their great reward no better speed: For by command, they streight were put to death, As vile Conspirators that stopt her breath. And now he hopes, he's order'd all so well, The world must needs believe what he doth tell; Thus Philips house was quite extinguished, Except Cassanders wife who yet not dead. And by their means who thought of nothing less, Then vengeance just, against them to express; Now blood was paid with blood for what was done By cruel Father, Mother, cruel Son: Thus may we hear, and fear, and ever say, That hand is righteous still which doth repay. These Captains now the stile of Kings do take, For to their Crowns their's none can Title make; Demetrius first the royal stile assum'd, By his Example all the rest presum'd. Antigonus himself to ingratiate, Doth promise liberty to Athens State; With Arms and with provision stores them well, The better 'gainst Cassander to rebel. Demetrius thether goes, is entertain'd Not like a King, but like some God they feign'd; Most grosly base was their great Adulation, Who Incense burnt, and offered oblation: These Kings afresh fall to their wars again, Demetrius of Ptolemy doth gain. 166 'Twould be an endless Story to relate Their several Battels and their several fate, Their fights by Sea, their victories by Land, How some when down, straight got the upper hand Antigonus and Seleucus then fight Near Ephesus, each bringing all his might, And he that Conquerour shall now remain, The Lordship of all Asia shall retain; This day 'twixt these two Kings ends all the strife, For here Antigonus lost rule and life: Nor to his Son, did e're one foot remain Of those vast Kingdomes, he did sometimes gain. Demetrius with his Troops to Athens flyes, Hopes to find succours in his miseries; But they adoring in prosperity, Now shut their gates in his adversity: He sorely griev'd at this his desperate State Tryes Foes, sith friends will not compassionate. His peace he then with old Seleucus makes, Who his fair daughter Stratonica takes, Antiochus, Seleucus, dear lov'd Son, Is for this fresh young Lady quite undone; Falls so extreamly sick, all fear'd his life, Yet durst not say, he lov'd his Fathers wife, When his disease the skill'd Physitian found, His Fathers mind he wittily did sound, Who did no sooner understand the same, But willingly resign'd the beautious Dame: Cassander now must dye his race is run, And leaves the ill got Kingdomes he had won. Two Sons he left, born of King Philips daughter, Who had an end put to their dayes by slaughter; Which should succeed at variance they fell, The Mother would, the youngest might excell: The eld'st inrag'd did play the Vipers part, And with his Sword did run her through the heart: Rather then Philips race should longer live, He whom she gave his life her death shall give. This by Lysimacus was after slain, Whose daughter he not long before had ta'ne; Demetrius is call'd in by th'youngest Son, Against Lysimachus who from him won. 167 But he a Kingdome more then's friend did eye, Seaz'd upon that, and slew him traitrously. Thus Philips and Cassander's race both gone, And so falls out to be extinct in one; And though Cassander died in his bed, His Seed to be extirpt, was destined; For blood, which was decre'd that he should spill, Yet must his Children pay for Fathers ill; Jehu in killing Ahab's house did well, Yet be aveng'd must blood of Jezerel. Demetrius thus Cassander's Kingdoms gains, And now in Macedon as King he reigns; Though men and mony both he hath at will, In neither finds content if he sits still: That Seleucus holds Asia grievs him sore, Those Countryes large his Father got before. These to recover, musters all his might, And with his Son in Law will needs go fight; A mighty Navy rig'd, an Army stout, With these he hopes to turn the world about: Leaving Antigonus his eldest Son, In his long absence to rule Macedon. Demetrius with so many troubles met, As Heaven and Earth against him had been set; Disaster on disaster him pursue, His story seems a Fable more then true. At last he's taken and imprisoned Within an Isle that was with pleasures fed, Injoy'd what ere beseem'd his Royalty, Only restrained of his liberty: After three years he died, left what he'd won, In Greece unto Antigonus his Son. For his Posterity unto this day, Did ne're regain one foot in Asia; His Body Seleucus sends to his Son, Whose obsequies with wondrous pomp was done. Next di'd the brave and noble Ptolemp, Renown'd for bounty, valour, clemency, Rich Egypt left, and what else he had won, To Philadelphus his more worthy Son. Of the old Heroes, now but two remain, Seleucus and Lysimachus these twain, 168 Must needs go try their fortune and their might, And so Lysimachus was slain in fight; 'Twas no small joy unto Seleucus breast, That now he had out-lived all the rest: Possession of Europe thinks to take, And so himself the only Monarch make; Whilst with these hopes in Greece he did remain, He was by Ptolemy Ceraunus slain. The second Son of the first Ptolemy, Who for Rebellion unto him did fly; Seleucus was a Father and a friend, Yet by him had this most unworthy end. Thus with these Kingly Captains have we done, A little now how the Succession run, Antigonus, Seleucus and Cassander, With Ptolemy, reign'd after Alexander; Cassander's Sons soon after's death were slain, So three Successors only did remain: Antigonus his Kingdomes lost and life, Unto Seleucus, Author of that strife. His Son Demetrius, all Cassanders gains, And his posterity, the same retains; Demetrius Son was call'd Antigonus, And his again was nam'd Demetrius. I must let pass those many Battels fought, Betwixt those Kings, and noble Pyrrhus stout, And his Son Alexander of Epire, Whereby immortal honour they acquire; Demetrius had Philip to his Son, (Part of whose Kingdomes Titus Quintius won) Philip had Perseus, who was made a Thrale T'Emilius the Roman General; Him with his Sons in Triumph lead did he, Such riches too as Rome did never see: This of Antigonus, his Seed's the Fate, VVhose Empire was subdu'd to th'Roman State. Longer Seleucus held the royalty, In Syria by his Posterity; Antiochus Soter his Son was nam'd, To whom the old Berosus (so much fam'd,) His Book of Assurs Monarchs dedicates, Tells of their names, their wars, their riches, fates; 169 But this is perished with many more, VVhich oft we wish was extant as before. Antiochus Theos was Soter's Son, VVho a long war with Egypts King begun; The Affinityes and Wars Daniel sets forth, And calls them there the Kings of South & North, This Theos murther'd was by his lewd wife, Seleucus reign'd, when he had lost his life. A third Seleucus next sits on the Seat, And then Antiochus sirnam'd the great, VVhose large Dominions after was made small, By Scipio the Roman General; Fourth Seleucus Antiochus succeeds, And next Epiphanes whose wicked deeds, Horrid Massacres, Murthers, cruelties, Amongst the Jews we read in Machabees. Antiochus Eupater was the next, By Rebels and Impostors dayly vext; So many Princes still were murthered, The Royal Blood was nigh extinguished; Then Tygranes the great Armenian King, To take the Government was called in, Lucullus, Him, (the Roman General) Vanquish'd in fight, and took those Kingdomes all; Of Greece and Syria thus the rule did end, In Egypt next, a little time wee'l spend. First Ptolemy being dead, his famous Son Call'd Philadelphus, did possess the Throne. At Alexandria a Library did build, And with seven hundred thousand Volumes fill'd; The seventy two Interpreters did seek, They might translate the Bible into Greek. His Son was Evergetes the last Prince, That valour shew'd, virtue, or excellence, Philopater was Evergetes Son, After Epiphanes sate on the Throne; Philometor, Evergetes again, And after him, did false Lathurus reign: Then Alexander in Lathurus stead, Next Auletes, who cut off Pompeys head. To all these names, we Ptolemy must add, For since the first, they still that Title had. 170 Fair Cleopatra next, last of that race, Whom Julius Cæsar set in Royal place, She with her Paramour, Mark Anthony Held for a time, the Egyptian Monarchy, Till great Augustus had with him a fight At Actium, where his Navy's put to flight; He seeing his honour lost, his Kingdome end, Did by his Sword his life soon after send. His brave Virago Aspes sets to her Arms, To take her life, and quit her from all harms; For 'twas not death nor danger she did dread, But some disgrace in triumph to be led. Here ends at last the Grecian Monarchy, Which by the Romans had its destiny; Thus King & Kingdomes have their times & dates, Their standings, overturnings, bounds and fates: Now up, now down now chief, & then broght under, The heavn's thus rule, to fil the world with wonder The Assyrian Monarchy long time did stand, But yet the Persian got the upper hand; The Grecian them did utterly subdue, And millions were subjected unto few: The Grecian longer then the Persian stood, Then came the Roman like a raging flood; And with the torrent of his rapid course, Their Crowns their Titles, riches bears by force. The first was likened to a head of gold. Next Arms and breast of silver to behold, The third, Belly and Thighs of brass in sight, And last was Iron, which breaketh all with might; The stone out of the mountain then did rise, and smote those feet those legs, those arms & thighs Then gold, silver, brass, Iron and all the store, Became like Chaff upon the threshing Floor. The first a Lion, second was a Bear, The third a Leopard, which four wings did rear; The last more strong and dreadful then the rest, Whose Iron teeth devoured every Beast, And when he had no appetite to eat, The residue he stamped under feet; Yet shall this Lion, Bear, this Leopard, Ram, All trembling stand before the powerful Lamb. 171 With these three Monarchyes now have I done, But how the fourth, their Kingdomes from them won, And how from small beginnings it did grow, To fill the world with terrour and with woe; My tyred brain leavs to some better pen, This task befits not women like to men: For what is past, I blush, excuse to make, But humbly stand, some grave reproof to take; Pardon to crave for errours, is but vain, The Subject was too high, beyond my strain, To frame Apology for some offence, Converts our boldness into impudence: This my presumption some now to requite, Ne sutor ultra crepidum may write. The End of the Grecian Monarchy. ~ Anne Bradstreet,

456:DRAMATIS PERSON Count Francesco Cenci. Giacomo, his Son. Bernardo, his Son. Cardinal Camillo. Orsino, a Prelate. Savella, the Pope's Legate. Olimpio, Assassin. Marzio, Assassin. Andrea, Servant to Cenci. Nobles, Judges, Guards, Servants. Lucretia, Wife of Cenci, and Step-mother of his children. Beatrice, his Daughter. The Scene lies principally in Rome, but changes during the Fourth Act to Petrella, a castle among the Apulian Apennines. Time. During the Pontificate of Clement VIII. ACT I Scene I. An Apartment in the Cenci Palace. Enter Count Cenci, and Cardinal Camillo. Camillo. That matter of the murder is hushed up If you consent to yield his Holiness Your fief that lies beyond the Pincian gate. It needed all my interest in the conclave To bend him to this point: he said that you Bought perilous impunity with your gold; That crimes like yours if once or twice compounded Enriched the Church, and respited from hell An erring soul which might repent and live: But that the glory and the interest Of the high throne he fills, little consist With making it a daily mart of guilt As manifold and hideous as the deeds Which you scarce hide from men's revolted eyes. Cenci. The third of my possessionslet it go! Ay, I once heard the nephew of the Pope Had sent his architect to view the ground, Meaning to build a villa on my vines The next time I compounded with his uncle: I little thought he should outwit me so! Henceforth no witnessnot the lampshall see That which the vassal threatened to divulge Whose throat is choked with dust for his reward. The deed he saw could not have rated higher Than his most worthless life:it angers me! Respited me from Hell!So may the Devil Respite their souls from Heaven. No doubt Pope Clement, And his most charitable nephews, pray That the Apostle Peter and the Saints Will grant for their sake that I long enjoy Strength, wealth, and pride, and lust, and length of days Wherein to act the deeds which are the stewards Of their revenue.But much yet remains To which they show no title. Camillo.                Oh, Count Cenci! So much that thou mightst honourably live And reconcile thyself with thine own heart And with thy God, and with the offended world. How hideously look deeds of lust and blood Through those snow white and venerable hairs! Your children should be sitting round you now, But that you fear to read upon their looks The shame and misery you have written there. Where is your wife? Where is your gentle daughter? Methinks her sweet looks, which make all things else Beauteous and glad, might kill the fiend within you. Why is she barred from all society But her own strange and uncomplaining wrongs? Talk with me, Count,you know I mean you well I stood beside your dark and fiery youth Watching its bold and bad career, as men Watch meteors, but it vanished notI marked Your desperate and remorseless manhood; now Do I behold you in dishonoured age Charged with a thousand unrepented crimes. Yet I have ever hoped you would amend, And in that hope have saved your life three times. Cenci. For which Aldobrandino owes you now My fief beyond the Pincian.Cardinal, One thing, I pray you, recollect henceforth, And so we shall converse with less restraint. A man you knew spoke of my wife and daughter He was accustomed to frequent my house; So the next day his wife and daughter came And asked if I had seen him; and I smiled: I think they never saw him any more. Camillo. Thou execrable man, beware! Cenci.                 Of thee? Nay this is idle:We should know each other. As to my character for what men call crime Seeing I please my senses as I list, And vindicate that right with force or guile, It is a public matter, and I care not If I discuss it with you. I may speak Alike to you and my own conscious heart For you give out that you have half reformed me, Therefore strong vanity will keep you silent If fear should not; both will, I do not doubt. All men delight in sensual luxury, All men enjoy revenge; and most exult Over the tortures they can never feel Flattering their secret peace with others' pain. But I delight in nothing else. I love The sight of agony, and the sense of joy, When this shall be another's, and that mine. And I have no remorse and little fear, Which are, I think, the checks of other men. This mood has grown upon me, until now Any design my captious fancy makes The picture of its wish, and it forms none But such as men like you would start to know, Is as my natural food and rest debarred Until it be accomplished. Camillo.               Art thou not Most miserable? Cenci.         Why, miserable? No.I am what your theologians call Hardened;which they must be in impudence, So to revile a man's peculiar taste. True, I was happier than I am, while yet Manhood remained to act the thing I thought; While lust was sweeter than revenge; and now Invention palls:Ay, we must all grow old And but that there yet remains a deed to act Whose horror might make sharp an appetite Duller than mineI'd doI know not what. When I was young I thought of nothing else But pleasure; and I fed on honey sweets: Men, by St. Thomas! cannot live like bees, And I grew tired:yet, till I killed a foe, And heard his groans, and heard his children's groans, Knew I not what delight was else on earth, Which now delights me little. I the rather Look on such pangs as terror ill conceals, The dry fixed eyeball; the pale quivering lip, Which tell me that the spirit weeps within Tears bitterer than the bloody sweat of Christ. I rarely kill the body, which preserves, Like a strong prison, the soul within my power, Wherein I feed it with the breath of fear For hourly pain. Camillo.          Hell's most abandoned fiend Did never, in the drunkenness of guilt, Speak to his heart as now you speak to me; I thank my God that I believe you not. Enter Andrea. Andrea. My Lord, a gentleman from Salamanca Would speak with you. Cenci.            Bid him attend me in The grand saloon. [Exit Andrea. Camillo.          Farewell; and I will pray Almighty God that thy false, impious words Tempt not his spirit to abandon thee. [Exit Camillo. Cenci. The third of my possessions! I must use Close husbandry, or gold, the old man's sword, Falls from my withered hand. But yesterday There came an order from the Pope to make Fourfold provision for my cursd sons; Whom I had sent from Rome to Salamanca, Hoping some accident might cut them off; And meaning if I could to starve them there. I pray thee, God, send some quick death upon them! Bernardo and my wife could not be worse If dead and damned:then, as to Beatrice [Looking around him suspiciously. I think they cannot hear me at that door; What if they should? And yet I need not speak Though the heart triumphs with itself in words. O, thou most silent air, that shalt not hear What now I think! Thou, pavement, which I tread Towards her chamber,let your echoes talk Of my imperious step scorning surprise, But not of my intent!Andrea! [Enter Andrea. Andrea.                 My lord?                 Cenci. Bid Beatrice attend me in her chamber This evening:no, at midnight and alone. [Exeunt. Scene II. A Garden of the Cenci Palace. EnterBeatrice and Orsino, as in conversation. Beatrice. Pervert not truth, Orsino. You remember where we held That conversation;nay, we see the spot Even from this cypress;two long years are past Since, on an April midnight, underneath The moonlight ruins of mount Palatine, I did confess to you my secret mind. Orsino. You said you loved me then. Beatrice.                You are a Priest, Speak to me not of love. Orsino.              I may obtain The dispensation of the Pope to marry. Because I am a Priest do you believe Your image, as the hunter some struck deer, Follows me not whether I wake or sleep? Beatrice. As I have said, speak to me not of love; Had you a dispensation I have not; Nor will I leave this home of misery Whilst my poor Bernard, and that gentle lady To whom I owe life, and these virtuous thoughts, Must suffer what I still have strength to share. Alas, Orsino! All the love that once I felt for you, is turned to bitter pain. Ours was a youthful contract, which you first Broke, by assuming vows no Pope will loose. And thus I love you still, but holily, Even as a sister or a spirit might; And so I swear a cold fidelity. And it is well perhaps we shall not marry. You have a sly, equivocating vein That suits me not.Ah, wretched that I am! Where shall I turn? Even now you look on me As you were not my friend, and as if you Discovered that I thought so, with false smiles Making my true suspicion seem your wrong. Ah, no! forgive me; sorrow makes me seem Sterner than else my nature might have been; I have a weight of melancholy thoughts, And they forbode,but what can they forbode Worse than I now endure? Orsino.              All will be well. Is the petition yet prepared? You know My zeal for all you wish, sweet Beatrice; Doubt not but I will use my utmost skill So that the Pope attend to your complaint. Beatrice. Your zeal for all I wish;Ah me, you are cold! Your utmost skill . . . speak but one word . . . (aside) Alas! Weak and deserted creature that I am, Here I stand bickering with my only friend! [To Orsino. This night my father gives a sumptuous feast, Orsino; he has heard some happy news From Salamanca, from my brothers there, And with this outward show of love he mocks His inward hate. 'Tis bold hypocrisy, For he would gladlier celebrate their deaths, Which I have heard him pray for on his knees: Great God! that such a father should be mine! But there is mighty preparation made, And all our kin, the Cenci, will be there, And all the chief nobility of Rome. And he has bidden me and my pale Mother Attire ourselves in festival array. Poor lady! She expects some happy change In his dark spirit from this act; I none. At supper I will give you the petition: Till whenfarewell. Orsino.            Farewell. (Exit Beatrice.)                 I know the Pope Will ne'er absolve me from my priestly vow But by absolving me from the revenue Of many a wealthy see; and, Beatrice, I think to win thee at an easier rate. Nor shall he read her eloquent petition: He might bestow her on some poor relation Of his sixth cousin, as he did her sister, And I should be debarred from all access. Then as to what she suffers from her father, In all this there is much exaggeration: Old men are testy and will have their way; A man may stab his enemy, or his vassal, And live a free life as to wine or women, And with a peevish temper may return To a dull home, and rate his wife and children; Daughters and wives call this foul tyranny. I shall be well content if on my conscience There rest no heavier sin than what they suffer From the devices of my lovea net From which she shall escape not. Yet I fear Her subtle mind, her awe-inspiring gaze, Whose beams anatomize me nerve by nerve And lay me bare, and make me blush to see My hidden thoughts.Ah, no! A friendless girl Who clings to me, as to her only hope: I were a fool, not less than if a panther Were panic-stricken by the antelope's eye, If she escape me. [Exit. Scene III. A Magnificent Hall in the Cenci Palace. A Banquet. Enter Cenci, Lucretia, Beatrice, Orsino, Camillo, Nobles. Cenci. Welcome, my friends and kinsmen; welcome ye, Princes and Cardinals, pillars of the church, Whose presence honours our festivity. I have too long lived like an anchorite, And in my absence from your merry meetings An evil word is gone abroad of me; But I do hope that you, my noble friends, When you have shared the entertainment here, And heard the pious cause for which 'tis given, And we have pledged a health or two together, Will think me flesh and blood as well as you; Sinful indeed, for Adam made all so, But tender-hearted, meek and pitiful. First Guest. In truth, my Lord, you seem too light of heart, Too sprightly and companionable a man, To act the deeds that rumour pins on you. (To his Companion.) I never saw such blithe and open cheer In any eye! Second Guest.       Some most desired event, In which we all demand a common joy, Has brought us hither; let us hear it, Count. Cenci. It is indeed a most desired event. If, when a parent from a parent's heart Lifts from this earth to the great Father of all A prayer, both when he lays him down to sleep, And when he rises up from dreaming it; One supplication, one desire, one hope, That he would grant a wish for his two sons, Even all that he demands in their regard And suddenly beyond his dearest hope It is accomplished, he should then rejoice, And call his friends and kinsmen to a feast, And task their love to grace his merriment, Then honour me thus farfor I am he. Beatrice (to Lucretia). Great God! How horrible! Some dreadful ill Must have befallen my brothers. Lucretia.                  Fear not, Child, He speaks too frankly. Beatrice.             Ah! My blood runs cold. I fear that wicked laughter round his eye, Which wrinkles up the skin even to the hair. Cenci. Here are the letters brought from Salamanca; Beatrice, read them to your mother. God! I thank thee! In one night didst thou perform, By ways inscrutable, the thing I sought. My disobedient and rebellious sons Are dead!Why, dead!What means this change of cheer? You hear me not, I tell you they are dead; And they will need no food or raiment more: The tapers that did light them the dark way Are their last cost. The Pope, I think, will not Expect I should maintain them in their coffins. Rejoice with memy heart is wondrous glad. [Lucretia sinks, half fainting; Beatrice supports her. Beatrice. It is not true!Dear lady, pray look up. Had it been true, there is a God in Heaven, He would not live to boast of such a boon. Unnatural man, thou knowest that it is false. Cenci. Ay, as the word of God; whom here I call To witness that I speak the sober truth; And whose most favouring Providence was shown Even in the manner of their deaths. For Rocco Was kneeling at the mass, with sixteen others, When the church fell and crushed him to a mummy, The rest escaped unhurt. Cristofano Was stabbed in error by a jealous man, Whilst she he loved was sleeping with his rival; All in the self-same hour of the same night; Which shows that Heaven has special care of me. I beg those friends who love me, that they mark The day a feast upon their calendars. It was the twenty-seventh of December: Ay, read the letters if you doubt my oath. [The Assembly appears confused; several of the guests rise. First Guest. Oh, horrible! I will depart Second Guest.                 And I.                 Third Guest.                     No, stay! I do believe it is some jest; though faith! 'Tis mocking us somewhat too solemnly. I think his son has married the Infanta, Or found a mine of gold in El Dorado; 'Tis but to season some such news; stay, stay! I see 'tis only raillery by his smile. Cenci (filling a bowl of wine, and lifting it up). Oh, thou bright wine whose purple splendour leaps And bubbles gaily in this golden bowl Under the lamplight, as my spirits do, To hear the death of my accursd sons! Could I believe thou wert their mingled blood, Then would I taste thee like a sacrament, And pledge with thee the mighty Devil in Hell, Who, if a father's curses, as men say, Climb with swift wings after their children's souls, And drag them from the very throne of Heaven, Now triumphs in my triumph!But thou art Superfluous; I have drunken deep of joy, And I will taste no other wine to-night. Here, Andrea! Bear the bowl around. A Guest (rising).                    Thou wretch! Will none among this noble company Check the abandoned villain? Camillo.                For God's sake Let me dismiss the guests! You are insane, Some ill will come of this. Second Guest.                Seize, silence him!                First Guest. I will! Third Guest.     And I!     Cenci (addressing those who rise with a threatening gesture).        Who moves? Who speaks?        (turning to the Company)                    'tis nothing Enjoy yourselves.Beware! For my revenge Is as the sealed commission of a king That kills, and none dare name the murderer. [The Banquet is broken up; several of the Guests are departing. Beatrice. I do entreat you, go not, noble guests; What, although tyranny and impious hate Stand sheltered by a father's hoary hair? What, if 'tis he who clothed us in these limbs Who tortures them, and triumphs? What, if we, The desolate and the dead, were his own flesh, His children and his wife, whom he is bound To love and shelter? Shall we therefore find No refuge in this merciless wide world? O think what deep wrongs must have blotted out First love, then reverence in a child's prone mind, Till it thus vanquish shame and fear! O think! I have borne much, and kissed the sacred hand Which crushed us to the earth, and thought its stroke Was perhaps some paternal chastisement! Have excused much, doubted; and when no doubt Remained, have sought by patience, love, and tears To soften him, and when this could not be I have knelt down through the long sleepless nights And lifted up to God, the Father of all, Passionate prayers: and when these were not heard I have still borne,until I meet you here, Princes and kinsmen, at this hideous feast Given at my brothers' deaths. Two yet remain, His wife remains and I, whom if ye save not, Ye may soon share such merriment again As fathers make over their children's graves. O Prince Colonna, thou art our near kinsman, Cardinal, thou art the Pope's chamberlain, Camillo, thou art chief justiciary, Take us away! Cenci. (He has been conversing with Camillo during the first part of Beatrice's speech; he hears the conclusion, and now advances.)        I hope my good friends here Will think of their own daughtersor perhaps Of their own throatsbefore they lend an ear To this wild girl. Beatrice (not noticing the words of Cenci).           Dare no one look on me? None answer? Can one tyrant overbear The sense of many best and wisest men? Or is it that I sue not in some form Of scrupulous law, that ye deny my suit? O God! That I were buried with my brothers! And that the flowers of this departed spring Were fading on my grave! And that my father Were celebrating now one feast for all! Camillo. A bitter wish for one so young and gentle; Can we do nothing? Colonna.           Nothing that I see. Count Cenci were a dangerous enemy: Yet I would second any one. A Cardinal.                And I.                Cenci. Retire to your chamber, insolent girl! Beatrice. Retire thou, impious man! Ay, hide thyself Where never eye can look upon thee more! Wouldst thou have honour and obedience Who art a torturer? Father, never dream Though thou mayst overbear this company, But ill must come of ill.Frown not on me! Haste, hide thyself, lest with avenging looks My brothers' ghosts should hunt thee from thy seat! Cover thy face from every living eye, And start if thou but hear a human step: Seek out some dark and silent corner, there, Bow thy white head before offended God, And we will kneel around, and fervently Pray that he pity both ourselves and thee. Cenci. My friends, I do lament this insane girl Has spoilt the mirth of our festivity. Good night, farewell; I will not make you longer Spectators of our dull domestic quarrels. Another time. [Exeunt all but Cenci and Beatrice.         My brain is swimming round; Give me a bowl of wine! [To Beatrice.             Thou painted viper! Beast that thou art! Fair and yet terrible! I know a charm shall make thee meek and tame, Now get thee from my sight! [Exit Beatrice.                Here, Andrea, Fill up this goblet with Greek wine. I said I would not drink this evening; but I must; For, strange to say, I feel my spirits fail With thinking what I have decreed to do. [Drinking the wine. Be thou the resolution of quick youth Within my veins, and manhood's purpose stern, And age's firm, cold, subtle villainy; As if thou wert indeed my children's blood Which I did thirst to drink! The charm works well; It must be done; it shall be done, I swear! [Exit. END OF THE FIRST ACT. ACT II Scene I. An Apartment in the Cenci Palace. Enter Lucretia and Bernardo. Lucretia. Weep not, my gentle boy; he struck but me Who have borne deeper wrongs. In truth, if he Had killed me, he had done a kinder deed. O God, Almighty, do Thou look upon us, We have no other friend but only Thee! Yet weep not; though I love you as my own, I am not your true mother. Bernardo.               O more, more, Than ever mother was to any child, That have you been to me! Had he not been My father, do you think that I should weep! Lucretia. Alas! Poor boy, what else couldst thou have done? Enter Beatrice. Beatrice (in a hurried voice). Did he pass this way? Have you seen him, brother? Ah, no! that is his step upon the stairs; 'Tis nearer now; his hand is on the door; Mother, if I to thee have ever been A duteous child, now save me! Thou, great God, Whose image upon earth a father is, Dost Thou indeed abandon me? He comes; The door is opening now; I see his face; He frowns on others, but he smiles on me, Even as he did after the feast last night. Enter a Servant. Almighty God, how merciful Thou art! 'Tis but Orsino's servant.Well, what news? Servant. My master bids me say, the Holy Father Has sent back your petition thus unopened. [Giving a paper. And he demands at what hour 'twere secure To visit you again? Lucretia.           At the Ave Mary.[Exit Servant. So, daughter, our last hope has failed; Ah me! How pale you look; you tremble, and you stand Wrapped in some fixed and fearful meditation, As if one thought were over strong for you: Your eyes have a chill glare; O, dearest child! Are you gone mad? If not, pray speak to me. Beatrice. You see I am not mad: I speak to you. Lucretia. You talked of something that your father did After that dreadful feast? Could it be worse Than when he smiled, and cried, 'My sons are dead!' And every one looked in his neighbour's face To see if others were as white as he? At the first word he spoke I felt the blood Rush to my heart, and fell into a trance; And when it passed I sat all weak and wild; Whilst you alone stood up, and with strong words Checked his unnatural pride; and I could see The devil was rebuked that lives in him. Until this hour thus have you ever stood Between us and your father's moody wrath Like a protecting presence: your firm mind Has been our only refuge and defence: What can have thus subdued it? What can now Have given you that cold melancholy look, Succeeding to your unaccustomed fear? Beatrice. What is it that you say? I was just thinking 'Twere better not to struggle any more. Men, like my father, have been dark and bloody, Yet neverOh! Before worse comes of it 'Twere wise to die: it ends in that at last. Lucretia. Oh, talk not so, dear child! Tell me at once What did your father do or say to you? He stayed not after that accursd feast One moment in your chamber.Speak to me. Bernardo. Oh, sister, sister, prithee, speak to us! Beatrice (speaking very slowly with a forced calmness). It was one word, Mother, one little word; One look, one smile. (Wildly.) Oh! He has trampled me Under his feet, and made the blood stream down My pallid cheeks. And he has given us all Ditch-water, and the fever-stricken flesh Of buffaloes, and bade us eat or starve, And we have eaten.He has made me look On my beloved Bernardo, when the rust Of heavy chains has gangrened his sweet limbs, And I have never yet despairedbut now! What could I say? [Recovering herself.          Ah, no! 'tis nothing new. The sufferings we all share have made me wild: He only struck and cursed me as he passed; He said, he looked, he did;nothing at all Beyond his wont, yet it disordered me. Alas! I am forgetful of my duty, I should preserve my senses for your sake. Lucretia. Nay, Beatrice; have courage, my sweet girl, If any one despairs it should be I Who loved him once, and now must live with him Till God in pity call for him or me. For you may, like your sister, find some husband, And smile, years hence, with children round your knees; Whilst I, then dead, and all this hideous coil Shall be remembered only as a dream. Beatrice. Talk not to me, dear lady, of a husband. Did you not nurse me when my mother died? Did you not shield me and that dearest boy? And had we any other friend but you In infancy, with gentle words and looks, To win our father not to murder us? And shall I now desert you? May the ghost Of my dead Mother plead against my soul If I abandon her who filled the place She left, with more, even, than a mother's love! Bernardo. And I am of my sister's mind. Indeed I would not leave you in this wretchedness, Even though the Pope should make me free to live In some blithe place, like others of my age, With sports, and delicate food, and the fresh air. Oh, never think that I will leave you, Mother! Lucretia. My dear, dear children! Enter Cenci, suddenly. Cenci.             What, Beatrice here! Come hither! [She shrinks back, and covers her face.       Nay, hide not your face, 'tis fair; Look up! Why, yesternight you dared to look With disobedient insolence upon me, Bending a stern and an inquiring brow On what I meant; whilst I then sought to hide That which I came to tell youbut in vain. Beatrice (wildly, staggering towards the door). O that the earth would gape! Hide me, O God! Cenci. Then it was I whose inarticulate words Fell from my lips, and who with tottering steps Fled from your presence, as you now from mine. Stay, I command youfrom this day and hour Never again, I think, with fearless eye, And brow superior, and unaltered cheek, And that lip made for tenderness or scorn, Shalt thou strike dumb the meanest of mankind; Me least of all. Now get thee to thy chamber! Thou too, loathed image of thy cursd mother, [To Bernardo. Thy milky, meek face makes me sick with hate! [Exeunt Beatrice and Bernardo. (Aside.) So much has passed between us as must make Me bold, her fearful.'Tis an awful thing To touch such mischief as I now conceive: So men sit shivering on the dewy bank, And try the chill stream with their feet; once in . . . How the delighted spirit pants for joy! Lucretia (advancing timidly towards him). O husband! Pray forgive poor Beatrice. She meant not any ill. Cenci.             Nor you perhaps? Nor that young imp, whom you have taught by rote Parricide with his alphabet? Nor Giacomo? Nor those two most unnatural sons, who stirred Enmity up against me with the Pope? Whom in one night merciful God cut off: Innocent lambs! They thought not any ill. You were not here conspiring? You said nothing Of how I might be dungeoned as a madman; Or be condemned to death for some offence, And you would be the witnesses?This failing, How just it were to hire assassins, or Put sudden poison in my evening drink? Or smother me when overcome by wine? Seeing we had no other judge but God, And He had sentenced me, and there were none But you to be the executioners Of His decree enregistered in Heaven? Oh, no! You said not this? Lucretia.               So help me God, I never thought the things you charge me with! Cenci. If you dare speak that wicked lie again I'll kill you. What! It was not by your counsel That Beatrice disturbed the feast last night? You did not hope to stir some enemies Against me, and escape, and laugh to scorn What every nerve of you now trembles at? You judged that men were bolder than they are; Few dare to stand between their grave and me. Lucretia. Look not so dreadfully! By my salvation I knew not aught that Beatrice designed; Nor do I think she designed any thing Until she heard you talk of her dead brothers. Cenci. Blaspheming liar! You are damned for this! But I will take you where you may persuade The stones you tread on to deliver you: For men shall there be none but those who dare All thingsnot question that which I command. On Wednesday next I shall set out: you know That savage rock, the Castle of Petrella: 'Tis safely walled, and moated round about: Its dungeons underground, and its thick towers Never told tales; though they have heard and seen What might make dumb things speak.Why do you linger? Make speediest preparation for the journey! [Exit Lucretia. The all-beholding sun yet shines; I hear A busy stir of men about the streets; I see the bright sky through the window panes: It is a garish, broad, and peering day; Loud, light, suspicious, full of eyes and ears, And every little corner, nook, and hole Is penetrated with the insolent light. Come darkness! Yet, what is the day to me? And wherefore should I wish for night, who do A deed which shall confound both night and day? 'Tis she shall grope through a bewildering mist Of horror: if there be a sun in heaven She shall not dare to look upon its beams; Nor feel its warmth. Let her then wish for night; The act I think shall soon extinguish all For me: I bear a darker deadlier gloom Than the earth's shade, or interlunar air, Or constellations quenched in murkiest cloud, In which I walk secure and unbeheld Towards my purpose.Would that it were done! [Exit. Scene II. A Chamber in the Vatican. Enter Camillo and Giacomo, in conversation. Camillo. There is an obsolete and doubtful law By which you might obtain a bare provision Of food and clothing Giacomo.             Nothing more? Alas! Bare must be the provision which strict law Awards, and agd, sullen avarice pays. Why did my father not apprentice me To some mechanic trade? I should have then Been trained in no highborn necessities Which I could meet not by my daily toil. The eldest son of a rich nobleman Is heir to all his incapacities; He has wide wants, and narrow powers. If you, Cardinal Camillo, were reduced at once From thrice-driven beds of down, and delicate food, An hundred servants, and six palaces, To that which nature doth indeed require? Camillo. Nay, there is reason in your plea; 'twere hard. Giacomo. 'Tis hard for a firm man to bear: but I Have a dear wife, a lady of high birth, Whose dowry in ill hour I lent my father Without a bond or witness to the deed: And children, who inherit her fine senses, The fairest creatures in this breathing world; And she and they reproach me not. Cardinal, Do you not think the Pope would interpose And stretch authority beyond the law? Camillo. Though your peculiar case is hard, I know The Pope will not divert the course of law. After that impious feast the other night I spoke with him, and urged him then to check Your father's cruel hand; he frowned and said, 'Children are disobedient, and they sting Their fathers' hearts to madness and despair, Requiting years of care with contumely. I pity the Count Cenci from my heart; His outraged love perhaps awakened hate, And thus he is exasperated to ill. In the great war between the old and young I, who have white hairs and a tottering body, Will keep at least blameless neutrality.' Enter Orsino. You, my good Lord Orsino, heard those words. Orsino. What words? Giacomo.       Alas, repeat them not again! There then is no redress for me, at least None but that which I may achieve myself, Since I am driven to the brink.But, say, My innocent sister and my only brother Are dying underneath my father's eye. The memorable torturers of this land, Galeaz Visconti, Borgia, Ezzelin, Never inflicted on the meanest slave What these endure; shall they have no protection? Camillo. Why, if they would petition to the Pope I see not how he could refuse ityet He holds it of most dangerous example In aught to weaken the paternal power, Being, as 'twere, the shadow of his own. I pray you now excuse me. I have business That will not bear delay. [Exit Camillo. Giacomo.               But you, Orsino, Have the petition: wherefore not present it? Orsino. I have presented it, and backed it with My earnest prayers, and urgent interest; It was returned unanswered. I doubt not But that the strange and execrable deeds Alleged in itin truth they might well baffle Any beliefhave turned the Pope's displeasure Upon the accusers from the criminal: So I should guess from what Camillo said. Giacomo. My friend, that palace-walking devil Gold Has whispered silence to his Holiness: And we are left, as scorpions ringed with fire. What should we do but strike ourselves to death? For he who is our murderous persecutor Is shielded by a father's holy name, Or I would [Stops abruptly. Orsino.       What? Fear not to speak your thought. Words are but holy as the deeds they cover: A priest who has forsworn the God he serves; A judge who makes Truth weep at his decree; A friend who should weave counsel, as I now, But as the mantle of some selfish guile; A father who is all a tyrant seems, Were the profaner for his sacred name. Giacomo. Ask me not what I think; the unwilling brain Feigns often what it would not; and we trust Imagination with such phantasies As the tongue dares not fashion into words, Which have no words, their horror makes them dim To the mind's eye.My heart denies itself To think what you demand. Orsino.               But a friend's bosom Is as the inmost cave of our own mind Where we sit shut from the wide gaze of day, And from the all-communicating air. You look what I suspected Giacomo.                Spare me now! I am as one lost in a midnight wood, Who dares not ask some harmless passenger The path across the wilderness, lest he, As my thoughts are, should bea murderer. I know you are my friend, and all I dare Speak to my soul that will I trust with thee. But now my heart is heavy, and would take Lone counsel from a night of sleepless care. Pardon me, that I say farewellfarewell! I would that to my own suspected self I could address a word so full of peace. Orsino. Farewell!Be your thoughts better or more bold. [Exit Giacomo. I had disposed the Cardinal Camillo To feed his hope with cold encouragement: It fortunately serves my close designs That 'tis a trick of this same family To analyse their own and other minds. Such self-anatomy shall teach the will Dangerous secrets: for it tempts our powers, Knowing what must be thought, and may be done, Into the depth of darkest purposes: So Cenci fell into the pit; even I, Since Beatrice unveiled me to myself, And made me shrink from what I cannot shun, Show a poor figure to my own esteem, To which I grow half reconciled. I'll do As little mischief as I can; that thought Shall fee the accuser conscience. (After a pause.)                   Now what harm If Cenci should be murdered?Yet, if murdered, Wherefore by me? And what if I could take The profit, yet omit the sin and peril In such an action? Of all earthly things I fear a man whose blows outspeed his words; And such is Cenci: and while Cenci lives His daughter's dowry were a secret grave If a priest wins her.Oh, fair Beatrice! Would that I loved thee not, or loving thee Could but despise danger and gold and all That frowns between my wish and its effect, Or smiles beyond it! There is no escape . . . Her bright form kneels beside me at the altar, And follows me to the resort of men, And fills my slumber with tumultuous dreams, So when I wake my blood seems liquid fire; And if I strike my damp and dizzy head My hot palm scorches it: her very name, But spoken by a stranger, makes my heart Sicken and pant; and thus unprofitably I clasp the phantom of unfelt delights Till weak imagination half possesses The self-created shadow. Yet much longer Will I not nurse this life of feverous hours: From the unravelled hopes of Giacomo I must work out my own dear purposes. I see, as from a tower, the end of all: Her father dead; her brother bound to me By a dark secret, surer than the grave; Her mother scared and unexpostulating From the dread manner of her wish achieved: And she!Once more take courage, my faint heart; What dares a friendless maiden matched with thee? I have such foresight as assures success: Some unbeheld divinity doth ever, When dread events are near, stir up men's minds To black suggestions; and he prospers best, Not who becomes the instrument of ill, But who can flatter the dark spirit, that makes Its empire and its prey of other hearts Till it become his slave . . . as I will do. [Exit. END OF THE SECOND ACT. ACT III Scene I. An Apartment in the Cenci Palace. Lucretia, to her enter Beatrice. Beatrice. (She enters staggering, and speaks wildly.) Reach me that handkerchief!My brain is hurt; My eyes are full of blood; just wipe them for me . . . I see but indistinctly . . . Lucretia.                My sweet child, You have no wound; 'tis only a cold dew That starts from your dear brow . . . Alas! Alas! What has befallen? Beatrice.           How comes this hair undone? Its wandering strings must be what blind me so, And yet I tied it fast.O, horrible! The pavement sinks under my feet! The walls Spin round! I see a woman weeping there, And standing calm and motionless, whilst I Slide giddily as the world reels. . . . My God! The beautiful blue heaven is flecked with blood! The sunshine on the floor is black! The air Is changed to vapours such as the dead breathe In charnel pits! Pah! I am choked! There creeps A clinging, black, contaminating mist About me . . . 'tis substantial, heavy, thick, I cannot pluck it from me, for it glues My fingers and my limbs to one another, And eats into my sinews, and dissolves My flesh to a pollution, poisoning The subtle, pure, and inmost spirit of life! My God! I never knew what the mad felt Before; for I am mad beyond all doubt! (More wildly.) No, I am dead! These putrefying limbs Shut round and sepulchre the panting soul Which would burst forth into the wandering air! (A pause.) What hideous thought was that I had even now? 'Tis gone; and yet its burthen remains here O'er these dull eyes . . . upon this weary heart! O, world! O, life! O, day! O, misery! Lucretia. What ails thee, my poor child? She answers not: Her spirit apprehends the sense of pain, But not its cause; suffering has dried away The source from which it sprung . . . Beatrice (franticly).                     Like Parricide . . . Misery has killed its father: yet its father Never like mine . . . O, God! What thing am I? Lucretia. My dearest child, what has your father done? Beatrice (doubtfully). Who art thou, questioner? I have no father. (Aside.) She is the madhouse nurse who tends on me, It is a piteous office. [To Lucretia, in a slow, subdued voice.             Do you know I thought I was that wretched Beatrice Men speak of, whom her father sometimes hales From hall to hall by the entangled hair; At others, pens up naked in damp cells Where scaly reptiles crawl, and starves her there, Till she will eat strange flesh. This woful story So did I overact in my sick dreams, That I imagined . . . no, it cannot be! Horrible things have been in this wide world, Prodigious mixtures, and confusions strange Of good and ill; and worse have been conceived Than ever there was found a heart to do. But never fancy imaged such a deed As . . . [Pauses, suddenly recollecting herself.     Who art thou? Swear to me, ere I die With fearful expectation, that indeed Thou art not what thou seemest . . . Mother! Lucretia.                         Oh! My sweet child, know you . . . Beatrice.                 Yet speak it not: For then if this be truth, that other too Must be a truth, a firm enduring truth, Linked with each lasting circumstance of life, Never to change, never to pass away. Why so it is. This is the Cenci Palace; Thou art Lucretia; I am Beatrice. I have talked some wild words, but will no more. Mother, come near me: from this point of time, I am . . . [Her voice dies away faintly. Lucretia.      Alas! What has befallen thee, child? What has thy father done? Beatrice.               What have I done? Am I not innocent? Is it my crime That one with white hair, and imperious brow, Who tortured me from my forgotten years, As parents only dare, should call himself My father, yet should be!Oh, what am I? What name, what place, what memory shall be mine? What retrospects, outliving even despair? Lucretia. He is a violent tyrant, surely, child: We know that death alone can make us free; His death or ours. But what can he have done Of deadlier outrage or worse injury? Thou art unlike thyself; thine eyes shoot forth A wandering and strange spirit. Speak to me, Unlock those pallid hands whose fingers twine With one another. Beatrice.          'Tis the restless life Tortured within them. If I try to speak I shall go mad. Ay, something must be done; What, yet I know not . . . something which shall make The thing that I have suffered but a shadow In the dread lightning which avenges it; Brief, rapid, irreversible, destroying The consequence of what it cannot cure. Some such thing is to be endured or done: When I know what, I shall be still and calm, And never anything will move me more. But now!O blood, which art my father's blood, Circling through these contaminated veins, If thou, poured forth on the polluted earth, Could wash away the crime, and punishment By which I suffer . . . no, that cannot be! Many might doubt there were a God above Who sees and permits evil, and so die: That faith no agony shall obscure in me. Lucretia. It must indeed have been some bitter wrong; Yet what, I dare not guess. Oh, my lost child, Hide not in proud impenetrable grief Thy sufferings from my fear. Beatrice.                I hide them not. What are the words which you would have me speak? I, who can feign no image in my mind Of that which has transformed me: I, whose thought Is like a ghost shrouded and folded up In its own formless horror: of all words, That minister to mortal intercourse, Which wouldst thou hear? For there is none to tell My misery: if another ever knew Aught like to it, she died as I will die, And left it, as I must, without a name. Death! Death! Our law and our religion call thee A punishment and a reward . . . Oh, which Have I deserved? Lucretia.          The peace of innocence; Till in your season you be called to heaven. Whate'er you may have suffered, you have done No evil. Death must be the punishment Of crime, or the reward of trampling down The thorns which God has strewed upon the path Which leads to immortality. Beatrice.                Ay; death . . . The punishment of crime. I pray thee, God, Let me not be bewildered while I judge. If I must live day after day, and keep These limbs, the unworthy temple of Thy spirit, As a foul den from which what Thou abhorrest May mock Thee, unavenged . . . it shall not be! Self-murder . . . no, that might be no escape, For Thy decree yawns like a Hell between Our will and it:O! In this mortal world There is no vindication and no law Which can adjudge and execute the doom Of that through which I suffer. Enter Orsino. (She approaches him solemnly.)                  Welcome, Friend! I have to tell you that, since last we met, I have endured a wrong so great and strange, That neither life nor death can give me rest. Ask me not what it is, for there are deeds Which have no form, sufferings which have no tongue. Orsino. And what is he who has thus injured you? Beatrice. The man they call my father: a dread name. Orsino. It cannot be . . . Beatrice.           What it can be, or not, Forbear to think. It is, and it has been; Advise me how it shall not be again. I thought to die; but a religious awe Restrains me, and the dread lest death itself Might be no refuge from the consciousness Of what is yet unexpiated. Oh, speak! Orsino. Accuse him of the deed, and let the law Avenge thee. Beatrice.       Oh, ice-hearted counsellor! If I could find a word that might make known The crime of my destroyer; and that done, My tongue should like a knife tear out the secret Which cankers my heart's core; ay, lay all bare So that my unpolluted fame should be With vilest gossips a stale mouthd story; A mock, a byword, an astonishment: If this were done, which never shall be done, Think of the offender's gold, his dreaded hate, And the strange horror of the accuser's tale, Baffling belief, and overpowering speech; Scarce whispered, unimaginable, wrapped In hideous hints . . . Oh, most assured redress! Orsino. You will endure it then? Beatrice.              Endure?Orsino, It seems your counsel is small profit. [Turns from him, and speaks half to herself.                      Ay, All must be suddenly resolved and done. What is this undistinguishable mist Of thoughts, which rise, like shadow after shadow, Darkening each other? Orsino.            Should the offender live? Triumph in his misdeed? and make, by use, His crime, whate'er it is, dreadful no doubt, Thine element; until thou mayst become Utterly lost; subdued even to the hue Of that which thou permittest? Beatrice (to herself).                 Mighty death! Thou double-visaged shadow? Only judge! Rightfullest arbiter! [She retires absorbed in thought. Lucretia.            If the lightning Of God has e'er descended to avenge . . . Orsino. Blaspheme not! His high Providence commits Its glory on this earth, and their own wrongs Into the hands of men; if they neglect To punish crime . . . Lucretia.            But if one, like this wretch, Should mock, with gold, opinion, law, and power? If there be no appeal to that which makes The guiltiest tremble? If because our wrongs, For that they are unnatural, strange, and monstrous, Exceed all measure of belief? O God! If, for the very reasons which should make Redress most swift and sure, our injurer triumphs? And we, the victims, bear worse punishment Than that appointed for their torturer? Orsino.                      Think not But that there is redress where there is wrong, So we be bold enough to seize it. Lucretia.                   How? If there were any way to make all sure, I know not . . . but I think it might be good To . . . Orsino.     Why, his late outrage to Beatrice; For it is such, as I but faintly guess, As makes remorse dishonour, and leaves her Only one duty, how she may avenge: You, but one refuge from ills ill endured; Me, but one counsel . . . Lucretia.               For we cannot hope That aid, or retribution, or resource Will arise thence, where every other one Might find them with less need. [Beatrice advances. Orsino.                  Then . . .                  Beatrice.                       Peace, Orsino! And, honoured Lady, while I speak, I pray, That you put off, as garments overworn, Forbearance and respect, remorse and fear, And all the fit restraints of daily life, Which have been borne from childhood, but which now Would be a mockery to my holier plea. As I have said, I have endured a wrong, Which, though it be expressionless, is such As asks atonement; both for what is past, And lest I be reserved, day after day, To load with crimes an overburthened soul, And be . . . what ye can dream not. I have prayed To God, and I have talked with my own heart, And have unravelled my entangled will, And have at length determined what is right. Art thou my friend, Orsino? False or true? Pledge thy salvation ere I speak. Orsino.                   I swear To dedicate my cunning, and my strength, My silence, and whatever else is mine, To thy commands. Lucretia.          You think we should devise His death? Beatrice.      And execute what is devised, And suddenly. We must be brief and bold. Orsino. And yet most cautious. Lucretia.             For the jealous laws Would punish us with death and infamy For that which it became themselves to do. Beatrice. Be cautious as ye may, but prompt. Orsino, What are the means? Orsino.           I know two dull, fierce outlaws, Who think man's spirit as a worm's, and they Would trample out, for any slight caprice, The meanest or the noblest life. This mood Is marketable here in Rome. They sell What we now want. Lucretia.          To-morrow before dawn, Cenci will take us to that lonely rock, Petrella, in the Apulian Apennines. If he arrive there . . . Beatrice.              He must not arrive.              Orsino. Will it be dark before you reach the tower? Lucretia. The sun will scarce be set. Beatrice.                But I remember Two miles on this side of the fort, the road Crosses a deep ravine; 'tis rough and narrow, And winds with short turns down the precipice; And in its depth there is a mighty rock, Which has, from unimaginable years, Sustained itself with terror and with toil Over a gulf, and with the agony With which it clings seems slowly coming down; Even as a wretched soul hour after hour, Clings to the mass of life; yet clinging, leans; And leaning, makes more dark the dread abyss In which it fears to fall: beneath this crag Huge as despair, as if in weariness, The melancholy mountain yawns . . . below, You hear but see not an impetuous torrent Raging among the caverns, and a bridge Crosses the chasm; and high above there grow, With intersecting trunks, from crag to crag, Cedars, and yews, and pines; whose tangled hair Is matted in one solid roof of shade By the dark ivy's twine. At noonday here 'Tis twilight, and at sunset blackest night. Orsino. Before you reach that bridge make some excuse For spurring on your mules, or loitering Until . . . Beatrice.       What sound is that?       Lucretia. Hark! No, it cannot be a servant's step It must be Cenci, unexpectedly Returned . . . Make some excuse for being here. Beatrice. (To Orsino, as she goes out.) That step we hear approach must never pass The bridge of which we spoke. [Exeunt Lucretia and Beatrice. Orsino.                 What shall I do? Cenci must find me here, and I must bear The imperious inquisition of his looks As to what brought me hither: let me mask Mine own in some inane and vacant smile. Enter Giacomo, in a hurried manner. How! Have you ventured hither? Know you then That Cenci is from home? Giacomo.              I sought him here; And now must wait till he returns. Orsino.                   Great God! Weigh you the danger of this rashness? Giacomo.                      Ay! Does my destroyer know his danger? We Are now no more, as once, parent and child, But man to man; the oppressor to the oppressed; The slanderer to the slandered; foe to foe: He has cast Nature off, which was his shield, And Nature casts him off, who is her shame; And I spurn both. Is it a father's throat Which I will shake, and say, I ask not gold; I ask not happy years; nor memories Of tranquil childhood; nor home-sheltered love; Though all these hast thou torn from me, and more; But only my fair fame; only one hoard Of peace, which I thought hidden from thy hate, Under the penury heaped on me by thee, Or I will . . . God can understand and pardon, Why should I speak with man? Orsino.                Be calm, dear friend.                Giacomo. Well, I will calmly tell you what he did. This old Francesco Cenci, as you know, Borrowed the dowry of my wife from me, And then denied the loan; and left me so In poverty, the which I sought to mend By holding a poor office in the state. It had been promised to me, and already I bought new clothing for my raggd babes, And my wife smiled; and my heart knew repose. When Cenci's intercession, as I found, Conferred this office on a wretch, whom thus He paid for vilest service. I returned With this ill news, and we sate sad together Solacing our despondency with tears Of such affection and unbroken faith As temper life's worst bitterness; when he, As he is wont, came to upbraid and curse, Mocking our poverty, and telling us Such was God's scourge for disobedient sons. And then, that I might strike him dumb with shame, I spoke of my wife's dowry; but he coined A brief yet specious tale, how I had wasted The sum in secret riot; and he saw My wife was touched, and he went smiling forth. And when I knew the impression he had made, And felt my wife insult with silent scorn My ardent truth, and look averse and cold, I went forth too: but soon returned again; Yet not so soon but that my wife had taught My children her harsh thoughts, and they all cried, 'Give us clothes, father! Give us better food! What you in one night squander were enough For months!' I looked, and saw that home was hell. And to that hell will I return no more Until mine enemy has rendered up Atonement, or, as he gave life to me I will, reversing Nature's law . . . Orsino.                     Trust me, The compensation which thou seekest here Will be denied. Giacomo.         Then . . . Are you not my friend? Did you not hint at the alternative, Upon the brink of which you see I stand, The other day when we conversed together? My wrongs were then less. That word parricide, Although I am resolved, haunts me like fear. Orsino. It must be fear itself, for the bare word Is hollow mockery. Mark, how wisest God Draws to one point the threads of a just doom, So sanctifying it: what you devise Is, as it were, accomplished. Giacomo.                 Is he dead?                 Orsino. His grave is ready. Know that since we met Cenci has done an outrage to his daughter. Giacomo. What outrage? Orsino.        That she speaks not, but you may Conceive such half conjectures as I do, From her fixed paleness, and the lofty grief Of her stern brow bent on the idle air, And her severe unmodulated voice, Drowning both tenderness and dread; and last From this; that whilst her step-mother and I, Bewildered in our horror, talked together With obscure hints; both self-misunderstood And darkly guessing, stumbling, in our talk, Over the truth, and yet to its revenge, She interrupted us, and with a look Which told before she spoke it, he must die: . . . Giacomo. It is enough. My doubts are well appeased; There is a higher reason for the act Than mine; there is a holier judge than me, A more unblamed avenger. Beatrice, Who in the gentleness of thy sweet youth Hast never trodden on a worm, or bruised A living flower, but thou hast pitied it With needless tears! Fair sister, thou in whom Men wondered how such loveliness and wisdom Did not destroy each other! Is there made Ravage of thee? O, heart, I ask no more Justification! Shall I wait, Orsino, Till he return, and stab him at the door? Orsino. Not so; some accident might interpose To rescue him from what is now most sure; And you are unprovided where to fly, How to excuse or to conceal. Nay, listen: All is contrived; success is so assured That . . . Enter Beatrice. Beatrice.      'Tis my brother's voice! You know me not?      Giacomo. My sister, my lost sister! Beatrice.               Lost indeed! I see Orsino has talked with you, and That you conjecture things too horrible To speak, yet far less than the truth. Now, stay not, He might return: yet kiss me; I shall know That then thou hast consented to his death. Farewell, farewell! Let piety to God, Brotherly love, justice and clemency, And all things that make tender hardest hearts Make thine hard, brother. Answer not . . . farewell. [Exeunt severally. Scene II. A mean Apartment in Giacomo's House. Giacomo alone. Giacomo. 'Tis midnight, and Orsino comes not yet. [Thunder, and the sound of a storm. What! can the everlasting elements Feel with a worm like man? If so, the shaft Of mercy-wingd lightning would not fall On stones and trees. My wife and children sleep: They are now living in unmeaning dreams: But I must wake, still doubting if that deed Be just which is most necessary. O, Thou unreplenished lamp! whose narrow fire Is shaken by the wind, and on whose edge Devouring darkness hovers! Thou small flame, Which, as a dying pulse rises and falls, Still flickerest up and down, how very soon, Did I not feed thee, wouldst thou fail and be As thou hadst never been! So wastes and sinks Even now, perhaps, the life that kindled mine: But that no power can fill with vital oil That broken lamp of flesh. Ha! 'tis the blood Which fed these veins that ebbs till all is cold: It is the form that moulded mine that sinks Into the white and yellow spasms of death: It is the soul by which mine was arrayed In God's immortal likeness which now stands Naked before Heaven's judgement seat! [A bell strikes.                     One! Two! The hours crawl on; and when my hairs are white, My son will then perhaps be waiting thus, Tortured between just hate and vain remorse; Chiding the tardy messenger of news Like those which I expect. I almost wish He be not dead, although my wrongs are great; Yet . . . 'tis Orsino's step . . . Enter Orsino.                   Speak!                   Orsino.                       I am come To say he has escaped. Giacomo.             Escaped!             Orsino.                 And safe Within Petrella. He passed by the spot Appointed for the deed an hour too soon. Giacomo. Are we the fools of such contingencies? And do we waste in blind misgivings thus The hours when we should act? Then wind and thunder, Which seemed to howl his knell, is the loud laughter With which Heaven mocks our weakness! I henceforth Will ne'er repent of aught designed or done But my repentance. Orsino.           See, the lamp is out.           Giacomo. If no remorse is ours when the dim air Has drank this innocent flame, why should we quail When Cenci's life, that light by which ill spirits See the worst deeds they prompt, shall sink for ever? No, I am hardened. Orsino.           Why, what need of this? Who feared the pale intrusion of remorse In a just deed? Although our first plan failed, Doubt not but he will soon be laid to rest. But light the lamp; let us not talk i' the dark. Giacomo (lighting the lamp). And yet once quenched I cannot thus relume My father's life: do you not think his ghost Might plead that argument with God? Orsino.                    Once gone You cannot now recall your sister's peace; Your own extinguished years of youth and hope; Nor your wife's bitter words; nor all the taunts Which, from the prosperous, weak misfortune takes; Nor your dead mother; nor . . . Giacomo.                  O, speak no more! I am resolved, although this very hand Must quench the life that animated it. Orsino. There is no need of that. Listen: you know Olimpio, the castellan of Petrella In old Colonna's time; him whom your father Degraded from his post? And Marzio, That desperate wretch, whom he deprived last year Of a reward of blood, well earned and due? Giacomo. I knew Olimpio; and they say he hated Old Cenci so, that in his silent rage His lips grew white only to see him pass. Of Marzio I know nothing. Orsino.               Marzio's hate Matches Olimpio's. I have sent these men, But in your name, and as at your request, To talk with Beatrice and Lucretia. Giacomo. Only to talk? Orsino.        The moments which even now Pass onward to to-morrow's midnight hour May memorize their flight with death: ere then They must have talked, and may perhaps have done, And made an end . . . Giacomo.            Listen! What sound is that?            Orsino. The house-dog moans, and the beams crack: nought else. Giacomo. It is my wife complaining in her sleep: I doubt not she is saying bitter things Of me; and all my children round her dreaming That I deny them sustenance. Orsino.                Whilst he Who truly took it from them, and who fills Their hungry rest with bitterness, now sleeps Lapped in bad pleasures, and triumphantly Mocks thee in visions of successful hate Too like the truth of day. Giacomo.               If e'er he wakes Again, I will not trust to hireling hands . . . Orsino. Why, that were well. I must be gone; good-night. When next we meetmay all be done! Giacomo.                    And all Forgotten: Oh, that I had never been! [Exeunt. END OF THE THIRD ACT. ACT IV Scene I. An Apartment in the Castle of Petrella. Enter Cenci. Cenci. She comes not; yet I left her even now Vanquished and faint. She knows the penalty Of her delay: yet what if threats are vain? Am I not now within Petrella's moat? Or fear I still the eyes and ears of Rome? Might I not drag her by the golden hair? Stamp on her? Keep her sleepless till her brain Be overworn? Tame her with chains and famine? Less would suffice. Yet so to leave undone What I most seek! No, 'tis her stubborn will Which by its own consent shall stoop as low As that which drags it down. Enter Lucretia.                Thou loathd wretch! Hide thee from my abhorrence: fly, begone! Yet stay! Bid Beatrice come hither. Lucretia.                    Oh, Husband! I pray for thine own wretched sake Heed what thou dost. A man who walks like thee Through crimes, and through the danger of his crimes, Each hour may stumble o'er a sudden grave. And thou art old; thy hairs are hoary gray; As thou wouldst save thyself from death and hell, Pity thy daughter; give her to some friend In marriage: so that she may tempt thee not To hatred, or worse thoughts, if worse there be. Cenci. What! like her sister who has found a home To mock my hate from with prosperity? Strange ruin shall destroy both her and thee And all that yet remain. My death may be Rapid, her destiny outspeeds it. Go, Bid her come hither, and before my mood Be changed, lest I should drag her by the hair. Lucretia. She sent me to thee, husband. At thy presence She fell, as thou dost know, into a trance; And in that trance she heard a voice which said, 'Cenci must die! Let him confess himself! Even now the accusing Angel waits to hear If God, to punish his enormous crimes, Harden his dying heart!' Cenci.              Whysuch things are . . . No doubt divine revealings may be made. 'Tis plain I have been favoured from above, For when I cursed my sons they died.Ay . . . so . . . As to the right or wrong, that's talk . . . repentance . . . Repentance is an easy moment's work And more depends on God than me. Well . . . well . . . I must give up the greater point, which was To poison and corrupt her soul. [A pause; Lucretia approaches anxiously, and then shrinks back as he speaks.                  One, two; Ay . . . Rocco and Cristofano my curse Strangled: and Giacomo, I think, will find Life a worse Hell than that beyond the grave: Beatrice shall, if there be skill in hate, Die in despair, blaspheming: to Bernardo, He is so innocent, I will bequeath The memory of these deeds, and make his youth The sepulchre of hope, where evil thoughts Shall grow like weeds on a neglected tomb. When all is done, out in the wide Campagna, I will pile up my silver and my gold; My costly robes, paintings and tapestries; My parchments and all records of my wealth, And make a bonfire in my joy, and leave Of my possessions nothing but my name; Which shall be an inheritance to strip Its wearer bare as infamy. That done, My soul, which is a scourge, will I resign Into the hands of him who wielded it; Be it for its own punishment or theirs, He will not ask it of me till the lash Be broken in its last and deepest wound; Until its hate be all inflicted. Yet, Lest death outspeed my purpose, let me make Short work and sure . . . [Going. Lucretia. (Stops him.)               Oh, stay! It was a feint: She had no vision, and she heard no voice. I said it but to awe thee. Cenci.               That is well. Vile palterer with the sacred truth of God, Be thy soul choked with that blaspheming lie! For Beatrice worse terrors are in store To bend her to my will. Lucretia.             Oh! to what will? What cruel sufferings more than she has known Canst thou inflict? Cenci.           Andrea! Go call my daughter, And if she comes not tell her that I come. What sufferings? I will drag her, step by step, Through infamies unheard of among men: She shall stand shelterless in the broad noon Of public scorn, for acts blazoned abroad, One among which shall be . . . What? Canst thou guess? She shall become (for what she most abhors Shall have a fascination to entrap Her loathing will) to her own conscious self All she appears to others; and when dead, As she shall die unshrived and unforgiven, A rebel to her father and her God, Her corpse shall be abandoned to the hounds; Her name shall be the terror of the earth; Her spirit shall approach the throne of God Plague-spotted with my curses. I will make Body and soul a monstrous lump of ruin. Enter Andrea. Andrea. The Lady Beatrice . . . Cenci.             Speak, pale slave! What Said she? Andrea.      My Lord, 'twas what she looked; she said: 'Go tell my father that I see the gulf Of Hell between us two, which he may pass, I will not.' [Exit Andrea. Cenci.       Go thou quick, Lucretia, Tell her to come; yet let her understand Her coming is consent: and say, moreover, That if she come not I will curse her. [Exit Lucretia.                      Ha! With what but with a father's curse doth God Panic-strike armd victory, and make pale Cities in their prosperity? The world's Father Must grant a parent's prayer against his child, Be he who asks even what men call me. Will not the deaths of her rebellious brothers Awe her before I speak? For I on them Did imprecate quick ruin, and it came. Enter Lucretia. Well; what? Speak, wretch! Lucretia.               She said, 'I cannot come; Go tell my father that I see a torrent Of his own blood raging between us.' Cenci (kneeling).                     God! Hear me! If this most specious mass of flesh, Which Thou hast made my daughter; this my blood, This particle of my divided being; Or rather, this my bane and my disease, Whose sight infects and poisons me; this devil Which sprung from me as from a hell, was meant To aught good use; if her bright loveliness Was kindled to illumine this dark world; If nursed by Thy selectest dew of love Such virtues blossom in her as should make The peace of life, I pray Thee for my sake, As Thou the common God and Father art Of her, and me, and all; reverse that doom! Earth, in the name of God, let her food be Poison, until she be encrusted round With leprous stains! Heaven, rain upon her head The blistering drops of the Maremma's dew, Till she be speckled like a toad; parch up Those love-enkindled lips, warp those fine limbs To loathd lameness! All-beholding sun, Strike in thine envy those life-darting eyes With thine own blinding beams! Lucretia.                 Peace! Peace! For thine own sake unsay those dreadful words. When high God grants He punishes such prayers. Cenci (leaping up, and throwing his right hand towards Heaven). He does His will, I mine! This in addition, That if she have a child . . . Lucretia.                 Horrible thought!                 Cenci. That if she ever have a child; and thou, Quick Nature! I adjure thee by thy God, That thou be fruitful in her, and increase And multiply, fulfilling his command, And my deep imprecation! May it be A hideous likeness of herself, that as From a distorting mirror, she may see Her image mixed with what she most abhors, Smiling upon her from her nursing breast. And that the child may from its infancy Grow, day by day, more wicked and deformed, Turning her mother's love to misery: And that both she and it may live until It shall repay her care and pain with hate, Or what may else be more unnatural. So he may hunt her through the clamorous scoffs Of the loud world to a dishonoured grave. Shall I revoke this curse? Go, bid her come, Before my words are chronicled in Heaven. [Exit Lucretia. I do not feel as if I were a man, But like a fiend appointed to chastise The offences of some unremembered world. My blood is running up and down my veins; A fearful pleasure makes it prick and tingle: I feel a giddy sickness of strange awe; My heart is beating with an expectation Of horrid joy. Enter Lucretia.        What? Speak!        Lucretia.               She bids thee curse; And if thy curses, as they cannot do, Could kill her soul . . . Cenci.               She would not come. 'Tis well, I can do both: first take what I demand, And then extort concession. To thy chamber! Fly ere I spurn thee: and beware this night That thou cross not my footsteps. It were safer To come between the tiger and his prey.[Exit Lucretia. It must be late; mine eyes grow weary dim With unaccustomed heaviness of sleep. Conscience! Oh, thou most insolent of lies! They say that sleep, that healing dew of Heaven, Steeps not in balm the foldings of the brain Which thinks thee an impostor. I will go First to belie thee with an hour of rest, Which will be deep and calm, I feel: and then . . . O, multitudinous Hell, the fiends will shake. Thine arches with the laughter of their joy! There shall be lamentation heard in Heaven As o'er an angel fallen; and upon Earth All good shall droop and sicken, and ill things Shall with a spirit of unnatural life Stir and be quickened . . . even as I am now. [Exit. Scene II. Before the Castle of Petrella. Enter Beatrice andLucretia above on the Ramparts. Beatrice. They come not yet. Lucretia.           'Tis scarce midnight.           Beatrice.                      How slow Behind the course of thought, even sick with speed, Lags leaden-footed time! Lucretia.              The minutes pass . . . If he should wake before the deed is done? Beatrice. O, mother! He must never wake again. What thou hast said persuades me that our act Will but dislodge a spirit of deep hell Out of a human form. Lucretia.            'Tis true he spoke Of death and judgement with strange confidence For one so wicked; as a man believing In God, yet recking not of good or ill. And yet to die without confession! . . . Beatrice.                       Oh! Believe that Heaven is merciful and just, And will not add our dread necessity To the amount of his offences. Enter Olimpio and Marzio, below. Lucretia.                 See, They come. Beatrice.      All mortal things must hasten thus To their dark end. Let us go down. [Exeunt Lucretia and Beatrice from above. Olimpio. How feel you to this work? Marzio.               As one who thinks A thousand crowns excellent market price For an old murderer's life. Your cheeks are pale. Olimpio. It is the white reflection of your own, Which you call pale. Marzio.            Is that their natural hue?            Olimpio. Or 'tis my hate and the deferred desire To wreak it, which extinguishes their blood. Marzio. You are inclined then to this business? Olimpio.                      Ay. If one should bribe me with a thousand crowns To kill a serpent which had stung my child, I could not be more willing. Enter Beatrice and Lucretia, below.                Noble ladies!                Beatrice. Are ye resolved? Olimpio.          Is he asleep?          Marzio.                 Is all Quiet? Lucretia.    I mixed an opiate with his drink: He sleeps so soundly . . . Beatrice.               That his death will be But as a change of sin-chastising dreams, A dark continuance of the Hell within him, Which God extinguish! But ye are resolved? Ye know it is a high and holy deed? Olimpio. We are resolved. Marzio.          As to the how this act Be warranted, it rests with you. Beatrice.                  Well, follow!                  Olimpio. Hush! Hark! What noise is that? Marzio.                  Ha! some one comes!                  Beatrice. Ye conscience-stricken cravens, rock to rest Your baby hearts. It is the iron gate, Which ye left open, swinging to the wind, That enters whistling as in scorn. Come, follow! And be your steps like mine, light, quick and bold. [Exeunt. Scene III. An Apartment in the Castle. Enter Beatrice and Lucretia. Lucretia. They are about it now. Beatrice.             Nay, it is done.             Lucretia. I have not heard him groan. Beatrice.                He will not groan.                Lucretia. What sound is that? Beatrice.           List! 'tis the tread of feet About his bed. Lucretia.        My God! If he be now a cold stiff corpse . . . Beatrice.                      O, fear not What may be done, but what is left undone: The act seals all. Enter Olimpio and Marzio.           Is it accomplished?           Marzio.                     What?                     Olimpio. Did you not call? Beatrice.          When?          Olimpio.             Now.             Beatrice.               I ask if all is over?               Olimpio. We dare not kill an old and sleeping man; His thin gray hair, his stern and reverend brow, His veind hands crossed on his heaving breast, And the calm innocent sleep in which he lay, Quelled me. Indeed, indeed, I cannot do it. Marzio. But I was bolder; for I chid Olimpio, And bade him bear his wrongs to his own grave And leave me the reward. And now my knife Touched the loose wrinkled throat, when the old man Stirred in his sleep, and said, 'God! hear, O, hear, A father's curse! What, art Thou not our Father?' And then he laughed. I knew it was the ghost Of my dead father speaking through his lips, And could not kill him. Beatrice.             Miserable slaves! Where, if ye dare not kill a sleeping man, Found ye the boldness to return to me With such a deed undone? Base palterers! Cowards and traitors! Why, the very conscience Which ye would sell for gold and for revenge Is an equivocation: it sleeps over A thousand daily acts disgracing men; And when a deed where mercy insults Heaven . . . Why do I talk? [Snatching a dagger from one of them and raising it.        Hadst thou a tongue to say, 'She murdered her own father!'I must do it! But never dream ye shall outlive him long! Olimpio. Stop, for God's sake! Marzio.            I will go back and kill him.            Olimpio. Give me the weapon. we must do thy will. Beatrice. Take it! Depart! Return! [Exeunt Olimpio and Marzio.              How pale thou art! We do but that which 'twere a deadly crime To leave undone. Lucretia.          Would it were done!          Beatrice.                    Even whilst That doubt is passing through your mind, the world Is conscious of a change. Darkness and Hell Have swallowed up the vapour they sent forth To blacken the sweet light of life. My breath Comes, methinks, lighter, and the jellied blood Runs freely through my veins. Hark! Enter Olimpio and Marzio.                    He is . . .                    Olimpio.                          Dead!                          Marzio. We strangled him that there might be no blood; And then we threw his heavy corpse i' the garden Under the balcony; 'twill seem it fell. Beatrice (giving them a bag of coin). Here, take this gold, and hasten to your homes. And, Marzio, because thou wast only awed By that which made me tremble, wear thou this! [Clothes him in a rich mantle. It was the mantle which my grandfather Wore in his high prosperity, and men Envied his state: so may they envy thine. Thou wert a weapon in the hand of God To a just use. Live long and thrive! And, mark, If thou hast crimes, repent: this deed is none. [A horn is sounded. Lucretia. Hark, 'tis the castle horn; my God! it sounds Like the last trump. Beatrice            Some tedious guest is coming.            Lucretia. The drawbridge is let down; there is a tramp Of horses in the court; fly, hide yourselves! [Exeunt Olimpio and Marzio. Beatrice. Let us retire to counterfeit deep rest; I scarcely need to counterfeit it now: The spirit which doth reign within these limbs Seems strangely undisturbed. I could even sleep Fearless and calm: all ill is surely past. [Exeunt. Scene IV. Another Apartment in the Castle. Enter on one side the Legate Savella, introduced by a Servant, and on the other Lucretia and Bernardo. Savella. Lady, my duty to his Holiness Be my excuse that thus unseasonably I break upon your rest. I must speak with Count Cenci; doth he sleep? Lucretia (in a hurried and confused manner).                I think he sleeps; Yet wake him not, I pray, spare me awhile, He is a wicked and a wrathful man; Should he be roused out of his sleep to-night, Which is, I know, a hell of angry dreams, It were not well; indeed it were not well. Wait till day break . . . (aside) O, I am deadly sick! Savella. I grieve thus to distress you, but the Count Must answer charges of the gravest import, And suddenly; such my commission is. Lucretia (with increased agitation). I dare not rouse him: I know none who dare . . . 'Twere perilous; . . . you might as safely waken A serpent; or a corpse in which some fiend Were laid to sleep. Savella.           Lady, my moments here Are counted. I must rouse him from his sleep, Since none else dare. Lucretia (aside).            O, terror! O, despair! (To Bernardo.) Bernardo, conduct you the Lord Legate to Your father's chamber. [Exeunt Savella and Bernardo. Enter Beatrice. Beatrice.             'Tis a messenger Come to arrest the culprit who now stands Before the throne of unappealable God. Both Earth and Heaven, consenting arbiters, Acquit our deed. Lucretia.          Oh, agony of fear! Would that he yet might live! Even now I heard The Legate's followers whisper as they passed They had a warrant for his instant death. All was prepared by unforbidden means Which we must pay so dearly, having done. Even now they search the tower, and find the body; Now they suspect the truth; now they consult Before they come to tax us with the fact; O, horrible, 'tis all discovered! Beatrice.                   Mother, What is done wisely, is done well. Be bold As thou art just. 'Tis like a truant child To fear that others know what thou hast done, Even from thine own strong consciousness, and thus Write on unsteady eyes and altered cheeks All thou wouldst hide. Be faithful to thyself, And fear no other witness but thy fear. For if, as cannot be, some circumstance Should rise in accusation, we can blind Suspicion with such cheap astonishment, Or overbear it with such guiltless pride, As murderers cannot feign. The deed is done, And what may follow now regards not me. I am as universal as the light; Free as the earth-surrounding air; as firm As the world's centre. Consequence, to me, Is as the wind which strikes the solid rock But shakes it not. [A cry within and tumult. Voices.           Murder! Murder! Murder!           Enter Bernardo and Savella. Savella (to his followers). Go search the castle round; sound the alarm; Look to the gates that none escape! Beatrice.                    What now?                    Bernardo. I know not what to say . . . my father's dead. Beatrice. How; dead! he only sleeps; you mistake, brother. His sleep is very calm, very like death; 'Tis wonderful how well a tyrant sleeps. He is not dead? Bernardo.         Dead; murdered.         Lucretia (with extreme agitation).                 Oh no, no He is not murdered though he may be dead; I have alone the keys of those apartments. Savella. Ha! Is it so? Beatrice.        My Lord, I pray excuse us; We will retire; my mother is not well: She seems quite overcome with this strange horror. [Exeunt Lucretia and Beatrice. Savella. Can you suspect who may have murdered him? Bernardo. I know not what to think. Savella.               Can you name any Who had an interest in his death? Bernardo.                   Alas! I can name none who had not, and those most Who most lament that such a deed is done; My mother, and my sister, and myself. Savella. 'Tis strange! There were clear marks of violence. I found the old man's body in the moonlight Hanging beneath the window of his chamber, Among the branches of a pine: he could not Have fallen there, for all his limbs lay heaped And effortless; 'tis true there was no blood . . . Favour me, Sir; it much imports your house That all should be made clear; to tell the ladies That I request their presence. [Exit Bernardo. Enter Guards bringing in Marzio. Guard.                 We have one.                 Officer. My Lord, we found this ruffian and another Lurking among the rocks; there is no doubt But that they are the murderers of Count Cenci: Each had a bag of coin; this fellow wore A gold-inwoven robe, which shining bright Under the dark rocks to the glimmering moon Betrayed them to our notice: the other fell Desperately fighting. Savella.            What does he confess?            Officer. He keeps firm silence; but these lines found on him May speak. Savella.      Their language is at least sincere.      [Reads. 'To the Lady Beatrice. 'That the atonement of what my nature sickens to conjecture may soon arrive, I send thee, at thy brother's desire, those who will speak and do more than I dare write. . . 'Thy devoted servant, Orsino.' Enter Lucretia, Beatrice, and Bernardo. Knowest thou this writing, Lady? Beatrice.                  No.                  Savella.                    Nor thou?                    Lucretia. (Her conduct throughout the scene is marked by extreme agitation.) Where was it found? What is it? It should be Orsino's hand! It speaks of that strange horror Which never yet found utterance, but which made Between that hapless child and her dead father A gulf of obscure hatred. Savella.               Is it so? Is it true, Lady, that thy father did Such outrages as to awaken in thee Unfilial hate? Beatrice.        Not hate, 'twas more than hate: This is most true, yet wherefore question me? Savella. There is a deed demanding question done; Thou hast a secret which will answer not. Beatrice. What sayest? My Lord, your words are bold and rash. Savella. I do arrest all present in the name Of the Pope's Holiness. You must to Rome. Lucretia. O, not to Rome! Indeed we are not guilty. Beatrice. Guilty! Who dares talk of guilt? My Lord, I am more innocent of parricide Than is a child born fatherless . . . Dear mother, Your gentleness and patience are no shield For this keen-judging world, this two-edged lie, Which seems, but is not. What! will human laws, Rather will ye who are their ministers, Bar all access to retribution first, And then, when Heaven doth interpose to do What ye neglect, arming familiar things To the redress of an unwonted crime, Make ye the victims who demanded it Culprits? 'Tis ye are culprits! That poor wretch Who stands so pale, and trembling, and amazed, If it be true he murdered Cenci, was A sword in the right hand of justest God. Wherefore should I have wielded it? Unless The crimes which mortal tongue dare never name God therefore scruples to avenge. Savella.                   You own That you desired his death? Beatrice.                It would have been A crime no less than his, if for one moment That fierce desire had faded in my heart. 'Tis true I did believe, and hope, and pray, Ay, I even knew . . . for God is wise and just, That some strange sudden death hung over him. 'Tis true that this did happen, and most true There was no other rest for me on earth, No other hope in Heaven . . . now what of this? Savella. Strange thoughts beget strange deeds; and here are both: I judge thee not. Beatrice.          And yet, if you arrest me, You are the judge and executioner Of that which is the life of life: the breath Of accusation kills an innocent name, And leaves for lame acquittal the poor life Which is a mask without it. 'Tis most false That I am guilty of foul parricide; Although I must rejoice, for justest cause, That other hands have sent my father's soul To ask the mercy he denied to me. Now leave us free; stain not a noble house With vague surmises of rejected crime; Add to our sufferings and your own neglect No heavier sum: let them have been enough: Leave us the wreck we have. Savella.                I dare not, Lady. I pray that you prepare yourselves for Rome: There the Pope's further pleasure will be known. Lucretia. O, not to Rome! O, take us not to Rome! Beatrice. Why not to Rome, dear mother? There as here Our innocence is as an armd heel To trample accusation. God is there As here, and with His shadow ever clothes The innocent, the injured and the weak; And such are we. Cheer up, dear Lady, lean On me; collect your wandering thoughts. My Lord, As soon as you have taken some refreshment, And had all such examinations made Upon the spot, as may be necessary To the full understanding of this matter, We shall be ready. Mother; will you come? Lucretia. Ha! they will bind us to the rack, and wrest Self-accusation from our agony! Will Giacomo be there? Orsino? Marzio? All present; all confronted; all demanding Each from the other's countenance the thing Which is in every heart! O, misery! [She faints, and is borne out. Savella. She faints: an ill appearance this. Beatrice.                    My Lord, She knows not yet the uses of the world. She fears that power is as a beast which grasps And loosens not: a snake whose look transmutes All things to guilt which is its nutriment. She cannot know how well the supine slaves Of blind authority read the truth of things When written on a brow of guilelessness: She sees not yet triumphant Innocence Stand at the judgement-seat of mortal man, A judge and an accuser of the wrong Which drags it there. Prepare yourself, my Lord; Our suite will join yours in the court below. [Exeunt. END OF THE FOURTH ACT. ACT V Scene I. An Apartment in Orsino's Palace. Enter Orsino and Giacomo. Giacomo. Do evil deeds thus quickly come to end? O, that the vain remorse which must chastise Crimes done, had but as loud a voice to warn As its keen sting is mortal to avenge! O, that the hour when present had cast off The mantle of its mystery, and shown The ghastly form with which it now returns When its scared game is roused, cheering the hounds Of conscience to their prey! Alas! Alas! It was a wicked thought, a piteous deed, To kill an old and hoary-headed father. Orsino. It has turned out unluckily, in truth. Giacomo. To violate the sacred doors of sleep; To cheat kind Nature of the placid death Which she prepares for overwearied age; To drag from Heaven an unrepentant soul Which might have quenched in reconciling prayers A life of burning crimes . . . Orsino.                 You cannot say I urged you to the deed. Giacomo.              O, had I never Found in thy smooth and ready countenance The mirror of my darkest thoughts; hadst thou Never with hints and questions made me look Upon the monster of my thought, until It grew familiar to desire . . . Orsino.                  'Tis thus Men cast the blame of their unprosperous acts Upon the abettors of their own resolve; Or anything but their weak, guilty selves. And yet, confess the truth, it is the peril In which you stand that gives you this pale sickness Of penitence; confess 'tis fear disguised From its own shame that takes the mantle now Of thin remorse. What if we yet were safe? Giacomo. How can that be? Already Beatrice, Lucretia and the murderer are in prison. I doubt not officers are, whilst we speak, Sent to arrest us. Orsino.           I have all prepared For instant flight. We can escape even now, So we take fleet occasion by the hair. Giacomo. Rather expire in tortures, as I may. What! will you cast by self-accusing flight Assured conviction upon Beatrice? She, who alone in this unnatural work, Stands like God's angel ministered upon By fiends; avenging such a nameless wrong As turns black parricide to piety; Whilst we for basest ends . . . I fear, Orsino, While I consider all your words and looks, Comparing them with your proposal now, That you must be a villain. For what end Could you engage in such a perilous crime, Training me on with hints, and signs, and smiles, Even to this gulf? Thou art no liar? No, Thou art a lie! Traitor and murderer! Coward and slave! But, no, defend thyself; [Drawing. Let the sword speak what the indignant tongue Disdains to brand thee with. Orsino.                Put up your weapon. Is it the desperation of your fear Makes you thus rash and sudden with a friend, Now ruined for your sake? If honest anger Have moved you, know, that what I just proposed Was but to try you. As for me, I think, Thankless affection led me to this point, From which, if my firm temper could repent, I cannot now recede. Even whilst we speak The ministers of justice wait below: They grant me these brief moments. Now if you Have any word of melancholy comfort To speak to your pale wife, 'twere best to pass Out at the postern, and avoid them so. Giacomo. O, generous friend! How canst thou pardon me? Would that my life could purchase thine! Orsino.                       That wish Now comes a day too late. Haste; fare thee well! Hear'st thou not steps along the corridor? [Exit Giacomo. I'm sorry for it; but the guards are waiting At his own gate, and such was my contrivance That I might rid me both of him and them. I thought to act a solemn comedy Upon the painted scene of this new world, And to attain my own peculiar ends By some such plot of mingled good and ill As others weave; but there arose a Power Which grasped and snapped the threads of my device And turned it to a net of ruin . . . Ha! [A shout is heard. Is that my name I hear proclaimed abroad? But I will pass, wrapped in a vile disguise; Rags on my back, and a false innocence Upon my face, through the misdeeming crowd Which judges by what seems. 'Tis easy then For a new name and for a country new, And a new life, fashioned on old desires, To change the honours of abandoned Rome. And these must be the masks of that within, Which must remain unaltered . . . Oh, I fear That what is past will never let me rest! Why, when none else is conscious, but myself, Of my misdeeds, should my own heart's contempt Trouble me? Have I not the power to fly My own reproaches? Shall I be the slave Of . . . what? A word? which those of this false world Employ against each other, not themselves; As men wear daggers not for self-offence. But if I am mistaken, where shall I Find the disguise to hide me from myself, As now I skulk from every other eye? [Exit. Scene II. A Hall of Justice. Camillo, Judges, &c., are discovered seated; Marzio is led in. First Judge. Accused, do you persist in your denial? I ask you, are you innocent, or guilty? I demand who were the participators In your offence? Speak truth and the whole truth. Marzio. My God! I did not kill him; I know nothing; Olimpio sold the robe to me from which You would infer my guilt. Second Judge.               Away with him!               First Judge. Dare you, with lips yet white from the rack's kiss Speak false? Is it so soft a questioner, That you would bandy lover's talk with it Till it wind out your life and soul? Away! Marzio. Spare me! O, spare! I will confess. First Judge.                    Then speak.                    Marzio. I strangled him in his sleep. First Judge.                 Who urged you to it?                 Marzio. His own son Giacomo, and the young prelate Orsino sent me to Petrella; there The ladies Beatrice and Lucretia Tempted me with a thousand crowns, and I And my companion forthwith murdered him. Now let me die. First Judge.         This sounds as bad as truth. Guards, there, Lead forth the prisoner! Enter Lucretia, Beatrice, and Giacomo, guarded.              Look upon this man; When did you see him last? Beatrice.               We never saw him.               Marzio. You know me too well, Lady Beatrice. Beatrice. I know thee! How? where? when? Marzio.                 You know 'twas I Whom you did urge with menaces and bribes To kill your father. When the thing was done You clothed me in a robe of woven gold And bade me thrive: how I have thriven, you see. You, my Lord Giacomo, Lady Lucretia, You know that what I speak is true. [Beatrice advances towards him; he covers his face, and shrinks back.                    Oh, dart The terrible resentment of those eyes On the dead earth! Turn them away from me! They wound: 'twas torture forced the truth. My Lords, Having said this let me be led to death. Beatrice. Poor wretch, I pity thee: yet stay awhile. Camillo. Guards, lead him not away. Beatrice.               Cardinal Camillo, You have a good repute for gentleness And wisdom: can it be that you sit here To countenance a wicked farce like this? When some obscure and trembling slave is dragged From sufferings which might shake the sternest heart And bade to answer, not as he believes, But as those may suspect or do desire Whose questions thence suggest their own reply: And that in peril of such hideous torments As merciful God spares even the damned. Speak now The thing you surely know, which is that you, If your fine frame were stretched upon that wheel, And you were told: 'Confess that you did poison Your little nephew; that fair blue-eyed child Who was the lodestar of your life:'and though All see, since his most swift and piteous death, That day and night, and heaven and earth, and time, And all the things hoped for or done therein Are changed to you, through your exceeding grief, Yet you would say, 'I confess anything:' And beg from your tormentors, like that slave, The refuge of dishonourable death. I pray thee, Cardinal, that thou assert My innocence. Camillo. (much moved).        What shall we think, my Lords? Shame on these tears! I thought the heart was frozen Which is their fountain. I would pledge my soul That she is guiltless. Judge.             Yet she must be tortured.             Camillo. I would as soon have tortured mine own nephew (If he now lived he would be just her age; His hair, too, was her colour, and his eyes Like hers in shape, but blue and not so deep) As that most perfect image of God's love That ever came sorrowing upon the earth. She is as pure as speechless infancy! Judge. Well, be her purity on your head, my Lord, If you forbid the rack. His Holiness Enjoined us to pursue this monstrous crime By the severest forms of law; nay even To stretch a point against the criminals. The prisoners stand accused of parricide Upon such evidence as justifies Torture. Beatrice. What evidence? This man's? Judge.               Even so.               Beatrice (to Marzio). Come near. And who art thou thus chosen forth Out of the multitude of living men To kill the innocent? Marzio.            I am Marzio, Thy father's vassal. Beatrice.            Fix thine eyes on mine; Answer to what I ask. [Turning to the Judges.            I prithee mark His countenance: unlike bold calumny Which sometimes dares not speak the thing it looks, He dares not look the thing he speaks, but bends His gaze on the blind earth. (To Marzio.)                What! wilt thou say That I did murder my own father? Marzio.                  Oh! Spare me! My brain swims round . . . I cannot speak . . . It was that horrid torture forced the truth. Take me away! Let her not look on me! I am a guilty miserable wretch; I have said all I know; now, let me die! Beatrice. My Lords, if by my nature I had been So stern, as to have planned the crime alleged, Which your suspicions dictate to this slave, And the rack makes him utter, do you think I should have left this two-edged instrument Of my misdeed; this man, this bloody knife With my own name engraven on the heft, Lying unsheathed amid a world of foes, For my own death? That with such horrible need For deepest silence, I should have neglected So trivial a precaution, as the making His tomb the keeper of a secret written On a thief's memory? What is his poor life? What are a thousand lives? A parricide Had trampled them like dust; and, see, he lives! (Turning to Marzio.) And thou . . . Marzio.        Oh, spare me! Speak to me no more! That stern yet piteous look, those solemn tones, Wound worse than torture. (To the Judges.               I have told it all; For pity's sake lead me away to death. Camillo. Guards, lead him nearer the Lady Beatrice, He shrinks from her regard like autumn's leaf From the keen breath of the serenest north. Beatrice. O thou who tremblest on the giddy verge Of life and death, pause ere thou answerest me; So mayst thou answer God with less dismay: What evil have we done thee? I, alas! Have lived but on this earth a few sad years, And so my lot was ordered, that a father First turned the moments of awakening life To drops, each poisoning youth's sweet hope; and then Stabbed with one blow my everlasting soul; And my untainted fame; and even that peace Which sleeps within the core of the heart's heart; But the wound was not mortal; so my hate Became the only worship I could lift To our great father, who in pity and love, Armed thee, as thou dost say, to cut him off; And thus his wrong becomes my accusation; And art thou the accuser? If thou hopest Mercy in heaven, show justice upon earth: Worse than a bloody hand is a hard heart. If thou hast done murders, made thy life's path Over the trampled laws of God and man, Rush not before thy Judge, and say: 'My maker, I have done this and more; for there was one Who was most pure and innocent on earth; And because she endured what never any Guilty or innocent endured before: Because her wrongs could not be told, not thought; Because thy hand at length did rescue her; I with my words killed her and all her kin.' Think, I adjure you, what it is to slay The reverence living in the minds of men Towards our ancient house, and stainless fame! Think what it is to strangle infant pity, Cradled in the belief of guileless looks, Till it become a crime to suffer. Think What 'tis to blot with infamy and blood All that which shows like innocence, and is, Hear me, great God! I swear, most innocent, So that the world lose all discrimination Between the sly, fierce, wild regard of guilt, And that which now compels thee to reply To what I ask: Am I, or am I not A parricide? Marzio.       Thou art not!       Judge.               What is this?               Marzio. I here declare those whom I did accuse Are innocent. 'Tis I alone am guilty. Judge. Drag him away to torments; let them be Subtle and long drawn out, to tear the folds Of the heart's inmost cell. Unbind him not Till he confess. Marzio.          Torture me as ye will: A keener pang has wrung a higher truth From my last breath. She is most innocent! Bloodhounds, not men, glut yourselves well with me; I will not give you that fine piece of nature To rend and ruin. [Exit Marzio, guarded. Camillo.          What say ye now, my Lords?          Judge. Let tortures strain the truth till it be white As snow thrice sifted by the frozen wind. Camillo. Yet stained with blood. Judge (to Beatrice).             Know you this paper, Lady?             Beatrice. Entrap me not with questions. Who stands here As my accuser? Ha! wilt thou be he, Who art my judge? Accuser, witness, judge, What, all in one? Here is Orsino's name; Where is Orsino? Let his eye meet mine. What means this scrawl? Alas! ye know not what, And therefore on the chance that it may be Some evil, will ye kill us? Enter an Officer. Officer.                Marzio's dead.                Judge. What did he say? Officer.          Nothing. As soon as we Had bound him on the wheel, he smiled on us, As one who baffles a deep adversary; And holding his breath, died. Judge.                 There remains nothing But to apply the question to those prisoners, Who yet remain stubborn. Camillo.              I overrule Further proceedings, and in the behalf Of these most innocent and noble persons Will use my interest with the Holy Father. Judge. Let the Pope's pleasure then be done. Meanwhile Conduct these culprits each to separate cells; And be the engines ready: for this night If the Pope's resolution be as grave, Pious, and just as once, I'll wring the truth Out of those nerves and sinews, groan by groan. [Exeunt. Scene III. The Cell of a Prison. Beatrice is discovered asleep on a couch. Enter Bernardo. Bernardo. How gently slumber rests upon her face, Like the last thoughts of some day sweetly spent Closing in night and dreams, and so prolonged. After such torments as she bore last night, How light and soft her breathing comes. Ay me! Methinks that I shall never sleep again. But I must shake the heavenly dew of rest From this sweet folded flower, thus . . . wake! awake! What, sister, canst thou sleep? Beatrice (awaking).                  I was just dreaming That we were all in Paradise. Thou knowest This cell seems like a kind of Paradise After our father's presence. Bernardo.                Dear, dear sister, Would that thy dream were not a dream! O God! How shall I tell? Beatrice.          What wouldst thou tell, sweet brother?          Bernardo. Look not so calm and happy, or even whilst I stand considering what I have to say My heart will break. Beatrice.            See now, thou mak'st me weep: How very friendless thou wouldst be, dear child, If I were dead. Say what thou hast to say. Bernardo. They have confessed; they could endure no more The tortures . . . Beatrice.           Ha! What was there to confess? They must have told some weak and wicked lie To flatter their tormentors. Have they said That they were guilty? O white innocence, That thou shouldst wear the mask of guilt to hide Thine awful and serenest countenance From those who know thee not! Enter Judge with Lucretia and Giacomo, guarded.                 Ignoble hearts! For some brief spasms of pain, which are at least As mortal as the limbs through which they pass, Are centuries of high splendour laid in dust? And that eternal honour which should live Sunlike, above the reek of mortal fame, Changed to a mockery and a byword? What! Will you give up these bodies to be dragged At horses' heels, so that our hair should sweep The footsteps of the vain and senseless crowd, Who, that they may make our calamity Their worship and their spectacle, will leave The churches and the theatres as void As their own hearts? Shall the light multitude Fling, at their choice, curses or faded pity, Sad funeral flowers to deck a living corpse, Upon us as we pass to pass away, And leave . . . what memory of our having been? Infamy, blood, terror, despair? O thou, Who wert a mother to the parentless, Kill not thy child! Let not her wrongs kill thee! Brother, lie down with me upon the rack, And let us each be silent as a corpse; It soon will be as soft as any grave. 'Tis but the falsehood it can wring from fear Makes the rack cruel. Giacomo.            They will tear the truth Even from thee at last, those cruel pains: For pity's sake say thou art guilty now. Lucretia. Oh, speak the truth! Let us all quickly die; And after death, God is our judge, not they; He will have mercy on us. Bernardo.               If indeed It can be true, say so, dear sister mine; And then the Pope will surely pardon you, And all be well. Judge.          Confess, or I will warp Your limbs with such keen tortures . . . Beatrice.                       Tortures! Turn The rack henceforth into a spinning-wheel! Torture your dog, that he may tell when last He lapped the blood his master shed . . . not me! My pangs are of the mind, and of the heart, And of the soul; ay, of the inmost soul, Which weeps within tears as of burning gall To see, in this ill world where none are true, My kindred false to their deserted selves. And with considering all the wretched life Which I have lived, and its now wretched end, And the small justice shown by Heaven and Earth To me or mine; and what a tyrant thou art, And what slaves these; and what a world we make, The oppressor and the oppressed . . . such pangs compel My answer. What is it thou wouldst with me? Judge. Art thou not guilty of thy father's death? Beatrice. Or wilt thou rather tax high-judging God That He permitted such an act as that Which I have suffered, and which He beheld; Made it unutterable, and took from it All refuge, all revenge, all consequence, But that which thou hast called my father's death? Which is or is not what men call a crime, Which either I have done, or have not done; Say what ye will. I shall deny no more. If ye desire it thus, thus let it be, And so an end of all. Now do your will; No other pains shall force another word. Judge. She is convicted, but has not confessed. Be it enough. Until their final sentence Let none have converse with them. You, young Lord, Linger not here! Beatrice.          Oh, tear him not away!          Judge. Guards, do your duty. Bernardo (embracing Beatrice).            Oh! would ye divide Body from soul? Officer.         That is the headsman's business.         [Exeunt all but Lucretia, Beatrice, and Giacomo. Giacomo. Have I confessed? Is it all over now? No hope! No refuge! O weak, wicked tongue Which hast destroyed me, would that thou hadst been Cut out and thrown to dogs first! To have killed My father first, and then betrayed my sister; Ay, thee! the one thing innocent and pure In this black guilty world, to that which I So well deserve! My wife! my little ones! Destitute, helpless, and I . . . Father! God! Canst Thou forgive even the unforgiving, When their full hearts break thus, thus! . . . [Covers his face and weeps. Lucretia.                          O my child! To what a dreadful end are we all come! Why did I yield? Why did I not sustain Those torments? Oh, that I were all dissolved Into these fast and unavailing tears, Which flow and feel not! Beatrice.              What 'twas weak to do, 'Tis weaker to lament, once being done; Take cheer! The God who knew my wrong, and made Our speedy act the angel of His wrath, Seems, and but seems, to have abandoned us. Let us not think that we shall die for this. Brother, sit near me; give me your firm hand, You had a manly heart. Bear up! Bear up! O dearest Lady, put your gentle head Upon my lap, and try to sleep awhile: Your eyes look pale, hollow and overworn, With heaviness of watching and slow grief. Come, I will sing you some low, sleepy tune, Not cheerful, nor yet sad; some dull old thing, Some outworn and unused monotony, Such as our country gossips sing and spin, Till they almost forget they live: lie down! So, that will do. Have I forgot the words? Faith! They are sadder than I thought they were. SONG False friend, wilt thou smile or weep When my life is laid asleep? Little cares for a smile or a tear, The clay-cold corpse upon the bier! Farewell! Heigho! What is this whispers low? There is a snake in thy smile, my dear; And bitter poison within thy tear. Sweet sleep, were death like to thee, Or if thou couldst mortal be, I would close these eyes of pain; When to wake? Never again. O World! Farewell! Listen to the passing bell! It says, thou and I must part, With a light and a heavy heart. [The scene closes. Scene IV. A Hall of the Prison. Enter Camillo and Bernardo. Camillo. The Pope is stern; not to be moved or bent. He looked as calm and keen as is the engine Which tortures and which kills, exempt itself From aught that it inflicts; a marble form, A rite, a law, a custom: not a man. He frowned, as if to frown had been the trick Of his machinery, on the advocates Presenting the defences, which he tore And threw behind, muttering with hoarse, harsh voice: 'Which among ye defended their old father Killed in his sleep?' Then to another: 'Thou Dost this in virtue of thy place; 'tis well.' He turned to me then, looking deprecation, And said these three words, coldly: 'They must die.' Bernardo. And yet you left him not? Camillo.               I urged him still; Pleading, as I could guess, the devilish wrong Which prompted your unnatural parent's death. And he replied: 'Paolo Santa Croce Murdered his mother yester evening, And he is fled. Parricide grows so rife That soon, for some just cause no doubt, the young Will strangle us all, dozing in our chairs. Authority, and power, and hoary hair Are grown crimes capital. You are my nephew, You come to ask their pardon; stay a moment; Here is their sentence; never see me more Till, to the letter, it be all fulfilled.' Bernardo. O God, not so! I did believe indeed That all you said was but sad preparation For happy news. Oh, there are words and looks To bend the sternest purpose! Once I knew them, Now I forget them at my dearest need. What think you if I seek him out, and bathe His feet and robe with hot and bitter tears? Importune him with prayers, vexing his brain With my perpetual cries, until in rage He strike me with his pastoral cross, and trample Upon my prostrate head, so that my blood May stain the senseless dust on which he treads, And remorse waken mercy? I will do it! Oh, wait till I return! [Rushes out. Camillo.             Alas! poor boy! A wreck-devoted seaman thus might pray To the deaf sea. Enter Lucretia, Beatrice, and Giacomo, guarded. Beatrice.          I hardly dare to fear That thou bring'st other news than a just pardon. Camillo. May God in heaven be less inexorable To the Pope's prayers, than he has been to mine. Here is the sentence and the warrant. Beatrice (wildly).                     O My God! Can it be possible I have To die so suddenly? So young to go Under the obscure, cold, rotting, wormy ground! To be nailed down into a narrow place; To see no more sweet sunshine; hear no more Blithe voice of living thing; muse not again Upon familiar thoughts, sad, yet thus lost How fearful! to be nothing! Or to be . . . What? Oh, where am I? Let me not go mad! Sweet Heaven, forgive weak thoughts! If there should be No God, no Heaven, no Earth in the void world; The wide, gray, lampless, deep, unpeopled world! If all things then should be . . . my father's spirit, His eye, his voice, his touch surrounding me; The atmosphere and breath of my dead life! If sometimes, as a shape more like himself, Even the form which tortured me on earth, Masked in gray hairs and wrinkles, he should come And wind me in his hellish arms, and fix His eyes on mine, and drag me down, down, down! For was he not alone omnipotent On Earth, and ever present? Even though dead, Does not his spirit live in all that breathe, And work for me and mine still the same ruin, Scorn, pain, despair? Who ever yet returned To teach the laws of Death's untrodden realm? Unjust perhaps as those which drive us now, Oh, whither, whither? Lucretia.            Trust in God's sweet love, The tender promises of Christ: ere night, Think, we shall be in Paradise. Beatrice.                  'Tis past! Whatever comes my heart shall sink no more. And yet, I know not why, your words strike chill: How tedious, false and cold seem all things. I Have met with much injustice in this world; No difference has been made by God or man, Or any power moulding my wretched lot, 'Twixt good or evil, as regarded me. I am cut off from the only world I know, From light, and life, and love, in youth's sweet prime. You do well telling me to trust in God, I hope I do trust in Him. In whom else Can any trust? And yet my heart is cold. [During the latter speeches Giacomo has retired conversing with Camillo, who now goes out; Giacomo advances. Giacomo. Know you not, Mother . . . Sister, know you not? Bernardo even now is gone to implore The Pope to grant our pardon. Lucretia.                 Child, perhaps It will be granted. We may all then live To make these woes a tale for distant years: Oh, what a thought! It gushes to my heart Like the warm blood. Beatrice.            Yet both will soon be cold. Oh, trample out that thought! Worse than despair, Worse than the bitterness of death, is hope: It is the only ill which can find place Upon the giddy, sharp and narrow hour Tottering beneath us. Plead with the swift frost That it should spare the eldest flower of spring: Plead with awakening earthquake, o'er whose couch Even now a city stands, strong, fair, and free; Now stench and blackness yawn, like death. Oh, plead With famine, or wind-walking Pestilence, Blind lightning, or the deaf sea, not with man! Cruel, cold, formal man; righteous in words, In deeds a Cain. No, Mother, we must die: Since such is the reward of innocent lives; Such the alleviation of worst wrongs. And whilst our murderers live, and hard, cold men, Smiling and slow, walk through a world of tears To death as to life's sleep; 'twere just the grave Were some strange joy for us. Come, obscure Death, And wind me in thine all-embracing arms! Like a fond mother hide me in thy bosom, And rock me to the sleep from which none wake. Live ye, who live, subject to one another As we were once, who now . . . Bernardo rushes in. Bernardo.                 Oh, horrible! That tears, that looks, that hope poured forth in prayer, Even till the heart is vacant and despairs, Should all be vain! The ministers of death Are waiting round the doors. I thought I saw Blood on the face of one . . . What if 'twere fancy? Soon the heart's blood of all I love on earth Will sprinkle him, and he will wipe it off As if 'twere only rain. O life! O world! Cover me! let me be no more! To see That perfect mirror of pure innocence Wherein I gazed, and grew happy and good, Shivered to dust! To see thee, Beatrice, Who made all lovely thou didst look upon . . . Thee, light of life . . . dead, dark! while I say, sister, To hear I have no sister; and thou, Mother, Whose love was as a bond to all our loves . . . Dead! The sweet bond broken! Enter Camillo and Guards.                They come! Let me Kiss those warm lips before their crimson leaves Are blighted . . . white . . . cold. Say farewell, before Death chokes that gentle voice! Oh, let me hear You speak! Beatrice.      Farewell, my tender brother. Think Of our sad fate with gentleness, as now: And let mild, pitying thoughts lighten for thee Thy sorrow's load. Err not in harsh despair, But tears and patience. One thing more, my child: For thine own sake be constant to the love Thou bearest us; and to the faith that I, Though wrapped in a strange cloud of crime and shame, Lived ever holy and unstained. And though Ill tongues shall wound me, and our common name Be as a mark stamped on thine innocent brow For men to point at as they pass, do thou Forbear, and never think a thought unkind Of those, who perhaps love thee in their graves. So mayest thou die as I do; fear and pain Being subdued. Farewell! Farewell! Farewell! Bernardo. I cannot say, farewell! Camillo.             Oh, Lady Beatrice!             Beatrice. Give yourself no unnecessary pain, My dear Lord Cardinal. Here, Mother, tie My girdle for me, and bind up this hair In any simple knot; ay, that does well. And yours I see is coming down. How often Have we done this for one another; now We shall not do it any more. My Lord, We are quite ready. Well, 'tis very well. THE END Composed at Rome and near Leghorn (Villa Valsovano), May - August 8, 1819; published 1820 (spring) by C. & J. Ollier, London. This edition of 250 copies was printed in Italy 'because,' writes Shelley to Peacock, Sept. 21, 1819, 'it costs, with all duties and freightage, about half what it would cost in London.' ~ Percy Bysshe Shelley, The Cenci - A Tragedy In Five Acts ,

457:Beowulf LO, praise of the prowess of people-kings of spear-armed Danes, in days long sped, we have heard, and what honor the athelings won! Oft Scyld the Scefing from squadroned foes, from many a tribe, the mead-bench tore, awing the earls. Since erst he lay friendless, a foundling, fate repaid him: for he waxed under welkin, in wealth he throve, till before him the folk, both far and near, who house by the whale-path, heard his mandate, gave him gifts: a good king he! To him an heir was afterward born, a son in his halls, whom heaven sent to favor the folk, feeling their woe that erst they had lacked an earl for leader so long a while; the Lord endowed him, the Wielder of Wonder, with world's renown. Famed was this Beowulf: far flew the boast of him, son of Scyld, in the Scandian lands. So becomes it a youth to quit him well with his father's friends, by fee and gift, that to aid him, aged, in after days, come warriors willing, should war draw nigh, liegemen loyal: by lauded deeds shall an earl have honor in every clan. Forth he fared at the fated moment, sturdy Scyld to the shelter of God. Then they bore him over to ocean's billow, loving clansmen, as late he charged them, while wielded words the winsome Scyld, the leader beloved who long had ruled…. In the roadstead rocked a ring-dight vessel, ice-flecked, outbound, atheling's barge: there laid they down their darling lord on the breast of the boat, the breaker-of-rings, by the mast the mighty one. Many a treasure fetched from far was freighted with him. No ship have I known so nobly dight with weapons of war and weeds of battle, 47 with breastplate and blade: on his bosom lay a heaped hoard that hence should go far o'er the flood with him floating away. No less these loaded the lordly gifts, thanes' huge treasure, than those had done who in former time forth had sent him sole on the seas, a suckling child. High o'er his head they hoist the standard, a gold-wove banner; let billows take him, gave him to ocean. Grave were their spirits, mournful their mood. No man is able to say in sooth, no son of the halls, no hero 'neath heaven, - who harbored that freight! Now Beowulf bode in the burg of the Scyldings, leader beloved, and long he ruled in fame with all folk, since his father had gone away from the world, till awoke an heir, haughty Healfdene, who held through life, sage and sturdy, the Scyldings glad. Then, one after one, there woke to him, to the chieftain of clansmen, children four: Heorogar, then Hrothgar, then Halga brave; and I heard that - was -'s queen, the Heathoscylfing's helpmate dear. To Hrothgar was given such glory of war, such honor of combat, that all his kin obeyed him gladly till great grew his band of youthful comrades. It came in his mind to bid his henchmen a hall uprear, a master mead-house, mightier far than ever was seen by the sons of earth, and within it, then, to old and young he would all allot that the Lord had sent him, save only the land and the lives of his men. Wide, I heard, was the work commanded, for many a tribe this mid-earth round, to fashion the folkstead. It fell, as he ordered, in rapid achievement that ready it stood there, of halls the noblest: Heorot [1] he named it whose message had might in many a land. 48 Not reckless of promise, the rings he dealt, treasure at banquet: there towered the hall, high, gabled wide, the hot surge waiting of furious flame. [2] Nor far was that day when father and son-in-law stood in feud for warfare and hatred that woke again. With envy and anger an evil spirit endured the dole in his dark abode, that he heard each day the din of revel high in the hall: there harps rang out, clear song of the singer. He sang who knew tales of the early time of man, how the Almighty made the earth, fairest fields enfolded by water, set, triumphant, sun and moon for a light to lighten the land-dwellers, and braided bright the breast of earth with limbs and leaves, made life for all of mortal beings that breathe and move. So lived the clansmen in cheer and revel a winsome life, till one began to fashion evils, that field of hell. Grendel this monster grim was called, march-riever [5] mighty, in moorland living, in fen and fastness; fief of the giants the hapless wight a while had kept since the Creator his exile doomed. On kin of Cain was the killing avenged by sovran God for slaughtered Abel. Ill fared his feud, [6] and far was he driven, for the slaughter's sake, from sight of men. Of Cain awoke all that woful breed, Etins [7] and elves and evil-spirits, as well as the giants that warred with God weary while: but their wage was paid them! II WENT he forth to find at fall of night that haughty house, and heed wherever the Ring-Danes, outrevelled, to rest had gone. Found within it the atheling band asleep after feasting and fearless of sorrow, 49 of human hardship. Unhallowed wight, grim and greedy, he grasped betimes, wrathful, reckless, from resting-places, thirty of the thanes, and thence he rushed fain of his fell spoil, faring homeward, laden with slaughter, his lair to seek. Then at the dawning, as day was breaking, the might of Grendel to men was known; then after wassail was wail uplifted, loud moan in the morn. The mighty chief, atheling excellent, unblithe sat, labored in woe for the loss of his thanes, when once had been traced the trail of the fiend, spirit accurst: too cruel that sorrow, too long, too loathsome. Not late the respite; with night returning, anew began ruthless murder; he recked no whit, firm in his guilt, of the feud and crime. They were easy to find who elsewhere sought in room remote their rest at night, bed in the bowers, [1] when that bale was shown, was seen in sooth, with surest token, the hall-thane's [2] hate. Such held themselves far and fast who the fiend outran! Thus ruled unrighteous and raged his fill one against all; until empty stood that lordly building, and long it bode so. Twelve years' tide the trouble he bore, sovran of Scyldings, sorrows in plenty, boundless cares. There came unhidden tidings true to the tribes of men, in sorrowful songs, how ceaselessly Grendel harassed Hrothgar, what hate he bore him, what murder and massacre, many a year, feud unfading, - refused consent to deal with any of Daneland's earls, make pact of peace, or compound for gold: still less did the wise men ween to get great fee for the feud from his fiendish hands. But the evil one ambushed old and young death-shadow dark, and dogged them still, lured, or lurked in the livelong night 50 of misty moorlands: men may say not where the haunts of these Hell-Runes be. Such heaping of horrors the hater of men, lonely roamer, wrought unceasing, harassings heavy. O'er Heorot he lorded, gold-bright hall, in gloomy nights; and ne'er could the prince [4] approach his throne, - 'twas judgment of God, - or have joy in his hall. Sore was the sorrow to Scyldings'-friend, heart-rending misery. Many nobles sat assembled, and searched out counsel how it were best for bold-hearted men against harassing terror to try their hand. Whiles they vowed in their heathen fanes altar-offerings, asked with words [5] that the slayer-of-souls would succor give them for the pain of their people. Their practice this, their heathen hope; 'twas Hell they thought of in mood of their mind. Almighty they knew not, Doomsman of Deeds and dreadful Lord, nor Heaven's-Helmet heeded they ever, Wielder-of-Wonder. - Woe for that man who in harm and hatred hales his soul to fiery embraces; - nor favor nor change awaits he ever. But well for him that after death-day may draw to his Lord, and friendship find in the Father's arms! III THUS seethed unceasing the son of Healfdene with the woe of these days; not wisest men assuaged his sorrow; too sore the anguish, loathly and long, that lay on his folk, most baneful of burdens and bales of the night. This heard in his home Hygelac's thane, great among Geats, of Grendel's doings. He was the mightiest man of valor in that same day of this our life, stalwart and stately. A stout wave-walker he bade make ready. Yon battle-king, said he, far o'er the swan-road he fain would seek, the noble monarch who needed men! 51 The prince's journey by prudent folk was little blamed, though they loved him dear; they whetted the hero, and hailed good omens. And now the bold one from bands of Geats comrades chose, the keenest of warriors e'er he could find; with fourteen men the sea-wood [1] he sought, and, sailor proved, led them on to the land's confines. Time had now flown; [2] afloat was the ship, boat under bluff. On board they climbed, warriors ready; waves were churning sea with sand; the sailors bore on the breast of the bark their bright array, their mail and weapons: the men pushed off, on its willing way, the well-braced craft. Then moved o'er the waters by might of the wind that bark like a bird with breast of foam, till in season due, on the second day, the curved prow such course had run that sailors now could see the land, sea-cliffs shining, steep high hills, headlands broad. Their haven was found, their journey ended. Up then quickly the Weders' [3] clansmen climbed ashore, anchored their sea-wood, with armor clashing and gear of battle: God they thanked for passing in peace o'er the paths of the sea. Now saw from the cliff a Scylding clansman, a warden that watched the water-side, how they bore o'er the gangway glittering shields, war-gear in readiness; wonder seized him to know what manner of men they were. Straight to the strand his steed he rode, Hrothgar's henchman; with hand of might he shook his spear, and spake in parley. 'Who are ye, then, ye armed men, mailed folk, that yon mighty vessel have urged thus over the ocean ways, here o'er the waters? A warden I, sentinel set o'er the sea-march here, lest any foe to the folk of Danes with harrying fleet should harm the land. 52 No aliens ever at ease thus bore them, linden-wielders: [4] yet word-of-leave clearly ye lack from clansmen here, my folk's agreement. - A greater ne'er saw I of warriors in world than is one of you, yon hero in harness! No henchman he worthied by weapons, if witness his features, his peerless presence! I pray you, though, tell your folk and home, lest hence ye fare suspect to wander your way as spies in Danish land. Now, dwellers afar, ocean-travellers, take from me simple advice: the sooner the better I hear of the country whence ye came.' IV To him the stateliest spake in answer; the warriors' leader his word-hoard unlocked:'We are by kin of the clan of Geats, and Hygelac's own hearth-fellows we. To folk afar was my father known, noble atheling, Ecgtheow named. Full of winters, he fared away aged from earth; he is honored still through width of the world by wise men all. To thy lord and liege in loyal mood we hasten hither, to Healfdene's son, people-protector: be pleased to advise us! To that mighty-one come we on mickle errand, to the lord of the Danes; nor deem I right that aught be hidden. We hear - thou knowest if sooth it is - the saying of men, that amid the Scyldings a scathing monster, dark ill-doer, in dusky nights shows terrific his rage unmatched, hatred and murder. To Hrothgar I in greatness of soul would succor bring, so the Wise-and-Brave [1] may worst his foes, if ever the end of ills is fated, of cruel contest, if cure shall follow, and the boiling care-waves cooler grow; else ever afterward anguish-days 53 he shall suffer in sorrow while stands in place high on its hill that house unpeered!' Astride his steed, the strand-ward answered, clansman unquailing: 'The keen-souled thane must be skilled to sever and sunder duly words and works, if he well intends. I gather, this band is graciously bent to the Scyldings' master. March, then, bearing weapons and weeds the way I show you. I will bid my men your boat meanwhile to guard for fear lest foemen come, your new-tarred ship by shore of ocean faithfully watching till once again it waft o'er the waters those well-loved thanes, - winding-neck'd wood, - to Weders' bounds, heroes such as the hest of fate shall succor and save from the shock of war.' They bent them to march, - the boat lay still, fettered by cable and fast at anchor, broad-bosomed ship. - Then shone the boars over the cheek-guard; chased with gold, keen and gleaming, guard it kept o'er the man of war, as marched along heroes in haste, till the hall they saw, broad of gable and bright with gold: that was the fairest, 'mid folk of earth, of houses 'neath heaven, where Hrothgar lived, and the gleam of it lightened o'er lands afar. The sturdy shieldsman showed that bright burg-of-the-boldest; bade them go straightway thither; his steed then turned, hardy hero, and hailed them thus:'Tis time that I fare from you. Father Almighty in grace and mercy guard you well, safe in your seekings. Seaward I go, 'gainst hostile warriors hold my watch.' STONE-BRIGHT the street: it showed the way to the crowd of clansmen. Corselets glistened hand-forged, hard; on their harness bright the steel ring sang, as they strode along 54 in mail of battle, and marched to the hall. There, weary of ocean, the wall along they set their bucklers, their broad shields, down, and bowed them to bench: the breastplates clanged, war-gear of men; their weapons stacked, spears of the seafarers stood together, gray-tipped ash: that iron band was worthily weaponed! - A warrior proud asked of the heroes their home and kin. 'Whence, now, bear ye burnished shields, harness gray and helmets grim, spears in multitude? Messenger, I, Hrothgar's herald! Heroes so many ne'er met I as strangers of mood so strong. 'Tis plain that for prowess, not plunged into exile, for high-hearted valor, Hrothgar ye seek!' Him the sturdy-in-war bespake with words, proud earl of the Weders answer made, hardy 'neath helmet:-'Hygelac's, we, fellows at board; I am Beowulf named. I am seeking to say to the son of Healfdene this mission of mine, to thy master-lord, the doughty prince, if he deign at all grace that we greet him, the good one, now.' Wulfgar spake, the Wendles' chieftain, whose might of mind to many was known, his courage and counsel: 'The king of Danes, the Scyldings' friend, I fain will tell, the Breaker-of-Rings, as the boon thou askest, the famed prince, of thy faring hither, and, swiftly after, such answer bring as the doughty monarch may deign to give.' Hied then in haste to where Hrothgar sat white-haired and old, his earls about him, till the stout thane stood at the shoulder there of the Danish king: good courtier he! Wulfgar spake to his winsome lord:'Hither have fared to thee far-come men o'er the paths of ocean, people of Geatland; and the stateliest there by his sturdy band is Beowulf named. This boon they seek, that they, my master, may with thee 55 have speech at will: nor spurn their prayer to give them hearing, gracious Hrothgar! In weeds of the warrior worthy they, methinks, of our liking; their leader most surely, a hero that hither his henchmen has led.' VI HROTHGAR answered, helmet of Scyldings:'I knew him of yore in his youthful days; his aged father was Ecgtheow named, to whom, at home, gave Hrethel the Geat his only daughter. Their offspring bold fares hither to seek the steadfast friend. And seamen, too, have said me this, who carried my gifts to the Geatish court, thither for thanks, - he has thirty men's heft of grasp in the gripe of his hand, the bold-in-battle. Blessed God out of his mercy this man hath sent to Danes of the West, as I ween indeed, against horror of Grendel. I hope to give the good youth gold for his gallant thought. Be thou in haste, and bid them hither, clan of kinsmen, to come before me; and add this word, - they are welcome guests to folk of the Danes.' [To the door of the hall Wulfgar went] and the word declared:'To you this message my master sends, East-Danes' king, that your kin he knows, hardy heroes, and hails you all welcome hither o'er waves of the sea! Ye may wend your way in war-attire, and under helmets Hrothgar greet; but let here the battle-shields bide your parley, and wooden war-shafts wait its end.' Uprose the mighty one, ringed with his men, brave band of thanes: some bode without, battle-gear guarding, as bade the chief. Then hied that troop where the herald led them, under Heorot's roof: [the hero strode,] hardy 'neath helm, till the hearth he neared. 56 Beowulf spake, - his breastplate gleamed, war-net woven by wit of the smith:'Thou Hrothgar, hail! Hygelac's I, kinsman and follower. Fame a plenty have I gained in youth! These Grendel-deeds I heard in my home-land heralded clear. Seafarers say how stands this hall, of buildings best, for your band of thanes empty and idle, when evening sun in the harbor of heaven is hidden away. So my vassals advised me well, brave and wise, the best of men, O sovran Hrothgar, to seek thee here, for my nerve and my might they knew full well. Themselves had seen me from slaughter come blood-flecked from foes, where five I bound, and that wild brood worsted. I' the waves I slew nicors [1] by night, in need and peril avenging the Weders, [2] whose woe they sought, crushing the grim ones. Grendel now, monster cruel, be mine to quell in single battle! So, from thee, thou sovran of the Shining-Danes, Scyldings'-bulwark, a boon I seek, and, Friend-of-the-folk, refuse it not, O Warriors'-shield, now I've wandered far, that I alone with my liegemen here, this hardy band, may Heorot purge! More I hear, that the monster dire, in his wanton mood, of weapons recks not; hence shall I scorn - so Hygelac stay, king of my kindred, kind to me! brand or buckler to bear in the fight, gold-colored targe: but with gripe alone must I front the fiend and fight for life, foe against foe. Then faith be his in the doom of the Lord whom death shall take. Fain, I ween, if the fight he win, in this hall of gold my Geatish band will he fearless eat, - as oft before, my noblest thanes. Nor need'st thou then to hide my head; [3] for his shall I be, 57 dyed in gore, if death must take me; and my blood-covered body he'll bear as prey, ruthless devour it, the roamer-lonely, with my life-blood redden his lair in the fen: no further for me need'st food prepare! To Hygelac send, if Hild [4] should take me, best of war-weeds, warding my breast, armor excellent, heirloom of Hrethel and work of Wayland. [5] Fares Wyrd as she must.' VII HROTHGAR spake, the Scyldings'-helmet:'For fight defensive, Friend my Beowulf, to succor and save, thou hast sought us here. Thy father's combat [1] a feud enkindled when Heatholaf with hand he slew among the Wylfings; his Weder kin for horror of fighting feared to hold him. Fleeing, he sought our South-Dane folk, over surge of ocean the Honor-Scyldings, when first I was ruling the folk of Danes, wielded, youthful, this widespread realm, this hoard-hold of heroes. Heorogar was dead, my elder brother, had breathed his last, Healfdene's bairn: he was better than I! Straightway the feud with fee [2] I settled, to the Wylfings sent, o'er watery ridges, treasures olden: oaths he [3] swore me. Sore is my soul to say to any of the race of man what ruth for me in Heorot Grendel with hate hath wrought, what sudden harryings. Hall-folk fail me, my warriors wane; for Wyrd hath swept them into Grendel's grasp. But God is able this deadly foe from his deeds to turn! Boasted full oft, as my beer they drank, earls o'er the ale-cup, armed men, that they would bide in the beer-hall here, Grendel's attack with terror of blades. Then was this mead-house at morning tide dyed with gore, when the daylight broke, all the boards of the benches blood-besprinkled, 58 gory the hall: I had heroes the less, doughty dear-ones that death had reft. - But sit to the banquet, unbind thy words, hardy hero, as heart shall prompt thee.' Gathered together, the Geatish men in the banquet-hall on bench assigned, sturdy-spirited, sat them down, hardy-hearted. A henchman attended, carried the carven cup in hand, served the clear mead. Oft minstrels sang blithe in Heorot. Heroes revelled, no dearth of warriors, Weder and Dane. VIII UNFERTH spake, the son of Ecglaf, who sat at the feet of the Scyldings' lord, unbound the battle-runes. - Beowulf's quest, sturdy seafarer's, sorely galled him; ever he envied that other men should more achieve in middle-earth of fame under heaven than he himself. 'Art thou that Beowulf, Breca's rival, who emulous swam on the open sea, when for pride the pair of you proved the floods, and wantonly dared in waters deep to risk your lives? No living man, or lief or loath, from your labor dire could you dissuade, from swimming the main. Ocean-tides with your arms ye covered, with strenuous hands the sea-streets measured, swam o'er the waters. Winter's storm rolled the rough waves. In realm of sea a sennight strove ye. In swimming he topped thee, had more of main! Him at morning-tide billows bore to the Battling Reamas, whence he hied to his home so dear beloved of his liegemen, to land of Brondings, fastness fair, where his folk he ruled, town and treasure. In triumph o'er thee Beanstan's bairn [2] his boast achieved. So ween I for thee a worse adventure - though in buffet of battle thou brave hast been, 59 in struggle grim, - if Grendel's approach thou darst await through the watch of night!' Beowulf spake, bairn of Ecgtheow:'What a deal hast uttered, dear my Unferth, drunken with beer, of Breca now, told of his triumph! Truth I claim it, that I had more of might in the sea than any man else, more ocean-endurance. We twain had talked, in time of youth, and made our boast, - we were merely boys, striplings still, - to stake our lives far at sea: and so we performed it. Naked swords, as we swam along, we held in hand, with hope to guard us against the whales. Not a whit from me could he float afar o'er the flood of waves, haste o'er the billows; nor him I abandoned. Together we twain on the tides abode five nights full till the flood divided us, churning waves and chillest weather, darkling night, and the northern wind ruthless rushed on us: rough was the surge. Now the wrath of the sea-fish rose apace; yet me 'gainst the monsters my mailed coat, hard and hand-linked, help afforded, battle-sark braided my breast to ward, garnished with gold. There grasped me firm and haled me to bottom the hated foe, with grimmest gripe. 'Twas granted me, though, to pierce the monster with point of sword, with blade of battle: huge beast of the sea was whelmed by the hurly through hand of mine. IX ME thus often the evil monsters thronging threatened. With thrust of my sword, the darling, I dealt them due return! Nowise had they bliss from their booty then to devour their victim, vengeful creatures, seated to banquet at bottom of sea; but at break of day, by my brand sore hurt, on the edge of ocean up they lay, 60 put to sleep by the sword. And since, by them on the fathomless sea-ways sailor-folk are never molested. - Light from east, came bright God's beacon; the billows sank, so that I saw the sea-cliffs high, windy walls. For Wyrd oft saveth earl undoomed if he doughty be! And so it came that I killed with my sword nine of the nicors. Of night-fought battles ne'er heard I a harder 'neath heaven's dome, nor adrift on the deep a more desolate man! Yet I came unharmed from that hostile clutch, though spent with swimming. The sea upbore me, flood of the tide, on Finnish land, the welling waters. No wise of thee have I heard men tell such terror of falchions, bitter battle. Breca ne'er yet, not one of you pair, in the play of war such daring deed has done at all with bloody brand, - I boast not of it! though thou wast the bane [1] of thy brethren dear, thy closest kin, whence curse of hell awaits thee, well as thy wit may serve! For I say in sooth, thou son of Ecglaf, never had Grendel these grim deeds wrought, monster dire, on thy master dear, in Heorot such havoc, if heart of thine were as battle-bold as thy boast is loud! But he has found no feud will happen; from sword-clash dread of your Danish clan he vaunts him safe, from the Victor-Scyldings. He forces pledges, favors none of the land of Danes, but lustily murders, fights and feasts, nor feud he dreads from Spear-Dane men. But speedily now shall I prove him the prowess and pride of the Geats, shall bid him battle. Blithe to mead go he that listeth, when light of dawn this morrow morning o'er men of earth, ether-robed sun from the south shall beam!' Joyous then was the Jewel-giver, hoar-haired, war-brave; help awaited 61 the Bright-Danes' prince, from Beowulf hearing, folk's good shepherd, such firm resolve. Then was laughter of liegemen loud resounding with winsome words. Came Wealhtheow forth, queen of Hrothgar, heedful of courtesy, gold-decked, greeting the guests in hall; and the high-born lady handed the cup first to the East-Danes' heir and warden, bade him be blithe at the beer-carouse, the land's beloved one. Lustily took he banquet and beaker, battle-famed king. Through the hall then went the Helmings' Lady, to younger and older everywhere carried the cup, till come the moment when the ring-graced queen, the royal-hearted, to Beowulf bore the beaker of mead. She greeted the Geats' lord, God she thanked, in wisdom's words, that her will was granted, that at last on a hero her hope could lean for comfort in terrors. The cup he took, hardy-in-war, from Wealhtheow's hand, and answer uttered the eager-for-combat. Beowulf spake, bairn of Ecgtheow:'This was my thought, when my thanes and I bent to the ocean and entered our boat, that I would work the will of your people fully, or fighting fall in death, in fiend's gripe fast. I am firm to do an earl's brave deed, or end the days of this life of mine in the mead-hall here.' Well these words to the woman seemed, Beowulf's battle-boast. - Bright with gold the stately dame by her spouse sat down. Again, as erst, began in hall warriors' wassail and words of power, the proud-band's revel, till presently the son of Healfdene hastened to seek rest for the night; he knew there waited fight for the fiend in that festal hall, when the sheen of the sun they saw no more, and dusk of night sank darkling nigh, and shadowy shapes came striding on, 62 wan under welkin. The warriors rose. Man to man, he made harangue, Hrothgar to Beowulf, bade him hail, let him wield the wine hall: a word he added:'Never to any man erst I trusted, since I could heave up hand and shield, this noble Dane-Hall, till now to thee. Have now and hold this house unpeered; remember thy glory; thy might declare; watch for the foe! No wish shall fail thee if thou bidest the battle with bold-won life.' THEN Hrothgar went with his hero-train, defence-of-Scyldings, forth from hall; fain would the war-lord Wealhtheow seek, couch of his queen. The King-of-Glory against this Grendel a guard had set, so heroes heard, a hall-defender, who warded the monarch and watched for the monster. In truth, the Geats' prince gladly trusted his mettle, his might, the mercy of God! Cast off then his corselet of iron, helmet from head; to his henchman gave, choicest of weapons, - the well-chased sword, bidding him guard the gear of battle. Spake then his Vaunt the valiant man, Beowulf Geat, ere the bed be sought:'Of force in fight no feebler I count me, in grim war-deeds, than Grendel deems him. Not with the sword, then, to sleep of death his life will I give, though it lie in my power. No skill is his to strike against me, my shield to hew though he hardy be, bold in battle; we both, this night, shall spurn the sword, if he seek me here, unweaponed, for war. Let wisest God, sacred Lord, on which side soever doom decree as he deemeth right.' Reclined then the chieftain, and cheek-pillows held the head of the earl, while all about him seamen hardy on hall-beds sank. 63 None of them thought that thence their steps to the folk and fastness that fostered them, to the land they loved, would lead them back! Full well they wist that on warriors many battle-death seized, in the banquet-hall, of Danish clan. But comfort and help, war-weal weaving, to Weder folk the Master gave, that, by might of one, over their enemy all prevailed, by single strength. In sooth 'tis told that highest God o'er human kind hath wielded ever! - Thro' wan night striding, came the walker-in-shadow. Warriors slept whose hest was to guard the gabled hall, all save one. 'Twas widely known that against God's will the ghostly ravager him [1] could not hurl to haunts of darkness; wakeful, ready, with warrior's wrath, bold he bided the battle's issue. XI THEN from the moorland, by misty crags, with God's wrath laden, Grendel came. The monster was minded of mankind now sundry to seize in the stately house. Under welkin he walked, till the wine-palace there, gold-hall of men, he gladly discerned, flashing with fretwork. Not first time, this, that he the home of Hrothgar sought, yet ne'er in his life-day, late or early, such hardy heroes, such hall-thanes, found! To the house the warrior walked apace, parted from peace; [1] the portal opended, though with forged bolts fast, when his fists had struck it, and baleful he burst in his blatant rage, the house's mouth. All hastily, then, o'er fair-paved floor the fiend trod on, ireful he strode; there streamed from his eyes fearful flashes, like flame to see. He spied in hall the hero-band, kin and clansmen clustered asleep, 64 hardy liegemen. Then laughed his heart; for the monster was minded, ere morn should dawn, savage, to sever the soul of each, life from body, since lusty banquet waited his will! But Wyrd forbade him to seize any more of men on earth after that evening. Eagerly watched Hygelac's kinsman his cursed foe, how he would fare in fell attack. Not that the monster was minded to pause! Straightway he seized a sleeping warrior for the first, and tore him fiercely asunder, the bone-frame bit, drank blood in streams, swallowed him piecemeal: swiftly thus the lifeless corse was clear devoured, e'en feet and hands. Then farther he hied; for the hardy hero with hand he grasped, felt for the foe with fiendish claw, for the hero reclining, - who clutched it boldly, prompt to answer, propped on his arm. Soon then saw that shepherd-of-evils that never he met in this middle-world, in the ways of earth, another wight with heavier hand-gripe; at heart he feared, sorrowed in soul, - none the sooner escaped! Fain would he flee, his fastness seek, the den of devils: no doings now such as oft he had done in days of old! Then bethought him the hardy Hygelac-thane of his boast at evening: up he bounded, grasped firm his foe, whose fingers cracked. The fiend made off, but the earl close followed. The monster meant - if he might at all to fling himself free, and far away fly to the fens, - knew his fingers' power in the gripe of the grim one. Gruesome march to Heorot this monster of harm had made! Din filled the room; the Danes were bereft, castle-dwellers and clansmen all, earls, of their ale. Angry were both those savage hall-guards: the house resounded. Wonder it was the wine-hall firm 65 in the strain of their struggle stood, to earth the fair house fell not; too fast it was within and without by its iron bands craftily clamped; though there crashed from sill many a mead-bench - men have told me gay with gold, where the grim foes wrestled. So well had weened the wisest Scyldings that not ever at all might any man that bone-decked, brave house break asunder, crush by craft, - unless clasp of fire in smoke engulfed it. - Again uprose din redoubled. Danes of the North with fear and frenzy were filled, each one, who from the wall that wailing heard, God's foe sounding his grisly song, cry of the conquered, clamorous pain from captive of hell. Too closely held him he who of men in might was strongest in that same day of this our life. XII NOT in any wise would the earls'-defence [1] suffer that slaughterous stranger to live, useless deeming his days and years to men on earth. Now many an earl of Beowulf brandished blade ancestral, fain the life of their lord to shield, their praised prince, if power were theirs; never they knew, - as they neared the foe, hardy-hearted heroes of war, aiming their swords on every side the accursed to kill, - no keenest blade, no farest of falchions fashioned on earth, could harm or hurt that hideous fiend! He was safe, by his spells, from sword of battle, from edge of iron. Yet his end and parting on that same day of this our life woful should be, and his wandering soul far off flit to the fiends' domain. Soon he found, who in former days, harmful in heart and hated of God, on many a man such murder wrought, 66 that the frame of his body failed him now. For him the keen-souled kinsman of Hygelac held in hand; hateful alive was each to other. The outlaw dire took mortal hurt; a mighty wound showed on his shoulder, and sinews cracked, and the bone-frame burst. To Beowulf now the glory was given, and Grendel thence death-sick his den in the dark moor sought, noisome abode: he knew too well that here was the last of life, an end of his days on earth. - To all the Danes by that bloody battle the boon had come. From ravage had rescued the roving stranger Hrothgar's hall; the hardy and wise one had purged it anew. His night-work pleased him, his deed and its honor. To Eastern Danes had the valiant Geat his vaunt made good, all their sorrow and ills assuaged, their bale of battle borne so long, and all the dole they erst endured pain a-plenty. - 'Twas proof of this, when the hardy-in-fight a hand laid down, arm and shoulder, - all, indeed, of Grendel's gripe, - 'neath the gabled roof· XIII MANY at morning, as men have told me, warriors gathered the gift-hall round, folk-leaders faring from far and near, o'er wide-stretched ways, the wonder to view, trace of the traitor. Not troublous seemed the enemy's end to any man who saw by the gait of the graceless foe how the weary-hearted, away from thence, baffled in battle and banned, his steps death-marked dragged to the devils' mere. Bloody the billows were boiling there, turbid the tide of tumbling waves horribly seething, with sword-blood hot, by that doomed one dyed, who in den of the moor laid forlorn his life adown, 67 his heathen soul,-and hell received it. Home then rode the hoary clansmen from that merry journey, and many a youth, on horses white, the hardy warriors, back from the mere. Then Beowulf's glory eager they echoed, and all averred that from sea to sea, or south or north, there was no other in earth's domain, under vault of heaven, more valiant found, of warriors none more worthy to rule! (On their lord beloved they laid no slight, gracious Hrothgar: a good king he!) From time to time, the tried-in-battle their gray steeds set to gallop amain, and ran a race when the road seemed fair. From time to time, a thane of the king, who had made many vaunts, and was mindful of verses, stored with sagas and songs of old, bound word to word in well-knit rime, welded his lay; this warrior soon of Beowulf's quest right cleverly sang, and artfully added an excellent tale, in well-ranged words, of the warlike deeds he had heard in saga of Sigemund. Strange the story: he said it all, the Waelsing's wanderings wide, his struggles, which never were told to tribes of men, the feuds and the frauds, save to Fitela only, when of these doings he deigned to speak, uncle to nephew; as ever the twain stood side by side in stress of war, and multitude of the monster kind they had felled with their swords. Of Sigemund grew, when he passed from life, no little praise; for the doughty-in-combat a dragon killed that herded the hoard: [1] under hoary rock the atheling dared the deed alone fearful quest, nor was Fitela there. Yet so it befell, his falchion pierced that wondrous worm, - on the wall it struck, best blade; the dragon died in its blood. 68 Thus had the dread-one by daring achieved over the ring-hoard to rule at will, himself to pleasure; a sea-boat he loaded, and bore on its bosom the beaming gold, son of Waels; the worm was consumed. He had of all heroes the highest renown among races of men, this refuge-of-warriors, for deeds of daring that decked his name since the hand and heart of Heremod grew slack in battle. He, swiftly banished to mingle with monsters at mercy of foes, to death was betrayed; for torrents of sorrow had lamed him too long; a load of care to earls and athelings all he proved. Oft indeed, in earlier days, for the warrior's wayfaring wise men mourned, who had hoped of him help from harm and bale, and had thought their sovran's son would thrive, follow his father, his folk protect, the hoard and the stronghold, heroes' land, home of Scyldings. - But here, thanes said, the kinsman of Hygelac kinder seemed to all: the other [2] was urged to crime! And afresh to the race, [3] the fallow roads by swift steeds measured! The morning sun was climbing higher. Clansmen hastened to the high-built hall, those hardy-minded, the wonder to witness. Warden of treasure, crowned with glory, the king himself, with stately band from the bride-bower strode; and with him the queen and her crowd of maidens measured the path to the mead-house fair. XIV HROTHGAR spake, - to the hall he went, stood by the steps, the steep roof saw, garnished with gold, and Grendel's hand:'For the sight I see to the Sovran Ruler be speedy thanks! A throng of sorrows I have borne from Grendel; but God still works wonder on wonder, the Warden-of-Glory. It was but now that I never more 69 for woes that weighed on me waited help long as I lived, when, laved in blood, stood sword-gore-stained this stateliest house, widespread woe for wise men all, who had no hope to hinder ever foes infernal and fiendish sprites from havoc in hall. This hero now, by the Wielder's might, a work has done that not all of us erst could ever do by wile and wisdom. Lo, well can she say whoso of women this warrior bore among sons of men, if still she liveth, that the God of the ages was good to her in the birth of her bairn. Now, Beowulf, thee, of heroes best, I shall heartily love as mine own, my son; preserve thou ever this kinship new: thou shalt never lack wealth of the world that I wield as mine! Full oft for less have I largess showered, my precious hoard, on a punier man, less stout in struggle. Thyself hast now fulfilled such deeds, that thy fame shall endure through all the ages. As ever he did, well may the Wielder reward thee still!' Beowulf spake, bairn of Ecgtheow:'This work of war most willingly we have fought, this fight, and fearlessly dared force of the foe. Fain, too, were I hadst thou but seen himself, what time the fiend in his trappings tottered to fall! Swiftly, I thought, in strongest gripe on his bed of death to bind him down, that he in the hent of this hand of mine should breathe his last: but he broke away. Him I might not - the Maker willed not hinder from flight, and firm enough hold the life-destroyer: too sturdy was he, the ruthless, in running! For rescue, however, he left behind him his hand in pledge, arm and shoulder; nor aught of help could the cursed one thus procure at all. None the longer liveth he, loathsome fiend, 70 sunk in his sins, but sorrow holds him tightly grasped in gripe of anguish, in baleful bonds, where bide he must, evil outlaw, such awful doom as the Mighty Maker shall mete him out.' More silent seemed the son of Ecglaf [1] in boastful speech of his battle-deeds, since athelings all, through the earl's great prowess, beheld that hand, on the high roof gazing, foeman's fingers, - the forepart of each of the sturdy nails to steel was likest, heathen's 'hand-spear,' hostile warrior's claw uncanny. 'Twas clear, they said, that him no blade of the brave could touch, how keen soever, or cut away that battle-hand bloody from baneful foe. XV THERE was hurry and hest in Heorot now for hands to bedeck it, and dense was the throng of men and women the wine-hall to cleanse, the guest-room to garnish. Gold-gay shone the hangings that were wove on the wall, and wonders many to delight each mortal that looks upon them. Though braced within by iron bands, that building bright was broken sorely; [1] rent were its hinges; the roof alone held safe and sound, when, seared with crime, the fiendish foe his flight essayed, of life despairing. - No light thing that, the flight for safety, - essay it who will! Forced of fate, he shall find his way to the refuge ready for race of man, for soul-possessors, and sons of earth; and there his body on bed of death shall rest after revel. Arrived was the hour when to hall proceeded Healfdene's son: the king himself would sit to banquet. Ne'er heard I of host in haughtier throng more graciously gathered round giver-of-rings! Bowed then to bench those bearers-of-glory, 71 fain of the feasting. Featly received many a mead-cup the mighty-in-spirit, kinsmen who sat in the sumptuous hall, Hrothgar and Hrothulf. Heorot now was filled with friends; the folk of Scyldings ne'er yet had tried the traitor's deed. To Beowulf gave the bairn of Healfdene a gold-wove banner, guerdon of triumph, broidered battle-flag, breastplate and helmet; and a splendid sword was seen of many borne to the brave one. Beowulf took cup in hall: for such costly gifts he suffered no shame in that soldier throng. For I heard of few heroes, in heartier mood, with four such gifts, so fashioned with gold, on the ale-bench honoring others thus! O'er the roof of the helmet high, a ridge, wound with wires, kept ward o'er the head, lest the relict-of-files should fierce invade, sharp in the strife, when that shielded hero should go to grapple against his foes. Then the earls'-defence on the floor bade lead coursers eight, with carven head-gear, adown the hall: one horse was decked with a saddle all shining and set in jewels; 'twas the battle-seat of the best of kings, when to play of swords the son of Healfdene was fain to fare. Ne'er failed his valor in the crush of combat when corpses fell. To Beowulf over them both then gave the refuge-of-Ingwines right and power, o'er war-steeds and weapons: wished him joy of them. Manfully thus the mighty prince, hoard-guard for heroes, that hard fight repaid with steeds and treasures contemned by none who is willing to say the sooth aright. XVI AND the lord of earls, to each that came with Beowulf over the briny ways, an heirloom there at the ale-bench gave, precious gift; and the price [] bade pay 72 in gold for him whom Grendel erst murdered, - and fain of them more had killed, had not wisest God their Wyrd averted, and the man's brave mood. The Maker then ruled human kind, as here and now. Therefore is insight always best, and forethought of mind. How much awaits him of lief and of loath, who long time here, through days of warfare this world endures! Then song and music mingled sounds in the presence of Healfdene's head-of-armies and harping was heard with the hero-lay as Hrothgar's singer the hall-joy woke along the mead-seats, making his song of that sudden raid on the sons of Finn. Healfdene's hero, Hnaef the Scylding, was fated to fall in the Frisian slaughter. Hildeburh needed not hold in value her enemies' honor! [6] Innocent both were the loved ones she lost at the linden-play, bairn and brother, they bowed to fate, stricken by spears; 'twas a sorrowful woman! None doubted why the daughter of Hoc bewailed her doom when dawning came, and under the sky she saw them lying, kinsmen murdered, where most she had kenned of the sweets of the world! By war were swept, too, Finn's own liegemen, and few were left; in the parleying-place he could ply no longer weapon, nor war could he wage on Hengest, and rescue his remnant by right of arms from the prince's thane. A pact he offered: another dwelling the Danes should have, hall and high-seat, and half the power should fall to them in Frisian land; and at the fee-gifts, Folcwald's son day by day the Danes should honor, the folk of Hengest favor with rings, even as truly, with treasure and jewels, with fretted gold, as his Frisian kin he meant to honor in ale-hall there. Pact of peace they plighted further 73 on both sides firmly. Finn to Hengest with oath, upon honor, openly promised that woful remnant, with wise-men's aid, nobly to govern, so none of the guests by word or work should warp the treaty, or with malice of mind bemoan themselves as forced to follow their fee-giver's slayer, lordless men, as their lot ordained. Should Frisian, moreover, with foeman's taunt, that murderous hatred to mind recall, then edge of the sword must seal his doom. Oaths were given, and ancient gold heaped from hoard. - The hardy Scylding, battle-thane best, [9] on his balefire lay. All on the pyre were plain to see the gory sark, the gilded swine-crest, boar of hard iron, and athelings many slain by the sword: at the slaughter they fell. It was Hildeburh's hest, at Hnaef's own pyre the bairn of her body on brands to lay, his bones to burn, on the balefire placed, at his uncle's side. In sorrowful dirges bewept them the woman: great wailing ascended. Then wound up to welkin the wildest of death-fires, roared o'er the hillock: [10] heads all were melted, gashes burst, and blood gushed out from bites [11] of the body. Balefire devoured, greediest spirit, those spared not by war out of either folk: their flower was gone. XVII THEN hastened those heroes their home to see, friendless, to find the Frisian land, houses and high burg. Hengest still through the death-dyed winter dwelt with Finn, holding pact, yet of home he minded, though powerless his ring-decked prow to drive over the waters, now waves rolled fierce lashed by the winds, or winter locked them in icy fetters. Then fared another year to men's dwellings, as yet they do, the sunbright skies, that their season ever 74 duly await. Far off winter was driven; fair lay earth's breast; and fain was the rover, the guest, to depart, though more gladly he pondered on wreaking his vengeance than roaming the deep, and how to hasten the hot encounter where sons of the Frisians were sure to be. So he escaped not the common doom, when Hun with 'Lafing,' the light-of-battle, best of blades, his bosom pierced: its edge was famed with the Frisian earls. On fierce-heart Finn there fell likewise, on himself at home, the horrid sword-death; for Guthlaf and Oslaf of grim attack had sorrowing told, from sea-ways landed, mourning their woes. [1] Finn's wavering spirit bode not in breast. The burg was reddened with blood of foemen, and Finn was slain, king amid clansmen; the queen was taken. To their ship the Scylding warriors bore all the chattels the chieftain owned, whatever they found in Finn's domain of gems and jewels. The gentle wife o'er paths of the deep to the Danes they bore, led to her land. The lay was finished, the gleeman's song. Then glad rose the revel; bench-joy brightened. Bearers draw from their 'wonder-vats' wine. Comes Wealhtheow forth, under gold-crown goes where the good pair sit, uncle and nephew, true each to the other one, kindred in amity. Unferth the spokesman at the Scylding lord's feet sat: men had faith in his Spirit, his keenness of courage, though kinsmen had found him unsure at the sword-play. The Scylding queen spoke: 'Quaff of this cup, my king and lord, breaker of rings, and blithe be thou, gold-friend of men; to the Geats here speak such words of mildness as man should use. Be glad with thy Geats; of those gifts be mindful, or near or far, which now thou hast. Men say to me, as son thou wishest yon hero to hold. Thy Heorot purged, 75 jewel-hall brightest, enjoy while thou canst, with many a largess; and leave to thy kin folk and realm when forth thou goest to greet thy doom. For gracious I deem my Hrothulf, [2] willing to hold and rule nobly our youths, if thou yield up first, prince of Scyldings, thy part in the world. I ween with good he will well requite offspring of ours, when all he minds that for him we did in his helpless days of gift and grace to gain him honor!' Then she turned to the seat where her sons were placed, Hrethric and Hrothmund, with heroes' bairns, young men together: the Geat, too, sat there, Beowulf brave, the brothers between. XVIII A CUP she gave him, with kindly greeting and winsome words. Of wounden gold, she offered, to honor him, arm-jewels twain, corselet and rings, and of collars the noblest that ever I knew the earth around. Ne'er heard I so mighty, 'neath heaven's dome, a hoard-gem of heroes, since Hama bore to his bright-built burg the Brisings' necklace, jewel and gem casket. - Jealousy fled he, Eormenric's hate: chose help eternal. Hygelac Geat, grandson of Swerting, on the last of his raids this ring bore with him, under his banner the booty defending, the war-spoil warding; but Wyrd o'erwhelmed him what time, in his daring, dangers he sought, feud with Frisians. Fairest of gems he bore with him over the beaker-of-waves, sovran strong: under shield he died. Fell the corpse of the king into keeping of Franks, gear of the breast, and that gorgeous ring; weaker warriors won the spoil, after gripe of battle, from Geatland's lord, and held the death-field. Din rose in hall. Wealhtheow spake amid warriors, and said:- 76 'This jewel enjoy in thy jocund youth, Beowulf lov'd, these battle-weeds wear, a royal treasure, and richly thrive! Preserve thy strength, and these striplings here counsel in kindness: requital be mine. Hast done such deeds, that for days to come thou art famed among folk both far and near, so wide as washeth the wave of Ocean his windy walls. Through the ways of life prosper, O prince! I pray for thee rich possessions. To son of mine be helpful in deed and uphold his joys! Here every earl to the other is true, mild of mood, to the master loyal! Thanes are friendly, the throng obedient, liegemen are revelling: list and obey!' Went then to her place.-That was proudest of feasts; flowed wine for the warriors. Wyrd they knew not, destiny dire, and the doom to be seen by many an earl when eve should come, and Hrothgar homeward hasten away, royal, to rest. The room was guarded by an army of earls, as erst was done. They bared the bench-boards; abroad they spread beds and bolsters. - One beer-carouser in danger of doom lay down in the hall. At their heads they set their shields of war, bucklers bright; on the bench were there over each atheling, easy to see, the high battle-helmet, the haughty spear, the corselet of rings. 'Twas their custom so ever to be for battle prepared, at home, or harrying, which it were, even as oft as evil threatened their sovran king. - They were clansmen good. XIX THEN sank they to sleep. With sorrow one bought his rest of the evening, - as ofttime had happened when Grendel guarded that golden hall, evil wrought, till his end drew nigh, slaughter for sins. 'Twas seen and told 77 how an avenger survived the fiend, as was learned afar. The livelong time after that grim fight, Grendel's mother, monster of women, mourned her woe. She was doomed to dwell in the dreary waters, cold sea-courses, since Cain cut down with edge of the sword his only brother, his father's offspring: outlawed he fled, marked with murder, from men's delights warded the wilds. - There woke from him such fate-sent ghosts as Grendel, who, war-wolf horrid, at Heorot found a warrior watching and waiting the fray, with whom the grisly one grappled amain. But the man remembered his mighty power, the glorious gift that God had sent him, in his Maker's mercy put his trust for comfort and help: so he conquered the foe, felled the fiend, who fled abject, reft of joy, to the realms of death, mankind's foe. And his mother now, gloomy and grim, would go that quest of sorrow, the death of her son to avenge. To Heorot came she, where helmeted Danes slept in the hall. Too soon came back old ills of the earls, when in she burst, the mother of Grendel. Less grim, though, that terror, e'en as terror of woman in war is less, might of maid, than of men in arms when, hammer-forged, the falchion hard, sword gore-stained, through swine of the helm, crested, with keen blade carves amain. Then was in hall the hard-edge drawn, the swords on the settles, [1] and shields a-many firm held in hand: nor helmet minded nor harness of mail, whom that horror seized. Haste was hers; she would hie afar and save her life when the liegemen saw her. Yet a single atheling up she seized fast and firm, as she fled to the moor. He was for Hrothgar of heroes the dearest, of trusty vassals betwixt the seas, 78 whom she killed on his couch, a clansman famous, in battle brave. - Nor was Beowulf there; another house had been held apart, after giving of gold, for the Geat renowned. Uproar filled Heorot; the hand all had viewed, blood-flecked, she bore with her; bale was returned, dole in the dwellings: 'twas dire exchange where Dane and Geat were doomed to give the lives of loved ones. Long-tried king, the hoary hero, at heart was sad when he knew his noble no more lived, and dead indeed was his dearest thane. To his bower was Beowulf brought in haste, dauntless victor. As daylight broke, along with his earls the atheling lord, with his clansmen, came where the king abode waiting to see if the Wielder-of-All would turn this tale of trouble and woe. Strode o'er floor the famed-in-strife, with his hand-companions, - the hall resounded, wishing to greet the wise old king, Ingwines' lord; he asked if the night had passed in peace to the prince's mind. XX HROTHGAR spake, helmet-of-Scyldings:'Ask not of pleasure! Pain is renewed to Danish folk. Dead is Aeschere, of Yrmenlaf the elder brother, my sage adviser and stay in council, shoulder-comrade in stress of fight when warriors clashed and we warded our heads, hewed the helm-boars; hero famed should be every earl as Aeschere was! But here in Heorot a hand hath slain him of wandering death-sprite. I wot not whither, proud of the prey, her path she took, fain of her fill. The feud she avenged that yesternight, unyieldingly, Grendel in grimmest grasp thou killedst, seeing how long these liegemen mine he ruined and ravaged. Reft of life, 79 in arms he fell. Now another comes, keen and cruel, her kin to avenge, faring far in feud of blood: so that many a thane shall think, who e'er sorrows in soul for that sharer of rings, this is hardest of heart-bales. The hand lies low that once was willing each wish to please. Land-dwellers here [2] and liegemen mine, who house by those parts, I have heard relate that such a pair they have sometimes seen, march-stalkers mighty the moorland haunting, wandering spirits: one of them seemed, so far as my folk could fairly judge, of womankind; and one, accursed, in man's guise trod the misery-track of exile, though huger than human bulk. Grendel in days long gone they named him, folk of the land; his father they knew not, nor any brood that was born to him of treacherous spirits. Untrod is their home; by wolf-cliffs haunt they and windy headlands, fenways fearful, where flows the stream from mountains gliding to gloom of the rocks, underground flood. Not far is it hence in measure of miles that the mere expands, and o'er it the frost-bound forest hanging, sturdily rooted, shadows the wave. By night is a wonder weird to see, fire on the waters. So wise lived none of the sons of men, to search those depths! Nay, though the heath-rover, harried by dogs, the horn-proud hart, this holt should seek, long distance driven, his dear life first on the brink he yields ere he brave the plunge to hide his head: 'tis no happy place! Thence the welter of waters washes up wan to welkin when winds bestir evil storms, and air grows dusk, and the heavens weep. Now is help once more with thee alone! The land thou knowst not, place of fear, where thou findest out that sin-flecked being. Seek if thou dare! 80 I will reward thee, for waging this fight, with ancient treasure, as erst I did, with winding gold, if thou winnest back.' XXI BEOWULF spake, bairn of Ecgtheow: 'Sorrow not, sage! It beseems us better friends to avenge than fruitlessly mourn them. Each of us all must his end abide in the ways of the world; so win who may glory ere death! When his days are told, that is the warrior's worthiest doom. Rise, O realm-warder! Ride we anon, and mark the trail of the mother of Grendel. No harbor shall hide her - heed my promise! enfolding of field or forested mountain or floor of the flood, let her flee where she will! But thou this day endure in patience, as I ween thou wilt, thy woes each one.' Leaped up the graybeard: God he thanked, mighty Lord, for the man's brave words. For Hrothgar soon a horse was saddled wave-maned steed. The sovran wise stately rode on; his shield-armed men followed in force. The footprints led along the woodland, widely seen, a path o'er the plain, where she passed, and trod the murky moor; of men-at-arms she bore the bravest and best one, dead, him who with Hrothgar the homestead ruled. On then went the atheling-born o'er stone-cliffs steep and strait defiles, narrow passes and unknown ways, headlands sheer, and the haunts of the Nicors. Foremost he [1] fared, a few at his side of the wiser men, the ways to scan, till he found in a flash the forested hill hanging over the hoary rock, a woful wood: the waves below were dyed in blood. The Danish men had sorrow of soul, and for Scyldings all, for many a hero, 'twas hard to bear, 81 ill for earls, when Aeschere's head they found by the flood on the foreland there. Waves were welling, the warriors saw, hot with blood; but the horn sang oft battle-song bold. The band sat down, and watched on the water worm-like things, sea-dragons strange that sounded the deep, and nicors that lay on the ledge of the ness such as oft essay at hour of morn on the road-of-sails their ruthless quest, and sea-snakes and monsters. These started away, swollen and savage that song to hear, that war-horn's blast. The warden of Geats, with bolt from bow, then balked of life, of wave-work, one monster, amid its heart went the keen war-shaft; in water it seemed less doughty in swimming whom death had seized. Swift on the billows, with boar-spears well hooked and barbed, it was hard beset, done to death and dragged on the headland, wave-roamer wondrous. Warriors viewed the grisly guest. Then girt him Beowulf in martial mail, nor mourned for his life. His breastplate broad and bright of hues, woven by hand, should the waters try; well could it ward the warrior's body that battle should break on his breast in vain nor harm his heart by the hand of a foe. And the helmet white that his head protected was destined to dare the deeps of the flood, through wave-whirl win: 'twas wound with chains, decked with gold, as in days of yore the weapon-smith worked it wondrously, with swine-forms set it, that swords nowise, brandished in battle, could bite that helm. Nor was that the meanest of mighty helps which Hrothgar's orator offered at need: 'Hrunting' they named the hilted sword, of old-time heirlooms easily first; iron was its edge, all etched with poison, with battle-blood hardened, nor blenched it at fight in hero's hand who held it ever, 82 on paths of peril prepared to go to folkstead [2] of foes. Not first time this it was destined to do a daring task. For he bore not in mind, the bairn of Ecglaf sturdy and strong, that speech he had made, drunk with wine, now this weapon he lent to a stouter swordsman. Himself, though, durst not under welter of waters wager his life as loyal liegeman. So lost he his glory, honor of earls. With the other not so, who girded him now for the grim encounter. XXII BEOWULF spake, bairn of Ecgtheow:'Have mind, thou honored offspring of Healfdene gold-friend of men, now I go on this quest, sovran wise, what once was said: if in thy cause it came that I should lose my life, thou wouldst loyal bide to me, though fallen, in father's place! Be guardian, thou, to this group of my thanes, my warrior-friends, if War should seize me; and the goodly gifts thou gavest me, Hrothgar beloved, to Hygelac send! Geatland's king may ken by the gold, Hrethel's son see, when he stares at the treasure, that I got me a friend for goodness famed, and joyed while I could in my jewel-bestower. And let Unferth wield this wondrous sword, earl far-honored, this heirloom precious, hard of edge: with Hrunting I seek doom of glory, or Death shall take me.' After these words the Weder-Geat lord boldly hastened, biding never answer at all: the ocean floods closed o'er the hero. Long while of the day fled ere he felt the floor of the sea. Soon found the fiend who the flood-domain sword-hungry held these hundred winters, greedy and grim, that some guest from above, some man, was raiding her monster-realm. She grasped out for him with grisly claws, 83 and the warrior seized; yet scathed she not his body hale; the breastplate hindered, as she strove to shatter the sark of war, the linked harness, with loathsome hand. Then bore this brine-wolf, when bottom she touched, the lord of rings to the lair she haunted whiles vainly he strove, though his valor held, weapon to wield against wondrous monsters that sore beset him; sea-beasts many tried with fierce tusks to tear his mail, and swarmed on the stranger. But soon he marked he was now in some hall, he knew not which, where water never could work him harm, nor through the roof could reach him ever fangs of the flood. Firelight he saw, beams of a blaze that brightly shone. Then the warrior was ware of that wolf-of-the-deep, mere-wife monstrous. For mighty stroke he swung his blade, and the blow withheld not. Then sang on her head that seemly blade its war-song wild. But the warrior found the light-of-battle [1] was loath to bite, to harm the heart: its hard edge failed the noble at need, yet had known of old strife hand to hand, and had helmets cloven, doomed men's fighting-gear. First time, this, for the gleaming blade that its glory fell. Firm still stood, nor failed in valor, heedful of high deeds, Hygelac's kinsman; flung away fretted sword, featly jewelled, the angry earl; on earth it lay steel-edged and stiff. His strength he trusted, hand-gripe of might. So man shall do whenever in war he weens to earn him lasting fame, nor fears for his life! Seized then by shoulder, shrank not from combat, the Geatish war-prince Grendel's mother. Flung then the fierce one, filled with wrath, his deadly foe, that she fell to ground. Swift on her part she paid him back with grisly grasp, and grappled with him. Spent with struggle, stumbled the warrior, 84 fiercest of fighting-men, fell adown. On the hall-guest she hurled herself, hent her short sword, broad and brown-edged, the bairn to avenge, the sole-born son. - On his shoulder lay braided breast-mail, barring death, withstanding entrance of edge or blade. Life would have ended for Ecgtheow's son, under wide earth for that earl of Geats, had his armor of war not aided him, battle-net hard, and holy God wielded the victory, wisest Maker. The Lord of Heaven allowed his cause; and easily rose the earl erect. XXIII 'MID the battle-gear saw he a blade triumphant, old-sword of Eotens, with edge of proof, warriors' heirloom, weapon unmatched, - save only 'twas more than other men to bandy-of-battle could bear at all as the giants had wrought it, ready and keen. Seized then its chain-hilt the Scyldings' chieftain, bold and battle-grim, brandished the sword, reckless of life, and so wrathfully smote that it gripped her neck and grasped her hard, her bone-rings breaking: the blade pierced through that fated-one's flesh: to floor she sank. Bloody the blade: he was blithe of his deed. Then blazed forth light. 'Twas bright within as when from the sky there shines unclouded heaven's candle. The hall he scanned. By the wall then went he; his weapon raised high by its hilts the Hygelac-thane, angry and eager. That edge was not useless to the warrior now. He wished with speed Grendel to guerdon for grim raids many, for the war he waged on Western-Danes oftener far than an only time, when of Hrothgar's hearth-companions he slew in slumber, in sleep devoured, fifteen men of the folk of Danes, 85 and as many others outward bore, his horrible prey. Well paid for that the wrathful prince! For now prone he saw Grendel stretched there, spent with war, spoiled of life, so scathed had left him Heorot's battle. The body sprang far when after death it endured the blow, sword-stroke savage, that severed its head. Soon, [1] then, saw the sage companions who waited with Hrothgar, watching the flood, that the tossing waters turbid grew, blood-stained the mere. Old men together, hoary-haired, of the hero spake; the warrior would not, they weened, again, proud of conquest, come to seek their mighty master. To many it seemed the wolf-of-the-waves had won his life. The ninth hour came. The noble Scyldings left the headland; homeward went the gold-friend of men. [2] But the guests sat on, stared at the surges, sick in heart, and wished, yet weened not, their winsome lord again to see. Now that sword began, from blood of the fight, in battle-droppings, war-blade, to wane: 'twas a wondrous thing that all of it melted as ice is wont when frosty fetters the Father loosens, unwinds the wave-bonds, wielding all seasons and times: the true God he! Nor took from that dwelling the duke of the Geats precious things, though a plenty he saw, save only the head and that hilt withal blazoned with jewels: the blade had melted, burned was the bright sword, her blood was so hot, so poisoned the hell-sprite who perished within there. Soon he was swimming who safe saw in combat downfall of demons; up-dove through the flood. The clashing waters were cleansed now, waste of waves, where the wandering fiend her life-days left and this lapsing world. Swam then to strand the sailors'-refuge, 86 sturdy-in-spirit, of sea-booty glad, of burden brave he bore with him. Went then to greet him, and God they thanked, the thane-band choice of their chieftain blithe, that safe and sound they could see him again. Soon from the hardy one helmet and armor deftly they doffed: now drowsed the mere, water 'neath welkin, with war-blood stained. Forth they fared by the footpaths thence, merry at heart the highways measured, well-known roads. Courageous men carried the head from the cliff by the sea, an arduous task for all the band, the firm in fight, since four were needed on the shaft-of-slaughter [4] strenuously to bear to the gold-hall Grendel's head. So presently to the palace there foemen fearless, fourteen Geats, marching came. Their master-of-clan mighty amid them the meadow-ways trod. Strode then within the sovran thane fearless in fight, of fame renowned, hardy hero, Hrothgar to greet. And next by the hair into hall was borne Grendel's head, where the henchmen were drinking, an awe to clan and queen alike, a monster of marvel: the men looked on. XXIV BEOWULF spake, bairn of Ecgtheow:'Lo, now, this sea-booty, son of Healfdene, Lord of Scyldings, we've lustily brought thee, sign of glory; thou seest it here. Not lightly did I with my life escape! In war under water this work I essayed with endless effort; and even so my strength had been lost had the Lord not shielded me. Not a whit could I with Hrunting do in work of war, though the weapon is good; yet a sword the Sovran of Men vouchsafed me to spy on the wall there, in splendor hanging, old, gigantic, - how oft He guides 87 the friendless wight! - and I fought with that brand, felling in fight, since fate was with me, the house's wardens. That war-sword then all burned, bright blade, when the blood gushed o'er it, battle-sweat hot; but the hilt I brought back from my foes. So avenged I their fiendish deeds death-fall of Danes, as was due and right. And this is my hest, that in Heorot now safe thou canst sleep with thy soldier band, and every thane of all thy folk both old and young; no evil fear, Scyldings' lord, from that side again, aught ill for thy earls, as erst thou must!' Then the golden hilt, for that gray-haired leader, hoary hero, in hand was laid, giant-wrought, old. So owned and enjoyed it after downfall of devils, the Danish lord, wonder-smiths' work, since the world was rid of that grim-souled fiend, the foe of God, murder-marked, and his mother as well. Now it passed into power of the people's king, best of all that the oceans bound who have scattered their gold o'er Scandia's isle. Hrothgar spake - the hilt he viewed, heirloom old, where was etched the rise of that far-off fight when the floods o'erwhelmed, raging waves, the race of giants (fearful their fate!), a folk estranged from God Eternal: whence guerdon due in that waste of waters the Wielder paid them. So on the guard of shining gold in runic staves it was rightly said for whom the serpent-traced sword was wrought, best of blades, in bygone days, and the hilt well wound. - The wise-one spake, son of Healfdene; silent were all:'Lo, so may he say who sooth and right follows 'mid folk, of far times mindful, a land-warden old, [1] that this earl belongs to the better breed! So, borne aloft, thy fame must fly, O friend my Beowulf, far and wide o'er folksteads many. Firmly thou 88 shalt all maintain, mighty strength with mood of wisdom. Love of mine will I assure thee, as, awhile ago, I promised; thou shalt prove a stay in future, in far-off years, to folk of thine, to the heroes a help. Was not Heremod thus to offspring of Ecgwela, Honor-Scyldings, nor grew for their grace, but for grisly slaughter, for doom of death to the Danishmen. He slew, wrath-swollen, his shoulder-comrades, companions at board! So he passed alone, chieftain haughty, from human cheer. Though him the Maker with might endowed, delights of power, and uplifted high above all men, yet blood-fierce his mind, his breast-hoard, grew, no bracelets gave he to Danes as was due; he endured all joyless strain of struggle and stress of woe, long feud with his folk. Here find thy lesson! Of virtue advise thee! This verse I have said for thee, wise from lapsed winters. Wondrous seems how to sons of men Almighty God in the strength of His spirit sendeth wisdom, estate, high station: He swayeth all things. Whiles He letteth right lustily fare the heart of the hero of high-born race, in seat ancestral assigns him bliss, his folk's sure fortress in fee to hold, puts in his power great parts of the earth, empire so ample, that end of it this wanter-of-wisdom weeneth none. So he waxes in wealth, nowise can harm him illness or age; no evil cares shadow his spirit; no sword-hate threatens from ever an enemy: all the world wends at his will, no worse he knoweth, till all within him obstinate pride waxes and wakes while the warden slumbers, the spirit's sentry; sleep is too fast which masters his might, and the murderer nears, stealthily shooting the shafts from his bow! 89 XXV 'UNDER harness his heart then is hit indeed by sharpest shafts; and no shelter avails from foul behest of the hellish fiend. Him seems too little what long he possessed. Greedy and grim, no golden rings he gives for his pride; the promised future forgets he and spurns, with all God has sent him, Wonder-Wielder, of wealth and fame. Yet in the end it ever comes that the frame of the body fragile yields, fated falls; and there follows another who joyously the jewels divides, the royal riches, nor recks of his forebear. Ban, then, such baleful thoughts, Beowulf dearest, best of men, and the better part choose, profit eternal; and temper thy pride, warrior famous! The flower of thy might lasts now a while: but erelong it shall be that sickness or sword thy strength shall minish, or fang of fire, or flooding billow, or bite of blade, or brandished spear, or odious age; or the eyes' clear beam wax dull and darken: Death even thee in haste shall o'erwhelm, thou hero of war! So the Ring-Danes these half-years a hundred I ruled, wielded 'neath welkin, and warded them bravely from mighty-ones many o'er middle-earth, from spear and sword, till it seemed for me no foe could be found under fold of the sky. Lo, sudden the shift! To me seated secure came grief for joy when Grendel began to harry my home, the hellish foe; for those ruthless raids, unresting I suffered heart-sorrow heavy. Heaven be thanked, Lord Eternal, for life extended that I on this head all hewn and bloody, after long evil, with eyes may gaze! - Go to the bench now! Be glad at banquet, warrior worthy! A wealth of treasure at dawn of day, be dealt between us!' 90 Glad was the Geats' lord, going betimes to seek his seat, as the Sage commanded. Afresh, as before, for the famed-in-battle, for the band of the hall, was a banquet dight nobly anew. The Night-Helm darkened dusk o'er the drinkers. The doughty ones rose: for the hoary-headed would hasten to rest, aged Scylding; and eager the Geat, shield-fighter sturdy, for sleeping yearned. Him wander-weary, warrior-guest from far, a hall-thane heralded forth, who by custom courtly cared for all needs of a thane as in those old days warrior-wanderers wont to have. So slumbered the stout-heart. Stately the hall rose gabled and gilt where the guest slept on till a raven black the rapture-of-heaven [2] blithe-heart boded. Bright came flying shine after shadow. The swordsmen hastened, athelings all were eager homeward forth to fare; and far from thence the great-hearted guest would guide his keel. Bade then the hardy-one Hrunting be brought to the son of Ecglaf, the sword bade him take, excellent iron, and uttered his thanks for it, quoth that he counted it keen in battle, 'war-friend' winsome: with words he slandered not edge of the blade: 'twas a big-hearted man! Now eager for parting and armed at point warriors waited, while went to his host that Darling of Danes. The doughty atheling to high-seat hastened and Hrothgar greeted. XXVI BEOWULF spake, bairn of Ecgtheow:'Lo, we seafarers say our will, far-come men, that we fain would seek Hygelac now. We here have found hosts to our heart: thou hast harbored us well. If ever on earth I am able to win me more of thy love, O lord of men, 91 aught anew, than I now have done, for work of war I am willing still! If it come to me ever across the seas that neighbor foemen annoy and fright thee, as they that hate thee erewhile have used, thousands then of thanes I shall bring, heroes to help thee. Of Hygelac I know, ward of his folk, that, though few his years, the lord of the Geats will give me aid by word and by work, that well I may serve thee, wielding the war-wood to win thy triumph and lending thee might when thou lackest men. If thy Hrethric should come to court of Geats, a sovran's son, he will surely there find his friends. A far-off land each man should visit who vaunts him brave.' Him then answering, Hrothgar spake:'These words of thine the wisest God sent to thy soul! No sager counsel from so young in years e'er yet have I heard. Thou art strong of main and in mind art wary, art wise in words! I ween indeed if ever it hap that Hrethel's heir by spear be seized, by sword-grim battle, by illness or iron, thine elder and lord, people's leader, - and life be thine, no seemlier man will the Sea-Geats find at all to choose for their chief and king, for hoard-guard of heroes, if hold thou wilt thy kinsman's kingdom! Thy keen mind pleases me the longer the better, Beowulf loved! Thou hast brought it about that both our peoples, sons of the Geat and Spear-Dane folk, shall have mutual peace, and from murderous strife, such as once they waged, from war refrain. Long as I rule this realm so wide, let our hoards be common, let heroes with gold each other greet o'er the gannet's-bath, and the ringed-prow bear o'er rolling waves tokens of love. I trow my landfolk towards friend and foe are firmly joined, and honor they keep in the olden way.' 92 To him in the hall, then, Healfdene's son gave treasures twelve, and the trust-of-earls bade him fare with the gifts to his folk beloved, hale to his home, and in haste return. Then kissed the king of kin renowned, Scyldings' chieftain, that choicest thane, and fell on his neck. Fast flowed the tears of the hoary-headed. Heavy with winters, he had chances twain, but he clung to this, [1] that each should look on the other again, and hear him in hall. Was this hero so dear to him. his breast's wild billows he banned in vain; safe in his soul a secret longing, locked in his mind, for that loved man burned in his blood. Then Beowulf strode, glad of his gold-gifts, the grass-plot o'er, warrior blithe. The wave-roamer bode riding at anchor, its owner awaiting. As they hastened onward, Hrothgar's gift they lauded at length. - 'Twas a lord unpeered, every way blameless, till age had broken - it spareth no mortal - his splendid might. XXVII CAME now to ocean the ever-courageous hardy henchmen, their harness bearing, woven war-sarks. The warden marked, trusty as ever, the earl's return. From the height of the hill no hostile words reached the guests as he rode to greet them; but 'Welcome!' he called to that Weder clan as the sheen-mailed spoilers to ship marched on. Then on the strand, with steeds and treasure and armor their roomy and ring-dight ship was heavily laden: high its mast rose over Hrothgar's hoarded gems. A sword to the boat-guard Beowulf gave, mounted with gold; on the mead-bench since he was better esteemed, that blade possessing, heirloom old. - Their ocean-keel boarding, they drove through the deep, and Daneland left. A sea-cloth was set, a sail with ropes, 93 firm to the mast; the flood-timbers moaned; nor did wind over billows that wave-swimmer blow across from her course. The craft sped on, foam-necked it floated forth o'er the waves, keel firm-bound over briny currents, till they got them sight of the Geatish cliffs, home-known headlands. High the boat, stirred by winds, on the strand updrove. Helpful at haven the harbor-guard stood, who long already for loved companions by the water had waited and watched afar. He bound to the beach the broad-bosomed ship with anchor-bands, lest ocean-billows that trusty timber should tear away. Then Beowulf bade them bear the treasure, gold and jewels; no journey far was it thence to go to the giver of rings, Hygelac Hrethling: at home he dwelt by the sea-wall close, himself and clan. Haughty that house, a hero the king, high the hall, and Hygd right young, wise and wary, though winters few in those fortress walls she had found a home, Haereth's daughter. Nor humble her ways, nor grudged she gifts to the Geatish men, of precious treasure. Not Thryth's pride showed she, folk-queen famed, or that fell deceit. Was none so daring that durst make bold (save her lord alone) of the liegemen dear that lady full in the face to look, but forged fetters he found his lot, bonds of death! And brief the respite; soon as they seized him, his sword-doom was spoken, and the burnished blade a baleful murder proclaimed and closed. No queenly way for woman to practise, though peerless she, that the weaver-of-peace [3] from warrior dear by wrath and lying his life should reave! But Hemming's kinsman hindered this. For over their ale men also told that of these folk-horrors fewer she wrought, onslaughts of evil, after she went, 94 gold-decked bride, to the brave young prince, atheling haughty, and Offa's hall o'er the fallow flood at her father's bidding safely sought, where since she prospered, royal, throned, rich in goods, fain of the fair life fate had sent her, and leal in love to the lord of warriors. He, of all heroes I heard of ever from sea to sea, of the sons of earth, most excellent seemed. Hence Offa was praised for his fighting and feeing by far-off men, the spear-bold warrior; wisely he ruled over his empire. Eomer woke to him, help of heroes, Hemming's kinsman, Grandson of Garmund, grim in war. XXVIII HASTENED the hardy one, henchmen with him, sandy strand of the sea to tread and widespread ways. The world's great candle, sun shone from south. They strode along with sturdy steps to the spot they knew where the battle-king young, his burg within, slayer of Ongentheow, shared the rings, shelter-of-heroes. To Hygelac Beowulf's coming was quickly told, that there in the court the clansmen's refuge, the shield-companion sound and alive, hale from the hero-play homeward strode. With haste in the hall, by highest order, room for the rovers was readily made. By his sovran he sat, come safe from battle, kinsman by kinsman. His kindly lord he first had greeted in gracious form, with manly words. The mead dispensing, came through the high hall Haereth's daughter, winsome to warriors, wine-cup bore to the hands of the heroes. Hygelac then his comrade fairly with question plied in the lofty hall, sore longing to know what manner of sojourn the Sea-Geats made. 'What came of thy quest, my kinsman Beowulf, 95 when thy yearnings suddenly swept thee yonder battle to seek o'er the briny sea, combat in Heorot? Hrothgar couldst thou aid at all, the honored chief, in his wide-known woes? With waves of care my sad heart seethed; I sore mistrusted my loved one's venture: long I begged thee by no means to seek that slaughtering monster, but suffer the South-Danes to settle their feud themselves with Grendel. Now God be thanked that safe and sound I can see thee now!' Beowulf spake, the bairn of Ecgtheow:''Tis known and unhidden, Hygelac Lord, to many men, that meeting of ours, struggle grim between Grendel and me, which we fought on the field where full too many sorrows he wrought for the Scylding-Victors, evils unending. These all I avenged. No boast can be from breed of Grendel, any on earth, for that uproar at dawn, from the longest-lived of the loathsome race in fleshly fold! - But first I went Hrothgar to greet in the hall of gifts, where Healfdene's kinsman high-renowned, soon as my purpose was plain to him, assigned me a seat by his son and heir. The liegemen were lusty; my life-days never such merry men over mead in hall have I heard under heaven! The high-born queen, people's peace-bringer, passed through the hall, cheered the young clansmen, clasps of gold, ere she sought her seat, to sundry gave. Oft to the heroes Hrothgar's daughter, to earls in turn, the ale-cup tendered, she whom I heard these hall-companions Freawaru name, when fretted gold she proffered the warriors. Promised is she, gold-decked maid, to the glad son of Froda. Sage this seems to the Scylding's-friend, kingdom's-keeper: he counts it wise the woman to wed so and ward off feud, store of slaughter. But seldom ever 96 when men are slain, does the murder-spear sink but briefest while, though the bride be fair! [1] 'Nor haply will like it the Heathobard lord, and as little each of his liegemen all, when a thane of the Danes, in that doughty throng, goes with the lady along their hall, and on him the old-time heirlooms glisten hard and ring-decked, Heathobard's treasure, weapons that once they wielded fair until they lost at the linden-play [2] liegeman leal and their lives as well. Then, over the ale, on this heirloom gazing, some ash-wielder old who has all in mind that spear-death of men, [3] - he is stern of mood, heavy at heart, - in the hero young tests the temper and tries the soul and war-hate wakens, with words like these:_Canst thou not, comrade, ken that sword which to the fray thy father carried in his final feud, 'neath the fighting-mask, dearest of blades, when the Danish slew him and wielded the war-place on Withergild's fall, after havoc of heroes, those hardy Scyldings? Now, the son of a certain slaughtering Dane, proud of his treasure, paces this hall, joys in the killing, and carries the jewel [4] that rightfully ought to be owned by thee!_ Thus he urges and eggs him all the time with keenest words, till occasion offers that Freawaru's thane, for his father's deed, after bite of brand in his blood must slumber, losing his life; but that liegeman flies living away, for the land he kens. And thus be broken on both their sides oaths of the earls, when Ingeld's breast wells with war-hate, and wife-love now after the care-billows cooler grows. 'So [5] I hold not high the Heathobards' faith due to the Danes, or their during love and pact of peace. - But I pass from that, turning to Grendel, O giver-of-treasure, and saying in full how the fight resulted, 97 hand-fray of heroes. When heaven's jewel had fled o'er far fields, that fierce sprite came, night-foe savage, to seek us out where safe and sound we sentried the hall. To Hondscio then was that harassing deadly, his fall there was fated. He first was slain, girded warrior. Grendel on him turned murderous mouth, on our mighty kinsman, and all of the brave man's body devoured. Yet none the earlier, empty-handed, would the bloody-toothed murderer, mindful of bale, outward go from the gold-decked hall: but me he attacked in his terror of might, with greedy hand grasped me. A glove hung by him [6] wide and wondrous, wound with bands; and in artful wise it all was wrought, by devilish craft, of dragon-skins. Me therein, an innocent man, the fiendish foe was fain to thrust with many another. He might not so, when I all angrily upright stood. 'Twere long to relate how that land-destroyer I paid in kind for his cruel deeds; yet there, my prince, this people of thine got fame by my fighting. He fled away, and a little space his life preserved; but there staid behind him his stronger hand left in Heorot; heartsick thence on the floor of the ocean that outcast fell. Me for this struggle the Scyldings'-friend paid in plenty with plates of gold, with many a treasure, when morn had come and we all at the banquet-board sat down. Then was song and glee. The gray-haired Scylding, much tested, told of the times of yore. Whiles the hero his harp bestirred, wood-of-delight; now lays he chanted of sooth and sadness, or said aright legends of wonder, the wide-hearted king; or for years of his youth he would yearn at times, for strength of old struggles, now stricken with age, hoary hero: his heart surged full 98 when, wise with winters, he wailed their flight. Thus in the hall the whole of that day at ease we feasted, till fell o'er earth another night. Anon full ready in greed of vengeance, Grendel's mother set forth all doleful. Dead was her son through war-hate of Weders; now, woman monstrous with fury fell a foeman she slew, avenged her offspring. From Aeschere old, loyal councillor, life was gone; nor might they e'en, when morning broke, those Danish people, their death-done comrade burn with brands, on balefire lay the man they mourned. Under mountain stream she had carried the corpse with cruel hands. For Hrothgar that was the heaviest sorrow of all that had laden the lord of his folk. The leader then, by thy life, besought me (sad was his soul) in the sea-waves' coil to play the hero and hazard my being for glory of prowess: my guerdon he pledged. I then in the waters - 'tis widely known that sea-floor-guardian savage found. Hand-to-hand there a while we struggled; billows welled blood; in the briny hall her head I hewed with a hardy blade from Grendel's mother, - and gained my life, though not without danger. My doom was not yet. Then the haven-of-heroes, Healfdene's son, gave me in guerdon great gifts of price. XXXI 'So held this king to the customs old, that I wanted for nought in the wage I gained, the meed of my might; he made me gifts, Healfdene's heir, for my own disposal. Now to thee, my prince, I proffer them all, gladly give them. Thy grace alone can find me favor. Few indeed have I of kinsmen, save, Hygelac, thee!' Then he bade them bear him the boar-head standard, the battle-helm high, and breastplate gray, 99 the splendid sword; then spake in form:'Me this war-gear the wise old prince, Hrothgar, gave, and his hest he added, that its story be straightway said to thee. A while it was held by Heorogar king, for long time lord of the land of Scyldings; yet not to his son the sovran left it, to daring Heoroweard, - dear as he was to him, his harness of battle. - Well hold thou it all!' And I heard that soon passed o'er the path of this treasure, all apple-fallow, four good steeds, each like the others, arms and horses he gave to the king. So should kinsmen be, not weave one another the net of wiles, or with deep-hid treachery death contrive for neighbor and comrade. His nephew was ever by hardy Hygelac held full dear, and each kept watch o'er the other's weal. I heard, too, the necklace to Hygd he presented, wonder-wrought treasure, which Wealhtheow gave him sovran's daughter: three steeds he added, slender and saddle-gay. Since such gift the gem gleamed bright on the breast of the queen. Thus showed his strain the son of Ecgtheow as a man remarked for mighty deeds and acts of honor. At ale he slew not comrade or kin; nor cruel his mood, though of sons of earth his strength was greatest, a glorious gift that God had sent the splendid leader. Long was he spurned, and worthless by Geatish warriors held; him at mead the master-of-clans failed full oft to favor at all. Slack and shiftless the strong men deemed him, profitless prince; but payment came, to the warrior honored, for all his woes. Then the bulwark-of-earls [1] bade bring within, hardy chieftain, Hrethel's heirloom garnished with gold: no Geat e'er knew in shape of a sword a statelier prize. The brand he laid in Beowulf's lap; and of hides assigned him seven thousand, 100 with house and high-seat. They held in common land alike by their line of birth, inheritance, home: but higher the king because of his rule o'er the realm itself. Now further it fell with the flight of years, with harryings horrid, that Hygelac perished, and Heardred, too, by hewing of swords under the shield-wall slaughtered lay, when him at the van of his victor-folk sought hardy heroes, Heatho-Scilfings, in arms o'erwhelming Hereric's nephew. Then Beowulf came as king this broad realm to wield; and he ruled it well fifty winters, [4] a wise old prince, warding his land, until One began in the dark of night, a Dragon, to rage. In the grave on the hill a hoard it guarded, in the stone-barrow steep. A strait path reached it, unknown to mortals. Some man, however, came by chance that cave within to the heathen hoard. [5] In hand he took a golden goblet, nor gave he it back, stole with it away, while the watcher slept, by thievish wiles: for the warden's wrath prince and people must pay betimes! XXXII THAT way he went with no will of his own, in danger of life, to the dragon's hoard, but for pressure of peril, some prince's thane. He fled in fear the fatal scourge, seeking shelter, a sinful man, and entered in. At the awful sight tottered that guest, and terror seized him; yet the wretched fugitive rallied anon from fright and fear ere he fled away, and took the cup from that treasure-hoard. Of such besides there was store enough, heirlooms old, the earth below, which some earl forgotten, in ancient years, left the last of his lofty race, heedfully there had hidden away, 101 dearest treasure. For death of yore had hurried all hence; and he alone left to live, the last of the clan, weeping his friends, yet wished to bide warding the treasure, his one delight, though brief his respite. The barrow, new-ready, to strand and sea-waves stood anear, hard by the headland, hidden and closed; there laid within it his lordly heirlooms and heaped hoard of heavy gold that warden of rings. Few words he spake: 'Now hold thou, earth, since heroes may not, what earls have owned! Lo, erst from thee brave men brought it! But battle-death seized and cruel killing my clansmen all, robbed them of life and a liegeman's joys. None have I left to lift the sword, or to cleanse the carven cup of price, beaker bright. My brave are gone. And the helmet hard, all haughty with gold, shall part from its plating. Polishers sleep who could brighten and burnish the battle-mask; and those weeds of war that were wont to brave over bicker of shields the bite of steel rust with their bearer. The ringed mail fares not far with famous chieftain, at side of hero! No harp's delight, no glee-wood's gladness! No good hawk now flies through the hall! Nor horses fleet stamp in the burgstead! Battle and death the flower of my race have reft away.' Mournful of mood, thus he moaned his woe, alone, for them all, and unblithe wept by day and by night, till death's fell wave o'erwhelmed his heart. His hoard-of-bliss that old ill-doer open found, who, blazing at twilight the barrows haunteth, naked foe-dragon flying by night folded in fire: the folk of earth dread him sore. 'Tis his doom to seek hoard in the graves, and heathen gold to watch, many-wintered: nor wins he thereby! 102 Powerful this plague-of-the-people thus held the house of the hoard in earth three hundred winters; till One aroused wrath in his breast, to the ruler bearing that costly cup, and the king implored for bond of peace. So the barrow was plundered, borne off was booty. His boon was granted that wretched man; and his ruler saw first time what was fashioned in far-off days. When the dragon awoke, new woe was kindled. O'er the stone he snuffed. The stark-heart found footprint of foe who so far had gone in his hidden craft by the creature's head. So may the undoomed easily flee evils and exile, if only he gain the grace of The Wielder! - That warden of gold o'er the ground went seeking, greedy to find the man who wrought him such wrong in sleep. Savage and burning, the barrow he circled all without; nor was any there, none in the waste…. Yet war he desired, was eager for battle. The barrow he entered, sought the cup, and discovered soon that some one of mortals had searched his treasure, his lordly gold. The guardian waited ill-enduring till evening came; boiling with wrath was the barrow's keeper, and fain with flame the foe to pay for the dear cup's loss. - Now day was fled as the worm had wished. By its wall no more was it glad to bide, but burning flew folded in flame: a fearful beginning for sons of the soil; and soon it came, in the doom of their lord, to a dreadful end. XXXIII THEN the baleful fiend its fire belched out, and bright homes burned. The blaze stood high all landsfolk frighting. No living thing would that loathly one leave as aloft it flew. Wide was the dragon's warring seen, its fiendish fury far and near, 103 as the grim destroyer those Geatish people hated and hounded. To hidden lair, to its hoard it hastened at hint of dawn. Folk of the land it had lapped in flame, with bale and brand. In its barrow it trusted, its battling and bulwarks: that boast was vain! To Beowulf then the bale was told quickly and truly: the king's own home, of buildings the best, in brand-waves melted, that gift-throne of Geats. To the good old man sad in heart, 'twas heaviest sorrow. The sage assumed that his sovran God he had angered, breaking ancient law, and embittered the Lord. His breast within with black thoughts welled, as his wont was never. The folk's own fastness that fiery dragon with flame had destroyed, and the stronghold all washed by waves; but the warlike king, prince of the Weders, plotted vengeance. Warriors'-bulwark, he bade them work all of iron - the earl's commander a war-shield wondrous: well he knew that forest-wood against fire were worthless, linden could aid not. - Atheling brave, he was fated to finish this fleeting life, his days on earth, and the dragon with him, though long it had watched o'er the wealth of the hoard! Shame he reckoned it, sharer-of-rings, to follow the flyer-afar with a host, a broad-flung band; nor the battle feared he, nor deemed he dreadful the dragon's warring, its vigor and valor: ventures desperate he had passed a-plenty, and perils of war, contest-crash, since, conqueror proud, Hrothgar's hall he had wholly purged, and in grapple had killed the kin of Grendel, loathsome breed! Not least was that of hand-to-hand fights where Hygelac fell, when the ruler of Geats in rush of battle, lord of his folk, in the Frisian land, son of Hrethel, by sword-draughts died, by brands down-beaten. Thence Beowulf fled 104 through strength of himself and his swimming power, though alone, and his arms were laden with thirty coats of mail, when he came to the sea! Nor yet might Hetwaras [2] haughtily boast their craft of contest, who carried against him shields to the fight: but few escaped from strife with the hero to seek their homes! Then swam over ocean Ecgtheow's son lonely and sorrowful, seeking his land, where Hygd made him offer of hoard and realm, rings and royal-seat, reckoning naught the strength of her son to save their kingdom from hostile hordes, after Hygelac's death. No sooner for this could the stricken ones in any wise move that atheling's mind over young Heardred's head as lord and ruler of all the realm to be: yet the hero upheld him with helpful words, aided in honor, till, older grown, he wielded the Weder-Geats. - Wandering exiles sought him o'er seas, the sons of Ohtere, who had spurned the sway of the Scylfings'-helmet, the bravest and best that broke the rings, in Swedish land, of the sea-kings' line, haughty hero. [3] Hence Heardred's end. For shelter he gave them, sword-death came, the blade's fell blow, to bairn of Hygelac; but the son of Ongentheow sought again house and home when Heardred fell, leaving Beowulf lord of Geats and gift-seat's master. - A good king he! XXXIV THE fall of his lord he was fain to requite in after days; and to Eadgils he proved friend to the friendless, and forces sent over the sea to the son of Ohtere, weapons and warriors: well repaid he those care-paths cold when the king he slew. [1] Thus safe through struggles the son of Ecgtheow had passed a plenty, through perils dire, 105 with daring deeds, till this day was come that doomed him now with the dragon to strive. With comrades eleven the lord of Geats swollen in rage went seeking the dragon. He had heard whence all the harm arose and the killing of clansmen; that cup of price on the lap of the lord had been laid by the finder. In the throng was this one thirteenth man, starter of all the strife and ill, care-laden captive; cringing thence forced and reluctant, he led them on till he came in ken of that cavern-hall, the barrow delved near billowy surges, flood of ocean. Within 'twas full of wire-gold and jewels; a jealous warden, warrior trusty, the treasures held, lurked in his lair. Not light the task of entrance for any of earth-born men! Sat on the headland the hero king, spake words of hail to his hearth-companions, gold-friend of Geats. All gloomy his soul, wavering, death-bound. Wyrd full nigh stood ready to greet the gray-haired man, to seize his soul-hoard, sunder apart life and body. Not long would be the warrior's spirit enwound with flesh. Beowulf spake, the bairn of Ecgtheow:'Through store of struggles I strove in youth, mighty feuds; I mind them all. I was seven years old when the sovran of rings, friend-of-his-folk, from my father took me, had me, and held me, Hrethel the king, with food and fee, faithful in kinship. Ne'er, while I lived there, he loathlier found me, bairn in the burg, than his birthright sons, Herebeald and Haethcyn and Hygelac mine. For the eldest of these, by unmeet chance, by kinsman's deed, was the death-bed strewn, when Haethcyn killed him with horny bow, his own dear liege laid low with an arrow, missed the mark and his mate shot down, one brother the other, with bloody shaft. 106 A feeless fight, [2] and a fearful sin, horror to Hrethel; yet, hard as it was, unavenged must the atheling die! Too awful it is for an aged man to bide and bear, that his bairn so young rides on the gallows. A rime he makes, sorrow-song for his son there hanging as rapture of ravens; no rescue now can come from the old, disabled man! Still is he minded, as morning breaks, of the heir gone elsewhere; [3] another he hopes not he will bide to see his burg within as ward for his wealth, now the one has found doom of death that the deed incurred. Forlorn he looks on the lodge of his son, wine-hall waste and wind-swept chambers reft of revel. The rider sleepeth, the hero, far-hidden; [4] no harp resounds, in the courts no wassail, as once was heard. XXXV 'THEN he goes to his chamber, a grief-song chants alone for his lost. Too large all seems, homestead and house. So the helmet-of-Weders hid in his heart for Herebeald waves of woe. No way could he take to avenge on the slayer slaughter so foul; nor e'en could he harass that hero at all with loathing deed, though he loved him not. And so for the sorrow his soul endured, men's gladness he gave up and God's light chose. Lands and cities he left his sons (as the wealthy do) when he went from earth. There was strife and struggle 'twixt Swede and Geat o'er the width of waters; war arose, hard battle-horror, when Hrethel died, and Ongentheow's offspring grew strife-keen, bold, nor brooked o'er the seas pact of peace, but pushed their hosts to harass in hatred by Hreosnabeorh. Men of my folk for that feud had vengeance, 107 for woful war ('tis widely known), though one of them bought it with blood of his heart, a bargain hard: for Haethcyn proved fatal that fray, for the first-of-Geats. At morn, I heard, was the murderer killed by kinsman for kinsman, [1] with clash of sword, when Ongentheow met Eofor there. Wide split the war-helm: wan he fell, hoary Scylfing; the hand that smote him of feud was mindful, nor flinched from the death-blow. - 'For all that he [2] gave me, my gleaming sword repaid him at war, - such power I wielded, for lordly treasure: with land he entrusted me, homestead and house. He had no need from Swedish realm, or from Spear-Dane folk, or from men of the Gifths, to get him help, some warrior worse for wage to buy! Ever I fought in the front of all, sole to the fore; and so shall I fight while I bide in life and this blade shall last that early and late hath loyal proved since for my doughtiness Daeghrefn fell, slain by my hand, the Hugas' champion. Nor fared he thence to the Frisian king with the booty back, and breast-adornments; but, slain in struggle, that standard-bearer fell, atheling brave. Not with blade was he slain, but his bones were broken by brawny gripe, his heart-waves stilled. - The sword-edge now, hard blade and my hand, for the hoard shall strive.' Beowulf spake, and a battle-vow made his last of all: 'I have lived through many wars in my youth; now once again, old folk-defender, feud will I seek, do doughty deeds, if the dark destroyer forth from his cavern come to fight me!' Then hailed he the helmeted heroes all, for the last time greeting his liegemen dear, comrades of war: 'I should carry no weapon, no sword to the serpent, if sure I knew how, with such enemy, else my vows I could gain as I did in Grendel's day. 108 But fire in this fight I must fear me now, and poisonous breath; so I bring with me breastplate and board. [3] From the barrow's keeper no footbreadth flee I. One fight shall end our war by the wall, as Wyrd allots, all mankind's master. My mood is bold but forbears to boast o'er this battling-flyer. - Now abide by the barrow, ye breastplate-mailed, ye heroes in harness, which of us twain better from battle-rush bear his wounds. Wait ye the finish. The fight is not yours, nor meet for any but me alone to measure might with this monster here and play the hero. Hardily I shall win that wealth, or war shall seize, cruel killing, your king and lord!' Up stood then with shield the sturdy champion, stayed by the strength of his single manhood, and hardy 'neath helmet his harness bore under cleft of the cliffs: no coward's path! Soon spied by the wall that warrior chief, survivor of many a victory-field where foemen fought with furious clashings, an arch of stone; and within, a stream that broke from the barrow. The brooklet's wave was hot with fire. The hoard that way he never could hope unharmed to near, or endure those deeps, [4] for the dragon's flame. Then let from his breast, for he burst with rage, the Weder-Geat prince a word outgo; stormed the stark-heart; stern went ringing and clear his cry 'neath the cliff-rocks gray. The hoard-guard heard a human voice; his rage was enkindled. No respite now for pact of peace! The poison-breath of that foul worm first came forth from the cave, hot reek-of-fight: the rocks resounded. Stout by the stone-way his shield he raised, lord of the Geats, against the loathed-one; while with courage keen that coiled foe came seeking strife. The sturdy king had drawn his sword, not dull of edge, 109 heirloom old; and each of the two felt fear of his foe, though fierce their mood. Stoutly stood with his shield high-raised the warrior king, as the worm now coiled together amain: the mailed-one waited. Now, spire by spire, fast sped and glided that blazing serpent. The shield protected, soul and body a shorter while for the hero-king than his heart desired, could his will have wielded the welcome respite but once in his life! But Wyrd denied it, and victory's honors. - His arm he lifted lord of the Geats, the grim foe smote with atheling's heirloom. Its edge was turned brown blade, on the bone, and bit more feebly than its noble master had need of then in his baleful stress. - Then the barrow's keeper waxed full wild for that weighty blow, cast deadly flames; wide drove and far those vicious fires. No victor's glory the Geats' lord boasted; his brand had failed, naked in battle, as never it should, excellent iron! - 'Twas no easy path that Ecgtheow's honored heir must tread over the plain to the place of the foe; for against his will he must win a home elsewhere far, as must all men, leaving this lapsing life! - Not long it was ere those champions grimly closed again. The hoard-guard was heartened; high heaved his breast once more; and by peril was pressed again, enfolded in flames, the folk-commander! Nor yet about him his band of comrades, sons of athelings, armed stood with warlike front: to the woods they bent them, their lives to save. But the soul of one with care was cumbered. Kinship true can never be marred in a noble mind! XXXVI WIGLAF his name was, Weohstan's son, linden-thane loved, the lord of Scylfings, 110 Aelfhere's kinsman. His king he now saw with heat under helmet hard oppressed. He minded the prizes his prince had given him, wealthy seat of the Waegmunding line, and folk-rights that his father owned Not long he lingered. The linden yellow, his shield, he seized; the old sword he drew: as heirloom of Eanmund earth-dwellers knew it, who was slain by the sword-edge, son of Ohtere, friendless exile, erst in fray killed by Weohstan, who won for his kin brown-bright helmet, breastplate ringed, old sword of Eotens, Onela's gift, weeds of war of the warrior-thane, battle-gear brave: though a brother's child had been felled, the feud was unfelt by Onela. [1] For winters this war-gear Weohstan kept, breastplate and board, till his bairn had grown earlship to earn as the old sire did: then he gave him, mid Geats, the gear of battle, portion huge, when he passed from life, fared aged forth. For the first time now with his leader-lord the liegeman young was bidden to share the shock of battle. Neither softened his soul, nor the sire's bequest weakened in war. [2] So the worm found out when once in fight the foes had met! Wiglaf spake, - and his words were sage; sad in spirit, he said to his comrades:'I remember the time, when mead we took, what promise we made to this prince of ours in the banquet-hall, to our breaker-of-rings, for gear of combat to give him requital, for hard-sword and helmet, if hap should bring stress of this sort! Himself who chose us from all his army to aid him now, urged us to glory, and gave these treasures, because he counted us keen with the spear and hardy 'neath helm, though this hero-work our leader hoped unhelped and alone to finish for us, - folk-defender who hath got him glory greater than all men 111 for daring deeds! Now the day is come that our noble master has need of the might of warriors stout. Let us stride along the hero to help while the heat is about him glowing and grim! For God is my witness I am far more fain the fire should seize along with my lord these limbs of mine! [3] Unsuiting it seems our shields to bear homeward hence, save here we essay to fell the foe and defend the life of the Weders' lord. I wot 'twere shame on the law of our land if alone the king out of Geatish warriors woe endured and sank in the struggle! My sword and helmet, breastplate and board, for us both shall serve!' Through slaughter-reek strode he to succor his Chieftain, his battle-helm bore, and brief words spake:'Beowulf dearest, do all bravely, as in youthful days of yore thou vowedst that while life should last thou wouldst let no wise thy glory droop! Now, great in deeds, atheling steadfast, with all thy strength shield thy life! I will stand to help thee.' At the words the worm came once again, murderous monster mad with rage, with fire-billows flaming, its foes to seek, the hated men. In heat-waves burned that board [4] to the boss, and the breastplate failed to shelter at all the spear-thane young. Yet quickly under his kinsman's shield went eager the earl, since his own was now all burned by the blaze. The bold king again had mind of his glory: with might his glaive was driven into the dragon's head, blow nerved by hate. But Naegling was shivered, broken in battle was Beowulf's sword, old and gray. 'Twas granted him not that ever the edge of iron at all could help him at strife: too strong was his hand, so the tale is told, and he tried too far with strength of stroke all swords he wielded, though sturdy their steel: they steaded him nought. 112 Then for the third time thought on its feud that folk-destroyer, fire-dread dragon, and rushed on the hero, where room allowed, battle-grim, burning; its bitter teeth closed on his neck, and covered him with waves of blood from his breast that welled. XXXVII 'TWAS now, men say, in his sovran's need that the earl made known his noble strain, craft and keenness and courage enduring. Heedless of harm, though his hand was burned, hardy-hearted, he helped his kinsman. A little lower the loathsome beast he smote with sword; his steel drove in bright and burnished; that blaze began to lose and lessen. At last the king wielded his wits again, war-knife drew, a biting blade by his breastplate hanging, and the Weders'-helm smote that worm asunder, felled the foe, flung forth its life. So had they killed it, kinsmen both, athelings twain: thus an earl should be in danger's day! - Of deeds of valor this conqueror's-hour of the king was last, of his work in the world. The wound began, which that dragon-of-earth had erst inflicted, to swell and smart; and soon he found in his breast was boiling, baleful and deep, pain of poison. The prince walked on, wise in his thought, to the wall of rock; then sat, and stared at the structure of giants, where arch of stone and steadfast column upheld forever that hall in earth. Yet here must the hand of the henchman peerless lave with water his winsome lord, the king and conqueror covered with blood, with struggle spent, and unspan his helmet. Beowulf spake in spite of his hurt, his mortal wound; full well he knew his portion now was past and gone of earthly bliss, and all had fled 113 of his file of days, and death was near: 'I would fain bestow on son of mine this gear of war, were given me now that any heir should after me come of my proper blood. This people I ruled fifty winters. No folk-king was there, none at all, of the neighboring clans who war would wage me with 'warriors'-friends' [1] and threat me with horrors. At home I bided what fate might come, and I cared for mine own; feuds I sought not, nor falsely swore ever on oath. For all these things, though fatally wounded, fain am I! From the Ruler-of-Man no wrath shall seize me, when life from my frame must flee away, for killing of kinsmen! Now quickly go and gaze on that hoard 'neath the hoary rock, Wiglaf loved, now the worm lies low, sleeps, heart-sore, of his spoil bereaved. And fare in haste. I would fain behold the gorgeous heirlooms, golden store, have joy in the jewels and gems, lay down softlier for sight of this splendid hoard my life and the lordship I long have held.' XXXVIII I HAVE heard that swiftly the son of Weohstan at wish and word of his wounded king, war-sick warrior, - woven mail-coat, battle-sark, bore 'neath the barrow's roof. Then the clansman keen, of conquest proud, passing the seat, [1] saw store of jewels and glistening gold the ground along; by the wall were marvels, and many a vessel in the den of the dragon, the dawn-flier old: unburnished bowls of bygone men reft of richness; rusty helms of the olden age; and arm-rings many wondrously woven. - Such wealth of gold, booty from barrow, can burden with pride each human wight: let him hide it who will! - 114 His glance too fell on a gold-wove banner high o'er the hoard, of handiwork noblest, brilliantly broidered; so bright its gleam, all the earth-floor he easily saw and viewed all these vessels. No vestige now was seen of the serpent: the sword had ta'en him. Then, I heard, the hill of its hoard was reft, old work of giants, by one alone; he burdened his bosom with beakers and plate at his own good will, and the ensign took, brightest of beacons. - The blade of his lord - its edge was iron - had injured deep one that guarded the golden hoard many a year and its murder-fire spread hot round the barrow in horror-billows at midnight hour, till it met its doom. Hasted the herald, the hoard so spurred him his track to retrace; he was troubled by doubt, high-souled hero, if haply he'd find alive, where he left him, the lord of Weders, weakening fast by the wall of the cave. So he carried the load. His lord and king he found all bleeding, famous chief at the lapse of life. The liegeman again plashed him with water, till point of word broke through the breast-hoard. Beowulf spake, sage and sad, as he stared at the gold. 'For the gold and treasure, to God my thanks, to the Wielder-of-Wonders, with words I say, for what I behold, to Heaven's Lord, for the grace that I give such gifts to my folk or ever the day of my death be run! Now I've bartered here for booty of treasure the last of my life, so look ye well to the needs of my land! No longer I tarry. A barrow bid ye the battle-fanned raise for my ashes. 'Twill shine by the shore of the flood, to folk of mine memorial fair on Hrones Headland high uplifted, that ocean-wanderers oft may hail Beowulf's Barrow, as back from far they drive their keels o'er the darkling wave.' 115 From his neck he unclasped the collar of gold, valorous king, to his vassal gave it with bright-gold helmet, breastplate, and ring, to the youthful thane: bade him use them in joy. 'Thou art end and remnant of all our race the Waegmunding name. For Wyrd hath swept them, all my line, to the land of doom, earls in their glory: I after them go.' This word was the last which the wise old man harbored in heart ere hot death-waves of balefire he chose. From his bosom fled his soul to seek the saints' reward. XXXIX IT was heavy hap for that hero young on his lord beloved to look and find him lying on earth with life at end, sorrowful sight. But the slayer too, awful earth-dragon, empty of breath, lay felled in fight, nor, fain of its treasure, could the writhing monster rule it more. For edges of iron had ended its days, hard and battle-sharp, hammers' leaving; and that flier-afar had fallen to ground hushed by its hurt, its hoard all near, no longer lusty aloft to whirl at midnight, making its merriment seen, proud of its prizes: prone it sank by the handiwork of the hero-king. Forsooth among folk but few achieve, - though sturdy and strong, as stories tell me, and never so daring in deed of valor, the perilous breath of a poison-foe to brave, and to rush on the ring-board hall, whenever his watch the warden keeps bold in the barrow. Beowulf paid the price of death for that precious hoard; and each of the foes had found the end of this fleeting life. Befell erelong that the laggards in war the wood had left, 116 trothbreakers, cowards, ten together, fearing before to flourish a spear in the sore distress of their sovran lord. Now in their shame their shields they carried, armor of fight, where the old man lay; and they gazed on Wiglaf. Wearied he sat at his sovran's shoulder, shieldsman good, to wake him with water. [2] Nowise it availed. Though well he wished it, in world no more could he barrier life for that leader-of-battles nor baffle the will of all-wielding God. Doom of the Lord was law o'er the deeds of every man, as it is to-day. Grim was the answer, easy to get, from the youth for those that had yielded to fear! Wiglaf spake, the son of Weohstan, mournful he looked on those men unloved:'Who sooth will speak, can say indeed that the ruler who gave you golden rings and the harness of war in which ye stand - for he at ale-bench often-times bestowed on hall-folk helm and breastplate, lord to liegemen, the likeliest gear which near of far he could find to give, threw away and wasted these weeds of battle, on men who failed when the foemen came! Not at all could the king of his comrades-in-arms venture to vaunt, though the Victory-Wielder, God, gave him grace that he got revenge sole with his sword in stress and need. To rescue his life, 'twas little that I could serve him in struggle; yet shift I made (hopeless it seemed) to help my kinsman. Its strength ever waned, when with weapon I struck that fatal foe, and the fire less strongly flowed from its head. - Too few the heroes in throe of contest that thronged to our king! Now gift of treasure and girding of sword, joy of the house and home-delight shall fail your folk; his freehold-land every clansman within your kin shall lose and leave, when lords highborn 117 hear afar of that flight of yours, a fameless deed. Yea, death is better for liegemen all than a life of shame!' XL THAT battle-toil bade he at burg to announce, at the fort on the cliff, where, full of sorrow, all the morning earls had sat, daring shieldsmen, in doubt of twain: would they wail as dead, or welcome home, their lord beloved? Little [1] kept back of the tidings new, but told them all, the herald that up the headland rode. 'Now the willing-giver to Weder folk in death-bed lies; the Lord of Geats on the slaughter-bed sleeps by the serpent's deed! And beside him is stretched that slayer-of-men with knife-wounds sick: [2] no sword availed on the awesome thing in any wise to work a wound. There Wiglaf sitteth, Weohstan's bairn, by Beowulf's side, the living earl by the other dead, and heavy of heart a head-watch [3] keeps o'er friend and foe. - Now our folk may look for waging of war when once unhidden to Frisian and Frank the fall of the king is spread afar. - The strife began when hot on the Hugas [4] Hygelac fell and fared with his fleet to the Frisian land. Him there the Hetwaras humbled in war, plied with such prowess their power o'erwhelming that the bold-in-battle bowed beneath it and fell in fight. To his friends no wise could that earl give treasure! And ever since the Merowings' favor has failed us wholly. Nor aught expect I of peace and faith from Swedish folk. 'Twas spread afar how Ongentheow reft at Ravenswood Haethcyn Hrethling of hope and life, when the folk of Geats for the first time sought in wanton pride the Warlike-Scylfings. Soon the sage old sire [5] of Ohtere, 118 ancient and awful, gave answering blow; the sea-king [6] he slew, and his spouse redeemed, his good wife rescued, though robbed of her gold, mother of Ohtere and Onela. Then he followed his foes, who fled before him sore beset and stole their way, bereft of a ruler, to Ravenswood. With his host he besieged there what swords had left, the weary and wounded; woes he threatened the whole night through to that hard-pressed throng: some with the morrow his sword should kill, some should go to the gallows-tree for rapture of ravens. But rescue came with dawn of day for those desperate men when they heard the horn of Hygelac sound, tones of his trumpet; the trusty king had followed their trail with faithful band. XLI 'THE bloody swath of Swedes and Geats and the storm of their strife, were seen afar, how folk against folk the fight had wakened. The ancient king with his atheling band sought his citadel, sorrowing much: Ongentheow earl went up to his burg. He had tested Hygelac's hardihood, the proud one's prowess, would prove it no longer, defied no more those fighting-wanderers nor hoped from the seamen to save his hoard, his bairn and his bride: so he bent him again, old, to his earth-walls. Yet after him came with slaughter for Swedes the standards of Hygelac o'er peaceful plains in pride advancing, till Hrethelings fought in the fenced town. [1] Then Ongentheow with edge of sword, the hoary-bearded, was held at bay, and the folk-king there was forced to suffer Eofor's anger. In ire, at the king Wulf Wonreding with weapon struck; and the chieftain's blood, for that blow, in streams flowed 'neath his hair. No fear felt he, stout old Scylfing, but straightway repaid 119 in better bargain that bitter stroke and faced his foe with fell intent. Nor swift enough was the son of Wonred answer to render the aged chief; too soon on his head the helm was cloven; blood-bedecked he bowed to earth, and fell adown; not doomed was he yet, and well he waxed, though the wound was sore. Then the hardy Hygelac-thane, [2] when his brother fell, with broad brand smote, giants' sword crashing through giants'-helm across the shield-wall: sank the king, his folk's old herdsman, fatally hurt. There were many to bind the brother's wounds and lift him, fast as fate allowed his people to wield the place-of-war. But Eofor took from Ongentheow, earl from other, the iron-breastplate, hard sword hilted, and helmet too, and the hoar-chief's harness to Hygelac carried, who took the trappings, and truly promised rich fee 'mid folk, - and fulfilled it so. For that grim strife gave the Geatish lord, Hrethel's offspring, when home he came, to Eofor and Wulf a wealth of treasure, Each of them had a hundred thousand [3] in land and linked rings; nor at less price reckoned mid-earth men such mighty deeds! And to Eofor he gave his only daughter in pledge of grace, the pride of his home. 'Such is the feud, the foeman's rage, death-hate of men: so I deem it sure that the Swedish folk will seek us home for this fall of their friends, the fighting-Scylfings, when once they learn that our warrior leader lifeless lies, who land and hoard ever defended from all his foes, furthered his folk's weal, finished his course a hardy hero. - Now haste is best, that we go to gaze on our Geatish lord, and bear the bountiful breaker-of-rings to the funeral pyre. No fragments merely 120 shall burn with the warrior. Wealth of jewels, gold untold and gained in terror, treasure at last with his life obtained, all of that booty the brands shall take, fire shall eat it. No earl must carry memorial jewel. No maiden fair shall wreathe her neck with noble ring: nay, sad in spirit and shorn of her gold, oft shall she pass o'er paths of exile now our lord all laughter has laid aside, all mirth and revel. Many a spear morning-cold shall be clasped amain, lifted aloft; nor shall lilt of harp those warriors wake; but the wan-hued raven, fain o'er the fallen, his feast shall praise and boast to the eagle how bravely he ate when he and the wolf were wasting the slain.' So he told his sorrowful tidings, and little [4] he lied, the loyal man of word or of work. The warriors rose; sad, they climbed to the Cliff-of-Eagles, went, welling with tears, the wonder to view. Found on the sand there, stretched at rest, their lifeless lord, who had lavished rings of old upon them. Ending-day had dawned on the doughty-one; death had seized in woful slaughter the Weders' king. There saw they, besides, the strangest being, loathsome, lying their leader near, prone on the field. The fiery dragon, fearful fiend, with flame was scorched. Reckoned by feet, it was fifty measures in length as it lay. Aloft erewhile it had revelled by night, and anon come back, seeking its den; now in death's sure clutch it had come to the end of its earth-hall joys. By it there stood the stoups and jars; dishes lay there, and dear-decked swords eaten with rust, as, on earth's lap resting, a thousand winters they waited there. For all that heritage huge, that gold of bygone men, was bound by a spell, [5] 121 so the treasure-hall could be touched by none of human kind, - save that Heaven's King, God himself, might give whom he would, Helper of Heroes, the hoard to open, even such a man as seemed to him meet. XLII A PERILOUS path, it proved, he [1] trod who heinously hid, that hall within, wealth under wall! Its watcher had killed one of a few, [2] and the feud was avenged in woful fashion. Wondrous seems it, what manner a man of might and valor oft ends his life, when the earl no longer in mead-hall may live with loving friends. So Beowulf, when that barrow's warden he sought, and the struggle; himself knew not in what wise he should wend from the world at last. For [3] princes potent, who placed the gold, with a curse to doomsday covered it deep, so that marked with sin the man should be, hedged with horrors, in hell-bonds fast, racked with plagues, who should rob their hoard. Yet no greed for gold, but the grace of heaven, ever the king had kept in view. [4] Wiglaf spake, the son of Weohstan:'At the mandate of one, oft warriors many sorrow must suffer; and so must we. The people's-shepherd showed not aught of care for our counsel, king beloved! That guardian of gold he should grapple not, urged we, but let him lie where he long had been in his earth-hall waiting the end of the world, the hest of heaven. - This hoard is ours but grievously gotten; too grim the fate which thither carried our king and lord. I was within there, and all I viewed, the chambered treasure, when chance allowed me (and my path was made in no pleasant wise) under the earth-wall. Eager, I seized such heap from the hoard as hands could bear 122 and hurriedly carried it hither back to my liege and lord. Alive was he still, still wielding his wits. The wise old man spake much in his sorrow, and sent you greetings and bade that ye build, when he breathed no more, on the place of his balefire a barrow high, memorial mighty. Of men was he worthiest warrior wide earth o'er the while he had joy of his jewels and burg. Let us set out in haste now, the second time to see and search this store of treasure, these wall-hid wonders, - the way I show you, where, gathered near, ye may gaze your fill at broad-gold and rings. Let the bier, soon made, be all in order when out we come, our king and captain to carry thither - man beloved - where long he shall bide safe in the shelter of sovran God.' Then the bairn of Weohstan bade command, hardy chief, to heroes many that owned their homesteads, hither to bring firewood from far - o'er the folk they ruled for the famed-one's funeral. ' Fire shall devour and wan flames feed on the fearless warrior who oft stood stout in the iron-shower, when, sped from the string, a storm of arrows shot o'er the shield-wall: the shaft held firm, featly feathered, followed the barb.' And now the sage young son of Weohstan seven chose of the chieftain's thanes, the best he found that band within, and went with these warriors, one of eight, under hostile roof. In hand one bore a lighted torch and led the way. No lots they cast for keeping the hoard when once the warriors saw it in hall, altogether without a guardian, lying there lost. And little they mourned when they had hastily haled it out, dear-bought treasure! The dragon they cast, the worm, o'er the wall for the wave to take, and surges swallowed that shepherd of gems. 123 Then the woven gold on a wain was laden countless quite! - and the king was borne, hoary hero, to Hrones-Ness. XLIII THEN fashioned for him the folk of Geats firm on the earth a funeral-pile, and hung it with helmets and harness of war and breastplates bright, as the boon he asked; and they laid amid it the mighty chieftain, heroes mourning their master dear. Then on the hill that hugest of balefires the warriors wakened. Wood-smoke rose black over blaze, and blent was the roar of flame with weeping (the wind was still), till the fire had broken the frame of bones, hot at the heart. In heavy mood their misery moaned they, their master's death. Wailing her woe, the widow [1] old, her hair upbound, for Beowulf's death sung in her sorrow, and said full oft she dreaded the doleful days to come, deaths enow, and doom of battle, and shame. - The smoke by the sky was devoured. The folk of the Weders fashioned there on the headland a barrow broad and high, by ocean-farers far descried: in ten days' time their toil had raised it, the battle-brave's beacon. Round brands of the pyre a wall they built, the worthiest ever that wit could prompt in their wisest men. They placed in the barrow that precious booty, the rounds and the rings they had reft erewhile, hardy heroes, from hoard in cave, trusting the ground with treasure of earls, gold in the earth, where ever it lies useless to men as of yore it was. Then about that barrow the battle-keen rode, atheling-born, a band of twelve, lament to make, to mourn their king, chant their dirge, and their chieftain honor. 124 They praised his earlship, his acts of prowess worthily witnessed: and well it is that men their master-friend mightily laud, heartily love, when hence he goes from life in the body forlorn away. Thus made their mourning the men of Geatland, for their hero's passing his hearth-companions: quoth that of all the kings of earth, of men he was mildest and most beloved, to his kin the kindest, keenest for praise. ~ Charles Baudelaire,