TOPICS

SEE ALSO

AUTH

BOOKS

Advanced_Dungeons_and_Dragons_2E

Big_Mind,_Big_Heart

DND_DM_Guide_5E

DND_MM_5E

DND_PH_5E

Dune

Enchiridion_text

Evolution_II

Faust

General_Principles_of_Kabbalah

Heart_of_Matter

Hundred_Thousand_Songs_of_Milarepa

Infinite_Library

Journey_to_the_Lord_of_Power_-_A_Sufi_Manual_on_Retreat

Know_Yourself

The_Divine_Milieu

The_Essential_Songs_of_Milarepa

The_Gateless_Gate

The_Seals_of_Wisdom

the_Stack

The_Way_of_Perfection

IN CHAPTERS TITLE

1.046_-_The_Dunes

1.25_-_DUNGEON

1f.lovecraft_-_The_Dunwich_Horror

1.lovecraft_-_On_Reading_Lord_Dunsanys_Book_Of_Wonder

1.rt_-_Dungeon

1.tr_-_Yes,_Im_Truly_A_Dunce

IN CHAPTERS CLASSNAME

IN CHAPTERS TEXT

0.00_-_THE_GOSPEL_PREFACE

01.09_-_William_Blake:_The_Marriage_of_Heaven_and_Hell

0_1958-09-16_-_OM_NAMO_BHAGAVATEH

0_1960-12-02

0_1963-04-25

0_1964-08-08

0_1965-05-05

0_1966-11-19

0_1969-05-03

0_1969-08-23

0_1969-12-17

0_1970-01-07

0_1973-01-17

02.03_-_The_Shakespearean_Word

02.05_-_Robert_Graves

02.05_-_The_Godheads_of_the_Little_Life

02.07_-_The_Descent_into_Night

03.04_-_The_Vision_and_the_Boon

03.05_-_The_Spiritual_Genius_of_India

04.01_-_The_Birth_and_Childhood_of_the_Flame

07.04_-_The_Triple_Soul-Forces

07.32_-_The_Yogic_Centres

1.00a_-_Introduction

1.00_-_PROLOGUE_IN_HEAVEN

1.01_-_NIGHT

1.02_-_BOOK_THE_SECOND

1.02_-_MAPS_OF_MEANING_-_THREE_LEVELS_OF_ANALYSIS

1.02_-_The_Human_Soul

1.02_-_The_Three_European_Worlds

1.03_-_BOOK_THE_THIRD

1.03_-_Tara,_Liberator_from_the_Eight_Dangers

1.03_-_THE_EARTH_IN_ITS_EARLY_STAGES

1.03_-_The_Sephiros

1.03_-_To_Layman_Ishii

1.046_-_The_Dunes

1.04_-_GOD_IN_THE_WORLD

1.04_-_Sounds

1.04_-_The_Crossing_of_the_First_Threshold

1.04_-_The_Gods_of_the_Veda

1.04_-_The_Paths

1.052_-_Yoga_Practice_-_A_Series_of_Positive_Steps

1.05_-_Adam_Kadmon

1.05_-_Prayer

1.05_-_THE_HOSTILE_BROTHERS_-_ARCHETYPES_OF_RESPONSE_TO_THE_UNKNOWN

1.05_-_War_And_Politics

1.06_-_MORTIFICATION,_NON-ATTACHMENT,_RIGHT_LIVELIHOOD

1.06_-_The_Sign_of_the_Fishes

1.07_-_A_Song_of_Longing_for_Tara,_the_Infallible

1.07_-_Medicine_and_Psycho_therapy

1.07_-_On_mourning_which_causes_joy.

1.07_-_The_Literal_Qabalah_(continued)

1.08_-_Independence_from_the_Physical

1.08_-_THE_MASTERS_BIRTHDAY_CELEBRATION_AT_DAKSHINESWAR

11.03_-_Cosmonautics

1.10_-_Aesthetic_and_Ethical_Culture

1.10_-_Harmony

11.14_-_Our_Finest_Hour

1.11_-_The_Change_of_Power

1.11_-_WITH_THE_DEVOTEES_AT_DAKSHINEWAR

1.11_-_Woolly_Pomposities_of_the_Pious_Teacher

1.12_-_THE_FESTIVAL_AT_PNIHTI

1.12_-_The_Left-Hand_Path_-_The_Black_Brothers

1.14_-_The_Victory_Over_Death

1.15_-_On_incorruptible_purity_and_chastity_to_which_the_corruptible_attain_by_toil_and_sweat.

1.15_-_The_Violent_against_Nature._Brunetto_Latini.

1.18_-_Hiranyakasipu's_reiterated_attempts_to_destroy_his_son

1.20_-_Tabooed_Persons

1.22_-_EMOTIONALISM

1.23_-_DREARY_DAY

1.240_-_1.300_Talks

1.240_-_Talks_2

1.24_-_Necromancy_and_Spiritism

1.25_-_DUNGEON

1.25_-_On_the_destroyer_of_the_passions,_most_sublime_humility,_which_is_rooted_in_spiritual_feeling.

1.25_-_The_Knot_of_Matter

1.27_-_On_holy_solitude_of_body_and_soul.

1.28_-_The_Killing_of_the_Tree-Spirit

1.29_-_Concerning_heaven_on_earth,_or_godlike_dispassion_and_perfection,_and_the_resurrection_of_the_soul_before_the_general_resurrection.

1.34_-_Fourth_Division_of_the_Ninth_Circle,_the_Judecca__Traitors_to_their_Lords_and_Benefactors._Lucifer,_Judas_Iscariot,_Brutus,_and_Cassius._The_Chasm_of_Lethe._The_Ascent.

1.3.5.01_-_The_Law_of_the_Way

1.35_-_Attis_as_a_God_of_Vegetation

14.01_-_To_Read_Sri_Aurobindo

1.45_-_The_Corn-Mother_and_the_Corn-Maiden_in_Northern_Europe

1.47_-_Lityerses

1.48_-_The_Corn-Spirit_as_an_Animal

1.50_-_Eating_the_God

1.51_-_Homeopathic_Magic_of_a_Flesh_Diet

1.55_-_The_Transference_of_Evil

1.57_-_Public_Scapegoats

1.64_-_The_Burning_of_Human_Beings_in_the_Fires

1.74_-_Obstacles_on_the_Path

18.02_-_Ramprasad

1916_12_08p

1953-08-12

1954-03-03_-_Occultism_-_A_French_scientists_experiment

1954-05-19_-_Affection_and_love_-_Psychic_vision_Divine_-_Love_and_receptivity_-_Get_out_of_the_ego

1957-07-10_-_A_new_world_is_born_-_Overmind_creation_dissolved

1957-08-21_-_The_Ashram_and_true_communal_life_-_Level_of_consciousness_in_the_Ashram

1969_12_15

1970_01_06

1.A_-_ANTHROPOLOGY,_THE_SOUL

1.ac_-_Leah_Sublime

1.ac_-_The_Twins

1.anon_-_Less_profitable

1.anon_-_The_Poem_of_Antar

1.anon_-_The_Poem_of_Imru-Ul-Quais

1f.lovecraft_-_A_Reminiscence_of_Dr._Samuel_Johnson

1f.lovecraft_-_At_the_Mountains_of_Madness

1f.lovecraft_-_Deaf,_Dumb,_and_Blind

1f.lovecraft_-_The_Battle_that_Ended_the_Century

1f.lovecraft_-_The_Call_of_Cthulhu

1f.lovecraft_-_The_Case_of_Charles_Dexter_Ward

1f.lovecraft_-_The_Colour_out_of_Space

1f.lovecraft_-_The_Dunwich_Horror

1f.lovecraft_-_The_Nameless_City

1f.lovecraft_-_The_Night_Ocean

1f.lovecraft_-_The_Rats_in_the_Walls

1f.lovecraft_-_The_Shadow_out_of_Time

1f.lovecraft_-_The_Shadow_over_Innsmouth

1f.lovecraft_-_The_Silver_Key

1f.lovecraft_-_Under_the_Pyramids

1.fs_-_The_Celebrated_Woman_-_An_Epistle_By_A_Married_Man

1.fs_-_The_Gods_Of_Greece

1.fs_-_The_Ideal_And_The_Actual_Life

1.jk_-_Answer_To_A_Sonnet_By_J.H.Reynolds

1.jk_-_Endymion_-_Book_I

1.jk_-_Endymion_-_Book_II

1.jk_-_Endymion_-_Book_III

1.jk_-_Endymion_-_Book_IV

1.jk_-_Hyperion._Book_II

1.jk_-_Isabella;_Or,_The_Pot_Of_Basil_-_A_Story_From_Boccaccio

1.jk_-_Lines_To_Fanny

1.jk_-_Otho_The_Great_-_Act_I

1.jk_-_Sonnet._Written_In_Answer_To_A_Sonnet_By_J._H._Reynolds

1.jk_-_Staffa

1.jk_-_The_Cap_And_Bells;_Or,_The_Jealousies_-_A_Faery_Tale_.._Unfinished

1.jk_-_The_Gadfly

1.ki_-_Buddha_Law

1.ki_-_Dont_weep,_insects

1.ki_-_Just_by_being

1.ki_-_Where_there_are_humans

1.lovecraft_-_On_Reading_Lord_Dunsanys_Book_Of_Wonder

1.lovecraft_-_The_Ancient_Track

1.lovecraft_-_The_House

1.lovecraft_-_To_Edward_John_Moreton_Drax_Plunkelt,

1.pbs_-_Alastor_-_or,_the_Spirit_of_Solitude

1.pbs_-_Charles_The_First

1.pbs_-_Epipsychidion_-_Passages_Of_The_Poem,_Or_Connected_Therewith

1.pbs_-_Hymn_To_Mercury

1.pbs_-_Julian_and_Maddalo_-_A_Conversation

1.pbs_-_Letter_To_Maria_Gisborne

1.pbs_-_Lines_Written_Among_The_Euganean_Hills

1.pbs_-_Marenghi

1.pbs_-_Oedipus_Tyrannus_or_Swellfoot_The_Tyrant

1.pbs_-_Queen_Mab_-_Part_III.

1.pbs_-_Queen_Mab_-_Part_IV.

1.pbs_-_Queen_Mab_-_Part_IX.

1.pbs_-_Queen_Mab_-_Part_V.

1.pbs_-_Rosalind_and_Helen_-_a_Modern_Eclogue

1.pbs_-_Scenes_From_The_Faust_Of_Goethe

1.pbs_-_The_Cenci_-_A_Tragedy_In_Five_Acts

1.pbs_-_The_Daemon_Of_The_World

1.pbs_-_The_Pine_Forest_Of_The_Cascine_Near_Pisa

1.pbs_-_The_Revolt_Of_Islam_-_Canto_I-XII

1.pbs_-_The_Triumph_Of_Life

1.pbs_-_The_Witch_Of_Atlas

1.pbs_-_To_Jane_-_The_Invitation

1.pbs_-_Ugolino

1.poe_-_An_Enigma

1.poe_-_Eureka_-_A_Prose_Poem

1.poe_-_The_Power_Of_Words_Oinos.

1.rb_-_Aix_In_Provence

1.rb_-_Childe_Roland_To_The_Dark_Tower_Came

1.rb_-_Pippa_Passes_-_Part_III_-_Evening

1.rb_-_Sordello_-_Book_the_Second

1.rb_-_The_Flight_Of_The_Duchess

1.rmr_-_Fear_of_the_Inexplicable

1.rt_-_Dungeon

1.rt_-_Gitanjali

1.rwe_-_May-Day

1.rwe_-_The_Adirondacs

1.rwe_-_The_River_Note

1.tr_-_Yes,_Im_Truly_A_Dunce

1.wby_-_Cuchulains_Fight_With_The_Sea

1.wby_-_Ego_Dominus_Tuus

1.wby_-_The_Wanderings_Of_Oisin_-_Book_I

1.wby_-_Under_The_Moon

1.wby_-_Why_Should_Not_Old_Men_Be_Mad?

1.whitman_-_As_I_Sat_Alone_By_Blue_Ontarios_Shores

1.whitman_-_Song_of_Myself

1.whitman_-_Song_Of_Myself-_XLI

1.whitman_-_Song_Of_Myself-_XXIV

1.whitman_-_To_Think_Of_Time

1.ww_-_24_-_Walt_Whitman,_a_cosmos,_of_Manhattan_the_son

1.ww_-_A_Character

1.ww_-_Book_First_[Introduction-Childhood_and_School_Time]

1.ww_-_Book_Sixth_[Cambridge_and_the_Alps]

1.ww_-_Book_Tenth_{Residence_in_France_continued]

1.ww_-_Book_Third_[Residence_at_Cambridge]

1.ww_-_In_The_Pass_Of_Killicranky

1.ww_-_Is_There_A_Power_That_Can_Sustain_And_Cheer

1.ww_-_Laodamia

1.ww_-_Michael-_A_Pastoral_Poem

1.ww_-_Stray_Pleasures

1.ww_-_The_Affliction_Of_Margaret

1.ww_-_The_Horn_Of_Egremont_Castle

1.ww_-_The_Idle_Shepherd_Boys

1.ww_-_The_Waggoner_-_Canto_First

1.ww_-_To_Toussaint_LOuverture

1.ww_-_Translation_Of_Part_Of_The_First_Book_Of_The_Aeneid

2.01_-_AT_THE_STAR_THEATRE

2.01_-_Mandala_One

2.01_-_THE_ADVENT_OF_LIFE

2.02_-_THE_EXPANSION_OF_LIFE

2.02_-_The_Ishavasyopanishad_with_a_commentary_in_English

2.03_-_The_Pyx

2.04_-_Absence_Of_Secondary_Qualities

2.04_-_ADVICE_TO_ISHAN

2.08_-_Three_Tales_of_Madness_and_Destruction

2.1.03_-_Man_and_Superman

2.11_-_WITH_THE_DEVOTEES_IN_CALCUTTA

2.1.7.08_-_Comments_on_Specific_Lines_and_Passages_of_the_Poem

2.20_-_ON_REDEMPTION

2.22_-_1941-1943

2.2.7.01_-_Some_General_Remarks

2.27_-_Hathayoga

3.01_-_THE_BIRTH_OF_THOUGHT

3.02_-_THE_DEPLOYMENT_OF_THE_NOOSPHERE

3.05_-_Cerberus_And_Furies,_And_That_Lack_Of_Light

3.06_-_Death

3.1.01_-_The_Problem_of_Suffering_and_Evil

3.1.05_-_A_Vision_of_Science

31.09_-_The_Cause_of_Indias_Decline

3.10_-_Of_the_Gestures

3.11_-_Spells

3.12_-_Of_the_Bloody_Sacrifice

3.17_-_Of_the_License_to_Depart

3.20_-_Of_the_Eucharist

3.21_-_Of_Black_Magic

33.06_-_Alipore_Court

3.7.1.12_-_Karma_and_Justice

4.02_-_BEYOND_THE_COLLECTIVE_-_THE_HYPER-PERSONAL

4.04_-_Conclusion

4.05_-_THE_DARK_SIDE_OF_THE_KING

4.2_-_Karma

4.43_-_Chapter_Three

5.04_-_Three_Dreams

5.4.01_-_Notes_on_Root-Sounds

5_-_The_Phenomenology_of_the_Spirit_in_Fairytales

6.02_-_STAGES_OF_THE_CONJUNCTION

6.0_-_Conscious,_Unconscious,_and_Individuation

7.05_-_Patience_and_Perseverance

7_-_Yoga_of_Sri_Aurobindo

Aeneid

Appendix_4_-_Priest_Spells

APPENDIX_I_-_Curriculum_of_A._A.

Blazing_P3_-_Explore_the_Stages_of_Postconventional_Consciousness

BOOK_II._--_PART_I._ANTHROPOGENESIS.

BOOK_II._--_PART_III._ADDENDA._SCIENCE_AND_THE_SECRET_DOCTRINE_CONTRASTED

BOOK_II._--_PART_II._THE_ARCHAIC_SYMBOLISM_OF_THE_WORLD-RELIGIONS

BOOK_I._--_PART_I._COSMIC_EVOLUTION

BOOK_I._--_PART_III._SCIENCE_AND_THE_SECRET_DOCTRINE_CONTRASTED

Book_of_Exodus

Book_of_Genesis

Book_of_Imaginary_Beings_(text)

BOOK_VII._-_Of_the_select_gods_of_the_civil_theology,_and_that_eternal_life_is_not_obtained_by_worshipping_them

BOOK_XIV._-_Of_the_punishment_and_results_of_mans_first_sin,_and_of_the_propagation_of_man_without_lust

BOOK_XVIII._-_A_parallel_history_of_the_earthly_and_heavenly_cities_from_the_time_of_Abraham_to_the_end_of_the_world

BOOK_XVII._-_The_history_of_the_city_of_God_from_the_times_of_the_prophets_to_Christ

BOOK_XXI._-_Of_the_eternal_punishment_of_the_wicked_in_hell,_and_of_the_various_objections_urged_against_it

Cratylus

ENNEAD_05.01_-_The_Three_Principal_Hypostases,_or_Forms_of_Existence.

ENNEAD_06.05_-_The_One_and_Identical_Being_is_Everywhere_Present_In_Its_Entirety.345

Euthyphro

IS_-_Chapter_1

I._THE_ATTRACTIVE_POWER_OF_GOD

Jaap_Sahib_Text_(Guru_Gobind_Singh)

Kafka_and_His_Precursors

Liber

Liber_111_-_The_Book_of_Wisdom_-_LIBER_ALEPH_VEL_CXI

Liber_46_-_The_Key_of_the_Mysteries

MoM_References

r1914_03_27

r1917_01_26

r1920_06_07

Sayings_of_Sri_Ramakrishna_(text)

Symposium_translated_by_B_Jowett

Tablets_of_Baha_u_llah_text

Talks_026-050

Talks_With_Sri_Aurobindo_1

Talks_With_Sri_Aurobindo_2

The_Act_of_Creation_text

Theaetetus

The_Aleph

The_Book_of_Job

The_Book_of_the_Prophet_Isaiah

The_Dwellings_of_the_Philosophers

The_Epistle_of_Paul_to_the_Philippians

The_Gospel_According_to_Luke

The_Gospel_of_Thomas

The_Immortal

The_Logomachy_of_Zos

The_Pilgrims_Progress

The_Waiting

The_Wall_and_the_BOoks

Thus_Spoke_Zarathustra_text

Timaeus

Verses_of_Vemana

PRIMARY CLASS

Place

SIMILAR TITLES

Advanced Dungeons and Dragons 2E

DanMachi Is It Wrong to Try to Pick Up Girls in a Dungeon

dun

Dune

dungeon

Dungeons and Dragons

Ibn Khaldun

The Duncan Trussell Family Hour

The Entrance to the Dungeon

the Entrance to the Dungeon

TERMS STARTING WITH

dunbird ::: n. --> The pochard; -- called also dunair, and dunker, or dun-curre.
An American duck; the ruddy duck.

duncedom ::: n. --> The realm or domain of dunces.

dunce ::: n. --> One backward in book learning; a child or other person dull or weak in intellect; a dullard; a dolt.

duncery ::: n. --> Dullness; stupidity.

duncical ::: a. --> Like a dunce; duncish.

duncify ::: v. t. --> To make stupid in intellect.

duncish ::: a. --> Somewhat like a dunce.

dun ::: dark and gloomy.

dunder-headed ::: a. --> Thick-headed; stupid.

dunderhead ::: n. --> A dunce; a numskull; a blockhead.

dunder ::: n. --> The lees or dregs of cane juice, used in the distillation of rum.

dunderpate ::: n. --> See Dunderhead.

dundubhi. See DRUM

dune ::: n. --> A low hill of drifting sand usually formed on the coats, but often carried far inland by the prevailing winds.

dunfish ::: n. --> Codfish cured in a particular manner, so as to be of a superior quality.

dungaree ::: n. --> A coarse kind of unbleached cotton stuff.

dunged ::: imp. & p. p. --> of Dung

dungen 鈍根. See MṚDVINDRIYA

dungeon ::: a dark, often underground chamber or cell used to confine prisoners. (Sri Aurobindo employs the word as an adjective.)

dungeon ::: n. --> A close, dark prison, common/, under ground, as if the lower apartments of the donjon or keep of a castle, these being used as prisons. ::: v. t. --> To shut up in a dungeon.

dungfork ::: n. --> A fork for tossing dung.

dunghill ::: n. --> A heap of dung.
Any mean situation or condition; a vile abode.

dunging ::: p. pr. & vb. n. --> of Dung

dungmeer ::: n. --> A pit where dung and weeds rot for manure.

dung ::: --> of Ding ::: n. --> The excrement of an animal. ::: v. t.

dungy ::: a. --> Full of dung; filthy; vile; low.

dungyard ::: n. --> A yard where dung is collected.

dunjiao. (J. tongyo; K. ton'gyo 頓教). In Chinese, "sudden teachings," or "subitism"; a polemical term used by HOZE SHENHUI in the so-called "Southern school" (NAN ZONG) of Chan to disparage his rival "Northern school" (BEI ZONG) as a gradualist, and therefore inferior, presentation of Chan teachings and practice. Unlike the Northern school's more traditional soteriological approach, which was claimed to involve gradual purification of the mind so that defilements would be removed and the mind's innate purity revealed, the Southern school instead claimed to offer immediate access to enlightenment itself (viz., "sudden awakening"; see DUNWU) without the necessity of preparatory practices or conceptual mediation. See also LIUZU TAN JING. ¶ The "sudden teaching" (dunjiao) was also the fourth of the five classifications of the teachings in the Huayan school (see HUAYAN WUJIAO), as outlined by DUSHUN and FAZANG (643-712). In a Huayan context, the sudden teachings were ranked as a unique category of subitist teachings befitting sharp people of keen spiritual faculties (S. TĪKsNENDRIYA), which therefore bypassed systematic approaches to enlightenment. Huayan thus treats the Chan school's touted methods involving sudden enlightenment (dunwu) and its rejection of reliance on written texts (BULI WENZI) as inferior to the fifth and final category of the "perfect" or "consummate teaching" (YUANJIAO), which was reserved for the HUAYAN ZONG.

dunjiao

dunker ::: n. --> One of a religious denomination whose tenets and practices are mainly those of the Baptists, but partly those of the Quakers; -- called also Tunkers, Dunkards, Dippers, and, by themselves, Brethren, and German Baptists.

dunlin ::: n. --> A species of sandpiper (Tringa alpina); -- called also churr, dorbie, grass bird, and red-backed sandpiper. It is found both in Europe and America.

dunnage ::: n. --> Fagots, boughs, or loose materials of any kind, laid on the bottom of the hold for the cargo to rest upon to prevent injury by water, or stowed among casks and other cargo to prevent their motion.

dun ::: n. --> A mound or small hill.
One who duns; a dunner.
An urgent request or demand of payment; as, he sent his debtor a dun. ::: v. t. --> To cure, as codfish, in a particular manner, by laying

dunned ::: imp. & p. p. --> of Dun

dunner ::: n. --> One employed in soliciting the payment of debts.

dunning ::: p. pr. & vb. n. --> of Dun

dunnish ::: a. --> Inclined to a dun color.

dunnock ::: a. --> The hedge sparrow or hedge accentor.

dunny ::: a. --> Deaf; stupid.

dunted ::: a. --> Beaten; hence, blunted.

dunter ::: n. --> A porpoise.

dunt ::: n. --> A blow.

dunwu jianxiu. (J. tongo zenshu; K. tono chomsu 頓悟漸修). In Chinese, "sudden awakening [followed by] gradual cultivation"; a path (MĀRGA) schema emblematic of such CHAN masters as GUIFENG ZONGMI (780-841) in the Chinese Heze school of Chan, and POJO CHINUL (1158-1210) of the Korean CHOGYE school of Son. In this outline of the Chan mārga, true spiritual practice begins with an initial insight into one's true nature (viz., "seeing the nature"; JIANXING), through which the Chan adept comes to know that he is not a deluded sentient being but is in fact a buddha. This experience is called the "understanding-awakening" (JIEWU) and is functionally equivalent to the path of vision (DARsANAMĀRGA) in ABHIDHARMA path systems. Simply knowing that one is a buddha through this sudden awakening of understanding, however, is not sufficient in itself to generate the complete, perfect enlightenment of buddhahood (ANUTTARASAMYAKSAMBODHI) and thus to ensure that one will always be able to act on that potential. Only after continued gradual cultivation (jianxiu) following this initial understanding-awakening will one remove the habituations(VĀSANĀ) that have been engrained in the mind for an essentially infinite amount of time, so that one will not only be a buddha, but will be able to act as one as well. That point where knowledge and action fully correspond marks the final "realization-awakening" (ZHENGWU) and is the point at which buddhahood is truly achieved. This soteriological process is compared by Zongmi and Chinul to that of an infant who is born with all the faculties of a human being (the sudden understanding-awakening) but who still needs to go a long process of maturation (gradual cultivation) before he will be able to live up to his full potential as an adult human being (realization-awakening). See also WU.

dunwu jianxiu

dunwu. (J. tongo; K. tono 頓悟). In Chinese, "sudden awakening," or "sudden enlightenment"; the experience described in the CHAN school that "seeing the nature" (JIANXING) itself is sufficient to enable the adept to realize one's innate buddhahood (JIANXING CHENGFO). The idea of a subitist approach (DUNJIAO) to awakening was also used polemically by HOZE SHENHUI in the so-called "Southern school" (NAN ZONG) of Chan to disparage his rival "Northern school" (BEIZONG) as a gradualist, and therefore inferior, presentation of Chan soteriological teachings. Although debates over gradual vs. sudden enlightenment are most commonly associated with the East Asian Chan schools, there are also precedents in Indian Buddhism. The so-called BSAM YAS DEBATE, or "Council of LHA SA," that took place in Tibet at the end of the eighth century is said to have pitted the Indian monk KAMALAsĪLA against the Northern Chan monk HESHANGMOHEYAN in a debate over gradual enlightenment vs. sudden enlightenment. ¶ In two-tiered path (MĀRGA) schemata, such as "sudden awakening [followed by] gradual cultivation" (DUNWU JIANXIU), this initial experience of sudden awakening constitutes an "understanding-awakening" (JIEWU), in which the adept comes to know that he is not a deluded sentient being but is in fact a buddha. (In this context, the understanding-awakening is functionally equivalent to the path of vision [DARsANAMĀRGA] in ABHIDHARMA path systems.) But this sudden awakening is not sufficient in itself to generate the complete, perfect enlightenment of buddhahood (ANUTTARASAMYAKSAMBODHI), where one is able to manifest all the potential inherent in that exalted state. That realization comes only through continued gradual cultivation (jianxiu) following this initial sudden awakening, so that one will learn not only to be a buddha but to act as one as well. That point where knowledge and action fully correspond marks the final "realization-awakening" (ZHENGWU) and is the point at which buddhahood is truly achieved. See also WU; JIANWU.

dunwu

dunyā ::: literally 'nearest', the present world, the present life or state of existence; the people of this world, people; a whole world, a multitude; worldly enjoyments, temporal possessions.

dunya :::   material world

Dunahel [Alimiel]

Dunamis (Greek) Potency; used by Aristotle in contrast to energeia (act), for the invisible aspect of the universe as opposed to the visible or manifest; equivalent to Plato’s noeton (intelligible) and aistheton (sensible) (FSO 194).

Dunam ::: Unit of land area used in Israel (1,000 sq. meters., approximately 1/4 acre).

Dung dkar. (Dungkar). A valley in western Tibet (Mnga' ris) about thirty kilometers from THO LING with 1,150 caves, most of which were used as dwellings but twenty of which are cave temples with mural paintings. The area appears to have become the capital of the Pu rang GU GE kingdom at the beginning of the twelfth century, and the cave temples with mural paintings and mud sculptures were probably founded by the descendents of the Gu ge royal family during that period. Of the three main caves, the most important has statues of the seven buddhas of the past (SAPTATATHĀGATA) and the future buddha MAITREYA, a ceiling mural of the VAJRADHĀTU MAndALA, and walls covered with bodhisattvas. Another has a GUHYASAMĀJA MAndALA, suggesting development at a later period. The caves have been documented a number of times, first by GIUSEPPE TUCCI in the 1930s.

Dung dkar

Dungeon {Zork}

Dungkar. See DUNG DKAR

Dunhuang. (J. Tonko; K. Tonhwang 敦煌). A northwest Chinese garrison town on the edge of the Taklamakan desert in Central Asia, first established in the Han dynasty and an important stop along the ancient SILK ROAD; still seen written also as Tun-huang, followed the older Wade-Giles transcription. Today an oasis town in China's Gansu province, Dunhuang is often used to refer to the nearby complex of approximately five hunded Buddhist caves, including the MOGAO KU (Peerless Caves) to the southeast of town and the QIANFO DONG (Caves of the Thousand Buddhas) about twenty miles to the west. Excavations to build the caves at the Mogao site began in the late-fourth century CE and continued into the mid-fourteenth century CE. Of the more than one thousand caves that were hewn from the cliff face, roughly half were decorated. Along with the cave sites of LONGMEN and YUNGANG further east and BEZEKLIK and KIZIL to the west, the Mogao grottoes contain some of the most spectacular examples of ancient Buddhist sculpture and wall painting to be found anywhere in the world. Legend has it that in 366 CE a wandering monk named Yuezun had a vision of a thousand golden buddhas at a site along some cliffs bordering a creek and excavated the first cave in the cliffs for his meditation practice. Soon afterward, additional caves were excavated and the first monasteries established to serve the needs of the monks and merchants traveling to and from China along the Silk Road. The caves were largely abandoned in the fourteenth century. In the early twentieth century, Wang Yuanlu (1849-1931), self-appointed guardian of the Dunhuang caves, discovered a large cache of ancient manuscripts and paintings in Cave 17, a side chamber of the larger Cave 16. As rumors of these manuscripts reached Europe, explorer-scholars such as SIR MARC AUREL STEIN and PAUL PELLIOT set out across Central Asia to obtain samples of ancient texts and artwork buried in the ruins of the Taklamakan desert. Inside were hundreds of paintings on silk and tens of thousands of manuscripts dating from the fifth to roughly the eleventh centuries CE, forming what has been described as the world's earliest and largest paper archive. The texts were written in more than a dozen languages, including Chinese, Tibetan, Sanskrit, Sogdian, Uighur, Khotanese, Tangut, and TOCHARIAN and consisted of paper scrolls, wooden tablets, and one of the world's earliest printed books (868 CE), a copy of the VAJRACCHEDIKĀPRAJNĀPĀRAMITĀSuTRA ("Diamond Sutra"). In the seventh-century, a Tibetan garrison was based at Dunhuang, and materials discovered in the library cave also include some of the earliest documents in the Tibetan language. This hidden library cave was apparently sealed in the eleventh century. As a result of the competition between European, American, and Japanese institutions to acquire documents from Dunhuang, the material was dispersed among collections world-wide, making access to all the manuscripts difficult. Many items have still not been properly catalogued or conserved and there are scholarly disputes over what quantity of the materials are modern forgeries. In 1944 the Dunhuang Academy was established to document and study the site and in 1980 the site was opened to the public. In 1987 the Dunhuang caves were listed as a UNESCO World Heritage site and today are being preserved through the efforts of both Chinese and international groups.

Dunhuang

Dunlap, Knight. Religion, Its Functions in Human Life.

Duns Scotus, John: (1266/74-1308) Doctor Subtilis, was born somewhere in the British Isles, studied at the Franciscan monastery at Dumfries and at Oxford before 1290. He studied at Pans for four years, then taught theology at Oxford from 1300-1302, at Pans from 1302-1303, when he was banished for his opposition to King Philip IV. He received his doctorate at Paris in 1305 and went to Cologne in 1307, where he died. He is the most distinguished medieval defender of the view that universals which have "haeccity" (q.v.) as well as quiddity. His realism was adopted by Charles Peirce (q.v.) works: De Primo Principio, Quaestionis in Metaphysicam, Opus Oxoniense, Reportata Parisiensia (Opera Omnia, Paris, 1891-5).

Dunwu rudao yaomen lun. (J. Tongo nyudo yomonron; K. Tono ipto yomun non 頓悟入道要門論). In Chinese, "Treatise on the Essential Gate of Entering the Way through Sudden Awakening," composed by the Tang dynasty CHAN master DAZHU HUIHAI (d.u.); also known as the Dunwu yaomen. The monk Miaoxie (d.u.) discovered this text in a box and published it in 1369 together with Dazhu's recorded sayings that he selectively culled from the JINGDE CHUANDENG LU. Miaoxie's edition is comprised of two rolls. The first roll contains Dazhu's text the Dunwu rudao yaomen lun, and the second contains his sayings, which Miaoxie entitled the Zhufang menren canwen yulu. A preface to this edition was prepared by the monk Chongyu (1304-1378). The Dunwu rudao yaomen lun focuses on the notion of "sudden awakening" (DUNWU) and attempts to explicate various doctrinal concepts, such as sĪLA, DHYĀNA, PRAJNĀ, TATHATĀ, BUDDHA-NATURE (FOXING), and "no-thought" (WUNIAN), from the perspective of sudden awakening. The text explains sudden awakening as the "sudden" (dun) eradication of deluded thoughts and "awakening" (WU) to nonattainment or the fundamental absence of anything that needs to be achieved. Citing such scriptures as the LAnKĀVATĀRASuTRA and VIMALAKĪRTINIRDEsA, the text also contends that the mind itself is the foundation of cultivation and practice. The primary method of cultivation discussed in the text is seated meditation (ZUOCHAN), which it describes as the nonarising of deluded thoughts and seeing one's own nature (JIANXING). The Dunwu rudao yaomen lun also contends that sudden awakening begins with the perfection of giving (DĀNAPĀRAMITĀ).

Dunwu rudao yaomen lun


TERMS ANYWHERE

(1) The scholastic period begins with the Recognitio summularum of Alonso de la Veracruz (1554) and continues to the dawn of the nineteenth century. According to Ueberweg, the influence of Duns Scotus during this period was greater than that of Thomas Aquinas.

a- ::: --> A, as a prefix to English words, is derived from various sources. (1) It frequently signifies on or in (from an, a forms of AS. on), denoting a state, as in afoot, on foot, abed, amiss, asleep, aground, aloft, away (AS. onweg), and analogically, ablaze, atremble, etc. (2) AS. of off, from, as in adown (AS. ofd/ne off the dun or hill). (3) AS. a- (Goth. us-, ur-, Ger. er-), usually giving an intensive force, and sometimes the sense of away, on, back, as in arise, abide, ago. (4) Old English y- or i- (corrupted from the AS. inseparable particle ge-,

Adunai (Gnostic) Used by the Ophites and Nazarenes in connection with Iurbo. “Iurbo and Adunai, according to the Ophites, are names of Iao-Jehovah, one of the emanations of Ilda-Baoth”; and Adunai “under the polishing hand of Ezra becomes finally the later-vowelled Adonai of the Massorah — the One and Supreme God of the Christians” (IU 2:185, 131).

adunation ::: n. --> A uniting; union.

adunc ::: a. --> Alt. of Adunque

aduncity ::: n. --> Curvature inwards; hookedness.

aduncous ::: a. --> Curved inwards; hooked.

adunque ::: a. --> Hooked; as, a parrot has an adunc bill.

album graecum ::: --> Dung of dogs or hyenas, which becomes white by exposure to air. It is used in dressing leather, and was formerly used in medicine.

alderney ::: n. --> One of a breed of cattle raised in Alderney, one of the Channel Islands. Alderneys are of a dun or tawny color and are often called Jersey cattle. See Jersey, 3.

A. M. Turing, On computable numbers, with an application to the Entscheidungsproblem, Proceedings of the London Mathematical Society, ser. 2 vol. 42 (1937), pp. 230-265, and Correction, ibid., ser. 2 vol. 43 (1937), pp. 544-546.

anatifa ::: n. --> An animal of the barnacle tribe, of the genus Lepas, having a fleshy stem or peduncle; a goose barnacle. See Cirripedia.

Ashmogh (Pahlavi) Demon with disheveled hair of the race of wrath; Ahriman’s disciple who encourages Azhi-Dahak (Bevar-Aspa) to rise up in order to destroy mankind and shouts: “Now it is nine thousand years that Fereydun is not living; why do you not rise up, although thy fetters are not removed, when this world is full of people and they have brought them the enclosure which Yima formed?” (SBE 5:234).

Augustinianism. Alexander of Hales (+1245) is the founder of this line and the first great Scholastic to utilize all of Aristotle's works, whose terminology and concepts he adopted rather than the spirit. Others worthy of mention are John de la Rochelle (+1145), Adam of Marsh (+1258) and Thomas of York (+1260). The Metaphysica of this latter constitutes a milestone in philsophy's fight for autonomy. The outstanding representative of this group is Bonaventure (+1274), who combined great constructive ability with profound psychological and mystical insight. Prominent among his pupils were Matthew of Aquasparta (+1302), John Peckham (+1292), William de la Mare (+1298) and Walter of Brügge (+1306). Also prominent in this line are Roger of Marston, Richard of Middleton (+1308), a forerunner of Duns Scotus, William of Ware, Duns Scotus' master, and Peter Johannis Olivi (+1298). Among the Dominicans who belonged to this group should be mentioned Roland of Cremona, Peter of Tarantaise (+1276), Richard Fitzacre (+1248) and Robert Kilwardby (+1279). Among the secular clergy, although more independent in their allegiance, we may place here Gerard of Abbeville and Henri of Ghent (1293).

bate ::: n. --> Strife; contention.
See 2d Bath.
An alkaline solution consisting of the dung of certain animals; -- employed in the preparation of hides; grainer. ::: v. t. --> To lessen by retrenching, deducting, or reducing; to

dunbird ::: n. --> The pochard; -- called also dunair, and dunker, or dun-curre.
An American duck; the ruddy duck.

duncedom ::: n. --> The realm or domain of dunces.

dunce ::: n. --> One backward in book learning; a child or other person dull or weak in intellect; a dullard; a dolt.

duncery ::: n. --> Dullness; stupidity.

duncical ::: a. --> Like a dunce; duncish.

duncify ::: v. t. --> To make stupid in intellect.

duncish ::: a. --> Somewhat like a dunce.

dun ::: dark and gloomy.

dunder-headed ::: a. --> Thick-headed; stupid.

dunderhead ::: n. --> A dunce; a numskull; a blockhead.

dunder ::: n. --> The lees or dregs of cane juice, used in the distillation of rum.

dunderpate ::: n. --> See Dunderhead.

dune ::: n. --> A low hill of drifting sand usually formed on the coats, but often carried far inland by the prevailing winds.

dunfish ::: n. --> Codfish cured in a particular manner, so as to be of a superior quality.

dungaree ::: n. --> A coarse kind of unbleached cotton stuff.

dunged ::: imp. & p. p. --> of Dung

dungeon ::: a dark, often underground chamber or cell used to confine prisoners. (Sri Aurobindo employs the word as an adjective.)

dungeon ::: n. --> A close, dark prison, common/, under ground, as if the lower apartments of the donjon or keep of a castle, these being used as prisons. ::: v. t. --> To shut up in a dungeon.

dungfork ::: n. --> A fork for tossing dung.

dunghill ::: n. --> A heap of dung.
Any mean situation or condition; a vile abode.

dunging ::: p. pr. & vb. n. --> of Dung

dungmeer ::: n. --> A pit where dung and weeds rot for manure.

dung ::: --> of Ding ::: n. --> The excrement of an animal. ::: v. t.

dungy ::: a. --> Full of dung; filthy; vile; low.

dungyard ::: n. --> A yard where dung is collected.

dunker ::: n. --> One of a religious denomination whose tenets and practices are mainly those of the Baptists, but partly those of the Quakers; -- called also Tunkers, Dunkards, Dippers, and, by themselves, Brethren, and German Baptists.

dunlin ::: n. --> A species of sandpiper (Tringa alpina); -- called also churr, dorbie, grass bird, and red-backed sandpiper. It is found both in Europe and America.

dunnage ::: n. --> Fagots, boughs, or loose materials of any kind, laid on the bottom of the hold for the cargo to rest upon to prevent injury by water, or stowed among casks and other cargo to prevent their motion.

dun ::: n. --> A mound or small hill.
One who duns; a dunner.
An urgent request or demand of payment; as, he sent his debtor a dun. ::: v. t. --> To cure, as codfish, in a particular manner, by laying

dunned ::: imp. & p. p. --> of Dun

dunner ::: n. --> One employed in soliciting the payment of debts.

dunning ::: p. pr. & vb. n. --> of Dun

dunnish ::: a. --> Inclined to a dun color.

dunnock ::: a. --> The hedge sparrow or hedge accentor.

dunny ::: a. --> Deaf; stupid.

dunted ::: a. --> Beaten; hence, blunted.

dunter ::: n. --> A porpoise.

dunt ::: n. --> A blow.

dunya :::   material world

bedunged ::: imp. & p. p. --> of Bedung

bedung ::: v. t. --> To cover with dung, as for manuring; to bedaub or defile, literally or figuratively.

bescummer ::: v. t. --> To discharge ordure or dung upon.

black hole ::: --> A dungeon or dark cell in a prison; a military lock-up or guardroom; -- now commonly with allusion to the cell (the Black Hole) in a fort at Calcutta, into which 146 English prisoners were thrust by the nabob Suraja Dowla on the night of June 20, 17656, and in which 123 of the prisoners died before morning from lack of air.

Block Redundancy Check {Longitudinal Redundancy Check}

booby ::: n. --> A dunce; a stupid fellow.
A swimming bird (Sula fiber or S. sula) related to the common gannet, and found in the West Indies, nesting on the bare rocks. It is so called on account of its apparent stupidity. The name is also sometimes applied to other species of gannets; as, S. piscator, the red-footed booby.
A species of penguin of the antarctic seas.

Bose-Chaudhuri-Hocquenghem Code "data, communications" (BHC Code) An {error detection and correction} technique based on {Cyclic Redundancy Code}, used in telecommunications applications. (1995-01-16)

brachiopoda ::: n. --> A class of Molluscoidea having a symmetrical bivalve shell, often attached by a fleshy peduncle.

Bragi is synonymous with spiritual intuition which, united with the mind (Loki), is the means of human liberation. His consort, the goddess Idun, daily gives the gods the apples of immortality.

buzzard ::: n. --> A bird of prey of the Hawk family, belonging to the genus Buteo and related genera.
A blockhead; a dunce. ::: a. --> Senseless; stupid.

cardoon ::: n. --> A large herbaceous plant (Cynara Cardunculus) related to the artichoke; -- used in cookery and as a salad.

casings ::: n. pl. --> Dried dung of cattle used as fuel.

checksum "storage, communications" A computed value which depends on the contents of a block of data and which is transmitted or stored along with the data in order to detect corruption of the data. The receiving system recomputes the checksum based upon the received data and compares this value with the one sent with the data. If the two values are the same, the receiver has some confidence that the data was received correctly. The checksum may be 8 bits (modulo 256 sum), 16, 32, or some other size. It is computed by summing the bytes or words of the data block ignoring {overflow}. The checksum may be negated so that the total of the data words plus the checksum is zero. {Internet} {packets} use a 32-bit checksum. See also {digital signature}, {cyclic redundancy check}. (1996-03-01)

chucklehead ::: n. --> A person with a large head; a numskull; a dunce.

cittern-head ::: n. --> Blockhead; dunce; -- so called because the handle of a cittern usually ended with a carved head.

coadunate ::: a. --> United at the base, as contiguous lobes of a leaf.

coadunation ::: n. --> Union, as in one body or mass; unity.

Coadunation or Coadunition [from Latin coadunare to unify] Union; used in theosophical literature to define the interrelation of the globes of any planetary chain. Speaking of the earth-chain, “In short, as Globes, they are in co-adunition but not in consubstantiality with our earth and thus pertain to quite another state of consciousness” (SD 1:166). Were they consubstantial they would be on the same plane and of the same degree of manifested substance that our fourth-plane or physical globe earth is, whereas the higher globes are on different planes (cf SD 1:200, diagram). Yet they form one unitary system. Nevertheless, this must not be taken as implying that they occupy the same space. “Of course if there was anything in those ‘worlds’ approaching to the constitution of our globe it would be an utter fallacy, an absurdity to say that they are within our world and within each other (as they are) and that yet, they ‘do not intermingle together’ ” (Blavatsky Letters to Sinnett, 250).

coadunition ::: n. --> Coadunation.

comment out "programming" To surround a section of code with {comment} {delimiters} or to prefix every line in the section with a comment marker. This prevents it from being compiled or interpreted. It is often done to temporarily disable the code, e.g. during {debugging} or when the code is redundant or obsolete, but is being left in the source to make the intent of the active code clearer. The word "comment" is sometimes replaced with whatever {syntax} is used to mark comments in the language in question, e.g. "hash out" ({shell script}, {Perl}), "REM out" ({BASIC}), etc. Compare {condition out}. [{Jargon File}] (1998-04-28)

Computer Generation Incorporated "company" (CGI) A US software development company and systems integrator. {(http://compgen.com/)}. E-mail: Paul G. Smith "pauls@compgen.com" Telephone: +1 (404) 705 2800 Address: Bldg. G, 4th Floor, 5775 Peachtree-Dunwoody Rd., Atlanta, GA 30342, USA. (1997-02-11)

computer programming language "spelling" A somewhat redundant term for {programming language}. (2014-10-18)

Consubstantiality. See COADUNATION

coprolite ::: n. --> A piece of petrified dung; a fossil excrement.

coprophagan ::: n. --> A kind of beetle which feeds upon dung.

coprophagous ::: a. --> Feeding upon dung, as certain insects.

Cosmos ::: Whenever a theosophist speaks of the cosmos or the universe, he by no means refers only to the physicalsphere or world or cross section of the boundless All in which we humans live, but more particularly tothe invisible worlds and planes and spheres inhabited by their countless hosts of vitalized or animatebeings. In order to avoid redundancy of words and often confusing repetitions in the midst of anexplanation dealing with other matters, since H. P. Blavatsky's time it has been customary among carefultheosophical writers to draw a distinction of fact between cosmos and kosmos. The solar universe orsolar system is frequently referred to as cosmos or solar cosmos; and the galactic universe or our ownhome-universe it has been customary to refer to as the kosmos. This distinction, however, does notalways hold, because sometimes in dealing with abstract questions where the application of the thoughtcan be indifferently made either to the galactic or to the solar universe, the two forms of spelling may beused interchangeably. (See also Kosmos, Kosmic Life)

cowblakes ::: n. pl. --> Dried cow dung used as fuel.

CRC {cyclic redundancy check}

Credo ut intelligam: Literally, I believe in order that I may understand. A principle which affirms that after an act of faith a philosophy begins, held by such thinkers as Augustine, Anselm, Duns Scotus and many others. -- V.F.

crowd ::: v. t. --> To push, to press, to shove.
To press or drive together; to mass together.
To fill by pressing or thronging together; hence, to encumber by excess of numbers or quantity.
To press by solicitation; to urge; to dun; hence, to treat discourteously or unreasonably.
A number of things collected or closely pressed together; also, a number of things adjacent to each other.

cyclic redundancy check "algorithm" (CRC or "cyclic redundancy code") A number derived from, and stored or transmitted with, a block of data in order to detect corruption. By recalculating the CRC and comparing it to the value originally transmitted, the receiver can detect some types of transmission errors. A CRC is more complicated than a {checksum}. It is calculated using division either using {shifts} and {exclusive ORs} or {table lookup} ({modulo} 256 or 65536). The CRC is "redundant" in that it adds no information. A single corrupted {bit} in the data will result in a one bit change in the calculated CRC but multiple corrupted bits may cancel each other out. CRCs treat blocks of input bits as coefficient-sets for {polynomials}. E.g., binary 10100000 implies the polynomial: 1*x^7 + 0*x^6 + 1*x^5 + 0*x^4 + 0*x^3 + 0*x^2 + 0*x^1 + 0*x^0. This is the "message polynomial". A second polynomial, with constant coefficients, is called the "generator polynomial". This is divided into the message polynomial, giving a quotient and remainder. The coefficients of the remainder form the bits of the final CRC. So, an order-33 generator polynomial is necessary to generate a 32-bit CRC. The exact bit-set used for the generator polynomial will naturally affect the CRC that is computed. Most CRC implementations seem to operate 8 bits at a time by building a table of 256 entries, representing all 256 possible 8-bit byte combinations, and determining the effect that each byte will have. CRCs are then computed using an input byte to select a 16- or 32-bit value from the table. This value is then used to update the CRC. {Ethernet} {packets} have a 32-bit CRC. Many disk formats include a CRC at some level. (1997-08-02)

cyclic redundancy code {cyclic redundancy check}

database administrator "job" A person responsible for the design and management of one or more {databases} and for the evaluation, selection and implementation of {database management systems}. In smaller organisations, the data administrator and database administrator are often one in the same; however, when they are different, the database administrator's function is more technical. The database administrator would implement the database software that meets the requirements outlined by the organisation's data administrator and {systems analysts}. Tasks might include controling an organisation's data resources, using {data dictionary} software to ensure {data integrity} and security, recovering corrupted data and eliminating data redundancy and uses tuning tools to improve database performance. (2004-03-11)

database normalisation "database" A series of steps followed to obtain a {database} design that allows for efficient access and {storage} of data in a {relational database}. These steps reduce data redundancy and the chances of data becoming inconsistent. A {table} in a {relational database} is said to be in normal form if it satisfies certain {constraints}. {Codd}'s original work defined three such forms but there are now five generally accepted steps of normalisation. The output of the first step is called First Normal Form (1NF), the output of the second step is Second Normal Form (2NF), etc. First Normal Form eliminates {repeating groups} by putting each value of a multi-valued attribute into a new row. Second Normal Form eliminates {functional dependencies} on a {partial key} by putting the fields in a separate table from those that are dependent on the whole {key}. Third Normal Form eliminates functional dependencies on non-key fields by putting them in a separate table. At this stage, all non-key fields are dependent on the key, the whole key and nothing but the key. Fourth Normal Form separates independent multi-valued facts stored in one table into separate tables. Fifth Normal Form breaks out data redundancy that is not covered by any of the previous normal forms. {(http://bkent.net/Doc/simple5.htm)}. [What about non-relational databases?] (2005-07-28)

data redundancy "data, communications, storage" Any technique that stores or transmits extra, derived data that can be used to detect or repair errors, either in hardware or software. Examples are {parity bits} and the {cyclic redundancy check}. If the cost of errors is high enough, e.g. in a {safety-critical system}, redundancy may be used in both hardware AND software with three separate computers programmed by three separate teams ("triple redundancy") and some system to check that they all produce the same answer, or some kind of majority voting system. The term is not typically used for other, less beneficial, duplication of data. 2. "communications" The proportion of a message's gross information content that can be eliminated without losing essential information. Technically, redundancy is one minus the ratio of the actual uncertainty to the maximum uncertainty. This is the fraction of the structure of the message which is determined not by the choice of the sender, but rather by the accepted statistical rules governing the choice of the symbols in question. [Shannon and Weaver, 1948, p. l3] (2010-02-04)

Death ::: Death occurs when a general break-up of the constitution of man takes place; nor is this break-up amatter of sudden occurrence, with the exceptions of course of such cases as mortal accidents or suicides.Death is always preceded, varying in each individual case, by a certain time spent in the withdrawal ofthe monadic individuality from an incarnation, and this withdrawal of course takes place coincidentlywith a decay of the seven-principle being which man is in physical incarnation. This decay precedesphysical dissolution, and is a preparation of and by the consciousness-center for the forthcomingexistence in the invisible realms. This withdrawal actually is a preparation for the life to come ininvisible realms, and as the septenary entity on this earth so decays, it may truly be said to beapproaching rebirth in the next sphere.Death occurs, physically speaking, with the cessation of activity of the pulsating heart. There is the lastbeat, and this is followed by immediate, instantaneous unconsciousness, for nature is very merciful inthese things. But death is not yet complete, for the brain is the last organ of the physical body really todie, and for some time after the heart has ceased beating, the brain and its memory still remain activeand, although unconsciously so, the human ego for this short length of time, passes in review every eventof the preceding life. This great or small panoramic picture of the past is purely automatic, so to say; yetthe soul-consciousness of the reincarnating ego watches this wonderful review incident by incident, areview which includes the entire course of thought and action of the life just closed. The entity is, for thetime being, entirely unconscious of everything else except this. Temporarily it lives in the past, andmemory dislodges from the akasic record, so to speak, event after event, to the smallest detail: passesthem all in review, and in regular order from the beginning to the end, and thus sees all its past life as anall-inclusive panorama of picture succeeding picture.There are very definite ethical and psychological reasons inhering in this process, for this process forms areconstruction of both the good and the evil done in the past life, and imprints this strongly as a record onthe fabric of the spiritual memory of the passing being. Then the mortal and material portions sink intooblivion, while the reincarnating ego carries the best and noblest parts of these memories into thedevachan or heaven-world of postmortem rest and recuperation. Thus comes the end called death; andunconsciousness, complete and undisturbed, succeeds, until there occurs what the ancients called thesecond death.The lower triad (prana, linga-sarira, sthula-sarira) is now definitely cast off, and the remaining quaternaryis free. The physical body of the lower triad follows the course of natural decay, and its various hosts oflife-atoms proceed whither their natural attractions draw them. The linga-sarira or model-body remains inthe astral realms, and finally fades out. The life-atoms of the prana, or electrical field, fly instantly backat the moment of physical dissolution to the natural pranic reservoirs of the planet.This leaves man, therefore, no longer a heptad or septenary entity, but a quaternary consisting of theupper duad (atma-buddhi) and the intermediate duad (manas-kama). The second death then takes place.Death and the adjective dead are mere words by which the human mind seeks to express thoughts whichit gathers from a more or less consistent observation of the phenomena of the material world. Death isdissolution of a component entity or thing. The dead, therefore, are merely dissolving bodies -- entitieswhich have reached their term on this our physical plane. Dissolution is common to all things, becauseall physical things are composite: they are not absolute things. They are born; they grow; they reachmaturity; they enjoy, as the expression runs, a certain term of life in the full bloom of their powers; thenthey "die." That is the ordinary way of expressing what men call death; and the corresponding adjectiveis dead, when we say that such things or entities are dead.Do you find death per se anywhere? No. You find nothing but action; you find nothing but movement;you find nothing but change. Nothing stands still or is annihilated. What is called death itself shouts forthto us the fact of movement and change. Absolute inertia is unknown in nature or in the human mind; itdoes not exist.

delivery ::: n. --> The act of delivering from restraint; rescue; release; liberation; as, the delivery of a captive from his dungeon.
The act of delivering up or over; surrender; transfer of the body or substance of a thing; distribution; as, the delivery of a fort, of hostages, of a criminal, of goods, of letters.
The act or style of utterance; manner of speaking; as, a good delivery; a clear delivery.
The act of giving birth; parturition; the expulsion or

delundung ::: n. --> An East Indian carnivorous mammal (Prionodon gracilis), resembling the civets, but without scent pouches. It is handsomely spotted.

discina ::: n. --> A genus of Branchiopoda, having a disklike shell, attached by one valve, which is perforated by the peduncle.

Disiple "language, DSP" A {DSP} language. ["A Compiler that Easily Retargets High Level Language Programs for Different Signal Processing Architectures", J.E. Peters & S.M. Dunn, Proc ICASSP 89, pp. 1103-1106, May 1989]. (2000-11-16)

disk duplexing "hardware, storage" A variation on {disk mirroring} where, as well as redundant {disk drives}, a second {disk controller} or {host adapter} is also present. (1996-02-22)

dolt ::: n. --> A heavy, stupid fellow; a blockhead; a numskull; an ignoramus; a dunce; a dullard. ::: v. i. --> To behave foolishly.

drab ::: n. --> A low, sluttish woman.
A lewd wench; a strumpet.
A wooden box, used in salt works for holding the salt when taken out of the boiling pans.
A kind of thick woolen cloth of a dun, or dull brownish yellow, or dull gray, color; -- called also drabcloth.
A dull brownish yellow or dull gray color.
A drab color.

dropping ::: p. pr. & vb. n. --> of Drop ::: n. --> The action of causing to drop or of letting drop; falling.
That which falls in drops; the excrement or dung of animals.

DS1 "communications" A {DS level} and {framing specification} for synchronous digital streams, over circuits in the North American {digital transmission hierarchy}, at the {T1} transmission rate of 1,544,000 bits per second ({baud}). DS1 is commonly used to multiplex 24 {DS0} channels. Each DS0 channel, originally a digitised voice-grade telephone signal, carries 8000 bytes per second (64,000 bits per second). A DS1 frame includes one byte from each of the 24 DS0 channels and adds one {framing bit}, making a total of 193 bits per frame at 8000 frames per second. The result is 193*8000 = 1,544,000 bits per second. In the original standard, the successive framing bits continuously repeated the 12-bit sequence 110111001000, and such a 12-frame unit is called a super-frame. In voice telephony, errors are acceptable (early standards allowed as much as one frame in six to be missing entirely), so the least significant bit in two of the 24 streams was used for signaling between network equipments. This is called {robbed-bit signaling}. To promote error-free transmission, an alternative called the extended super-frame (ESF) of 24 frames was developed. In this standard, six of the 24 framing bits provide a six bit {cyclic redundancy check} (CRC-6), and six provide the actual framing. The other 12 form a virtual circuit of 4000 bits per second for use by the transmission equipment, for {call progress signals} such as busy, idle and ringing. DS1 signals using ESF equipment are nearly error-free, because the CRC detects errors and allows automatic re-routing of connections. Compare {T-carrier systems}. [Kenneth Sherman, "Data Communications : a user's guide", third edition (1990), Reston/Prentice-Hall/Simon & Schuster]. (1996-03-30)

dullard ::: n. --> A stupid person; a dunce. ::: a. --> Stupid.

dūn.asa (dunasha) ::: "oppressed in hope" (in Sri Aurobindo"s interdunasa pretation of R.g Veda 1.176.4).

Dungeon {Zork}

Duns Scotus, John: (1266/74-1308) Doctor Subtilis, was born somewhere in the British Isles, studied at the Franciscan monastery at Dumfries and at Oxford before 1290. He studied at Pans for four years, then taught theology at Oxford from 1300-1302, at Pans from 1302-1303, when he was banished for his opposition to King Philip IV. He received his doctorate at Paris in 1305 and went to Cologne in 1307, where he died. He is the most distinguished medieval defender of the view that universals which have "haeccity" (q.v.) as well as quiddity. His realism was adopted by Charles Peirce (q.v.) works: De Primo Principio, Quaestionis in Metaphysicam, Opus Oxoniense, Reportata Parisiensia (Opera Omnia, Paris, 1891-5).

Economy: An aspect of the scientific methodology of Ernst Mach (Die Analyse der Empfindungen, 5th ed., Jena, 1906); science and philosophy utilize ideas and laws which are not reproductive of sense data as such, but are simplified expressions of the functional relations discovered in the manifold of sense perceptions. -- V.J.B.

eolian ::: a. --> Aeolian.
Formed, or deposited, by the action of wind, as dunes.

error detection and correction "algorithm, storage" (EDAC, or "error checking and correction", ECC) A collection of methods to detect errors in transmitted or stored data and to correct them. This is done in many ways, all of them involving some form of coding. The simplest form of error detection is a single added {parity bit} or a {cyclic redundancy check}. Multiple parity bits can not only detect that an error has occurred, but also which bits have been inverted, and should therefore be re-inverted to restore the original data. The more extra bits are added, the greater the chance that multiple errors will be detectable and correctable. Several codes can perform Single Error Correction, Double Error Detection (SECDEC). One of the most commonly used is the {Hamming code}. At the other technological extreme, cuniform texts from about 1500 B.C. which recorded the dates when Venus was visible, were examined on the basis of contained redundancies (the dates of appearance and disappearance were suplemented by the length of time of visibility) and "the worst data set ever seen" by [Huber, Zurich] was corrected. {RAM} which includes EDAC circuits is known as {error correcting memory} (ECM). [Wakerly, "Error Detecting Codes", North Holland 1978]. [Hamming, "Coding and Information Theory", 2nd Ed, Prentice Hall 1986]. (1995-03-14)

euryale ::: n. --> A genus of water lilies, growing in India and China. The only species (E. ferox) is very prickly on the peduncles and calyx. The rootstocks and seeds are used as food.
A genus of ophiurans with much-branched arms.

excrement ::: n. --> Matter excreted and ejected; that which is excreted or cast out of the animal body by any of the natural emunctories; especially, alvine, discharges; dung; ordure.
An excrescence or appendage; an outgrowth.

eyestalk ::: n. --> One of the movable peduncles which, in the decapod Crustacea, bear the eyes at the tip.

failover "systems" Automatically switching to a different, {redundant} system upon {failure} or {abnormal termination} of the currently active system. Failover can be applied to a {cluster} of {servers}, to {network} or storage components or any other set of redundant devices that must provide {high availability} because down-time would be expensive or inconvenient. It may be implemented in hardware, software or a combination. A "{hot standby}" is continuously active at the same time as the failed system, using some kind of {load balancing} to share the work, whereas a "{warm standby}" is ready to become active at short notice. When the failed system is operational again it may "failback", i.e. become (one of) the active system(s) or it may become a warm standby. (2008-01-15)

fardage ::: n. --> See Dunnage.

fault tolerance "architecture" 1. The ability of a system or component to continue normal operation despite the presence of hardware or software faults. This often involves some degree of {redundancy}. 2. The number of faults a system or component can withstand before normal operation is impaired. (1995-04-06)

favel ::: a. --> Yellow; fal/ow; dun. ::: n. --> A horse of a favel or dun color.
Flattery; cajolery; deceit.

fiants ::: n. --> The dung of the fox, wolf, boar, or badger.

Fibre Channel "storage, networking, communications" An {ANSI} {standard} originally intended for high-speed {SANs} connecting {servers}, {disc arrays}, and {backup} devices, also later adapted to form the {physical layer} of {Gigabit Ethernet}. Development work on Fibre channel started in 1988 and it was approved by the ANSI standards committee in 1994, running at 100Mb/s. More recent innovations have seen the speed of Fibre Channel SANs increase to 10Gb/s. Several topologies are possible with Fibre Channel, the most popular being a number of devices attached to one (or two, for redundancy) central Fibre Channel switches, creating a reliable infrastructure that allows servers to share storage arrays or tape libraries. One common use of Fibre Channel SANs is for high availability databaseq clusters where two servers are connected to one highly reliable {RAID} array. Should one server fail, the other server can mount the array itself and continue operations with minimal {downtime} and loss of data. Other advanced features include the ability to have servers and {hard drives} seperated by hundreds of miles or to rapidly {mirror} data between servers and hard drives, perhaps in seperate geographic locations. {Fibre Channel Industry Association (http://fibrechannel.org)} (FCIA). (2003-09-27)

filiform ::: a. --> Having the shape of a thread or filament; as, the filiform papillae of the tongue; a filiform style or peduncle. See Illust. of AntennAe.

Finally the period ends with the great John Duns Scotus (+1308), whose thought is characterized by great acuteness and a fine critical sense. In opposition to that of St. Thomas, his synthesis lays greater stress on the traditional Augustinian theses.

flocculus ::: n. --> A small lobe in the under surface of the cerebellum, near the middle peduncle; the subpeduncular lobe.

Flynn's taxonomy "architecture" A classification of computer architectures based on the number of streams of instructions and data: {Single instruction/single data} stream (SISD) - a sequential computer. Multiple instruction/single data stream (MISD) - unusual. {Single instruction/multiple data} streams (SIMD) - e.g. an {array processor}. {Multiple instruction/multiple data} streams (MIMD) - multiple autonomous processors simultaneously executing different instructions on different data. [Flynn, M. J., "Some Computer Organizations and Their Effectiveness", IEEE Transactions on Computing C-21, No. 9, Sep 1972, pp 948-960]. ["A Survey of Parallel Computer Architectures", Duncan, Ralph, IEEE Computer, Feb 1990, pp 5-16]. (2003-05-29)

footstalk ::: n. --> The stalk of a leaf or of flower; a petiole, pedicel, or reduncle.
The peduncle or stem by which various marine animals are attached, as certain brachiopods and goose barnacles.
The stem which supports which supports the eye in decapod Crustacea; eyestalk.
The lower part of a millstone spindle. It rests in a step.

fumet ::: n. --> The dung of deer.
Alt. of Fumette

fyrdung ::: v. i. --> The military force of the whole nation, consisting of all men able to bear arms.

fyrd ::: v. i. --> Alt. of Fyrdung

gaby ::: n. --> A simpleton; a dunce; a lout.

gawby ::: n. --> A baby; a dunce.

GE Information Services "networking, company" One of the leading on-line services, started on 1st October 1985, providing subscribers with hundreds of special interest areas, computer hardware and software support, award-winning multi-player games, the most software files in the industry (over 200 000), worldwide news, sports updates, business news, investment strategies, and {Internet} {electronic mail} and fax (GE Mail). Interactive conversations (Chat Lines) and {bulletin boards} (Round Tables) with associated software archives are also provided. GEnie databases (through the ARTIST gateway) allow users to search the full text of thousands of publications, including Dun & Bradstreet Company Profiles; a GEnie NewsStand with more than 900 newspapers, magazines, and newsletters; a Reference Center with information ranging from Agriculture to World History; the latest in medical information from MEDLINE; and patent and trademark registrations. {(http://genie.com/)}. {Shopping 2000 (http://shopping2000.com/shopping2000/genie/)}. Telephone: +1 (800) 638 9636. TDD: +1 (800) 238 9172. E-mail: "info@genie.geis.com". [Connection with: GE Information Services, Inc., a division of General Electric Company, Headquarters: Rockville, Maryland, USA?] (1995-04-13)

gigabyte "unit, data" (GB or colloquially "gig") A unit of {data} equal to one billion {bytes} but see {binary prefix} for other definitions. A gigabyte is 1000^3 {bytes} or 1000 {megabytes}. A human gene sequence (including all the redundant codons) contains about 1.5 gigabytes of data. 1000 gigabytes are one {terabyte}. See {prefix}. {Human genome data content (http://bitesizebio.com/articles/how-much-information-is-stored-in-the-human-genome/)}. (2013-11-03)

goosander ::: n. --> A species of merganser (M. merganser) of Northern Europe and America; -- called also merganser, dundiver, sawbill, sawneb, shelduck, and sheldrake. See Merganser.

gorfly ::: n. --> A dung fly.

grainer ::: n. --> An infusion of pigeon&

grains ::: n. pl. --> See 5th Grain, n., 2 (b). ::: n. --> Pigeon&

graip ::: n. --> A dungfork.

granduncle ::: n. --> A father&

gump ::: n. --> A dolt; a dunce.

hack "jargon" 1. Originally, a quick job that produces what is needed, but not well. 2. An incredibly good, and perhaps very time-consuming, piece of work that produces exactly what is needed. 3. To bear emotionally or physically. "I can't hack this heat!" 4. To work on something (typically a program). In an immediate sense: "What are you doing?" "I'm hacking TECO." In a general (time-extended) sense: "What do you do around here?" "I hack TECO." More generally, "I hack "foo"" is roughly equivalent to ""foo" is my major interest (or project)". "I hack solid-state physics." See {Hacking X for Y}. 5. To pull a prank on. See {hacker}. 6. To interact with a computer in a playful and exploratory rather than goal-directed way. "Whatcha up to?" "Oh, just hacking." 7. Short for {hacker}. 8. See {nethack}. 9. (MIT) To explore the basements, roof ledges, and steam tunnels of a large, institutional building, to the dismay of Physical Plant workers and (since this is usually performed at educational institutions) the Campus Police. This activity has been found to be eerily similar to playing adventure games such as {Dungeons and Dragons} and {Zork}. See also {vadding}. See also {neat hack}, {real hack}. [{Jargon File}] (1996-08-26)

Haecceity: (Lat. haecceitas, literally thisness) A term employed by Duns Scotus to express that by which a quiddity, or general essence, becomes an individual, particular nature, or being. That incommunicable nature which constitutes the individual difference, or individualizes singular beings belonging to a class; hence his principle of individuation. -- J.J.R.

half-wit ::: n. --> A foolish; a dolt; a blockhead; a dunce.

Hamming code "algorithm" Extra, redundant bits added to stored or transmitted data for the purposes of {error detection and correction}. Named after the mathematician {Richard Hamming}, Hamming codes greatly improve the reliability of data, e.g. from distant space probes, where it is impractical, because of the long transmission delay, to correct errors by requesting retransmission. [Detail? Connection with {Hamming Distance}?] (2002-07-02)

hell ::: v. t. --> The place of the dead, or of souls after death; the grave; -- called in Hebrew sheol, and by the Greeks hades.
The place or state of punishment for the wicked after death; the abode of evil spirits. Hence, any mental torment; anguish.
A place where outcast persons or things are gathered
A dungeon or prison; also, in certain running games, a place to which those who are caught are carried for detention.
A gambling house.

hoddy ::: n. --> See Dun crow, under Dun, a.

Hunt the Wumpus "games, history" (Or "Wumpus") /wuhm'p*s/ A famous fantasy computer game, created by {Gregory Yob} in about 1973. Hunt the Wumpus appeared in Creative Computing, Vol 1, No 5, Sep - Oct 1975, where Yob says he had come up with the game two years previously, after seeing the grid-based games Hurkle, Snark and Mugwump at {People's Computing Company} (PCC). He later delivered Wumpus to PCC who published it in their newsletter. ESR says he saw a version including termites running on the {Dartmouth Time-Sharing System} in 1972-3. Magnus Olsson, in his 1992-07-07 {USENET} article "9207071854.AA21847@thep.lu.se", posted the {BASIC} {source code} of what he believed was pretty much the version that was published in 1973 in David Ahl's "101 Basic Computer Games", by {Digital Equipment Corporation}. The wumpus lived somewhere in a cave with the topology of an dodecahedron's edge/vertex graph (later versions supported other topologies, including an icosahedron and M"obius strip). The player started somewhere at random in the cave with five "crooked arrows"; these could be shot through up to three connected rooms, and would kill the wumpus on a hit (later versions introduced the wounded wumpus, which got very angry). Unfortunately for players, the movement necessary to map the maze was made hazardous not merely by the wumpus (which would eat you if you stepped on him) but also by bottomless pits and colonies of super bats that would pick you up and drop you at a random location (later versions added "anaerobic termites" that ate arrows, bat migrations and earthquakes that randomly changed pit locations). This game appears to have been the first to use a non-random graph-structured map (as opposed to a rectangular grid like the even older Star Trek games). In this respect, as in the dungeon-like setting and its terse, amusing messages, it prefigured {ADVENT} and {Zork} and was directly ancestral to both (Zork acknowledged this heritage by including a super-bat colony). There have been many {ports} including one distributed with {SunOS}, a {freeware} one for the {Macintosh} and a {C} emulation by {ESR}. [Does "101 Basic Computer Games" give any history?] (2004-10-04)

hypermeter ::: n. --> A verse which has a redundant syllable or foot; a hypercatalectic verse.
Hence, anything exceeding the ordinary standard.

hypermetrical ::: a. --> Having a redundant syllable; exceeding the common measure.

hythe ::: n. --> A small haven. See Hithe. I () I, the ninth letter of the English alphabet, takes its form from the Phoenician, through the Latin and the Greek. The Phoenician letter was probably of Egyptian origin. Its original value was nearly the same as that of the Italian I, or long e as in mete. Etymologically I is most closely related to e, y, j, g; as in dint, dent, beverage, L. bibere; E. kin, AS. cynn; E. thin, AS. /ynne; E. dominion, donjon, dungeon. html{color:

ichthyocoprolite ::: n. --> Fossil dung of fishes.

ignoramus ::: n. --> We are ignorant; we ignore; -- being the word formerly written on a bill of indictment by a grand jury when there was not sufficient evidence to warrant them in finding it a true bill. The phrase now used is, "No bill," "No true bill," or "Not found," though in some jurisdictions "Ignored" is still used.
A stupid, ignorant person; a vain pretender to knowledge; a dunce.

ilm al ladun :::   divine knowledge received directly from Allah

Immortality ::: A term signifying continuous existence or being; but this understanding of the term is profoundlyillogical and contrary to nature, for there is nothing throughout nature's endless and multifarious realmsof being and existence which remains for two consecutive instants of time exactly the same.Consequently, immortality is a mere figment of the imagination, an illusory phantom of reality. When thestudent of the esoteric wisdom once realizes that continuous progress, i.e., continuous change inadvancement, is nature's fundamental procedure, he recognizes instantly that continuous remaining in anunchanging or immutable state of consciousness or being is not only impossible, but in the last analysis isthe last thing that is either desirable or comforting. Fancy continuing immortal in a state of imperfection such as we human beingsexemplify -- which is exactly what the usual acceptance of this term immortality means. The highest godin highest heaven, although seemingly immortal to us imperfect human beings, is nevertheless anevolving, growing, progressing entity in its own sublime realms or spheres, and therefore as the ages passleaves one condition or state to assume a succeeding condition or state of a nobler and higher type;precisely as the preceding condition or state had been the successor of another state before it.Continuous or unending immutability of any condition or state of an evolving entity is obviously animpossibility in nature; and when once pondered over it becomes clear that the ordinary acceptance ofimmortality involves an impossibility. All nature is an unending series of changes, which means all thehosts or multitudes of beings composing nature, for every individual unit of these hosts is growing,evolving, i.e., continuously changing, therefore never immortal. Immortality and evolution arecontradictions in terms. An evolving entity means a changing entity, signifying a continuous progresstowards better things; and evolution therefore is a succession of state of consciousness and being afteranother state of consciousness and being, and thus throughout duration. The Occidental idea of staticimmortality or even mutable immortality is thus seen to be both repellent and impossible.This doctrine is so difficult for the average Occidental easily to understand that it may be advisable onceand for all to point out without mincing of words that just as complete death, that is to say, entireannihilation of consciousness, is an impossibility in nature, just so is continuous and unchangingconsciousness in any one stage or phase of evolution likewise an impossibility, because progress ormovement or growth is continuous throughout eternity. There are, however, periods more or less long ofcontinuance in any stage or phase of consciousness that may be attained by an evolving entity; and thehigher the being is in evolution, the more its spiritual and intellectual faculties have been evolved orevoked, the longer do these periods of continuous individual, or perhaps personal, quasi-immortalitycontinue. There is, therefore, what may be called relative immortality, although this phrase is confessedlya misnomer.Master KH in The Mahatma Letters, on pages 128-30, uses the phrase ``panaeonic immortality" tosignify this same thing that I have just called relative immortality, an immortality -- falsely so called,however -- which lasts in the cases of certain highly evolved monadic egos for the entire period of amanvantara, but which of necessity ends with the succeeding pralaya of the solar system. Such a periodof time of continuous self-consciousness of so highly evolved a monadic entity is to us humans actually arelative immortality; but strictly and logically speaking it is no more immortality than is the ephemeralexistence of a butterfly. When the solar manvantara comes to an end and the solar pralaya begins, evensuch highly evolved monadic entities, full-blown gods, are swept out of manifested self-consciousexistence like the sere and dried leaves at the end of the autumn; and the divine entities thus passing outenter into still higher realms of superdivine activity, to reappear at the end of the pralaya and at the dawnof the next or succeeding solar manvantara.The entire matter is, therefore, a highly relative one. What seems immortal to us humans would seem tobe but as a wink of the eye to the vision of super-kosmic entities; while, on the other hand, the span ofthe average human life would seem to be immortal to a self-conscious entity inhabiting one of theelectrons of an atom of the human physical body.The thing to remember in this series of observations is the wondrous fact that consciousness frometernity to eternity is uninterrupted, although by the very nature of things undergoing continuous andunceasing change of phases in realization throughout endless duration. What men call unconsciousness ismerely a form of consciousness which is too subtle for our gross brain-minds to perceive or to sense or tograsp; and, secondly, strictly speaking, what men call death, whether of a universe or of their ownphysical bodies, is but the breaking up of worn-out vehicles and the transference of consciousness to ahigher plane. It is important to seize the spirit of this marvelous teaching, and not allow the imperfectbrain-mind to quibble over words, or to pause or hesitate at difficult terms.

incorrectness ::: n. --> The quality of being incorrect; want of conformity to truth or to a standard; inaccuracy; inexactness; as incorrectness may in defect or in redundance.

interpedencular ::: a. --> Between peduncles; esp., between the peduncles, or crura, of the cerebrum.

IV. First Decline. (14-16 cent.) St. Thomas' position in many points had been so radical a departure from the traditional thought of Christendom that many masters in the late XIII and early XIV centuries were led to reexamine philosophy in the light of Aristotle's works. This gave rise to a critical and independent spirit which multiplied systems and prepared for the individualism of the Renaissance. Noteworthy in this movement are James of Metz, Durand de St. Pourcain (+1334), Peter Aureoli (+1322) and Henry of Harclay (+1317). The greatest figure, however, is William of Occam (+1349), founder of modern thought, who renewed the Nominalism of the XI and XII cent., restricted the realm of reason but made it quite independent in its field. In reaction to this critical and independent movement, many thinkers gathered about the two great minds of the past century. Thomas and Duns Scotus, contenting themselves with merely reproducing their masters' positions. Thus Scholasticism broke up into three camps: Thomism, Scotism and Nominalism or Terminism; the first two stagnant, the third free-lance.

John von Neumann "person" /jon von noy'mahn/ Born 1903-12-28, died 1957-02-08. A Hungarian-born mathematician who did pioneering work in quantum physics, game theory, and {computer science}. He contributed to the USA's Manhattan Project that built the first atomic bomb. von Neumann was invited to Princeton University in 1930, and was a mathematics professor at the {Institute for Advanced Studies} from its formation in 1933 until his death. From 1936 to 1938 {Alan Turing} was a visitor at the Institute and completed a Ph.D. dissertation under von Neumann's supervision. This visit occurred shortly after Turing's publication of his 1934 paper "On Computable Numbers with an Application to the Entscheidungs-problem" which involved the concepts of logical design and the universal machine. von Neumann must have known of Turing's ideas but it is not clear whether he applied them to the design of the IAS Machine ten years later. While serving on the BRL Scientific Advisory Committee, von Neumann joined the developers of {ENIAC} and made some critical contributions. In 1947, while working on the design for the successor machine, {EDVAC}, von Neumann realized that ENIAC's lack of a centralized control unit could be overcome to obtain a rudimentary stored program computer. He also proposed the {fetch-execute cycle}. His ideas led to what is now often called the {von Neumann architecture}. {(http://sis.pitt.edu/~mbsclass/is2000/hall_of_fame/vonneuma.htm)}. {(http://ei.cs.vt.edu/~history/VonNeumann.html)}. {(http://ftp.arl.mil/~mike/comphist/54nord/)}. (2004-01-14)

jolthead ::: n. --> A dunce; a blockhead.

Ladun ::: The potential of the Names comprising one’s essence.

laystall ::: n. --> A place where rubbish, dung, etc., are laid or deposited.
A place where milch cows are kept, or cattle on the way to market are lodged.

lepas ::: n. --> Any one of various species of Lepas, a genus of pedunculated barnacles found attached to floating timber, bottoms of ships, Gulf weed, etc.; -- called also goose barnacle. See Barnacle.

lesses ::: v. t. --> The leavings or dung of beasts.

loggerhead ::: n. --> A blockhead; a dunce; a numskull.
A spherical mass of iron, with a long handle, used to heat tar.
An upright piece of round timber, in a whaleboat, over which a turn of the line is taken when it is running out too fast.
A very large marine turtle (Thalassochelys caretta, / caouana), common in the warmer parts of the Atlantic Ocean, from Brazil to Cape Cod; -- called also logger-headed turtle.

Longitudinal Redundancy Check "storage, communications" (LRC, Block Redundancy Check) An {error checking} method that generates a {longitudinal parity} {byte} from a specified {string} or block of {bytes} on a longitudinal track. The longitudinal parity byte is created by placing individual bytes of a string in a two-dimensional {array} and performing a {Vertical Redundancy Check} vertically and horizontally on the array, creating an extra byte. This is an improvement over the VRC because it will catch two errors in the individual characters of the string, beyond the odd errors. (2004-01-26)

Lorem ipsum "text" A common piece of text used as mock-{content} when testing a given page layout or {font}. The following text is often used: "Lorem ipsum dolor sit amet, consectetaur adipisicing elit, sed do eiusmod tempor incididunt ut labore et dolore magna aliqua. Ut enim ad minim veniam, quis nostrud exercitation ullamco laboris nisi ut aliquip ex ea commodo consequat. Duis aute irure dolor in reprehenderit in voluptate velit esse cillum dolore eu fugiat nulla pariatur. Excepteur sint occaecat cupidatat non proident, sunt in culpa qui officia deserunt mollit anim id est laborum." This continues at length and variously. The text is not really Greek, but badly garbled Latin. It started life as extracted phrases from sections 1.10.32 and 1.10.33 of Cicero's "De Finibus Bonorum et Malorum" ("The Extremes of Good and Evil"), which read: Sed ut perspiciatis unde omnis iste natus error sit voluptatem accusantium doloremque laudantium, totam rem aperiam, eaque ipsa quae ab illo inventore veritatis et quasi architecto beatae vitae dicta sunt explicabo. Nemo enim ipsam voluptatem quia voluptas sit aspernatur aut odit aut fugit, sed quia consequuntur magni dolores eos qui ratione voluptatem sequi nesciunt. Neque porro quisquam est, qui dolorem ipsum quia dolor sit amet, consectetur, adipisci velit, sed quia non numquam eius modi tempora incidunt ut labore et dolore magnam aliquam quaerat voluptatem. Ut enim ad minima veniam, quis nostrum exercitationem ullam corporis suscipit laboriosam, nisi ut aliquid ex ea commodi consequatur? Quis autem vel eum iure reprehenderit qui in ea voluptate velit esse quam nihil molestiae consequatur, vel illum qui dolorem eum fugiat quo voluptas nulla pariatur? At vero eos et accusamus et iusto odio dignissimos ducimus qui blanditiis praesentium voluptatum deleniti atque corrupti quos dolores et quas molestias excepturi sint occaecati cupiditate non provident, similique sunt in culpa qui officia deserunt mollitia animi, id est laborum et dolorum fuga. Et harum quidem rerum facilis est et expedita distinctio. Nam libero tempore, cum soluta nobis est eligendi optio cumque nihil impedit quo minus id quod maxime placeat facere possimus, omnis voluptas assumenda est, omnis dolor repellendus. Temporibus autem quibusdam et aut officiis debitis aut rerum necessitatibus saepe eveniet ut et voluptates repudiandae sint et molestiae non recusandae. Itaque earum rerum hic tenetur a sapiente delectus, ut aut reiciendis voluptatibus maiores alias consequatur aut perferendis doloribus asperiores repellat. Translation: But I must explain to you how all this mistaken idea of denouncing pleasure and praising pain was born and I will give you a complete account of the system, and expound the actual teachings of the great explorer of the truth, the master-builder of human happiness. No one rejects, dislikes, or avoids pleasure itself, because it is pleasure, but because those who do not know how to pursue pleasure rationally encounter consequences that are extremely painful. Nor again is there anyone who loves or pursues or desires to obtain pain of itself, because it is pain, but because occasionally circumstances occur in which toil and pain can procure him some great pleasure. To take a trivial example, which of us ever undertakes laborious physical exercise, except to obtain some advantage from it? But who has any right to find fault with a man who chooses to enjoy a pleasure that has no annoying consequences, or one who avoids a pain that produces no resultant pleasure? On the other hand, we denounce with righteous indignation and dislike men who are so beguiled and demoralized by the charms of pleasure of the moment, so blinded by desire, that they cannot foresee the pain and trouble that are bound to ensue; and equal blame belongs to those who fail in their duty through weakness of will, which is the same as saying through shrinking from toil and pain. These cases are perfectly simple and easy to distinguish. In a free hour, when our power of choice is untrammelled and when nothing prevents our being able to do what we like best, every pleasure is to be welcomed and every pain avoided. But in certain circumstances and owing to the claims of duty or the obligations of business it will frequently occur that pleasures have to be repudiated and annoyances accepted. The wise man therefore always holds in these matters to this principle of selection: he rejects pleasures to secure other greater pleasures, or else he endures pains to avoid worse pains. -- Translation by H. Rackham, from his 1914 edition of De Finibus. However, since textual fidelity was unimportant to the goal of having {random} text to fill a page, it has degraded over the centuries, into "Lorem ipsum...". The point of using this text, or some other text of incidental intelligibility, is that it has a more-or-less normal (for English and Latin, at least) distribution of ascenders, descenders, and word-lengths, as opposed to just using "abc 123 abc 123", "Content here content here", or the like. The text is often used when previewing the layout of a document, as the use of more understandable text would distract the user from the layout being examined. A related technique is {greeking}. {Lorem Ipsum - All the facts (http://lipsum.com/)}. (2006-09-18)

LRC {Longitudinal Redundancy Check}

Main works: Die Crenzen d. naturwiss. Begriffsbildung, 1896; Kultur u. Naturtwissenchaften, 1899; Philos. d. Lebens, 1920. -- K.F.L.

Main works: Die Philosophie Herakleitos d. Dunklen, 1858; System d. Eruorbenen Rechte, 1861; and political speeches and pamphlets in Collected Works (Leipzig, 1899-1901). -- R.B.W.

Main works: Grundl. d. Geschichtswiss., 1905; Lebensformen, 1914; Die Geisteswiss. u. d. Schule, 1920; Die wissensch. Grundl. d. Schulverfassungslehre u. d. Schulpolitik, 1925; Das deutsche Bildungsideal, 1928; Volk, Staat, Erziehung, 1930. Ssu: Partiality, selfishness. A private name. "Only a particular substance bears the name." (Neo-Mohism).

Main works: Kategorien --u. Bedentungslehre d. Duns Scotus, 1916; Sein u. Zeit, 1927; Was ist Metaphysik?; Kant u. d. Probl. d. Meta., 1929; Vom Wesen des Grundes, 1929. See J. Kraft, Von Husserl zu H., 1932. -- H.H.

Main works: Tonpsychologie, 2 vols., 1883-90; Die Anfange der Musik, 1911; Empfindung u. Vorstellung, 1918; Gefühl u. Gefühlsempfindung, 1928; Erkenntnislehre, I, 1939. Sturm und Drang: (German, "Storm and Stress"), a period sweeping the German countries about 1770-1785, in which men like Hamann, Herder, the young Goethe, Schiller, Wagner, Christian Schubart, and Friedrich Maximilian Klinger (from whose play the movement got its name) advocated, in a flush of creative enthusiasm, the forces of native talent, the value of emotion, and the power of genius as a conscious reaction against the enlightenment which had spread from France. -- K.F.L.

Mean Time To Recovery "specification" (MTTR) The average time that a device will take to recover from a non-terminal failure. Examples of such devices range from self-resetting fuses (where the MTTR would be very short, probably seconds), up to whole systems which have to be replaced. The MTTR would usually be part of a maintenance contract, where the user would pay more for a system whose MTTR was 24 hours, than for one of, say, 7 days. This means the supplier is guaranteeing to have the system up and running again within 24 hours (or 7 days) of being notified of the failure. Some devices have a MTTR of zero, which means that they have redundant components which can take over the instant the primary one fails, see {RAID} for example. See also {Mean Time Between Failures}. (1998-05-01)

Mentat "language" (After the human computers in Frank Herbert's SF classic, "Dune") An {object-oriented} distributed language developed at the {University of Virginia} some time before Dec 1987. Mentat is an extension of {C++} and is portable to a variety of {MIMD} architectures. By 1994 Mentat was available for {Sun-3}, {Sun-4}, {iPSC}/2 with plans for {Mach}, {iPSC860}, {RS/6000} and {Iris}. The language is now (May 1998) supported in a new project, {Legion}. E-mail: "mentat@uvacs.cs.virginia.edu". ["Mentat: An Object-Oriented Macro Data Flow System", A. Grimshaw "grimshaw@cs.virginia.edu" et al, SIGPLAN Notices 22(12):35-47, Dec 1987, OOPSLA '87]. (1998-05-15)

merd ::: n. --> Ordure; dung.

Messenger ::: In the theosophical sense, an individual who comes with a mandate from the Lodge of the Masters ofWisdom and Compassion to do a certain work in the world.Only real genius -- indeed something more than merely human genius -- only extraordinary spiritual andintellectual capacity, native to the constitution of some lofty human being, could explain the reason forthe choice of such messengers. But, indeed, this is not saying enough; because in addition to genius andto merely native spiritual and intellectual capacity such a messenger must possess through initiatorytraining the capacity of throwing at will the intermediate or psychological nature into a state of perfectquiescence or receptivity for the stream of divine-spiritual inspiration flowing forth from the messenger'sown inner divinity or monadic essence. It is obvious, therefore, that such a combination of rare andunusual qualities is not often found in human beings; and, when found, such a one is fit for the work tobe done by such a messenger of the Association of great ones.The Masters of Wisdom and Compassion and Peace send their envoys continuously into the world ofmen, one after the other, and in consequence these envoys are working in the world among men all thetime. Happy are they whose hearts recognize the footfalls of those crossing the mountaintops of theMystic East. The messengers do not always do public work before the world, but frequently work in thesilences and unknown of men, or relatively unknown. At certain times, however, they are commissionedand empowered and directed to do their work publicly and to make public announcement of theirmission. Such, for instance, was the case of H. P. Blavatsky.

midden ::: n. --> A dunghill.
An accumulation of refuse about a dwelling place; especially, an accumulation of shells or of cinders, bones, and other refuse on the supposed site of the dwelling places of prehistoric tribes, -- as on the shores of the Baltic Sea and in many other places. See Kitchen middens.

minimal automaton "theory" An {automaton} possessing with {redundant states}. (1996-05-03)

mirror 1. "hardware, storage" Writing duplicate data to more than one device (usually two {hard disks}), in order to protect against loss of data in the event of device failure. This technique may be implemented in either hardware (sharing a {disk controller} and cables) or in software. It is a common feature of {RAID} systems. Several {operating systems} support software disk mirroring or {disk-duplexing}, e.g. {Novell NetWare}. See also {Redundant Array of Independent Disks}. Interestingly, when this technique is used with {magnetic tape} storage systems, it is usually called "twinning". A less expensive alternative, which only limits the amount of data loss, is to make regular {backups} from a single disk to {magnetic tape}. 2. {mirror site}. (1998-06-11)

mixen ::: n. --> A compost heap; a dunghill.

Mneme: (Gr. Mneme, memory) Term proposed by Semon (Die Mneme, 1904; Die mnemeschen Empfindungen, 1909) and adopted by B. Russell (Analysis of Mind) to designate the conservation in a living organism of the effects of earlier stimulation. Ordinary memory is interpreted as an instance of mnemic conservation. -- L.W.

moria "games" /mor'ee-*/ Like {nethack} and {rogue}, one of the large {PD} {Dungeons and Dragons}-like simulation games, available for a wide range of machines and operating systems. The name is from Tolkien's Mines of Moria; compare {elder days}, {elvish}. The game is extremely addictive and a major consumer of time better used for hacking. [{Jargon File}]

Motorola 68HC11 "processor" A {microcontroller} family from {Motorola} descended from the {Motorola 6800} {microprocessor}. The 68HC11 devices are more powerful and more expensive than the 68HC05 family. {FAQ (ftp://src.doc.ic.ac.uk/usenet/usenet-by-group/comp.answers/microcontroller-faq/68hc11)}. There is an {opcode} simulator for the 68HC11, by Ted Dunning "ted@nmsu.edu". Interrupts, hardware I/O, and half carries are still outside the loop. Adding interrupts may require simulating at the clock phase level. Version 1. {(ftp://crl.nmsu.edu/pub/non-lexical/6811/sim6811.shar)}. (1995-04-28)

MPEG-1 "compression, standard, algorithm, file format" The first {MPEG} format for compressed {video}, optimised for {CD-ROM}. MPEG-1 was designed for the transmission rates of about 1.5 {Mbps} achievable with {Video-CD} and {CD-i}. It uses {discrete cosine transform} (DCT) and {Huffman coding} to remove spatially redundant data within a frame and block-based {motion compensated prediction} (MCP) to remove data which is temporally redundant between frames. Audio is compressed using {subband encoding}. These {algorithms} allow better than VHS quality video and almost CD quality audio to be compressed onto and streamed off a {single speed} (1x) {CD-ROM} drive. MPEG encoding can introduce blockiness, colour bleed and shimmering effects on video and lack of detail and quantisation effects on audio. The official name of MPEG-1 is {International Standard} {IS-11172}. (1999-01-06)

muck ::: --> abbreviation of Amuck. ::: n. --> Dung in a moist state; manure.
Vegetable mold mixed with earth, as found in low, damp places and swamps.
Anything filthy or vile.

muckmidden ::: n. --> A dunghill.

muckworm ::: n. --> A larva or grub that lives in muck or manure; -- applied to the larvae of the tumbledung and allied beetles.
One who scrapes together money by mean labor and devices; a miser.

MUD "games" {Multi-User Dimension} or "Multi-User Domain". Originally "Multi-User Dungeon". [{Jargon File}] (1995-04-16)

Multi-User Dimension "games" (MUD) (Or Multi-User Domain, originally "Multi-User Dungeon") A class of multi-player interactive game, accessible via the {Internet} or a {modem}. A MUD is like a real-time {chat} forum with structure; it has multiple "locations" like an {adventure} game and may include combat, traps, puzzles, magic and a simple economic system. A MUD where characters can build more structure onto the database that represents the existing world is sometimes known as a "{MUSH}". Most MUDs allow you to log in as a guest to look around before you create your own character. Historically, MUDs (and their more recent progeny with names of MU- form) derive from a hack by Richard Bartle and Roy Trubshaw on the University of Essex's {DEC-10} in 1979. It was a game similar to the classic {Colossal Cave} adventure, except that it allowed multiple people to play at the same time and interact with each other. Descendants of that game still exist today and are sometimes generically called BartleMUDs. There is a widespread myth that the name MUD was trademarked to the commercial MUD run by Bartle on {British Telecom} (the motto: "You haven't *lived* 'til you've *died* on MUD!"); however, this is false - Richard Bartle explicitly placed "MUD" in the {PD} in 1985. BT was upset at this, as they had already printed trademark claims on some maps and posters, which were released and created the myth. Students on the European academic networks quickly improved on the MUD concept, spawning several new MUDs ({VAXMUD}, {AberMUD}, {LPMUD}). Many of these had associated {bulletin-board systems} for social interaction. Because these had an image as "research" they often survived administrative hostility to {BBSs} in general. This, together with the fact that {Usenet} feeds have been spotty and difficult to get in the UK, made the MUDs major foci of hackish social interaction there. AberMUD and other variants crossed the Atlantic around 1988 and quickly gained popularity in the US; they became nuclei for large hacker communities with only loose ties to traditional hackerdom (some observers see parallels with the growth of {Usenet} in the early 1980s). The second wave of MUDs (TinyMUD and variants) tended to emphasise social interaction, puzzles, and cooperative world-building as opposed to combat and competition. In 1991, over 50% of MUD sites are of a third major variety, LPMUD, which synthesises the combat/puzzle aspects of AberMUD and older systems with the extensibility of TinyMud. The trend toward greater programmability and flexibility will doubtless continue. The state of the art in MUD design is still moving very rapidly, with new simulation designs appearing (seemingly) every month. There is now a move afoot to deprecate the term {MUD} itself, as newer designs exhibit an exploding variety of names corresponding to the different simulation styles being explored. {UMN MUD Gopher page (gopher://spinaltap.micro.umn.edu/11/fun/Games/MUDs/Links)}. {U Pennsylvania MUD Web page (http://cis.upenn.edu/~lwl/mudinfo.html)}. See also {bonk/oif}, {FOD}, {link-dead}, {mudhead}, {MOO}, {MUCK}, {MUG}, {MUSE}, {chat}. {Usenet} newsgroups: {news:rec.games.mud.announce}, {news:rec.games.mud.admin}, {news:rec.games.mud.diku}, {news:rec.games.mud.lp}, {news:rec.games.mud.misc}, {news:rec.games.mud.tiny}. (1994-08-10)

Multi-User Dungeon {Multi-User Dimension}

mundungus ::: n. --> A stinking tobacco.

muting ::: n. --> Dung of birds.

nagor ::: n. --> A West African gazelle (Gazella redunca).

NetHack "games" /net'hak/ (Unix) A dungeon game similar to {rogue} but more elaborate, distributed in {C} source over {Usenet} and very popular at {Unix} sites and on {PC}-class machines (nethack is probably the most widely distributed of the {freeware} dungeon games). The earliest versions, written by Jay Fenlason and later considerably enhanced by Andries Brouwer, were simply called "hack". The name changed when maintenance was taken over by a group of hackers originally organised by Mike Stephenson. Version: NetHack 3.2 (Apr 1996?). {(http://win.tue.nl/games/roguelike/nethack/)}. {FAQ (ftp://rtfm.mit.edu/pub/usenet/rec.games.roguelike.nethack/)}. {FTP U Penn (ftp://linc.cis.upenn.edu/pub/NH3.1/)} No large downloads between 9:00 and 18:00 local or the directory will be removed. {Usenet} newsgroup: {news:rec.games.roguelike.nethack}. E-mail: "nethack-bugs@linc.cis.upenn.edu". (1996-06-13)

NORDUnet "networking, body" (Nordic Universities Network?) A collaboration between the national research networks in Denmark, Finland, Iceland, Norway and Sweden. It provides international access for these countries. {(http://info.nordu.net/)}. (1998-07-05)

numskull ::: n. --> A dunce; a dolt; a stupid fellow.

Objectivation: See Objectivize. Objective: (a) Possessing the character of a real object existing independently of the knowing mind in contrast to subjective. See Subjective. (b) In Scholastic terminology beginning with Duns Scotus and continuing into the 17th and 18th centuries, objective designated anything existing as idea or representation in the mind without independent existence, (cf. Descartes, Meditations, III; "Spinoza, Ethics, I, prop. 30; Berkeley's Siris, § 292.) The change from sense (b) to (a) was made by Baumgarten. See R. Eucken, Geschichte der Philosophischen Terminologie, p. 68. -- L.W.

oppilation ::: n. --> The act of filling or crowding together; a stopping by redundant matter; obstruction, particularly in the lower intestines.

oppositifolious ::: a. --> Placed at the same node with a leaf, but separated from it by the whole diameter of the stem; as, an oppositifolious peduncle.

ordure ::: n. --> Dung; excrement; faeces.
Defect; imperfection; fault.

oubliette ::: n. --> A dungeon with an opening only at the top, found in some old castles and other strongholds, into which persons condemned to perpetual imprisonment, or to perish secretly, were thrust, or lured to fall.

oxbird ::: n. --> The dunlin.
The sanderling.
An African weaver bird (Textor alector).

oxeye ::: n. --> The oxeye daisy. See under Daisy.
The corn camomile (Anthemis arvensis).
A genus of composite plants (Buphthalmum) with large yellow flowers.
A titmouse, especially the great titmouse (Parus major) and the blue titmouse (P. coeruleus).
The dunlin.
A fish; the bogue, or box.

pare ::: v. t. --> To cut off, or shave off, the superficial substance or extremities of; as, to pare an apple; to pare a horse&

parity "storage, communications" An extra bit added to a {byte} or {word} to reveal errors in storage (in {RAM} or {disk}) or transmission. Even (odd) parity means that the parity bit is set so that there are an even (odd) number of one bits in the word, including the parity bit. A single parity bit can only reveal single bit errors since if an even number of bits are wrong then the parity bit will not change. Moreover, it is not possible to tell which bit is wrong, as it is with more sophisticated {error detection and correction} systems. See also {longitudinal parity}, {checksum}, {cyclic redundancy check}. (1996-03-01)

peduncled ::: a. --> Having a peduncle; supported on a peduncle; pedunculate.

peduncle ::: n. --> The stem or stalk that supports the flower or fruit of a plant, or a cluster of flowers or fruits.
A sort of stem by which certain shells and barnacles are attached to other objects. See Illust. of Barnacle.
A band of nervous or fibrous matter connecting different parts of the brain; as, the peduncles of the cerebellum; the peduncles of the pineal gland.

peduncular ::: a. --> Of or pertaining to a peduncle; growing from a peduncle; as, a peduncular tendril.

pedunculata ::: n. pl. --> A division of Cirripedia, including the stalked or goose barnacles.

pedunculate ::: a. --> Alt. of Pedunculated

pedunculated ::: a. --> Having a peduncle; growing on a peduncle; as, a pedunculate flower; a pedunculate eye, as in a lobster.

pedicel ::: n. --> A stalk which supports one flower or fruit, whether solitary or one of many ultimate divisions of a common peduncle. See Peduncle, and Illust. of Flower.
A slender support of any special organ, as that of a capsule in mosses, an air vesicle in algae, or a sporangium in ferns.
A slender stem by which certain of the lower animals or their eggs are attached. See Illust. of Aphis lion.
The ventral part of each side of the neural arch

peer-to-peer "networking" 1. The kind of communication found in a system using layered {protocols}. Each software or hardware component can be considered to communicate only with its {peer} in the same layer via the connection provided by the lower layers. (1994-12-14) 2. A decentralised {file sharing} system like {BitTorrent}, {Gnutella} or {Kazaa} where computers that download data also store that data and serve it to other downloaders. This increases the total bandwidth available in proportion to the number of users and so reduces download time. It also improves resilience by providing multiple redundant sources for the same data. This contrasts with {client-server} where all clients download the data from a single server (or {mirror}), sharing its fixed bandwidth. Peer-to-peer networks are typically ad-hoc and rely on users sharing the content they have downloaded for the benefit of other users. Users who fail to do this are called "leaches". A "seed" is a node on a peer-to-peer network that is sharing a complete copy of a file, as opposed to other nodes that may only have some of the parts into which the file has been split. (2010-02-20)

pennatulacea ::: n. pl. --> A division of alcyonoid corals, including the seapens and related kinds. They are able to move about by means of the hollow muscular peduncle, which also serves to support them upright in the mud. See Pennatula, and Illust. under Alcyonaria.

perfect ::: a. --> Brought to consummation or completeness; completed; not defective nor redundant; having all the properties or qualities requisite to its nature and kind; without flaw, fault, or blemish; without error; mature; whole; pure; sound; right; correct.
Well informed; certain; sure.
Hermaphrodite; having both stamens and pistils; -- said of flower.
To make perfect; to finish or complete, so as to leave

perissological ::: a. --> Redundant or excessive in words.

Perseity: (Lat. per se) The condition of being per se, by itself, that is being such as it is from its very nature. Perseity must not be confused with aseity The former implies independence of a subject in which to inhere, whereas the latter demands a still higher degree of independence of any efficient or producing agency whatsoever, it is predicated of God alone. Thomas Aquinas held: Quod est per se, semper est prius eo quod est per aliud. That which exists per se is always a substance. This mode of existence is distinguished from that which is per accidens, that is something which is not essential, but only belongs to a subject more or less fortuitously. A thing is per se owing to its internal constitution, or essence, but that which is per accidens is due rather to external or non-essential reasons. Thomas Aquinas taught that that which is per accidens, non potest esse semper et in omnibus, whereas that which belongs to something per se, de necessitate et semper et inseparabiliter et inest. Duns Scotus held that per se esse may be understood in the sense of being incommunicable, incommunicabiliter esse, or per se subsistere, subsisting by itself, not by another. In human acts that which is directly intended is per se, while that which is per accidens is praeter intentionem. Rational beings tend toward the good, or that which is regarded as good. If the good is intended for itself it is bonum per se, otherwise it is a bonum per accidens or secundum quid, that is relatively good. -- J.J.R.

petiole ::: n. --> A leafstalk; the footstalk of a leaf, connecting the blade with the stem. See Illust. of Leaf.
A stalk or peduncle.

Planetary Spirit(s) ::: Every celestial body in space, of whatever kind or type, is under the overseeing and directing influenceof a hierarchy of spiritual and quasi-spiritual and astral beings, who in their aggregate are generalizedunder the name of celestial spirits. These celestial spirits exist therefore in various stages or degrees ofevolution; but the term planetary spirits is usually restricted to the highest class of these beings whenreferring to a planet.In every case, and whatever the celestial body may be, such a hierarchy of ethereal beings, when themost advanced in evolution of them are considered, in long past cycles of kosmic evolution had evolvedthrough a stage of development corresponding to the humanity of earth. Every planetary spirit therefore,wherever existent, in those far past aeons of kosmic time was a man or a being equivalent to what wehumans on earth call man. The planetary spirits of earth, for instance, are intimately linked with theorigin and destiny of our present humanity, for not only are they our predecessors along the evolutionarypath, but certain classes of them are actually the spiritual guides and instructors of mankind. We humans,in far distant aeons of the future, on a planetary chain which will be the child or grandchild of the presentearth-chain, will be the planetary spirits of that future planetary chain. It is obvious that as H. P.Blavatsky says: "Our Earth, being as yet only in its Fourth Round, is far too young to have produced highPlanetary Spirits"; but when the seventh round of this earth planetary chain shall have reached its end,our present humanity will then have become dhyanchohans of various grades, planetary spirits of onegroup or class, with necessary evolutionary differences as among themselves. The planetary spirits watchover, guide, and lead the hosts of evolving entities inferior to themselves during the various rounds of aplanetary chain. Finally, every celestial globe, whether sun or planet or other celestial body, has as thesummit or acme of its spiritual hierarchy a supreme celestial spirit who is the hierarch of its ownhierarchy. It should not be forgotten that the humanity of today forms a component element or stage ordegree in the hierarchy of this (our) planetary chain.

pleonasm ::: n. --> Redundancy of language in speaking or writing; the use of more words than are necessary to express the idea; as, I saw it with my own eyes.

pleonasm Redundancy of expression; tautology. (1995-03-25)

pleonastical ::: a. --> Of or pertaining to pleonasm; of the nature of pleonasm; redundant.

podocephalous ::: a. --> Having a head of flowers on a long peduncle, or footstalk.

polyanthus ::: n. --> The oxlip. So called because the peduncle bears a many-flowered umbel. See Oxlip. (b) A bulbous flowering plant of the genus Narcissus (N. Tazetta, or N. polyanthus of some authors). See Illust. of Narcissus.

puer ::: n. --> The dung of dogs, used as an alkaline steep in tanning.

purre ::: n. --> The dunlin.

RAID {Redundant Arrays of Independent Disks}

RAIS {Redundant Array of Inexpensive Servers}

random 1. Unpredictable (closest to mathematical definition); weird. "The system's been behaving pretty randomly." 2. Assorted; undistinguished. "Who was at the conference?" "Just a bunch of random business types." 3. (pejorative) Frivolous; unproductive; undirected. "He's just a random loser." 4. Incoherent or inelegant; poorly chosen; not well organised. "The program has a random set of misfeatures." "That's a random name for that function." "Well, all the names were chosen pretty randomly." 5. In no particular order, though {deterministic}. "The I/O channels are in a pool, and when a file is opened one is chosen randomly." 6. Arbitrary. "It generates a random name for the scratch file." 7. Gratuitously wrong, i.e. poorly done and for no good apparent reason. For example, a program that handles file name defaulting in a particularly useless way, or an assembler routine that could easily have been coded using only three registers, but redundantly uses seven for values with non-overlapping lifetimes, so that no one else can invoke it without first saving four extra registers. What {randomness}! 8. A random hacker; used particularly of high-school students who soak up computer time and generally get in the way. 9. Anyone who is not a hacker (or, sometimes, anyone not known to the hacker speaking). "I went to the talk, but the audience was full of randoms asking bogus questions". 10. (occasional MIT usage) One who lives at Random Hall. See also {J. Random}, {some random X}. [{Jargon File}] (1995-12-05)

redundance ::: n. --> Alt. of Redundancy

redundancy 1. "architecture, parallel" The provision of multiple interchangeable components to perform a single function in order to provide resilience (to cope with failures and errors). Redundancy normally applies primarily to hardware. For example, a {cluster} may contain two or three computers doing the same job. They could all be active all the time thus giving extra performance through {parallel processing} and {load balancing}; one could be active and the others simply monitoring its activity so as to be ready to take over if it failed ("warm standby"); the "spares" could be kept turned off and only switched on when needed ("cold standby"). Another common form of hardware redundancy is {disk mirroring}. 2. "data, communications, storage" {data redundancy}. (1995-05-09)

redundancy ::: n. --> The quality or state of being redundant; superfluity; superabundance; excess.
That which is redundant or in excess; anything superfluous or superabundant.
Surplusage inserted in a pleading which may be rejected by the court without impairing the validity of what remains.

redundant ::: a. --> Exceeding what is natural or necessary; superabundant; exuberant; as, a redundant quantity of bile or food.
Using more worrds or images than are necessary or useful; pleonastic.

Redundant Array of Independent Disks "storage, architecture" (RAID) A standard naming convention for various ways of using multiple disk drives to provide redundancy and distributed I/O. The original ("..Inexpensive..") term referred to the 3.5 and 5.25 inch disks used for the first RAID system but no longer applies. As {solid state drives} are becoming a practical repacement for magnetic disks, "RAID" is sometimes expanded as "Redundant Array of Independent Drives". The following standard RAID specifications exist: RAID 0 Non-redundant striped array RAID 1 Mirrored arrays RAID 2 Parallel array with ECC RAID 3 Parallel array with parity RAID 4 Striped array with parity RAID 5 Striped array with rotating parity RAID originated in a project at the computer science department of the {University of California at Berkeley}, under the direction of Professor Katz, in conjunction with Professor {John Ousterhout} and Professor {David Patterson}. A prototype disk array file server with a capacity of 40 GBytes and a sustained bandwidth of 80 MBytes/second was interfaced to a 1 Gb/s {local area network}. It was planned to extend the storage array to include automated {optical disks} and {magnetic tapes}. {(ftp://wuarchive.wustl.edu/doc/techreports/berkeley.edu/raid/raidPapers)}. {(http://HTTP.CS.Berkeley.EDU/projects/parallel/research_summaries/14-Computer-Architecture/)}. ["A Case for Redundant Arrays of Inexpensive Disks (RAID)", "D. A. Patterson and G. Gibson and R. H. Katz", Proc ACM SIGMOD Conf, Chicago, IL, Jun 1988]. ["Introduction to Redundant Arrays of Inexpensive Disks (RAID)", "D. A. Patterson and P. Chen and G. Gibson and R. H. Katz", IEEE COMPCON 89, San Francisco, Feb-Mar 1989]. (2012-08-26)

Redundant Array of Independent Drives {Redundant Arrays of Independent Disks}

Redundant Array of Inexpensive Disks {Redundant Arrays of Independent Disks}

Redundant Array of Inexpensive Servers "architecture" (RAIS) The use of multiple {servers} to provide the same service in such a way that service will still be available if one or more of the servers fails. The term may or may not imply some kind of {load balancing} between the servers. See {cluster}. The term "RAIS" follows {RAID}, which describes schemes for resilient disk storage. (2007-02-28)

Redundant Arrays of Inexpensive Disks {Redundant Arrays of Independent Disks}

redundantly ::: adv. --> In a refundant manner.

redback ::: n. --> The dunlin.

redound ::: v. i. --> To roll back, as a wave or flood; to be sent or driven back; to flow back, as a consequence or effect; to conduce; to contribute; to result.
To be in excess; to remain over and above; to be redundant; to overflow. ::: n.

reliable communication "communications" Communication where messages are guaranteed to reach their destination complete and uncorrupted and in the order they were sent. This reliability can be built on top of an unreliable {protocol} by adding sequencing information and some kind of {checksum} or {cyclic redundancy check} to each message or {packet}. If the communication fails, the sender will be notified. {Transmission Control Protocol} is a reliable protocol used on {Ethernet}. (2004-09-14)

Religion ::: An operation of the human spiritual mind in its endeavor to understand not only the how and the why ofthings, but comprising in addition a yearning and striving towards self-conscious union with the divineAll and an endlessly growing self-conscious identification with the cosmic divine-spiritual realities. Onephase of a triform method of understanding the nature of nature, of universal nature, and its multiformand multifold workings; and this phase cannot be separated from the other two phases (science andphilosophy) if we wish to gain a true picture of things as they are in themselves.Human religion is the expression of that aspect of man's consciousness which is intuitional, aspirational,and mystical, and which is often deformed and distorted in its lower forms by the emotional in man.It is usual among modern Europeans to derive the word religion from the Latin verb meaning "to bindback" -- religare. But there is another derivation, which is the one that Cicero chooses, and of course hewas a Roman himself and had great skill and deep knowledge in the use of his own native tongue. Thisother derivation comes from a Latin root meaning "to select," "to choose," from which, likewise, we havethe word lex, "law," i.e., the course of conduct or rule of action which is chosen as the best, and istherefore followed; in other words, that which is the best of its kind, as ascertained by selection, by trial,and by proof.Thus then, the meaning of the word religion from the Latin religio, means a careful selection offundamental beliefs and motives by the higher or spiritual intellect, a faculty of intuitional judgment andunderstanding, and a consequent abiding by that selection, resulting in a course of life and conduct in allrespects following the convictions that have been arrived at. This is the religious spirit.To this the theosophist would add the following very important idea: behind all the various religions andphilosophies of ancient times there is a secret or esoteric wisdom given out by the greatest men who haveever lived, the founders and builders of the various world religions and world philosophies; and thissublime system in fundamentals has been the same everywhere over the face of the globe.This system has passed under various names, e.g., the esoteric philosophy, the ancient wisdom, the secretdoctrine, the traditional teaching, theosophy, etc. (See also Science, Philosophy)

Resuming certain ideas of Locke and Berkeley, it was first propounded by the physicist Kirchhoff, and found its best representation by Richard Avenarius (1843-96) in Menschlicher Welthegriff, and, independently, by Ernst Mach (1838-1916) in Anal, d. Empfindungen. Many psychologists (Wm. Wundt, 0. Kuelpe, Harold Hoeffding, E. B. Titchener) approved of it, while H. Rickert and W. Moog discredited it forcefully. Charles Peirce (Popular Science Monthly, Jan. 1878) and Wm. James (Principles of Psych. 1898) applied Avenarius' ideas, somewhat roughly though, for the foundation of ''Pragmatism". John Dewey (Reconstruction in Philos.) used it in his "Instrumentalism", while F. C. S. Schiller (Humanism) based his ethical theory on it. -- S.v.F.

rogue "games" [Unix] A Dungeons-and-Dragons-like game using character graphics, written under BSD Unix and subsequently ported to other Unix systems. The original BSD "curses(3)" screen-handling package was hacked together by Ken Arnold to support "rogue(6)" and has since become one of Unix's most important and heavily used application libraries. Nethack, Omega, Larn, and an entire subgenre of computer dungeon games all took off from the inspiration provided by "rogue(6)". See also {nethack}. [{Jargon File}]

safety-critical system A computer, electronic or electromechanical system whose failure may cause injury or death to human beings. E.g. an aircraft or nuclear power station control system. Common tools used in the design of safety-critical systems are {redundancy} and {formal methods}. See also {aeroplane rule}.

SAP AG "company" (Systeme, Anwendungen, Produkte in der Datenverarbeitung - German for "Systems, Applications and Products in Data Processing") A company from Germany that sells the leading suite of {client-server} business software. The US branch is called SAP America. {(http://sap.com/)}. [Details?] (1998-07-28)

scape ::: n. --> A peduncle rising from the ground or from a subterranean stem, as in the stemless violets, the bloodroot, and the like.
The long basal joint of the antennae of an insect.
The shaft of a column.
The apophyge of a shaft.
An escape.
Means of escape; evasion.
A freak; a slip; a fault; an escapade.

scaraboid ::: a. --> Of or pertaining to the family Scarabaeidae, an extensive group which includes the Egyptian scarab, the tumbledung, and many similar lamellicorn beetles. ::: n. --> A scaraboid beetle.

scarn ::: n. --> Dung.

Scepticism, Fourteenth Century: At the beginning of the 14th century, Duns Scotus adopted a position which is not formally sceptical, though his critical attitude to earlier scholasticism may contain the germs of the scepticism of his century. Among Scotistic pre-sceptical tendencies may be mentioned the stress on self-knowledge rather than the knowledge of extra-mental reality, psychological voluntarism which eventuallj made the assent of judgment a matter of will rather than of intellect, and a theory of the reality of universal essences which led to a despair of the intellect's capacity to know such objects and thus spawned Ockhamism. Before 1317, Henry of Harclay noticed that, since the two terms of efficient causal connection are mutually distinct and absolute things, God, by his omnipotent will, can cause anything which naturally (naturaliter) is caused by a finite agent. He inferred from this that neither the present nor past existence of a finite external agent is necessarily involved in cognition (Pelstex p. 346). Later Petrus Aureoli and Ockham made the sime observation (Michalski, p. 94), and Ockham concluded that natural knowledge of substance and causal connection is possible only on the assumption that nature is pursuing a uniform, uninterrupted course at the moment of intuitive cognition. Without this assumption, observed sequences might well be the occasion of direct divine causal action rather than evidence of natural causation. It is possible that these sceptical views were suggested by reading the arguments of certain Moslem theologians (Al Gazali and the Mutakallimun), as well as by a consideration of miracles. The most influential sceptical author of the fourteenth century was Nicholas of Autrecourt (fl. 1340). Influenced perhaps by the Scotist conception of logical demonstration, Nicholas held that the law of noncontradiction is the ultimate and sole source of certainty. In logical inference, certainty is guaranteed because the consequent is identical with part or all of the antecedent. No logical connection can be established, therefore, between the existence or non-existence of one thing and the existence or non-existence of another and different thing. The inference from cause to effect or conversely is thus not a matter of certainty. The existence of substance, spiritual or physical, is neither known nor probable. We are unable to infer the existence of intellect or will from acts of intellection or volition, and sensible experience provides no evidence of external substances. The only certitudes properly so-called are those of immediate experience and those of principles known ex terminis together with conclusions immediately dependent on them. This thoroughgoing scepticism appears to have had considerable influence in its time, for we find many philosophers expressing, expounding, or criticizing it. John Buridan has a detailed criticism in his commentary on Aristotle's Physics (in 1 I, q. 4), Fitz-Ralph, Jacques d'Eltville, and Pierre d'Ailly maintain views similar to Nicholas', with some modifications, and there is at least one exposition of Nicholas' views in an anonymous commentary on the Sentences (British Museum, Ms. Harley 3243). These sceptical views were usually accompanied by a kind of probabilism. The condemnation of Nicholas in 1347 put a damper on the sceptical movement, and there is probably no continuity from these thinkers to the French sceptics of the 16th century. Despite this lack of direct influence, the sceptical arguments of 14th century thinkers bear marked resemblances to those employed by the French Occasionalists, Berkeley and Hume.

Scotism: from the standpoints of number and influence, this was the next most important school of this period. Among the pupils of Duns Scotus, may be mentioned Anthony Andreas (+1320), Francis of Meyronnes (de Mayronis) (+1325) and John de Bassolis (+1347). Walter Burleigh (+1343) was a vigorous opponent of Nominalism; Thomas Bradwardine (+1349), a mathematician and philosopher whose determinism influenced John Wiclif (+1384), John Hus and the German reformers. In the XV cent., this school is represented by William of Vaurouillon (+1464), Nicholas of Orbelhs (+1455), John Anglicus, Thomas Bricot and the great Peter Tartaret (+1494).

Scotism: The philosophical and theological system named after John Duns Scotus (1266? -1308), Doctor Subtilis, a Franciscan student and later professor at Oxford and Paris and the most gifted of the opponents of the Thomist school. The name is almost synonymous with subtlety and the system generally is characterized by excessive criticism, due to Duns Scotus' predilection for mathematical studies -- the influence, perhaps, of his Franciscan predecessor, Roger Bacon, upon him. This spirit led Scotus to indiscriminate attack upon all his great predecessors in both Franciscan and Dominican Schools, especially St. Thomas, upon the ground of the inconclusiveness of their philosophical arguments. His own system is noted especially for its constant use of the so called Scotist or formal distinction which is considered to be on the one hand less than real, because it is not between thing and thing, and yet more than logical or virtual, because it actually exists between various thought objects or "formalities" in one and the sime individual prior to the action of the mind -- distinctio formalis actualis ex natuta rei. e g., the distinction between the essence and existence, between the animality and rationality in a man, between the principle of individuation in him and his matter and form, and between the divine attributes in God, are all formal distinctions. This undoubtedly leaves the system open to the charge of extreme realism and a tendency generally to consider the report of abstract thought with little regard for sense experience. Further by insisting also upon a formal unity of these formalities which exists apart from conception and is therefore apparently real, the system appears to lead logically to monism, e.g., the really distinct materiality in all material things is formally one apart from the abstracting and universalizing activity of the mind. By insisting that this formal unity is less than real unity, the Scotists claim to escape the charge.

scotist ::: n. --> A follower of (Joannes) Duns Scotus, the Franciscan scholastic (d. 1308), who maintained certain doctrines in philosophy and theology, in opposition to the Thomists, or followers of Thomas Aquinas, the Dominican scholastic.

SCSI adaptor "hardware" (Or "host adaptor") A device that communicates between a computer and its {SCSI} {peripherals}. The SCSI adaptor is usually assigned {SCSI ID} 7. It is often a separate card that is connected to the computer's {bus} (e.g. {PCI}, {ISA}, {PCMCIA}) though increasinly, SCSI adaptors are built in to the {motherboard}. Apart from being cheaper, busses like PCI are too slow to keep up with the newer SCSI standards like {Ultra SCSI} and {Ultra-Wide SCSI}. There are several varieties of SCSI (and their connectors) and an adaptor will not support them all. The performance of SCSI devices is limited by the speed of the SCSI adaptor and its connection to the computer. An adaptor that plugs into a parallel port is unlikely to be as fast as one incorporated into a motherboard. Fast adaptors use {DMA} or {bus mastering}. Some SCSI adaptors include a {BIOS} to allow PCs to {boot} from a SCSI hard disk, if their own BIOS supports it. {Adaptec} make the majority of SCSI {chipsets} and many of the best-selling adaptors. Note that it is not a "SCSI controller" - it does not control the devices, and "SCSI interface" is redundant - the "I" of "SCSI" stands for "interface". (1999-11-24)

scumber ::: v. i. --> To void excrement. ::: n. --> Dung.

sea lark ::: --> The rock pipit (Anthus obscurus).
Any one of several small sandpipers and plovers, as the ringed plover, the turnstone, the dunlin, and the sanderling.

sea mouse ::: --> A dorsibranchiate annelid, belonging to Aphrodite and allied genera, having long, slender, hairlike setae on the sides.
The dunlin.

sea pear ::: --> A pedunculated ascidian of the genus Boltonia.

sea snipe ::: --> A sandpiper, as the knot and dunlin.
The bellows fish.

Sensation: (Ger. Empfindung) In Kant: The content of sensuous intuition, or the way in which a conscious subject is modified by the presence of an object. Kant usually employs the term to designate the content sensed instead of the process of sensing. The process he calls 'intuition' (q.v.); the faculty he names 'sensibility' (q.v.). See Kantianism. -- O.F.K.

shearn ::: n. --> Dung; excrement.

solidungula ::: n. pl. --> A tribe of ungulates which includes the horse, ass, and related species, constituting the family Equidae.

solidungular ::: a. --> Solipedous.

solidungulate ::: n. --> Same as Soliped.

solidungulous ::: a. --> Solipedous.

soliped ::: n. --> A mammal having a single hoof on each foot, as the horses and asses; a solidungulate.

sparse ::: superl. --> Thinly scattered; set or planted here and there; not being dense or close together; as, a sparse population.
Placed irregularly and distantly; scattered; -- applied to branches, leaves, peduncles, and the like. ::: v. t. --> To scatter; to disperse.

spraints ::: v. t. --> The dung of an otter.

stalk-eyed ::: a. --> Having the eyes raised on a stalk, or peduncle; -- opposed to sessile-eyed. Said especially of podophthalmous crustaceans.

stalk ::: n. --> The stem or main axis of a plant; as, a stalk of wheat, rye, or oats; the stalks of maize or hemp.
The petiole, pedicel, or peduncle, of a plant.
That which resembes the stalk of a plant, as the stem of a quill.
An ornament in the Corinthian capital resembling the stalk of a plant, from which the volutes and helices spring.
One of the two upright pieces of a ladder.

stallage ::: n. --> The right of erecting a stalls in fairs; rent paid for a stall.
Dung of cattle or horses, mixed with straw.

stercoraceous ::: a. --> Of or pertaining to dung; partaking of the nature of, or containing, dung.

stercorary ::: n. --> A place, properly secured from the weather, for containing dung.

stercorate ::: n. --> Excrement; dung.

stercoration ::: n. --> Manuring with dung.

stercory ::: n. --> Excrement; dung.

sterquilinous ::: a. --> Pertaining to a dunghill; hence, mean; dirty; paltry.

stint ::: n. --> Any one of several species of small sandpipers, as the sanderling of Europe and America, the dunlin, the little stint of India (Tringa minuta), etc. Called also pume.
A phalarope. ::: v. t. --> To restrain within certain limits; to bound; to confine;

stopping ::: p. pr. & vb. n. --> of Stop ::: n. --> Material for filling a cavity.
A partition or door to direct or prevent a current of air.
A pad or poultice of dung or other material applied to a

St. Thomas was a teacher and a writer for some twenty years (1254-1273). Among his works are: Scriptum in IV Libros Sententiarum (1254-1256), Summa Contra Gentiles (c. 1260), Summa Theologica (1265-1272); commentaries on Boethius. (De Trinitate, c. 1257-1258), on Dionysius the Pseudo-Areopagite (De Divinis Nominibus, c. 1261), on the anonymous and important Liber de Causis (1268), and especially on Aristotle's works (1261-1272), Physics, Metaphysics, Nicomachean Ethics, Politics, On the Soul, Posterior Analytics, On Interpretation, On the Heavens, On Generation and Corruption; Quaestiones Disputatae, which includes questions on such large subjects as De Veritate (1256-1259); De Potentia (1259-1263); De Malo (1263-1268); De Spiritualibus Creaturis, De Anima (1269-1270); small treatises or Opuscula, among which especially noteworthy are the De Ente et Essentia (1256); De Aeternitate Mundi (1270), De Unitate Intellecus (1270), De Substantiis Separatis (1272). While it is extremely difficult to grasp in its entirety the personality behind this complex theological and philosophical activity, some points are quite clear and beyond dispute. During the first five years of his activity as a thinker and a teacher, St. Thomas seems to have formulated his most fundamental ideas in their definite form, to have clarified his historical conceptions of Greek and Arabian philosophers, and to have made more precise and even corrected his doctrinal positions, (cf., e.g., the change on the question of creation between In II Sent., d.l, q.l, a.3, and the later De Potentia, q. III, a.4). This is natural enough, though we cannot pretend to explain why he should have come to think as he did. The more he grew, and that very rapidly, towards maturity, the more his thought became inextricably involved in the defense of Aristotle (beginning with c. 1260), his texts and his ideas, against the Averroists, who were then beginning to become prominent in the faculty of arts at the University of Paris; against the traditional Augustinianism of a man like St. Bonaventure; as well as against that more subtle Augustinianism which could breathe some of the spirit of Augustine, speak the language of Aristotle, but expound, with increasing faithfulness and therefore more imminent disaster, Christian ideas through the Neoplatonic techniques of Avicenna. This last group includes such different thinkers as St. Albert the Great, Henry of Ghent, the many disciples of St. Bonaventure, including, some think, Duns Scotus himself, and Meister Eckhart of Hochheim.

Synderesis: (Late Gr. synteresis, spark of conscience, may be connected with syneidesis, conscience) In Scholastic philosophy: the habitus, or permanent, inborn disposition of the mind to think of general and broad rules of moral conduct which become the principles from which a man may reason in directing his own moral activities. First used, apparently, by St. Jerome (In Ezekiel., I, 4-15) as equivalent to the scintilla conscientiae (spark of conscience), the term became very common and received various interpretations in the 13th century. Franciscan thinkers (St. Bonaventure) tended to regard synderesis as a quality of the human will, inclining it to embrace the good-in-general. St. Thomas thought synderesis a habitus of the intellect, enabling it to know first principles of practical reasoning; he distinguished clearly between synderesis and conscience, the latter being the action of the practical intellect deciding whether a particular, proposed operation is good or bad, here and now. Duns Scotus also considered synderesis a quality belonging to intellect rather than will. -- V.J.B.

system management "job" Activities performed by a system manager, aiming to minimise the use of excessive, redundant resources to address the overlapping requirements of performance balancing, network management, reducing outages, system maintenance costs, diagnosis and repair, and migration to new hardware and software system versions. Compare: {system administration}. (1995-11-10)

Tagged Image File Format "file format, graphics" (TIFF) A {file format} used for still-image {bitmaps}, stored in tagged fields. {Application programs} can use the tags to accept or ignore fields, depending on their capabilities. While TIFF was designed to be extensible, it lacked a core of useful functionality, so that most useful functions (e.g. {lossless} 24-bit colour) requires nonstandard, often redundant, extensions. The incompatibility of extensions has led some to expand "TIFF" as "Thousands of Incompatible File Formats". Compare {GIF}, {PNG}, {JPEG}. (1997-10-11)

tath ::: obs. --> 3d pers. sing. pres. of Ta, to take. ::: n. --> Dung, or droppings of cattle.
The luxuriant grass growing about the droppings of cattle in a pasture.

terebratula ::: n. --> A genus of brachiopods which includes many living and some fossil species. The larger valve has a perforated beak, through which projects a short peduncle for attachment. Called also lamp shell.

The general superiority of theology in this system over the admittedly distinct discipline of philosophy, makes it impossible for unaided reason to solve certain problems which Thomism claims are quite within the province of the latter, e.g., the omnipotence of God, the immortality of the soul. Indeed the Scotist position on this latter question has been thought by some critics to come quite close to the double standard of truth of Averroes, (q.v.) namely, that which is true in theology may be false in philosophy. The univocal assertion of being in God and creatures; the doctrine of universal prime matter (q.v.) in all created substances, even angels, though characteristically there are three kinds of prime matter); the plurality of forms in substances (e.g., two in man) giving successive generic and specific determinations of the substance; all indicate the opposition of Scotistic metaphysics to that of Thomism despite the large body of ideas the two systems have in common. The denial of real distinction between the soul and its faculties; the superiority of will over intellect, the attainment of perfect happiness through a will act of love; the denial of the absolute unchangeableness of the natural law in view of its dependence on the will of God, acts being good because God commanded them; indicate the further rejection of St. Thomas who holds the opposite on each of these questions. However the opposition is not merely for itself but that of a voluntarist against an intellectualist. This has caused many students to point out the affinity of Duns Scotus with Immanuel Kant. (q.v.) But unlike the great German philosopher who relies entirely upon the supremacy of moral consciousness, Duns Scotus makes a constant appeal to revelation and its order of truth as above all philosophy. In his own age, which followed immediately upon the great constructive synthesis of Saints Albert, Bonaventure, and Thomas, this lesser light was less a philosopher because he and his School were incapable of powerful synthesis and so gave themselves to analysis and controversy. The principal Scotists were Francis of Mayron (d. 1327) and Antonio Andrea (d. 1320); and later John of Basoles, John Dumbleton, Walter Burleigh, Alexander of Alexandria, Lychetus of Brescia and Nicholas de Orbellis. The complete works with a life of Duns Scotus were published in 1639 by Luke Wadding (Lyons) and reprinted by Vives in 1891. (Paris) -- C.A.H.

The globes of a chain are said to be in coadunation but not in consubstantiality, which means that, though of different grades of materiality, they form a catenary unit. Although each chain consists of seven or twelve globes, the only one visible to the human eye on earth is that which is on the same plane of materiality. Of the twelve globes to each chain, seven belong to the manifested worlds and five to the unmanifested. The seven manifested globes are distributed on four planes, and the twelve globes on seven planes, as shown in the diagram.

This opposition of natural sciences (Naturwissenschaften) and cultural or socio-historical sciences (Geistestvtssenschaften) is characteristic of idealistic philosophies of history, especially of the modern German variety. See Max Weber, Gesamm. Aufrätze z. Sozio u. Sozialpolitik, 1922; W. Windelband, Geschichte u. Naturwissenschaft, 1894; H. Rickert, Die Grenzen d. Naturwiss. Begriffsbildung, eine logische Einleitung i. d. histor. Wissenschaften, 1899; Dilthey (q.v.); E. Troeltsch, Der Histortsmus u. s. Probleme, 1922; E. Spranger, Die Grundlagen d. Geschichteswissensch., 1905.

Thomists: John Capreolus, Thomistarum princeps, (+1444), Denis the Carthusian (+1471) and Peter Nigri (+c. 1484). Two other important schools of this period are the Latin Averroists and the Mystics. In the first group we find Peter d'Abano (+1315) who made Padua the center of this movement, John of Jandun (+1328), John Baconthorp (+1348), Averroistarum princeps, Paul of Perusio, Paul of Venice (+1429), Cajetan of Tiene (+1465).

Three senses of "Ockhamism" may be distinguished: Logical, indicating usage of the terminology and technique of logical analysis developed by Ockham in his Summa totius logicae; in particular, use of the concept of supposition (suppositio) in the significative analysis of terms. Epistemological, indicating the thesis that universality is attributable only to terms and propositions, and not to things as existing apart from discourse. Theological, indicating the thesis that no tneological doctrines, such as those of God's existence or of the immortality of the soul, are evident or demonstrable philosophically, so that religious doctrine rests solely on faith, without metaphysical or scientific support. It is in this sense that Luther is often called an Ockhamist.   Bibliography:   B. Geyer,   Ueberwegs Grundriss d. Gesch. d. Phil., Bd. II (11th ed., Berlin 1928), pp. 571-612 and 781-786; N. Abbagnano,   Guglielmo di Ockham (Lanciano, Italy, 1931); E. A. Moody,   The Logic of William of Ockham (N. Y. & London, 1935); F. Ehrle,   Peter von Candia (Muenster, 1925); G. Ritter,   Studien zur Spaetscholastik, I-II (Heidelberg, 1921-1922).     --E.A.M. Om, aum: (Skr.) Mystic, holy syllable as a symbol for the indefinable Absolute. See Aksara, Vac, Sabda. --K.F.L. Omniscience: In philosophy and theology it means the complete and perfect knowledge of God, of Himself and of all other beings, past, present, and future, or merely possible, as well as all their activities, real or possible, including the future free actions of human beings. --J.J.R. One: Philosophically, not a number but equivalent to unit, unity, individuality, in contradistinction from multiplicity and the mani-foldness of sensory experience. In metaphysics, the Supreme Idea (Plato), the absolute first principle (Neo-platonism), the universe (Parmenides), Being as such and divine in nature (Plotinus), God (Nicolaus Cusanus), the soul (Lotze). Religious philosophy and mysticism, beginning with Indian philosophy (s.v.), has favored the designation of the One for the metaphysical world-ground, the ultimate icility, the world-soul, the principle of the world conceived as reason, nous, or more personally. The One may be conceived as an independent whole or as a sum, as analytic or synthetic, as principle or ontologically. Except by mysticism, it is rarely declared a fact of sensory experience, while its transcendent or transcendental, abstract nature is stressed, e.g., in epistemology where the "I" or self is considered the unitary background of personal experience, the identity of self-consciousness, or the unity of consciousness in the synthesis of the manifoldness of ideas (Kant). --K.F.L. One-one: A relation R is one-many if for every y in the converse domain there is a unique x such that xRy. A relation R is many-one if for every x in the domain there is a unique y such that xRy. (See the article relation.) A relation is one-one, or one-to-one, if it is at the same time one-many and many-one. A one-one relation is said to be, or to determine, a one-to-one correspondence between its domain and its converse domain. --A.C. On-handedness: (Ger. Vorhandenheit) Things exist in the mode of thereness, lying- passively in a neutral space. A "deficient" form of a more basic relationship, termed at-handedness (Zuhandenheit). (Heidegger.) --H.H. Ontological argument: Name by which later authors, especially Kant, designate the alleged proof for God's existence devised by Anselm of Canterbury. Under the name of God, so the argument runs, everyone understands that greater than which nothing can be thought. Since anything being the greatest and lacking existence is less then the greatest having also existence, the former is not really the greater. The greatest, therefore, has to exist. Anselm has been reproached, already by his contemporary Gaunilo, for unduly passing from the field of logical to the field of ontological or existential reasoning. This criticism has been repeated by many authors, among them Aquinas. The argument has, however, been used, if in a somewhat modified form, by Duns Scotus, Descartes, and Leibniz. --R.A. Ontological Object: (Gr. onta, existing things + logos, science) The real or existing object of an act of knowledge as distinguished from the epistemological object. See Epistemological Object. --L.W. Ontologism: (Gr. on, being) In contrast to psychologism, is called any speculative system which starts philosophizing by positing absolute being, or deriving the existence of entities independently of experience merely on the basis of their being thought, or assuming that we have immediate and certain knowledge of the ground of being or God. Generally speaking any rationalistic, a priori metaphysical doctrine, specifically the philosophies of Rosmini-Serbati and Vincenzo Gioberti. As a philosophic method censored by skeptics and criticists alike, as a scholastic doctrine formerly strongly supported, revived in Italy and Belgium in the 19th century, but no longer countenanced. --K.F.L. Ontology: (Gr. on, being + logos, logic) The theory of being qua being. For Aristotle, the First Philosophy, the science of the essence of things. Introduced as a term into philosophy by Wolff. The science of fundamental principles, the doctrine of the categories. Ultimate philosophy; rational cosmology. Syn. with metaphysics. See Cosmology, First Principles, Metaphysics, Theology. --J.K.F. Operation: "(Lit. operari, to work) Any act, mental or physical, constituting a phase of the reflective process, and performed with a view to acquiring1 knowledge or information about a certain subject-nntter. --A.C.B.   In logic, see Operationism.   In philosophy of science, see Pragmatism, Scientific Empiricism. Operationism: The doctrine that the meaning of a concept is given by a set of operations.   1. The operational meaning of a term (word or symbol) is given by a semantical rule relating the term to some concrete process, object or event, or to a class of such processes, objectj or events.   2. Sentences formed by combining operationally defined terms into propositions are operationally meaningful when the assertions are testable by means of performable operations. Thus, under operational rules, terms have semantical significance, propositions have empirical significance.   Operationism makes explicit the distinction between formal (q.v.) and empirical sentences. Formal propositions are signs arranged according to syntactical rules but lacking operational reference. Such propositions, common in mathematics, logic and syntax, derive their sanction from convention, whereas an empirical proposition is acceptable (1) when its structure obeys syntactical rules and (2) when there exists a concrete procedure (a set of operations) for determining its truth or falsity (cf. Verification). Propositions purporting to be empirical are sometimes amenable to no operational test because they contain terms obeying no definite semantical rules. These sentences are sometimes called pseudo-propositions and are said to be operationally meaningless. They may, however, be 'meaningful" in other ways, e.g. emotionally or aesthetically (cf. Meaning).   Unlike a formal statement, the "truth" of an empirical sentence is never absolute and its operational confirmation serves only to increase the degree of its validity. Similarly, the semantical rule comprising the operational definition of a term has never absolute precision. Ordinarily a term denotes a class of operations and the precision of its definition depends upon how definite are the rules governing inclusion in the class.   The difference between Operationism and Logical Positivism (q.v.) is one of emphasis. Operationism's stress of empirical matters derives from the fact that it was first employed to purge physics of such concepts as absolute space and absolute time, when the theory of relativity had forced upon physicists the view that space and time are most profitably defined in terms of the operations by which they are measured. Although different methods of measuring length at first give rise to different concepts of length, wherever the equivalence of certain of these measures can be established by other operations, the concepts may legitimately be combined.   In psychology the operational criterion of meaningfulness is commonly associated with a behavioristic point of view. See Behaviorism. Since only those propositions which are testable by public and repeatable operations are admissible in science, the definition of such concepti as mind and sensation must rest upon observable aspects of the organism or its behavior. Operational psychology deals with experience only as it is indicated by the operation of differential behavior, including verbal report. Discriminations, or the concrete differential reactions of organisms to internal or external environmental states, are by some authors regarded as the most basic of all operations.   For a discussion of the role of operational definition in phvsics. see P. W. Bridgman, The Logic of Modern Physics, (New York, 1928) and The Nature of Physical Theory (Princeton, 1936). "The extension of operationism to psychology is discussed by C. C. Pratt in The Logic of Modem Psychology (New York. 1939.)   For a discussion and annotated bibliography relating to Operationism and Logical Positivism, see S. S. Stevens, Psychology and the Science of Science, Psychol. Bull., 36, 1939, 221-263. --S.S.S. Ophelimity: Noun derived from the Greek, ophelimos useful, employed by Vilfredo Pareto (1848-1923) in economics as the equivalent of utility, or the capacity to provide satisfaction. --J.J.R. Opinion: (Lat. opinio, from opinor, to think) An hypothesis or proposition entertained on rational grounds but concerning which doubt can reasonably exist. A belief. See Hypothesis, Certainty, Knowledge. --J.K.F- Opposition: (Lat. oppositus, pp. of oppono, to oppose) Positive actual contradiction. One of Aristotle's Post-predicaments. In logic any contrariety or contradiction, illustrated by the "Square of Opposition". Syn. with: conflict. See Logic, formal, § 4. --J.K.F. Optimism: (Lat. optimus, the best) The view inspired by wishful thinking, success, faith, or philosophic reflection, that the world as it exists is not so bad or even the best possible, life is good, and man's destiny is bright. Philosophically most persuasively propounded by Leibniz in his Theodicee, according to which God in his wisdom would have created a better world had he known or willed such a one to exist. Not even he could remove moral wrong and evil unless he destroyed the power of self-determination and hence the basis of morality. All systems of ethics that recognize a supreme good (Plato and many idealists), subscribe to the doctrines of progressivism (Turgot, Herder, Comte, and others), regard evil as a fragmentary view (Josiah Royce et al.) or illusory, or believe in indemnification (Henry David Thoreau) or melioration (Emerson), are inclined optimistically. Practically all theologies advocating a plan of creation and salvation, are optimistic though they make the good or the better dependent on moral effort, right thinking, or belief, promising it in a future existence. Metaphysical speculation is optimistic if it provides for perfection, evolution to something higher, more valuable, or makes room for harmonies or a teleology. See Pessimism. --K.F.L. Order: A class is said to be partially ordered by a dyadic relation R if it coincides with the field of R, and R is transitive and reflexive, and xRy and yRx never both hold when x and y are different. If in addition R is connected, the class is said to be ordered (or simply ordered) by R, and R is called an ordering relation.   Whitehcid and Russell apply the term serial relation to relations which are transitive, irreflexive, and connected (and, in consequence, also asymmetric). However, the use of serial relations in this sense, instead ordering relations as just defined, is awkward in connection with the notion of order for unit classes.   Examples: The relation not greater than among leal numbers is an ordering relation. The relation less than among real numbers is a serial relation. The real numbers are simply ordered by the former relation. In the algebra of classes (logic formal, § 7), the classes are partially ordered by the relation of class inclusion.   For explanation of the terminology used in making the above definitions, see the articles connexity, reflexivity, relation, symmetry, transitivity. --A.C. Order type: See relation-number. Ordinal number: A class b is well-ordered by a dyadic relation R if it is ordered by R (see order) and, for every class a such that a ⊂ b, there is a member x of a, such that xRy holds for every member y of a; and R is then called a well-ordering relation. The ordinal number of a class b well-ordered by a relation R, or of a well-ordering relation R, is defined to be the relation-number (q. v.) of R.   The ordinal numbers of finite classes (well-ordered by appropriate relations) are called finite ordinal numbers. These are 0, 1, 2, ... (to be distinguished, of course, from the finite cardinal numbers 0, 1, 2, . . .).   The first non-finite (transfinite or infinite) ordinal number is the ordinal number of the class of finite ordinal numbers, well-ordered in their natural order, 0, 1, 2, . . .; it is usually denoted by the small Greek letter omega. --A.C.   G. Cantor, Contributions to the Founding of the Theory of Transfinite Numbers, translated and with an introduction by P. E. B. Jourdain, Chicago and London, 1915. (new ed. 1941); Whitehead and Russell, Princtpia Mathematica. vol. 3. Orexis: (Gr. orexis) Striving; desire; the conative aspect of mind, as distinguished from the cognitive and emotional (Aristotle). --G.R.M.. Organicism: A theory of biology that life consists in the organization or dynamic system of the organism. Opposed to mechanism and vitalism. --J.K.F. Organism: An individual animal or plant, biologically interpreted. A. N. Whitehead uses the term to include also physical bodies and to signify anything material spreading through space and enduring in time. --R.B.W. Organismic Psychology: (Lat. organum, from Gr. organon, an instrument) A system of theoretical psychology which construes the structure of the mind in organic rather than atomistic terms. See Gestalt Psychology; Psychological Atomism. --L.W. Organization: (Lat. organum, from Gr. organon, work) A structured whole. The systematic unity of parts in a purposive whole. A dynamic system. Order in something actual. --J.K.F. Organon: (Gr. organon) The title traditionally given to the body of Aristotle's logical treatises. The designation appears to have originated among the Peripatetics after Aristotle's time, and expresses their view that logic is not a part of philosophy (as the Stoics maintained) but rather the instrument (organon) of philosophical inquiry. See Aristotelianism. --G.R.M.   In Kant. A system of principles by which pure knowledge may be acquired and established.   Cf. Fr. Bacon's Novum Organum. --O.F.K. Oriental Philosophy: A general designation used loosely to cover philosophic tradition exclusive of that grown on Greek soil and including the beginnings of philosophical speculation in Egypt, Arabia, Iran, India, and China, the elaborate systems of India, Greater India, China, and Japan, and sometimes also the religion-bound thought of all these countries with that of the complex cultures of Asia Minor, extending far into antiquity. Oriental philosophy, though by no means presenting a homogeneous picture, nevertheless shares one characteristic, i.e., the practical outlook on life (ethics linked with metaphysics) and the absence of clear-cut distinctions between pure speculation and religious motivation, and on lower levels between folklore, folk-etymology, practical wisdom, pre-scientiiic speculation, even magic, and flashes of philosophic insight. Bonds with Western, particularly Greek philosophy have no doubt existed even in ancient times. Mutual influences have often been conjectured on the basis of striking similarities, but their scientific establishment is often difficult or even impossible. Comparative philosophy (see especially the work of Masson-Oursel) provides a useful method. Yet a thorough treatment of Oriental Philosophy is possible only when the many languages in which it is deposited have been more thoroughly studied, the psychological and historical elements involved in the various cultures better investigated, and translations of the relevant documents prepared not merely from a philological point of view or out of missionary zeal, but by competent philosophers who also have some linguistic training. Much has been accomplished in this direction in Indian and Chinese Philosophy (q.v.). A great deal remains to be done however before a definitive history of Oriental Philosophy may be written. See also Arabian, and Persian Philosophy. --K.F.L. Origen: (185-254) The principal founder of Christian theology who tried to enrich the ecclesiastic thought of his day by reconciling it with the treasures of Greek philosophy. Cf. Migne PL. --R.B.W. Ormazd: (New Persian) Same as Ahura Mazdah (q.v.), the good principle in Zoroastrianism, and opposed to Ahriman (q.v.). --K.F.L. Orphic Literature: The mystic writings, extant only in fragments, of a Greek religious-philosophical movement of the 6th century B.C., allegedly started by the mythical Orpheus. In their mysteries, in which mythology and rational thinking mingled, the Orphics concerned themselves with cosmogony, theogony, man's original creation and his destiny after death which they sought to influence to the better by pure living and austerity. They taught a symbolism in which, e.g., the relationship of the One to the many was clearly enunciated, and believed in the soul as involved in reincarnation. Pythagoras, Empedocles, and Plato were influenced by them. --K.F.L. Ortega y Gasset, Jose: Born in Madrid, May 9, 1883. At present in Buenos Aires, Argentine. Son of Ortega y Munillo, the famous Spanish journalist. Studied at the College of Jesuits in Miraflores and at the Central University of Madrid. In the latter he presented his Doctor's dissertation, El Milenario, in 1904, thereby obtaining his Ph.D. degree. After studies in Leipzig, Berlin, Marburg, under the special influence of Hermann Cohen, the great exponent of Kant, who taught him the love for the scientific method and awoke in him the interest in educational philosophy, Ortega came to Spain where, after the death of Nicolas Salmeron, he occupied the professorship of metaphysics at the Central University of Madrid. The following may be considered the most important works of Ortega y Gasset:     Meditaciones del Quijote, 1914;   El Espectador, I-VIII, 1916-1935;   El Tema de Nuestro Tiempo, 1921;   España Invertebrada, 1922;   Kant, 1924;   La Deshumanizacion del Arte, 1925;   Espiritu de la Letra, 1927;   La Rebelion de las Masas, 1929;   Goethe desde Adentio, 1934;   Estudios sobre el Amor, 1939;   Ensimismamiento y Alteracion, 1939;   El Libro de las Misiones, 1940;   Ideas y Creencias, 1940;     and others.   Although brought up in the Marburg school of thought, Ortega is not exactly a neo-Kantian. At the basis of his Weltanschauung one finds a denial of the fundamental presuppositions which characterized European Rationalism. It is life and not thought which is primary. Things have a sense and a value which must be affirmed independently. Things, however, are to be conceived as the totality of situations which constitute the circumstances of a man's life. Hence, Ortega's first philosophical principle: "I am myself plus my circumstances". Life as a problem, however, is but one of the poles of his formula. Reason is the other. The two together function, not by dialectical opposition, but by necessary coexistence. Life, according to Ortega, does not consist in being, but rather, in coming to be, and as such it is of the nature of direction, program building, purpose to be achieved, value to be realized. In this sense the future as a time dimension acquires new dignity, and even the present and the past become articulate and meaning-full only in relation to the future. Even History demands a new point of departure and becomes militant with new visions. --J.A.F. Orthodoxy: Beliefs which are declared by a group to be true and normative. Heresy is a departure from and relative to a given orthodoxy. --V.S. Orthos Logos: See Right Reason. Ostensible Object: (Lat. ostendere, to show) The object envisaged by cognitive act irrespective of its actual existence. See Epistemological Object. --L.W. Ostensive: (Lat. ostendere, to show) Property of a concept or predicate by virtue of which it refers to and is clarified by reference to its instances. --A.C.B. Ostwald, Wilhelm: (1853-1932) German chemist. Winner of the Nobel prize for chemistry in 1909. In Die Uberwindung des wissenschaftlichen Materialistmus and in Naturphilosophie, his two best known works in the field of philosophy, he advocates a dynamic theory in opposition to materialism and mechanism. All properties of matter, and the psychic as well, are special forms of energy. --L.E.D. Oupnekhat: Anquetil Duperron's Latin translation of the Persian translation of 50 Upanishads (q.v.), a work praised by Schopenhauer as giving him complete consolation. --K.F.L. Outness: A term employed by Berkeley to express the experience of externality, that is the ideas of space and things placed at a distance. Hume used it in the sense of distance Hamilton understood it as the state of being outside of consciousness in a really existing world of material things. --J.J.R. Overindividual: Term used by H. Münsterberg to translate the German überindividuell. The term is applied to any cognitive or value object which transcends the individual subject. --L.W. P

three-sided ::: a. --> Having three sides, especially three plane sides; as, a three-sided stem, leaf, petiole, peduncle, scape, or pericarp.

tomnoddy ::: n. --> A sea bird, the puffin.
A fool; a dunce; a noddy.

toothbill ::: n. --> A peculiar fruit-eating ground pigeon (Didunculus strigiostris) native of the Samoan Islands, and noted for its resemblance, in several characteristics, to the extinct dodo. Its beak is stout and strongly hooked, and the mandible has two or three strong teeth toward the end. Its color is chocolate red. Called also toothbilled pigeon, and manu-mea.

treddle ::: n. --> See Treadle.
A prostitute; a strumpet.
The dung of sheep or hares.

triflorous ::: a. --> Three-flowered; having or bearing three flowers; as, a triflorous peduncle.

tringa ::: n. --> A genus of limicoline birds including many species of sandpipers. See Dunlin, Knot, and Sandpiper.

troglodyte "jargon" (Commodore) 1. A hacker who never leaves his cubicle. The term "Gnoll" (from Dungeons & Dragons) is also reported. 2. A curmudgeon attached to an obsolescent computing environment. The combination "ITS troglodyte" was flung around some during the {Usenet} and {e-mail} wringle-wrangle attending the 2.x.x revision of the {Jargon File}; at least one of the people it was intended to describe adopted it with pride. [{Jargon File}] (1995-01-11)

tumbledung ::: n. --> Any one of numerous species of scaraboid beetles belonging to Scarabaeus, Copris, Phanaeus, and allied genera. The female lays her eggs in a globular mass of dung which she rolls by means of her hind legs to a burrow excavated in the earth in which she buries it.

tumblebug ::: n. --> See Tumbledung.

tunker ::: n. --> Same as Dunker.

U. Cassina, L'oeuvre philosophique de G. Peano, Revue de Metaphysique et de Morale, vol. 40 (1933), pp. 481-491. Peirce, Charles Sanders: American Philosopher. Born in Cambridge, Mass, on September 10th, 1839. Harvard M.A. in 1862 and Sc. B. in 1863. Except for a brief cireer as lectuier in philosophy at Harvard, 1864-65 and 1869-70 and in logic at Johns Hopkins, 1879-84, he did no formal teaching. Longest tenure was with the United States Coast and Geodetic Survey for thirty years beginning in 1861. Died at Milford, Pa. in 1914 He had completed only one work, The Grand Logic, published posthumously (Coll. Papers). Edited Studies in Logic (1883). No volumes published during his lifetime but author of many lectures, essays and reviews in periodicals, particularly in the Popular Science Monthly, 1877-78, and in The Monist, 1891-93, some of which have been reprinted in Chance, Love and Logic (1923), edited by Morris R. Cohen, and. together with the best of his other work both published and unpublished, in Collected Papers of Charles Sanders Peirce (1931-35), edited by Charles Hartshorne ¦ind Paul Weiss. He was most influenced by Kant, who had he thought, raised all the relevant philosophical problems but from whom he differed on almost every solution. He was excited by Darwin, whose doctrine of evolution coincided with his own thought, and disciplined by laboratory experience in the physical sciences which inspired his search for rigor and demonstration throughout his work. Felt himself deeply opposed to Descartes, whom he accused of being responsible for the modern form of the nominalistic error. Favorably inclined toward Duns Scotus, from whom he derived his realism. Philosophy is a sub-class of the science of discovery, in turn a branch of theoretical science. The function of philosophy is to expliin and hence show unity in the variety of the universe. All philosophy takes its start in logic, or the relations of signs to their objects, and phenomenology, or the brute experience of the objective actual world. The conclusions from these two studies meet in the three basic metaphysical categories: quality, reaction, and representation. Quality is firstness or spontaneity; reaction is secondness or actuality; and representation is thirdness or possibility. Realism (q.v.) is explicit in the distinction of the modes of being actuality as the field of reactions, possibility as the field of quality (or values) and representation (or relations). He was much concerned to establish the realism of scientific method: that the postulates, implications and conclusions of science are the results of inquiry yet presupposed by it. He was responsible for pragmatism as a method of philosophy that the sum of the practical consequences which result by necessity from the truth of an intellectual conception constitutes the entire meaning of that conception. Author of the ethical principle that the limited duration of all finite things logically demands the identification of one's interests with those of an unlimited community of persons and things. In his cosmology the flux of actuality left to itself develops those systematic characteristics which are usually associated with the realm of possibility. There is a logical continuity to chance events which through indefinite repetition beget order, as illustrated in the tendency of all things to acquire habits. The desire of all things to come together in this certain order renders love a kind of evolutionary force. Exerted a strong influence both on the American pragmatist, William James (1842-1910), the instrumentalist, John Dewey (1859-), as well as on the idealist, Jociah Royce (1855-1916), and many others. -- J.K.F.

umbel ::: n. --> A kind of flower cluster in which the flower stalks radiate from a common point, as in the carrot and milkweed. It is simple or compound; in the latter case, each peduncle bears another little umbel, called umbellet, or umbellule.

underhead ::: n. --> A blockhead, or stupid person; a dunderhead.

uniflorous ::: a. --> Bearing one flower only; as, a uniflorous peduncle.

Vertical Redundancy Check "storage, communications" (VRC) An {error checking} method performed on one 8-bit {ASCII} character, where the 8th bit is used as the {parity bit}. The resulting parity bit is constructed by {XOR}ing the {word}. The result is a "1" if there is an odd number of 1s, and a "0" if there is an even number of 1s in the word. This method is unreliable because if an odd number of {bits} are distorted, the check will not detect the error. The {Longitudinal Redundancy Check} is an improvement. (2001-04-28)

Voluntarism: (Lat. voluntas, will) In ontology, the theory that the will is the ultimate constituent of reality. Doctrine that the human will, or some force analogous to it, is the primary stuff of the universe; that blind, purposive impulse is the real in nature. (a) In psychology, theory that the will is the most elemental psychic factor, that striving, impulse, desire, and even action, with their concomitant emotions, are alone dependable. (b) In ethics, the doctrine that the human will is central to all moral questions, and superior to all other moral criteria, such as the conscience, or reasoning power. The subjective theory that the choice made by the will determines the good. Stands for indeterminism and freedom. (c) In theology, the will as the source of all religion, that blessedness is a state of activity. Augustine (353-430) held that God is absolute will, a will independent of the Logos, and that the good will of man is free. For Avicebron (1020-1070), will is indefinable and stands above mature and soul, matter and form, as the pnmary category. Despite the metaphysical opposition of Duns Scotus (1265-1308) the realist, and William of Occam (1280-1347) the nominalist, both considered the will superior to the intellect. Hume (1711-1776) maintained that the will is the determining factor in human conduct, and Kant (1724-1804) believed the will to be the source of all moral judgment, and the good to be based on the human will. Schopenhauer (1788-1860) posited the objectified will as the world-substance, force, or value. James (1842-1910) followed up Wundt's notion of the will as the purpose of the good with the notion that it is the essence of faith, also manifest in the will to believe. See Will, Conation. Opposed to Rationalism, Materialism, Intellectualism. -- J.K.F.

VRC {Vertical Redundancy Check}

Wilhelm Ackermann, Mengentheorettsche Begründung der Logik, Mathematische Annalen, vol. 115 (1937), pp. 1 -22.

wiseacre ::: v. --> A learned or wise man.
One who makes undue pretensions to wisdom; a would-be-wise person; hence, in contempt, a simpleton; a dunce.

zinsang ::: n. --> The delundung.

Zork "games" /zork/ The second of the great early experiments in computer fantasy gaming; see {ADVENT}. Zork was originally written on {MIT-DM} during the late 1970s, later distributed with {BSD Unix} as a patched, sourceless {RT-11} {Fortran} binary (see {retrocomputing}) and commercialised as "The Zork Trilogy" by {Infocom}. The Fortran source was later rewritten for portability and released to {Usenet} under the name "Dungeon". Both Fortran "Dungeon" and translated {C} versions are available from many {FTP archives}. [{Jargon File}] (1998-09-21)

KEYS (10k)


NEW FULL DB (2.4M)

   15 Lena Dunham
   8 Dorothy Dunnett
   5 Carola Dunn
   4 Tim Duncan
   4 Sarah Dunant
   4 Hal Duncan
   4 Dave Duncan
   3 Kirsten Dunst
   3 Jourdan Dunn
   3 Joe Dunthorne
   3 Isadora Duncan
   3 Helen Dunmore
   3 Angelo Dundee
   2 William Dunbar
   2 Tony Dungy
   2 Susanne Dunlap
   2 Paul Laurence Dunbar
   2 Nora Dunn
   2 Lord Dunsany
   2 L B Dunbar

*** WISDOM TROVE ***

1:A mighty mass of brick, and smoke, and shipping, Dirty and dusty, but as wide as eye Could reach, with here and there a sail just skipping In sight, then lost amidst the forestry Of masts; a wilderness of steeples peeping On tiptoe through their sea-coal canopy; A huge, dun cupola, like a fools-cap crown On a fool's head - and there is London Town. ~ lord-byron, @wisdomtrove

*** NEWFULLDB 2.4M ***

1:You've given me value, Dun­can. In my heart I know I mat­ter to you. ~ Julie Garwood,

2:You won’t win like that Aedan. Remember what Dun taught us – fear and rage can both make a man stupid. ~ Jonathan Renshaw,

3:I was a couple of summers past twenty but I felt there were stones under that frozen, dun earth that were younger than me. ~ Robert Low,

4:Art, after all, is traditionally displayed against vacancies: paintings on dun walls, sculptures in empty spaces, music in quiet halls. ~ John Hart,

5:You’re more like dun-dun-na-NAH Romantic Man whose superpower is hopeless romanticism. Your bat signal would be a big red heart over Gotham. ~ Violet Duke,

6:Where is it written that houses must be beige? Any dun colored house would look better if painted pineapple, cream, ochre, or even a smart sage. ~ Frances Mayes,

7:In the streets of Un Lun Dun: a group of a girl, a half ghost, a talking book, a piece of rubbish, and two living words was unusual but not very. ~ China Mi ville,

8:In blissful solitude; he then survey’d Hell and the Gulf between, and Satan there Coasting the wall of Heav’n on this side Night In the dun Air sublime, ~ John Milton,

9:Caterpillar dun' become butterfly-caterpillar die so butterfly can be. A new thing. We all must let ourselves die to be what we will be. But we cling to what we know. ~ Ryan Winfield,

10:Made­lyne, I would like to speak to you in pri­vate after din­ner." "Speak to me about what?" Made­lyne de­manded with a dis­grun­tled look. "Men and their horses," Dun­can told her ~ Julie Garwood,

11:Somehow, we [ Tan Dun and director Chen Kaige] were all privileged at the time; we could be outside of China. But at the moment, we had no sense of what the future was going to be like. ~ Ai Weiwei,

12:with a mouth of lush church grass I stand at the crossroads drinking the light of faith on the shores of eternity I lead my body, on like a dun horse in the dusk toward the forest somewhere ~ Karl Ove Knausg rd,

13:Tut, dun's the mouse, the constable's own word: If thou art dun, we'll draw thee from the mire Of this sir-reverence love, wherein thou stick'st Up to the ears. Come, we burn daylight, ho! ~ William Shakespeare,

14:Halt smiled at him. 'People love talking to me,' he said. 'I'm an excellent conversationalist and I have a sparkling personality. Ask Horace, I've been bending his ear all the way from Dun Kilty, haven't I? ~ John Flanagan,

15:Dun-colored fathers tend to shy at obstacles, and therefore you do not want a father of this color, because life, in one sense, is nothing but obstacles, and his continual shying will reduce your nerves to grease. ~ Donald Barthelme,

16:The dead dun't disappoint you. They've had their life, done what they've done. We dun't change. The living, they always disappoint you, dun't they? You meet a boy who's all brave and noble, and he grows up to run away. ~ Neil Gaiman,

17:Whom I once get hold of, he will   Find the whole world pointless, futile. 11810 Over him gloom casts its dun net,   Blinding him to sunrise, sunset,   Though possessing all his senses,   Inwardly there’s only darkness, ~ Johann Wolfgang von Goethe,

18:Archer lifted his gaze heavenward as he tilted the dun-colored hat back on his head. "I say my prayers," Archer sighed. "I go to church when I can and I even take old women to the grocery store when they need me to. And this is the thanks I get ~ Lora Leigh,

19:Over me green branches hang A blackbird leads the loud song; Above my penlined booklet I hear a fluting bird-throng. The cuckoo pipes a clear call Its dun cloak hid in deep dell; Praise to God for this goodness That in woodland I write well. ~ Alistair Moffat,

20:897Archer lifted his gaze heavenward as he tilted the dun-colored hat back on his head. "I say my prayers," Archer sighed. "I go to church when I can and I even take old women to the grocery store when they need me to. And this is the thanks I get. ~ Lora Leigh,

21:The arrow hit Xiahou Dun full in the left eye. He shrieked, and putting up his head, pulled out the arrow and with it the eye. “Essence of my father, blood of my mother, I cannot throw this away!” cried Xiahou Dun, and he put the eye into his mouth and swallowed it. ~ Luo Guanzhong,

22:These people came into the world and left it bound to their soil, proliferating on their own dung-hills with slow deliberation like the uncomplicated soul of trees which scatter their seed about their feet, with little conception of any larger world beyond the dun rocks among which they vegetated. ~ mile Zola,

23:Yes, it leads people to believe that they have more information than our cops, but then, at some point, before you know it, you're both caught up. Everybody, when they're watching the who-dun-it shows, is making guesses in the first five minutes anyway. We just kind of give them what they want. ~ Kristin Lehman,

24:Dun came to realize that a man whose entire purpose for living is to command a war will not want to spend his life waiting for its possibility. He was going to have one, and he was going to see to it—after all, it made military sense—that he would have it on his own terms, the ones with which he expected to win ~ Sherwood Smith,

25:A mighty mass of brick, and smoke, and shipping, Dirty and dusty, but as wide as eye Could reach, with here and there a sail just skipping In sight, then lost amidst the forestry Of masts; a wilderness of steeples peeping On tiptoe through their sea-coal canopy; A huge, dun cupola, like a fools-cap crown On a fool's head - and there is London Town. ~ Lord Byron,

26:An oblong puddle inset in the coarse asphalt; like a fancy footprint filled to the brim with quicksilver; like a spatulate hole through which you can see the nether sky. Surrounded, I note, by a diffuse tentacled black dampness where some dull dun dead leaves have stuck. Drowned, I should say, before the puddle had shrunk to its present size. ~ Vladimir Nabokov,

27:And there is the girl. When I first see her and her dun mare from my vantage point on the cliff road, I am struck first not by the fact that she is a girl, but by the fact that she's in the ocean. it's the dreaded second day, the day people start to die, and no one will get close to the surf. But there she is, trotting up to the knee in the water. Fearless. ~ Maggie Stiefvater,

28:cocaine. I cannot live without brain-work. What else is there to live for? Stand at the window here. Was ever such a dreary, dismal, unprofitable world? See how the yellow fog swirls down the street and drifts across the dun-colored houses. What could be more hopelessly prosaic and material? What is the use of having powers, doctor, when one has no field upon which to exert them? Crime ~ Arthur Conan Doyle,

29:To ther Hed Wizzard, Unsene Universety, Greatings, I hop you ar well, I am sending to you won Escarrina Smith, shee hath thee maekings of wizzardery but whot may be ferther dun wyth hyr I knowe not shee is a gode worker and clene about hyr person allso skilled in diuerse arts of thee howse, I will send Monies wyth hyr May you liv longe and ende youre days in pese, And oblije, Esmerelder Weatherwaxe (Mss) Wytch. ~ Terry Pratchett,

30:1127 To Hear An Oriole Sing 526 To hear an Oriole sing May be a common thing— Or only a divine. It is not of the Bird Who sings the same, unheard, As unto Crowd— The Fashion of the Ear Attireth that it hear In Dun, or fair— So whether it be Rune, Or whether it be none Is of within. The "Tune is in the Tree—" The Skeptic—showeth me— "No Sir! In Thee!" ~ Emily Dickinson,

31:Looking a dead insect in the sack of basmati that had come all the way from Dehra Dun, he almost wept with sorrow and marvel at its journey, which was tenderness for his own journey. In India almost nobody would be able to afford this rice, and you had to travel around the world to be able to eat such things where they were cheap enough that you could gobble them down without being rich; and when you got home to the place where they grew, you couldn't afford them anymore. ~ Kiran Desai,

32:– D’accord, grommelle Radswin, c’est bien vu. Mais c’est suffisant pour convaincre tes ras que ça n’a rien à voir avec le dragon. Quelle idée de leur parler de mines? – Parce que ce sont des mines! s’enthousiasme Littyllytig. Dans la vieille tradition gnomique de Dun Heahcnawan, on transmet le souvenir de ces mines hydrauliques, mais je n’imaginais pas qu’elles aient pu exister dans le Kluferfell, ni qu’elles aient pu être si gigantesques! (nouvelle "Désolation") ~ Jean Philippe Jaworski,

33:His limbs were in proportion, and I had selected his features as beautiful. Beautiful!--Great God! His yellow skin scarcely covered the work of muscles and arteries beneath; his hair was of a lustrous black, and flowing; his teeth of pearly whiteness; but these luxuriances only formed a more horrid contrast with his watery eyes, that seemed almost of the same colour as the dun-white sockets in which they were set, his shrivelled complexion and straight black lips. ~ Mary Wollstonecraft Shelley,

34:You can say no if you dun’ wanna do it,” he finally says, “but I was thinkin’ maybe you could teach me to read.” “Shit, Jimmy, I just gave away my reading slate to Bill.” “I know it,” he says, “but I didn’t wanna read none of that stuff anyhow.” “Then what did you want to read?” “I wanna read those poems you said you might write.” I can’t help but smile so wide my cheeks hurt. “Okay, Jimmy. I’m going to write you a poem for your birthday, and then I’m going to teach you how to read it. ~ Ryan Winfield,

35:...I cannot live without brain-work. What else is there to live for? Stand at the window here. Was ever such a dreary, dismal, unprofitable world? See how the yellow fog swirls down the street and drifts across the dun-colored houses. What could be more hopelessly prosaic and material? What is the use of having powers, doctor, when one has no field upon which to exert them? Crime is commonplace, existence is commonplace, and no qualities save those which are commonplace have any function upon earth. ~ Arthur Conan Doyle,

36:In my dreams I come face to face with myriad reflections of myself, all unknown and passing strange. They speak unending in languages not my own and walk with companions I have never met, in places my steps have never gone. In my dreams I walk worlds where forests crowd my knees and half the sky is walled ice. Dun herds flow like mud, vast floods tusked and horned surging over the plain, and lo, they are my memories, the migrations of my soul. ~ Steven Erikson,

37:Of Brussels—it Was Not Of Brussels—it was not— Of Kidderminster? Nay— The Winds did buy it of the Woods— They—sold it unto me It was a gentle price— The poorest—could afford— It was within the frugal purse Of Beggar—or of Bird— Of small and spicy Yards— In hue—a mellow Dun— Of Sunshine—and of Sere—Composed— But, principally—of Sun— The Wind—unrolled it fast— And spread it on the Ground— Upholsterer of the Pines—is He— Upholsterer—of the Pond— ~ Emily Dickinson,

38:The Bat Is Dun With Wrinkled Wings THE BAT is dun with wrinkled wings Like fallow article, And not a song pervades his lips, Or none perceptible. His small umbrella, quaintly halved, Describing in the air An arc alike inscrutable,— Elate philosopher! Deputed from what firmament Of what astute abode, Empowered with what malevolence Auspiciously withheld. To his adroit Creator Ascribe no less the praise; Beneficent, believe me, His eccentricities. ~ Emily Dickinson,

39:- A Mai Dun - riprese Merlino - ci sono andato molto vicino. Davvero molto vicino. Ma sono stato troppo debole, Derfel. Voglio troppo bene ad Artù. Perché? Non è spiritoso, nella conversazione può essere noioso quanto lo era Gawain e per giunta ha un assurdo attaccamento alla virtù, ma io gli voglio bene. E anche a te ne voglio, purtroppo. Una debolezza, lo so. Posso anche apprezzare gli uomini arrendevoli, ma ho in simpatia gli uomini onesti. Ammiro la forza schietta, capisci, e a Mai Dun ho lasciato che questa mia debolezza avesse il sopravvento. ~ Bernard Cornwell,

40:A London Plane-Tree Green is the plane-tree in the square, The other trees are brown; They droop and pine for country air; The plane-tree loves the town. Here from my garret-pane, I mark The plane-tree bud and blow, Shed her recuperative bark, And spread her shade below. Among her branches, in and out, The city breezes play; The dun fog wraps her round about; Above, the smoke curls grey. Others the country take for choice, And hold the town in scorn; But she has listened to the voice On city breezes borne. ~ Amy Levy,

41:Civilization&Mdash;Spurns&Mdash;The Leopard! 492 Civilization—spurns—the Leopard! Was the Leopard—bold? Deserts—never rebuked her Satin— Ethiop—her Gold— Tawny—her Customs— She was Conscious— Spotted—her Dun Gown— This was the Leopard's nature—Signor— Need—a keeper—frown? Pity—the Pard—that left her Asia— Memories—of Palm— Cannot be stifled—with Narcotic— Nor suppressed—with Balm— ~ Emily Dickinson,

42:In pain with you, and yet I could not go. I stayed since nothing better came along. I loved you by default or just for show, My life a whistled flat unechoed song. I groped for notches in our dun abyss, And looked for more in lonely only less. I shunned the path adorned with signs to bliss, And stood the loyal ground of wait or guess. It took the tender you to shift the scene, Bold arsonist beneath our tinder stage! I then in friendly fire to earth careen And from our props and ashes disengage. I begged you long with such a silent ache In fear of, wish for mercy for my sake. What Love Feels Like ~ David Richo,

43:Eppure sono convinto che Artù sarebbe rimasto in Dumnonia, se avesse ricevuto ciò che desiderava, ossia la gratitudine. Era un uomo orgoglioso e sapeva bene ciò che aveva fatto per il nostro regno, ma era stato ricompensato con astio e malcontento. Erano stati i cristiani a rompere per primi la pace, ma poi, dopo i fuochi di Mai Dun, gli stessi pagani si erano rivoltati contro di lui. Artù aveva dato alla Dumnonia la giustizia, aveva riconquistato gran parte delle Terre Perdute, aveva reso sicure le nuove frontiere e governato con onestà; ma per ricompensa era stato deriso come il Nemico di Dio. ~ Bernard Cornwell,

44:Nada lles incumbía, parecíalles, nos programas, nas planificacións: mofábanse da xubilación anticipada, do aumento das vacacións, dos xantares gratuítos, das semanas de trinta horas. Eles querían a superabundancia; soñaban con platinas Clément, con praias desertas para eles sós, con voltas ó mundo, con palacios. O inimigo era invisible. Ou, máis ben, estaba neles, apodrentáraos, gangrenáraos, destrozáraos. Eles eran os que pagaban as consecuencias. Pequenos seres dóciles, fieis reflexos dun mundo que se burlaba deles. Estaban afundidos ata o pescozo nun pastel do que nunca haberían de recibir máis cás migallas. ~ Georges Perec,

45:Jerott’s eyes and Philippa’s met. ‘When I meet my friend,’ said Jerott Blyth carefully, ‘there is likely to be a detonation which will take the snow off Mont Blanc. I advise you to seek other auspices. Philippa, I think we should go down below.’ ‘To swim?’ said that unprepossessing child guilelessly. ‘I can stand on my head.’ ‘Oh, Christ,’ said Jerott morosely. ‘Why in hell did you come?’ The brown eyes within the damp, dun-coloured hair inspected him narrowly. ‘Because you need a woman,’ said Philippa finally. ‘And I’m the nearest thing to it that you’re likely to get. It was very short notice. ~ Dorothy Dunnett,

46:Under A Sky Of Uncreated Mud Under a sky of uncreated mud or sunk beneath the accursed streets, my life is added up of cupboard-musty weeks and ring'd about with walls of ugliness: some narrow world of ever-streaming air. My days of azure have forgotten me. Nought stirs, in garret-chambers of my brain, except the squirming brood of miseries older than memory, while, far out of sight behind the dun blind of the rain, my dreams of sun on leaves and waters drip thro' years nor stir the slumbers of some sullen well, beneath whose corpse-fed weeds I too shall sink. ~ Christopher John Brennan,

47:To A Lady Asking Foolish Questions Why am I sorry, Chloe? Because the moon is far: And who am I to be straitened in a little earthly star? Because thy face is fair? And what if it had not been, The fairest face of all is the face I have not seen. Because the land is cold, and however I scheme and plot, I cannot find a ferry to the land where I am not. Because thy lips are red and thy breasts upbraid the snow? (There is neither white nor red in the pleasance where I go.) Because thy lips grow pale and thy breasts grow dun and fall? I go where the wind blows, Chloe, and am not sorry at all. ~ Ernest Christopher Dowson,

48:My mistress' eyes are nothing like the sun; Coral is far more red than her lips' red; If snow be white, why then her breasts are dun; If hairs be wires, black wires grow on her head. I have seen roses damask'd, red and white, But no such roses see I in her cheeks; And in some perfumes is there more delight Than in the breath that from my mistress reeks. I love to hear her speak, yet well I know That music hath a far more pleasing sound; I grant I never saw a goddess go; My mistress, when she walks, treads on the ground: And yet, by heaven, I think my love as rare As any she belied with false compare. ~ William Shakespeare,

49:To My First Born MY beautiful! For beautiful thou art To me thy father, as the morning light Which makes all common objects fresh and bright, Yea gives them out of the dun void to start As they were newly fashion’d from the Night! For long there was a darkness round my heart, Until thy mother made her life a part Of mine, to pierce it with Love’s genial might— The Aurora she and the young Morning thou Of a new era in my worldly way! Whence it behoves me heedfully to plough The future for thy sake and for the vow That I have made, to make thee (if I may) A Man right worthy of our Australia. ~ Charles Harpur,

50:A Fuzzy Fellow, Without Feet 173 A fuzzy fellow, without feet, Yet doth exceeding run! Of velvet, is his Countenance, And his Complexion, dun! Sometime, he dwelleth in the grass! Sometime, upon a bough, From which he doth descend in plush Upon the Passer-by! All this in summer. But when winds alarm the Forest Folk, He taketh Damask Residence— And struts in sewing silk! Then, finer than a Lady, Emerges in the spring! A Feather on each shoulder! You'd scarce recognize him! By Men, yclept Caterpillar! By me! But who am I, To tell the pretty secret Of the Butterfly! ~ Emily Dickinson,

51:Solitude is an interesting companion. It is both enemy and friend, comforter and tormentor. I spent a lot of time in Dun Cinzci's meat locker trying to decide which. Fortunately, when I tired of solitude, I had guilt to keep me company. Guilt is an even more interesting acquaintance than solitude, let me tell you. Solitude is a harsh but essentially benign attendant. Guilt, on the other hand, is a living, breathing creature, cruel and remorseless. It eats you from the inside out; devours what little hope you have left. It feeds on you, growing stronger with every accursed replayed memory, every useless recrimination." ~ Jennifer Fallon Cayal, The Immortal Prince ~ Jennifer Fallon,

52:Sonnet 130 My mistress' eyes are nothing like the sun; Coral is far more red than her lips' red; If snow be white, why then her breasts are dun; If hairs be wires, black wires grow on her head. I have seen roses damask'd, red and white, But no such roses see I in her cheeks; And in some perfumes is there more delight Than in the breath that from my mistress reeks. I love to hear her speak, yet well I know That music hath a far more pleasing sound; I grant I never saw a goddess go; My mistress, when she walks, treads on the ground: And yet, by heaven, I think my love as rare As any she belied with false compare. ~ William Shakespeare,

53:My mistress' eyes are nothing like the sun;   Coral is far more red, than her lips red:   If snow be white, why then her breasts are dun;   If hairs be wires, black wires grow on her head.   I have seen roses damask'd, red and white,   But no such roses see I in her cheeks;   And in some perfumes is there more delight   Than in the breath that from my mistress reeks.   I love to hear her speak, yet well I know   That music hath a far more pleasing sound:   I grant I never saw a goddess go,—   My mistress, when she walks, treads on the ground:     And yet by heaven, I think my love as rare,     As any she belied with false compare. ~ William Shakespeare,

54:My thirty-three-year-old body is well past school age, seriously overused. I still trust it like a cabbie trusts his old taxi. Not perfect all right, but will do the trick at least one more night, then one more night. My sunless flaccidity still looks good in dim light, good enough. Most men like pale skin, and are incapable of noticing its subtle defects once I’ve got them by the quivering dick. Occasionally, a jerk may make a few smart-ass comments too many. I’ll tell him to go fuck his own mother instead. If he freaks out, well, he’ll have to talk to Ah Bill or one of his buddies. The girls in this building are protected by the 14K triads. Ah Bill is our resident da dun security manager, invisible unless there’s trouble. ~ Jason Y Ng,

55:A Sunset At Les Eboulements Broad shadows fall. On all the mountain side The scythe-swept fields are silent. Slowly home By the long beach the high-piled hay-carts come, Splashing the pale salt shallows. Over wide Fawn-coloured wastes of mud the slipping tide, Round the dun rocks and wattled fisheries, Creeps murmuring in. And now by twos and threes, O'er the slow spreading pools with clamorous chide, Belated crows from strip to strip take flight. Soon will the first star shine; yet ere the night Reach onward to the pale-green distances, The sun's last shaft beyond the gray sea-floor Still dreams upon the Kamouraska shore, And the long line of golden villages. ~ Archibald Lampman,

56:Sonnet Lxix: Autumn Idleness This sunlight shames November where he grieves In dead red leaves, and will not let him shun The day, though bough with bough be over-run. But with a blessing every glade receives High salutation; while from hillock-eaves The deer gaze calling, dappled white and dun, As if, being foresters of old, the sun Had marked them with the shade of forest-leaves. Here dawn to-day unveiled her magic glass; Here noon now gives the thirst and takes the dew; Till eve bring rest when other good things pass. And here the lost hours the lost hours renew While I still lead my shadow o'er the grass, Nor know, for longing, that which I should do. ~ Dante Gabriel Rossetti,

57:The Plateau It was the silver, heart-enveloping view Of the mysterious sea-line far away, Seen only on a gleaming gold-white day, That made it dear and beautiful to you. And Laura loved it for the little hill, Where the quartz sparkled fire, barren and dun, Whence in the shadow of the dying sun, She contemplated Hallow's wooden mill. While Danny liked the sheltering high grass, In which he lay upon a clear dry night, To hear and see, screened skilfully from sight, The happy lovers of the valley pass. But oh! I loved it for the big round moon That swung out of the clouds and swooned aloft, Burning with passion, gloriously soft, Lighting the purple flowers of fragrant June. ~ Claude McKay,

58:Dark eyes are dearer far Than those that mock the hyacinthine bell. Blue! 'Tis the life of heaven,the domain Of Cynthia,the wide palace of the sun, The tent of Hesperus, and all his train, The bosomer of clouds, gold, gray, and dun. Blue! 'Tis the life of waters:Ocean And all its vassal streams, pools numberless, May rage, and foam, and fret, but never can Subside, if not to dark-blue nativeness. Blue! gentle cousin of the forest-green, Married to green in all the sweetest flowers Forget-me-not,the blue-bell,and, that queen Of secrecy, the violet: what strange powers Hast thou, as a mere shadow! But how great, When in an Eye thou art alive with fate! by owner. provided at no charge for educational purposes ~ John Keats, Answer To A Sonnet By J.H.Reynolds ,

59:FIRE’S HORSE WAS named Small, and he was another of Cansrel’s gifts. She had chosen him over all the other horses because his coat was dun and drab and because of the quiet way he’d followed her back and forth, the pasture fence between them, the day she’d gone to one of Cutter’s shows to choose. The other horses had either ignored her or become jumpy and agitated around her, pushing against each other and snapping. Small had kept on the outside of the bunch of them, where he was safe from their jostling. He’d trotted along beside Fire, stopping when she stopped, blinking at her hopefully; and whenever she’d walked away from the fence he had stood waiting for her until she came back. “Small, his name is,” Cutter had said, “because his brain’s the size of a pea. Can’t teach him anything. He’s no beauty, either. ~ Kristin Cashore,

60:I Am Ashamed—i Hide 473 I am ashamed—I hide— What right have I—to be a Bride— So late a Dowerless Girl— Nowhere to hide my dazzled Face— No one to teach me that new Grace— Nor introduce—my Soul— Me to adorn—How—tell— Trinket—to make Me beautiful— Fabrics of Cashmere— Never a Gown of Dun—more— Raiment instead—of Pompadour— For Me—My soul—to wear— Fingers—to frame my Round Hair Oval—as Feudal Ladies wore— Far Fashions—Fair— Skill to hold my Brow like an Earl— Plead—like a Whippoorwill— Prove—like a Pearl— Then, for Character— Fashion My Spirit quaint—white— Quick—like a Liquor— Gay—like Light— Bring Me my best Pride— No more ashamed— No more to hide— Meek—let it be—too proud—for Pride— Baptized—this Day—a Bride— ~ Emily Dickinson,

61:The Three Witches All the moon-shed nights are over, And the days of gray and dun; There is neither may nor clover, And the day and night are one. Not an hamlet, not a city Meets our strained and tearless eyes; In the plain without a pity, Where the wan grass droops and dies. We shall wander through the meaning Of a day and see no light, For our lichened arms are leaning On the ends of endless night. We, the children of Astarte, Dear abortions of the moon, In a gay and silent party, We are riding to you soon. Burning ramparts, ever burning! To the flame which never dies We are yearning, yearning, yearning, With our gay and tearless eyes. In the plain without a pity, (Not an hamlet, not a city) Where the wan grass droops and dies. ~ Ernest Christopher Dowson,

62:Improvisations: Light And Snow: 03 The first bell is silver, And breathing darkness I think only of the long scythe of time. The second bell is crimson, And I think of a holiday night, with rockets Furrowing the sky with red, and a soft shatter of stars. The third bell is saffron and slow, And I behold a long sunset over the sea With wall on wall of castled cloud and glittering balustrades. The fourth bell is color of bronze, I walk by a frozen lake in the dun light of dusk: Muffled crackings run in the ice, Trees creak, birds fly. The fifth bell is cold clear azure, Delicately tinged with green: One golden star hangs melting in it, And towards this, sleepily, I go. The sixth bell is as if a pebble Had been dropped into a deep sea far above me . . . Rings of sound ebb slowly into the silence. ~ Conrad Potter Aiken,

63:How The Old Mountains Drip With Sunset 291 How the old Mountains drip with Sunset How the Hemlocks burn— How the Dun Brake is draped in Cinder By the Wizard Sun— How the old Steeples hand the Scarlet Till the Ball is full— Have I the lip of the Flamingo That I dare to tell? Then, how the Fire ebbs like Billows— Touching all the Grass With a departing—Sapphire—feature— As a Duchess passed— How a small Dusk crawls on the Village Till the Houses blot And the odd Flambeau, no men carry Glimmer on the Street— How it is Night—in Nest and Kennel— And where was the Wood— Just a Dome of Abyss is Bowing Into Solitude— These are the Visions flitted Guido— Titian—never told— Domenichino dropped his pencil— Paralyzed, with Gold— ~ Emily Dickinson,

64:There's a tavern by the docks. He's there most evenings." "Then I'll talk to him tonight," Halt said. "You can try. But he's a hard case, Halt. I'm not sure you'll get anything out of him. He's not interested in money. I tried that." "Well, perhaps he'll do it out of the goodness of his heart. I'm sure he'll open up to me," Halt said easily. But Horace noticed a gleam in his eye. He was right: the prospect of having something to do had reawakened Halt's spirits. He had a score to settle, and Horace found himself thinking that it didn't bode well for this Black O'Malley character. Will eyes Halt doubtfully, however. "You think so." Halt smiled at him. "People love talking to me," he said. "I'm an excellent conversationalist and I have a sparkling personality. Ask Horace. I've been bending his ear all the way from Dun Kilty, haven't I?" Horace nodded confirmation. "Talking nonstop all the way, he's been," he said. "Be glad to see him turn all that chatter onto someone else. ~ John Flanagan,

65:There are several aerial films of the incoming tsunami, but the one that plays and replays in my imagination was shot above the town of Natori, south of the city of Sendai. It begins over land rather than sea, with a view of dun winter paddy fields. Something is moving across the landscape as if it is alive, a brown-snouted animal hungrily bounding over the earth. Its head is a scum of splintered debris; entire cars bob along on its back. It seems to steam and smoke as it moves; its body looks less like water or mud than a kind of solid vapor. And then a large boat can be seen riding it inland, hundreds of yards from the sea, and—unbelievably—blue-tiled houses, still structurally intact, spinning across the inundated fields with orange flames dancing on their roofs. The creature turns a road into a river, then swallows it whole, and then it is raging over more fields and roads towards a village and a highway thick with cars. One driver is accelerating ahead of it, racing to escape—before the car and its occupants are gobbled up by the wave. ~ Richard Lloyd Parry,

66:ROMEO: A torch for me: let wantons light of heart Tickle the senseless rushes with their heels, For I am proverb’d with a grandsire phrase; I’ll be a candle-holder, and look on. The game was ne’er so fair, and I am done. MERCUTIO: Tut, dun’s the mouse, the constable’s own word: If thou art dun, we’ll draw thee from the mire Of this sir-reverence love, wherein thou stick’st Up to the ears. Come, we burn daylight, ho! ROMEO: Nay, that’s not so. MERCUTIO: I mean, sir, in delay We waste our lights in vain, like lamps by day. Take our good meaning, for our judgement sits Five times in that ere once in our five wits. ROMEO: And we mean well in going to this mask; But ’tis no wit to go. MERCUTIO: Why, may one ask? ROMEO: I dream’d a dream to-night. MERCUTIO: And so did I. ROMEO: Well, what was yours? MERCUTIO: That dreamers often lie. ROMEO: In bed asleep, while they do dream things true. MERCUTIO: O, then, I see Queen Mab hath been with you. She is the fairies’ midwife, and she comes. ~ William Shakespeare,

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

68:Yarım saat süren sorgu bitti. "Kusura bakmazsanız,bir şey sorabilir miyim?" dedim. Biraz hayret etti ama "buyurun!" dedi. "evim basıldı,kitaplarım didiklendi ve neyle suçlandğım bile belirtilmeden bir aydır sıkıyönetim koğuşunda yatıyorum" dedim. "ne ailemi görebiliyorum ne de haber alabiliyorum onlardan.bu kadar hakaret ve eziyet sonunda,suçumun ne oldugunu ogrenebılecegım umuduyla sızın karsınıza cıkıyorum.sız bana,yıllar öncesınde kalmıs bazı aıle zıyaretlerını soruyorsunuz.yemek davetlerı,piknıkler ve caylı pastalı zıyaretler.ben buna bir anlam vermekte gucluk cekıyorum" bassavcı sıkıntıyla kıpırdandı koltugunda.ne dıyecegını bılemez gıbıydı.bır sessızlık oldu.ben bu durumdan cesaret alarak,biraz daha konustum. "boyle raporlar gecınce hersey sucmus gıbı duruyor" dedım. " özür dılerım ama sızın dun aksam dostlarınızla yaptıgınız bır gorusme bıle,muhurlu kagıda gecınce gızlı bır bulusma havası tasıyabılır" bunun uzerıne ılhan bey hıc beklemedıgım bır sey yaptı ve elını klasore hızla vurarak,"allah belasını versın bu adamların" dedi. "olur olmaz dosyaları onumuze getırıyorlarçhepsı yalan dolan bunların" bassavcı acıkca mıt'ı sucluyordu ~ O Z Livaneli,

69:When the falling nipa-fruits smashed on the jungle floor, they, too, exuded a liquid the colour of blood, a red milk which was immediately covered in a million insects, including giant flies as transparent as the leeches. The flies, too, reddened as they filled up with the milk of the fruit... all through the night, it seemed, the Sundarbans had continued to grow. Tallest of all were the sundri trees which had given their name to the jungle; trees high enough to block out even the faintest hope of sun. The four of us, them, climbed out of the boat; and only when they set foot on a hard bare soil crawling with pale pink scorpions and a seething mass of dun-coloured earthworms did they remember their hunger and thirst. Rainwater poured off leaves all around them, and they turned their mouths up to the roof of the jungle and drank; but perhaps because the water came to them by way of sundri leaves and mangrove branches and nipa fronds, it acquired on its journey something of the insanity of the jungle, so that as they drank they fell deeper and deeper into the thraldom of that livid green world where the birds had voices like creaking wood and all the snakes were blind. ~ Salman Rushdie,

70:I HAVE no happiness in dreaming of Brycelinde, Nor Avalon the grass-green hollow, nor Joyous Isle, Where one found Lancelot crazed and hid him for a while; Nor Uladh, when Naoise had thrown a sail upon the wind; Nor lands that seem too dim to be burdens on the heart: Land-under-Wave, where out of the moon's light and the sun's Seven old sisters wind the threads of the long-lived ones, Land-of-the-Tower, where Aengus has thrown the gates apart, And Wood-of-Wonders, where one kills an ox at dawn, To find it when night falls laid on a golden bier. Therein are many queens like Branwen and Guinevere; And Niamh and Laban and Fand, who could change to an otter or fawn, And the wood-woman, whose lover was changed to a blue-eyed hawk; And whether I go in my dreams by woodland, or dun, or shore, Or on the unpeopled waves with kings to pull at the oar, I hear the harp-string praise them, or hear their mournful talk. Because of something told under the famished horn Of the hunter's moon, that hung between the night and the day, To dream of women whose beauty was folded in dis may, Even in an old story, is a burden not to be borne. ~ William Butler Yeats, Under The Moon ,

71:The Eye To E. E. Cummings I see the horses and the sad streets Of my childhood in an agate eye Roving, under the clean sheets, Over a black hole in the sky. The ill man becomes the child, The evil man becomes the lover; The natural man with evil roiled Pulls down the sphereless sky for cover. I see the gray heroes and the graves Of my childhood in the nuclear eyeHorizons spent in dun caves Sucked down into the sinking sky. The happy child becomes the man, The elegant man becomes the mind, The fathered gentleman who can Perform quick feats of gentle kind. I see the long field and the noon Of my childhood in the carbolic eye, Dissolving pupil of the moon Seared from the raveled hole of the sky. The nice ladies and gentlemen, The teaser and the jelly-bean Play cockalorum-and-the-hen, When the cool afternoons pour green: I see the father and the cooling cup Of my childhood in the swallowing sky Down, down, until down is up And there is nothing in the eye, Shut shutter of the mineral man Who takes the fatherless dark to bed, 88 The acid sky to the brain-pan; And calls the crows to peck his head. ~ Allen Tate,

72:Songs Of The Grass On The Dunes HERE all night on the dunes In the rocking wind we sleep; Watched by the sentry stars, Lulled by the drone of the deep. Till hark, in the chill of the dawn A field lark wakes and cries, And over the floor of the sea We watch the round sun rise. The world is washed once more In a tide of purple and gold, And the heart of the land is filled With desires and dreams untold. II Lord Of Morning Lord of morning, light of day, Sacred color-kindling sun, We salute thee in the way, — Pilgrims robed in rose and dun. For thou art a pilgrim too, Overlord of all our band. In thy fervor we renew Quests we do not understand. At thy summons we arise, At thy touch put glory on, And with glad unanxious eyes Take the journey thou hast gone. III The Traveller Before the night-blue fades And the stars are quite gone, I lift my head At the noiseless tread Of the angel of dawn. I hear no word, yet my heart Is beating apace; Then in glory all still On the eastern hill 140 I behold his face. All day through the world he goes, Making glad, setting free; Then his day's work done, On the galleon sun He sinks in the sea. ~ Bliss William Carman,

73:Valentine--To Lizzie Siddal YESTERDAY was St. Valentine. Thought you at all, dear dove divine, Upon the beard in sorry trim And rueful countenance of him, That Orson who's your Valentine? He daubed, you know, as usual. The stick would slip, the brush would fall: Yet daubed he till the lamplighter Set those two seedy flames astir; But growled all day at slow St. Paul. The bore was heard ere noon; the dun Was at the door by half—past one: At least 'tis thought so, but the clock— No Lizzy there to help its stroke— Struck work before the day begun. At length he saw St. Paul's bright orb Flash back—the serried tide absorb That burning West which it sucked up, Like wine poured in a water cup;— And one more twilight toned his daub. Some time over the fire he sat, So lonely that he missed his cat; Then wildly rushed to dine on tick,— Nine minutes swearing for his stick, And thirteen minutes for his hat. And now another day is gone: Once more that intellectual one Desists from high—minded pursuits, And hungry, staring at his boots, Has not the strength to pull them on. Come back, dear Liz, and looking wise In that arm—chair which suits your size Through some fresh drawing scrape a hole. Your Valentine & Orson's soul Is sad for those two friendly eyes. ~ Dante Gabriel Rossetti,

74:Blue! 'Tis the life of heaven,--the domain Of Cynthia,--the wide palace of the sun,-- The tent of Hesperus, and all his train,-- The bosomer of clouds, gold, gray, and dun. Blue! 'Tis the life of waters: -- Ocean And all its vassal streams, pools numberless, May rage, and foam, and fret, but never can Subside, if not to dark-blue nativeness. Blue! Gentle cousin of the forest-green, Married to green in all the sweetest flowers,-- Forget-me-not,--the Blue bell,--and, that Queen Of secrecy, the Violet: what strange powers Hast thou, as a mere shadow! But how great, When in an Eye thou art alive with fate! Written in answer to a Sonnet ending thus : -- " Dark eyes are dearer far Than those that mock the hyacinthine bell--" 'The sonnet of John Hamilton Reynolds to which this is a reply appeared in 1821 in The Garden of Florence &c. From a letter signed "A. J. Horwood" which was published in The Anthenoeum of the 3rd of June 1876, it would seem that this poem, like many others, must have been written out more than once by Keats; for, in a copy of The Garden of Florence mentioned in that letter, Keats's sonnet is transcribed, seemingly, from a different manuscript from that used by Lord Houghton when he gave the sonnet in the Life, Letters and Literary Remains (Vol. II, page 295) in 1848. ...Lord Houghton dates the sonnet February 1818.' ~ Poetical Works of John Keats, ed. H. Buxton Forman, Crowell publ. 1895. by owner. provided at no charge for educational purposes ~ John Keats, Sonnet. Written In Answer To A Sonnet By J. H. Reynolds ,

75:The Swallows AH! swallows, is it so? Did loving lingering summer, whose slow pace Tarried among late blossoms, loth to go, Gather the darkening cloud-wraps round her face And weep herself away in last week's rain? Can no new sunlight waken her again? 'Yes,' one pale rose a-blow Has answered from the trellised lane; The flickering swallows answer 'No.' From out the dim grey sky The arrowy swarm breaks forth and specks the air, While, one by one, birds wheel and float and fly, And now are gone, then suddenly are there; Till lo, the heavens are empty of them all. Oh, fly, fly south, from leaves that fade and fall, From shivering flowers that die; Free swallows, fly from winter's thrall, Ye who can give the gloom good-bye. But what for us who stay To hear the winds and watch the boughs grow black, And in the soddened mornings, day by day, Count what lost sweets bestrew the nightly track Of frost-foot winter trampling towards his throne? Swallows, who have the sunlight for your own, Fly on your sunward way; For you has January buds new blown, For us the snows and gloom and grey. On, on, beyond our reach, Swallows, with but your longing for a guide: Let the hills rise, let the waves tear the beach, Ye will not balk your course nor turn aside, But find the palms and twitter in the sun. And well for them whose eager wings have won The longed for goal of flight; But what of them in twilights dun Who long, but have no wings for flight? 193 ~ Augusta Davies Webster,

76:Down Among The Dead Men Within my dark and narrow bed I rested well, new-laid: I heard above my fleshless head The grinding of a spade. A gruffer note ensued and grew To harsh and harsher strains: The poet Welcker then I knew Was 'snatching' my remains. 'O Welcker, let your hand be stayed And leave me here in peace. Of your revenge you should have made An end with my decease.' 'Hush, Mouldyshanks, and hear my moan: I once, as you're aware, Was eminent in letters-known And honored everywhere. 'My splendor made all Berkeley bright And Sacramento blind. Men swore no writer e'er could write Like me-if I'd a mind. 'With honors all insatiate, With curst ambition smit, Too far, alas! I tempted fate I _published_ what I'd writ! 'Good Heaven! with what a hunger wild Oblivion swallows fame! Men who have known me from a child Forget my very name! 'Even creditors with searching looks My face cannot recall; My heaviest one-he prints my books Oblivious most of all. 246 'O I should feel a sweet content If one poor dun his claim Would bring to me for settlement, And bully me by name. 'My dog is at my gate forlorn; It howls through all the night, And when I greet it in the morn It answers with a bite!' 'O Poet, what in Satan's name To me's all this ado? Will snatching me restore the fame That printing snatched from you?' 'Peace, dread Remains; I'm not about To do a deed of sin. I come not here to hale you out I'm trying to get in.' ~ Ambrose Bierce,

77:Upon A Wasp Chilled With Cold The bear that breathes the northern blast Did numb, torpedo-like, a wasp Whose stiffened limbs encramped, lay bathing In Sol's warm breath and shine as saving, Which with her hands she chafes and stands Rubbing her legs, shanks, thighs, and hands. Her pretty toes, and fingers' ends Nipped with this breath, she out extends Unto the sun, in great desire To warm her digits at that fire. Doth hold her temples in this state Where pulse doth beat, and head doth ache. Doth turn, and stretch her body small, Doth comb her velvet capital. As if her little brain pan were A volume of choice precepts clear. As if her satin jacket hot Contained apothecary's shop Of nature's receipts, that prevails To remedy all her sad ails, As if her velvet helmet high Did turret rationality. She fans her wing up to the wind As if her pettycoat were lined, With reason's fleece, and hoists sails And humming flies in thankful gales Unto her dun curled palace hall Her warm thanks offering for all. Lord, clear my misted sight that I May hence view Thy divinity, Some sparks whereof thou up dost hasp Within this little downy wasp In whose small corporation we A school and a schoolmaster see, Where we may learn, and easily find A nimble spirit bravely mind Her work in every limb: and lace It up neat with a vital grace, 40 Acting each part though ne'er so small Here of this fustian animal. Till I enravished climb into The Godhead on this ladder do, Where all my pipes inspired upraise An heavenly music furred with praise. ~ Edward Taylor,

78:My greetings and constant love to Emory and my grandchildren. I am well and continue to make my rounds with the news of the day and as always am well-received in the towns of which we have more than a few now as the Century grows older and the population increases so that large crowds come to hear reportage of distant places as well as those nearby. I enjoy good health as always and hope that Emory is doing well using his left hand now and look forward to an example of his handwriting. It is true what Elizabeth has said about employment for a one-armed man but that concerns manual labor only and at any rate there should be some consideration for a man who has lost a limb in the war. As soon as he is adept with his left I am sure he will consider Typesetting, Accounting, Etc. & Etc. Olympia is I am sure a steady rock to you all. Olympia’s husband, Mason, had been killed at Adairsville, during Johnston’s retreat toward Atlanta. The man was too big to be a human being and too small to be a locomotive. He had been shot out of the tower of the Bardsley mansion and when he fell three stories and struck the ground he probably made a hole big enough to bury a hog in. The Captain’s younger daughter, Olympia, was in reality a woman who affected helplessness and refinement and had never been able to pull a turnip from the garden without weeping over the poor, dear thing. She fluttered and gasped and incessantly tried to demonstrate how sensitive she was. Mason was a perfect foil and then the Yankees went and killed him. Olympia was now living with Elizabeth and Emory in the remains of their farm in New Hope Church, Georgia, and was quite likely a heavy weight. He put one hand to his forehead. My youngest daughter is in reality a bore. There was a pounding on the wall: Kep-dun! Kep-dun! ~ Paulette Jiles,

79:Comus. The Star that bids the Shepherd fold, Now the top of Heav'n doth hold, And the gilded Car of Day, [ 95 ] His glowing Axle doth allay In the steep Atlantick stream, And the slope Sun his upward beam Shoots against the dusky Pole, Pacing toward the other gole [ 100 ] Of his Chamber in the East. Mean while welcom Joy, and Feast, Midnight shout, and revelry, Tipsie dance and Jollity. Braid your Locks with rosie Twine [ 105 ] Dropping odours, dropping Wine. Rigor now is gone to bed, And Advice with scrupulous head, Strict Age, and sowre Severity, With their grave Saws in slumber ly. [ 110 ] We that are of purer fire Imitate the Starry Quire, Who in their nightly watchfull Sphears, Lead in swift round the Months and Years. The Sounds, and Seas with all their finny drove [ 115 ] Now to the Moon in wavering Morrice move, And on the Tawny Sands and Shelves, Trip the pert Fairies and the dapper Elves; By dimpled Brook, and Fountain brim, The Wood-Nymphs deckt with Daisies trim, [ 120 ] Their merry wakes and pastimes keep: What hath night to do with sleep? Night hath better sweets to prove, Venus now wakes, and wak'ns Love. Com let us our rights begin, [ 125 ] Tis onely day-light that makes Sin, Which these dun shades will ne're report. Hail Goddesse of Nocturnal sport Dark vaild Cotytto, t' whom the secret flame Of mid-night Torches burns; mysterious Dame [ 130 ] That ne're art call'd, but when the Dragon woom Of Stygian darknes spets her thickest gloom, And makes one blot of all the ayr, Stay thy cloudy Ebon chair, Wherin thou rid'st with Hecat', and befriend [ 135 ] Us thy vow'd Priests, till utmost end Of all thy dues be done, and none left out, Ere the blabbing Eastern scout, The nice Morn on th' Indian steep From her cabin'd loop hole peep, [ 140 ] And to the tel-tale Sun discry Our conceal'd Solemnity. Com, knit hands, and beat the ground, In a light fantastick round. ~ John Milton,

80:Haunts Of A Demon (Extract From Saul) The Jewish king now walks at large and sound, Yet of our emissary Malzah hear we nothing: Go now, sweet spirit, and, if need be, seek This world all lover for him:--find him out, Be he within the bounds of earth and hell. He is a most erratic spirit, so May give thee trouble (as I give thee time) To find him, for he may be now diminished, And at the bottom of some silken flower, Wherein, I know, he loves, when evening comes, To creep and lie all night, encanopied Beneath the manifold and scented petals; Fancying, he says, he bids the world adieu, And is again a slumberer in heaven: Or, in some other vein, perchance thou'lt find him Within the halls or dens of some famed city. Give thou a general search, in open day, I' th' town and country's ample field; and next Seek him in dusky cave, and in dim grot; And in the shadow of the precipice, Prone or supine extended motionless; Or, in the twilight of o'erhanging leaves, Swung at the nodding arm of some vast beech. By moonlight seek him on the mountain, and At noon in the translucent waters salt or fresh; Or near the dank-marged fountain, or clear well, Watching the tad-pole thrive on suck of venom; Or where the brook runs O'er the stones, and smooths Their green locks with its current's crystal comb. Seek him in rising vapours, and in clouds Crimson or dun; and often on the edge Of the gray morning and the tawny eve: Search in the rocky alcove and woody bower; And in the crow's-nest look, and every Pilgrim-crowd-drawing Idol, wherein he Is wont to sit in darkness and be worshipped. If thou shouldst find him not in these, search for him By the lone melancholy tarns of bitterns; And in the embosomed dells, whereunto maidens Resort to bathe within the tepid pool. Look specially there, and, if thou seest peeping Satyr or faun, give chase and call out 'Malzah!' For he shall know thy voice and his own name. ~ Charles Heavysege,

81:In A Time Of Dearth Before me, On either side of me, I see sand. If I turn the corner of my house, I see sand, Long, brown Lines and levels of flat Sand. If I could only see a caravan Heave over the edge of it: The camels wobbling and swaying, Stepping like ostriches, With rocking palanquins Whose curtains conceal Languors and faintnesses, Muslins tossed aside, And a disorder of cushions. The swinging curtains would pique and solace me. But I only see sand, Long, brown sand Sand. If I could only see a herd of Arab horses Galloping, Their manes and tails pulled straight By the speed of their going; Their bodies sleek and round Like bellying sails. They would beat the sand with their fore feet, And scatter it with their hind feet, So that it whirled in a cloud of orange, And the sun through it Was clip-edged, without rays, and dun. But I only see sand, Long, brown, hot sand Sand. If I could only see a mirage, 100 Blue-white at the horizon, With palm-trees about it; Tall, windless palm-trees, grouped about a-glitter. If I could strain toward it, And think of the water creeping round my ankles, Tickling under my knees, Leeching up my sides, Spreading over my back. But I only feel the grinding beneath my feet. And I only see sand, Long, dry sand, Scorching sand Sand. If a sand-storm would only come And spit against my windows, Snapping upon them, and ringing their vibrations; Swirling over the roof; Seeping under the door-jamb; Suffocating me and making me struggle for air. But I only see sand Sand lying dead in the sun. Lines and lines of sand Sand. I will paste newspapers over the windows to shut out the sand; I will fit them into one another, and fasten the corners. Then I will strike matches And read of politics and murders and festivals Three years old. But I shall not see the sand any more, And I can read While my matches last. ~ Amy Lowell,

82:Dibdin's Ghost Dear wife, last midnight, whilst I read The tomes you so despise, A spectre rose beside the bed, And spake in this true wise: 'From Canaan's beatific coast I 've come to visit thee, For I am Frognall Dibdin's ghost,' Says Dibdin's ghost to me. I bade him welcome, and we twain Discussed with buoyant hearts The various things that appertain To bibliomaniac arts. 'Since you are fresh from t' other side, Pray tell me of that host That treasured books before they died,' Says I to Dibdin's ghost. 'They 've entered into perfect rest; For in the life they 've won There are no auctions to molest, No creditors to dun. Their heavenly rapture has no bounds Beside that jasper sea; It is a joy unknown to Lowndes,' Says Dibdin's ghost to me. Much I rejoiced to hear him speak Of biblio-bliss above, For I am one of those who seek What bibliomaniacs love. 'But tell me, for I long to hear What doth concern me most, Are wives admitted to that sphere?' Says I to Dibdin's ghost. 'The women folk are few up there; For 't were not fair, you know, That they our heavenly joy should share 113 Who vex us here below. The few are those who have been kind To husbands such as we; They knew our fads, and did n't mind,' Says Dibdin's ghost to me. 'But what of those who scold at us When we would read in bed? Or, wanting victuals, make a fuss If we buy books instead? And what of those who 've dusted not Our motley pride and boast, Shall they profane that sacred spot?' Says I to Dibdin's ghost. 'Oh, no! they tread that other path, Which leads where torments roll, And worms, yes, bookworms, vent their wrath Upon the guilty soul. Untouched of bibliomaniac grace, That saveth such as we, They wallow in that dreadful place,' Says Dibdin's ghost to me. 'To my dear wife will I recite What things I 've heard you say; She 'll let me read the books by night She 's let me buy by day. For we together by and by Would join that heavenly host; She 's earned a rest as well as I,' Says I to Dibdin's ghost. ~ Eugene Field,

83:Youth Penetrant I shall grow calm in a little while, But now, youth yearns in me to laugh; Cruel as cinematograph I show life up to you ... and smile. I shall be calm in a little space,The blood grows quieter with the years; I shall be tenderer, then, to tears, And look more kindly on life's face. Our hearts grow mellow nearing deathLike apples touched with autumn breath- ; When the dusk falls and day is done We look more wistfully on the sun, Loving his last warmth on our cheek; We can be kind when we are weak. I shall be calm in a little while, but now, youth yearns in me to laugh; Cruel as cinematograph I show life up to you ... and smile. Merciless is this black and white, A cold inquisitorial light; Baleful, it makes all life seem base, Shows you the flesh of every face; Only the music makes it seem So brightly glamorous, so like dream ... Let the musician cease to play, Here's naught but black and white and grey, Reality, cold, mechanical,The truth- a hideous spectacle!.. Cruel as cinematograph I show life up to you ... and laugh; For that is youth's prerogative: To see life coldly through brave eyes, To strip life of its lovely lies, And, careless of the dead, to live. There is yet time, when I grow old, When the blood in me is slow and cold, To look on life with wistful gaze, To see life through a soft bright haze;Singing more sweetly, as they use 343 Who are half death's, and hourly lose The light that fades from misting eyes, so, praise life in most passionate wise; For in their clouded minds they dream The whole day, though it was but dun, Made glorious by the death of sun,Death-fires the fires of life they deem. Through mist they wander, singing sweet;Singing of life to make them brave, They hear death digging each his grave, They feel his cold net touch their feet ... Half-lives, they only half-life sing, The tender light their dim eyes sees; They reach pale hands to earth and cling, Grief gives their song intensity ... I shall be calm in a little while, But now, youth yearns in me to laugh: Cruel as cinematograph I show life up to you ... and smile! ~ Conrad Potter Aiken,

84:From Shadow Now the November skies, And the clouds that are thin and gray, That drop with the wind away; A flood of sunlight rolls, In a tide of shallow light, Gold on the land and white On the water, dim and warm in the wood; Then it is gone, and the wan Clear of the shade Covers fields and barren and glade. The peace of labor done, Is wide in the gracious earth; The harvest is won; Past are the tears and the mirth; And we feel in the tenuous air How far beyond thought or prayer Is the grace of silent things, That work for the world alway, Neither for fear nor for pay, And when labor is over, rest. The moil of our fretted life Is borne anew to the soul, Borne with its cark and strife, Its burden of care and dread, Its glories elusive and strange; And the weight of the weary whole Presses it down, till we cry: Where is the fruit of our deeds? Why should we struggle to build Towers against death on the plain? All things possess their lives Save man, whose task and desire Transcend his power and his will. The question is over and still; Nothing replies: but the earth Takes on a lovelier hue From a cloud that neighbored the sun, 44 That the sun burned down and through, Till it glowed like a seraph's wing; The fields that were gray and dun Are warm in the flowing light; Fair in the west the night Strikes in with vibrant star. Something has stirred afar In the shadow that winter flings; A message comes up to the soul From the soul of inanimate things: A message that widens and grows Till it touches the deeds of man, Till we see in the torturous throes Some dawning glimmer of plan; Till we feel in the deepening night The hand of the angel Content, That stranger of calmness and light, With his brow over us bent, Who moves with his eyes on the earth, Whose robe of lambent green, A tissue of herb and its sheen, Tells the mother who gave him birth. The message plays through his power, Till it flames exultant in thought, As the quince-tree triumphs in flower. The fruit that is checked and marred Goes under the sod: The good lives here in the world; It persists,-- it is God. ~ Duncan Campbell Scott,

85:Readin' all those books makes me wonder whether anyone ever dies natural." " They don't," said William mysteriously. " Robert says so. At least he says there's hundreds an' thousands of murders what no one finds out. You see, you c'n only find out a person's died nacheral by cuttin' 'em up an' they've not got time to cut everyone up what dies. They've simply not got the time. They do it like what they do with our desks at school. They jus' open one sometimes to see if it's all right. They've not got time to open 'em all every day. An' same as every time they do open a desk they find it untidy, jus' in the same way whenever they do cut anyone dead up they find he's been poisoned. Practically always. Robert says so. He says that the amount of people who poison people who aren't cut up and don't get found out mus' be enormous. Jus' think of it. People pois'nin' people all over the place an' no one findin' out. If I was a policeman I'd cut everyone dead up. But they aren't any use, policemen aren't. Why, in all those books I've read there hasn't been a single policeman that was any good at all. They simply don't know what to do when anyone murders anyone. Why, you remember in ' The Mystery of the Yellow Windows,' the policemen were s' posed to have searched the room for clues an' they di'n't notice the cigarette end what the murd'rer had left in the fender and what had the address of the people what made it on it an' what was a sort they made special for him. Well, that shows you what the policemen are, dun't it ? I mean, they look very swanky in their hats an' buttons an' all that, but when it comes to a murder or cuttin' dead people up or findin' out murd'rers, they aren't any good at all. Why, in all those myst'ry tales we've read, it's not been the police that found the murd'rers at all. It's been ordinary people same as you an' me jus' usin' common sense an' pickin' up cigarette ends an' such-like. . . . Tell you what it is," he said, warm- ing to his theme, " policemen have gotter be stupid 'cause of their clothes. I mean, all the policemen's clothes are made so big that they've gotter be very big men to fit 'em an' big men are always stupid 'cause of their strength all goin' to their bodies 'stead of their brains. That stands to reason, dun't it ? ~ Richmal Crompton,

86:Readin' all those books makes me wonder whether anyone ever dies natural." " They don't," said William mysteriously. " Robert says so. At least he says there's hundreds an' thousands of murders what no one finds out. You see, you c'n only find out a person's died nacheral by cuttin' 'em up an' they've not got time to cut everyone up what dies. They've simply not got the time. They do it like what they do with our desks at school. They jus' open one sometimes to see if it's all right. They've not got time to open 'em all every day. An' same as every time they do open a desk they find it untidy, jus' in the same way whenever they do cut anyone dead up they find he's been poisoned. Practically always. Robert says so. He says that the amount of people who poison people who aren't cut up and don't get found out mus' be enormous. Jus' think of it. People pois'nin' people all over the place an' no one findin' out. If I was a policeman I'd cut everyone dead up. But they aren't any use, policemen aren't. Why, in all those books I've read there hasn't been a single policeman that was any good at all. They simply don't know what to do when anyone murders anyone. Why, you remember in ' The Mystery of the Yellow Windows,' the policemen were s' posed to have searched the room for clues an' they di'n't notice the cigarette end what the murd'rer had left in the fender and what had the address of the people what made it on it an' what was a sort they made special for him. Well, that shows you what the policemen are, dun't it ? I mean, they look very swanky in their hats an' buttons an' all that, but when it comes to a murder or cuttin' dead people up or findin' out murd'rers, they aren't any good at all. Why, in all those myst'ry tales we've read, it's not been the police that found the murd'rers at all. It's been ordinary people same as you an' me jus' usin' common sense an' pickin' up cigarette ends an' such-like. . . . Tell you what it is," he said, warm- ing to his theme, " policemen have gotter be stupid 'cause of their clothes. I mean, all the policemen's clothes are made so big that they've gotter be very big men to fit 'em an' big men are always stupid 'cause of their strength all goin' to their bodies 'stead of their brains. That stands to reason, dun't it ? ~ Richmal Crompton,

87:An Old Bush Road Dear old road, wheel-worn and broken, Winding thro' the forest green, Barred with shadow and with sunshine, Misty vistas drawn between. Grim, scarred bluegums ranged austerely, Lifting blackened columns each To the large, fair fields of azure, Stretching ever out of reach. See the hardy bracken growing Round the fallen limbs of trees; And the sharp reeds from the marshes, Washed across the flooded leas; And the olive rushes, leaning All their pointed spears to cast Slender shadows on the roadway, While the faint, slow wind creeps past. Ancient ruts grown round with grasses, Soft old hollows filled with rain; Rough, gnarled roots all twisting queerly, Dark with many a weather-stain. Lichens moist upon the fences, Twiners close against the logs; Yellow fungus in the thickets, Vivid mosses in the bogs. Dear old road, wheel-worn and broken, What delights in thee I find! Subtle charm and tender fancy, Like a fragrance in the mind. Thy old ways have set me dreaming, And out-lived illusions rise, And the soft leaves of the landscape Open on my thoughtful eyes. See the clump of wattles, standing Dead and sapless on the rise; When their boughs were full of beauty, Even to uncaring eyes, I was ever first to rifle The soft branches of their store. O the golden wealth of blossom I shall gather there no more! Now we reach the dun morasses, Where the red moss used to grow, Ruby-bright upon the water, Floating on the weeds below. Once the swan and wild-fowl glided By those sedges, green and tall; Here the booming bitterns nested; Here we heard the curlews call. Climb this hill and we have rambled To the last turn of the way; Here is where the bell-birds tinkled Fairy chimes for me all day. These were bells that never wearied, Swung by ringers on the wing; List! the elfin strains are waking, Memory sets the bells a-ring! Dear old road, no wonder, surely, That I love thee like a friend! And I grieve to think how surely All thy loveliness will end. For thy simple charm is passing, And the turmoil of the street Soon will mar thy sylvan silence With the tramp of careless feet. And for this I look more fondly On the sunny landscape, seen From the road, wheel-worn and broken, Winding thro' the forest green, Something still remains of Nature, Thoughts of other days to bring: -For the staunch old trees are standing, And I hear the wild birds sing! ~ Arthur Bayldon,

88:Avis With a golden rolling sound Booming came a bell, From the aery in the tower Eagles fell; So with regal wings Hurled, and gleaming sound and power, Sprang the fatal spell. Ten a storm of burnished doves Gleaming from the cote Flurried by the almonry O'er the moat,-Fell and soared and fell With the arc and iris eye Burning breast and throat. Avis heard the beaten bell Break the quiet space, Gathering softly in the room Round her face; And the sound of wings From the deeps of rosy gloom Rustled in the place. Nothing moved along the wall, Weltered on the floor; Only in the purple deep, Streaming o'er, Came the dream of sound Silent as the dale of sleep, Where the dreams are four. (One of love without a word, Wan to look upon, One of fear without a cry, Cowering stone, And the dower of life, Grief without a single sigh, Pain without a moan.) 26 "Avis-Avis!" Cried a voice; Then the voice was mute. "Avis!" Soft the echo lay As the lute. Where she was she fell, Drowsy as mandragora, Trancèd to the root. Then she heard her mother's voice, Tender as a dove; Then her lover plain and sigh, "Avis--Love!" Like the mavis bird Calling, calling lonelily From the eerie grove. Then she heard within the vast Closure of the spell, Rolled and moulded into one Rounded swell, All the sounds that ever were Uttered underneath the sun, Heard in heaven or hell. In the arras moved the wind, And the window cloth Rippled like a serpent barred, Gray with wrath; In the brazier gold The wan ghost of a rose charred Fluttered like a moth. Tranquil lay her darkened eyes As the pools that keep Auras dim of fern and frond Dappled, deep, Dreamy as the map of Nod; Moveless was she as a wand In the wind of sleep. Then the birds began to cry 27 From the crannied wall, Piping as the morning rose Mystical, Gray with whistling rain, Silver with the light that flows In the interval. Pallid poplars cast a shade, Twinkling gray and dun, Where the wind and water wove Into one All the linnet leaves, Greening from the mere and grove In the undern sun. Night fell with the ferny dusk, Planets paled and grew, Up, with lily and clarid turns Throbbing through, Rose the robin's song, Heart of home and love that burns beating in the dew. But she neither moved nor heard, Trancèd was her breath; Lip on charmèd lip was laid (One who saith "Love-Undone" and falls). Silent was she as a shade In the dells of death. ~ Duncan Campbell Scott,

89:Best and brightest, come away! Fairer far than this fair Day, Which, like thee to those in sorrow, Comes to bid a sweet good-morrow To the rough Year just awake In its cradle on the brake. The brightest hour of unborn Spring, Through the winter wandering, Found, it seems, the halcyon Morn To hoar February born, Bending from Heaven, in azure mirth, It kissed the forehead of the Earth, And smiled upon the silent sea, And bade the frozen streams be free, And waked to music all their fountains, And breathed upon the frozen mountains, And like a prophetess of May Strewed flowers upon the barren way, Making the wintry world appear Like one on whom thou smilest, dear. Away, away, from men and towns, To the wild wood and the downs-- To the silent wilderness Where the soul need not repress Its music lest it should not find An echo in anothers mind, While the touch of Nature's art Harmonizes heart to heart. I leave this notice on my door For each accustomed visitor:-- 'I am gone into the fields To take what this sweet hour yields;-- Reflection, you may come to-morrow, Sit by the fireside with Sorrow.-- You with the unpaid bill, Despair,-- You, tiresome verse-reciter, Care,-- I will pay you in the grave,-- Death will listen to your stave. Expectation too, be off! To-day is for itself enough; Hope, in pity mock not Woe With smiles, nor follow where I go; Long having lived on thy sweet food, At length I find one moments good After long painwith all your love, This you never told me of.' Radiant Sister of the Day, Awake! arise! and come away! To the wild woods and the plains, And the pools where winter rains Image all their roof of leaves, Where the pine its garland weaves Of sapless green and ivy dun Round stems that never kiss the sun; Where the lawns and pastures be, And the sandhills of the sea;-- Where the melting hoar-frost wets The daisy-star that never sets, And wind-flowers, and violets, Which yet join not scent to hue, Crown the pale year weak and new; When the night is left behind In the deep east, dun and blind, And the blue noon is over us, And the multitudinous Billows murmur at our feet, Where the earth and ocean meet, And all things seem only one In the universal sun. This and the following poem [To Jane: The Recollection], were published together in their original form as one piece under the title, The Pine Forest of the Cascine near Pisa, by Mrs. Shelley, Posthumous Poems, 1824; reprinted in the same shape, Poetical Works, 1839, 1st edition; republished separately in their present form, Poetical Works, 1839, 2nd edition. There is a copy amongst the Trelawny manuscripts. ~ Percy Bysshe Shelley, To Jane - The Invitation ,

90:The Winged Mariners Through the wild night, the silence and the dark, Through league on league of the uncharted sky, Lonelier than dove of fable from its ark, The fieldfares fly. Mate with his tiny mate, and younglings frail, That only knew the crevice of their tree Until, in faith stupendous, they set sail Across the sea. The black North Sea, that takes such savage toll Of ships and men - and yet could not appal These little mariners, who seek their goal Beyond it all. Turning those soft, indomitable breasts To meet the unchained Titans of the deep Calm, as if cradled in Norwegian nests, Their course they keep. No more than thistledown or flake of snow To those great gods at play, they win the game; Never sped archer's arrow from his bow With surer aim. Still tossed and scattered, their unwinking eyes Point to that pole unseen where wanderings cease; Still on they press, and warble to the skies With hearts at peace. Scenting the English morning in the air, Through the salt night, ere any morning wakes The perfumed fields, the dun woods, sere and bare, The brambly brakes The well-loved orchard, with its hawthorn hedge, Where luscious berries, red and brown, are found The misty miles of water-mead and sedge Where gnats abound. 277 . But what is this, 'twixt sea and surf-bound shore? What form stands there, amid the shadows gray, With flaming blade that smites them as they soar, And bars their way? Hushed are the twittering throats; each silken head Turns to the voiceless siren - turns and stares By some strange lure of mystery and dread Caught unawares. It draws them on, as the magnetic sun Draws vagrant meteors to its burning breast. The day is near, the harbour all but won That English nest. But here they meet inexorable Fate; Here lies a dreadful reef of fire and glass; Here stands a glittering sentry at the gate They cannot pass. Confused, dismayed, they flutter in the gale, Those little pinions that have lost their track; The gallant hearts that sped them reel and fail Like ships aback. Sucked in a magic current, like a leaf Torn from autumnal tree, they drift abroad, But ever nearer to the siren reef, The ruthless sword. On, on, transfixed and swooning, without check, To the lee shore of that bedazzling wall, Until they strike, and break in utter wreck, And founder all. Brave little wings, that sailed the storm so well, Trimmed to the set of every wayward blast! Brave little hearts, that never storm could quell, Beaten at last! 278 The great sea swallows them, and they are gone, For ever gone, like bubbles of the foam; And the bright star that lured them, shining on, Still points to Home. ~ Ada Cambridge,

91:We Talked Of Lincoln WE talked of Abraham Lincoln in the night, Ten fur-coat men on North Saskatchewan’s plain— Pure zero cold, and all the prairie white— Englishman, Scotchman, Scandinavian, Dane, Two Irish, four Canadians—all for gain Of food and raiment, children, parents, wives, Living the hardest life that Man survives, And secret proud because it was so hard Exploring, camping, axeing, faring lean.— Month in and out no creature had we seen Except our burdened dogs, gaunt foxes gray, Hard-feathered grouse that shot would seldom slay, Slinking coyotés, plumy-trailing owls, Stark Indians warm in rabbit-blanket cowls, And, still as shadows in their deep-tracked yard, The dun vague moose we startled from our way. We talked of Abraham Lincoln in the night Around our fire of tamarac crackling fierce, Yet dim, like moon and stars, in that vast light Boreal, bannery, shifting quick to pierce Ethereal blanks of Space with falchion streams Transfigured wondrous into quivering beams From Forms enormous-marching through the sky To dissolution and new majesty. And speech was low around our bivouac fire, Since in our inmost heart of hearts there grew The sense of mortal feebleness, to see Those silent miracles of Might on high Seemingly done for only such as we In sign how nearer Death and Doom we drew, While in the ancient tribal-soul we knew 104 Our old, hardfaring father-Vikings’ dreams Of Odin at Valhalla’s open door, Where they might see the Battle-father’s face Glowing at last, when Life and Toil were o’er, Were they but staunch-enduring in their place. We talked of Abraham Lincoln in the night.— Oh sweet and strange to hear the hard-hand men Old-Abeing him, like half the world of yore In years when Grant’s and Lee’s young soldiers bore Rifle and steel, and proved that heroes live Where folk their lives to Labor mostly give. And strange and sweet to hear their voices call Him “Father Abraham,” though no man of all Was born within the Nation of his birth. It was as if they felt that all on Earth Possess of right Earth’s greatest Common Man, Her sanest, wisest, simplest, steadiest son, To whom The Father’s children all were one, And Pomps and Vanities as motes that danced In the clear sunshine where his humor glanced. We talked of Abraham Lincoln in the night Until one spoke, “We yet may see his face,” Whereon the fire crackled loud through space Of human silence, while eyes reverent Toward the auroral miracle were bent Till from that trancing Glory spirits came Within our semi-circle round the flame, And drew us closer-ringed, until we could Feel the kind touch of vital brotherhood Which Father Abraham Lincoln thought so good. 105 ~ Edward William Thomson,

92:The Outlaw Oh, I wadna be a yeoman, mither, to follow my father's trade, To bow my back in miry banks, at pleugh and hoe and spade. Stinting wife, and bairns, and kye, to fat some courtier lord,Let them die o' rent wha like, mither, and I'll die by sword. Nor I wadna be a clerk, mither, to bide aye ben, Scrabbling ower the sheets o' parchment with a weary weary pen; Looking through the lang stane windows at a narrow strip o' sky, Like a laverock in a withy cage, until I pine away and die. Nor I wadna be a merchant, mither, in his lang furred gown, Trailing strings o' footsore horses through the noisy dusty town; Louting low to knights and ladies, fumbling o'er his wares, Telling lies, and scraping siller, heaping cares on cares. Nor I wadna be a soldier, mither, to dice wi' ruffian bands, Pining weary months in castles, looking over wasted lands. Smoking byres, and shrieking women, and the grewsome sights o' warThere's blood on my hand eneugh, mither; it's ill to make it mair. If I had married a wife, mither, I might ha' been douce and still, And sat at hame by the ingle side to crack and laugh my fill; Sat at hame wi' the woman I looed, and wi' bairnies at my knee: But death is bauld, and age is cauld, and luve's no for me. For when first I stirred in your side, mither, ye ken full well How you lay all night up among the deer out on the open fell; And so it was that I won the heart to wander far and near, Caring neither for land nor lassie, but the bonnie dun deer. Yet I am not a losel and idle, mither, nor a thief that steals; I do but hunt God's cattle, upon God's ain hills; For no man buys and sells the deer, and the bonnie fells are free To a belted knight with hawk on hand, and a gangrel loon like me. So I'm aff and away to the muirs, mither, to hunt the deer, Ranging far frae frowning faces, and the douce folk here; Crawling up through burn and bracken, louping down the screes, Looking out frae craig and headland, drinking up the simmer breeze. 117 Oh, the wafts o' heather honey, and the music o' the brae, As I watch the great harts feeding, nearer, nearer a' the day. Oh, to hark the eagle screaming, sweeping, ringing round the skyThat's a bonnier life than stumbling ower the muck to colt and kye. And when I'm taen and hangit, mither, a brittling o' my deer, Ye'll no leave your bairn to the corbie craws, to dangle in the air; But ye'll send up my twa douce brethren, and ye'll steal me frae the tree, And bury me up on the brown brown muirs, where I aye looed to be. Ye'll bury me 'twixt the brae and the burn, in a glen far away, Where I may hear the heathcock craw, and the great harts bray; And gin my ghaist can walk, mither, I'll go glowering at the sky, The livelong night on the black hill sides where the dun deer lie. In the New Forest, 1847. ~ Charles Kingsley,

93:The Prose Poem On the map it is precise and rectilinear as a chessboard, though driving past you would hardly notice it, this boundary line or ragged margin, a shallow swale that cups a simple trickle of water, less rill than rivulet, more gully than dell, a tangled ditch grown up throughout with a fearsome assortment of wildflowers and bracken. There is no fence, though here and there a weathered post asserts a former claim, strands of fallen wire taken by the dust. To the left a cornfield carries into the distance, dips and rises to the blue sky, a rolling plain of green and healthy plants aligned in close order, row upon row upon row. To the right, a field of wheat, a field of hay, young grasses breaking the soil, filling their allotted land with the rich, slow-waving spectacle of their grain. As for the farmers, they are, for the most part, indistinguishable: here the tractor is red, there yellow; here a pair of dirty hands, there a pair of dirty hands. They are cultivators of the soil. They grow crops by pattern, by acre, by foresight, by habit. What corn is to one, wheat is to the other, and though to some eyes the similarities outweigh the differences it would be as unthinkable for the second to commence planting corn as for the first to switch over to wheat. What happens in the gully between them is no concern of theirs, they say, so long as the plough stays out, the weeds stay in the ditch where they belong, though anyone would notice the wind-sewn cornstalks poking up their shaggy ears like young lovers run off into the bushes, and the kinship of these wild grasses with those the farmer cultivates is too obvious to mention, sage and dun-colored stalks hanging their noble heads, hoarding exotic burrs and seeds, and yet it is neither corn nor wheat that truly flourishes there, nor some jackalopian hybrid of the two. What grows in that place is possessed of a beauty all its own, ramshackle and unexpected, even in winter, when the wind hangs icicles from the skeletons of briars and small tracks cross the snow in search of forgotten grain; in the spring the little trickle of water swells to welcome frogs and minnows, a muskrat, a family of turtles, nesting doves in the verdant grass; in summer it is a thoroughfare for raccoons and opossums, field mice, swallows and black birds, migrating egrets, a passing fox; in autumn the geese avoid its abundance, seeking out windrows of toppled stalks, fatter grain more quickly discerned, more easily digested. Of those that travel the local road, few pay that fertile hollow any mind, even those with an eye for what blossoms, vetch and timothy, early forsythia, the fatted calf in the fallow field, the rabbit running for cover, the hawk's descent from the lightningstruck tree. You've passed this way yourself many times, and can tell me, if you would, do the formal fields end where the valley begins, or does everything that surrounds us emerge from its embrace? 24 ~ Campbell McGrath,

94:The Passing Of The Primroses Primroses, why do you pass away? Primroses Nay, rather, why should we longer stay? We are not needed, now stooping showers Have sandalled the feet of May with flowers. Surely, surely, 'tis time to go, Now that the splendid bluebells blow, Scattering a bridal peal, to hail June blushing under her hawthorn veil. We abode with you all the long winter through: You may not have seen us, but we saw you, Chafing your hands in the beaded haze, And shivering home to your Yuletide blaze. Why should we linger, when all things pass? We have buried old Winter beneath the grass, Seen the first larch break, heard the first lamb bleat, Watched the first foal stoop to its mother's teat: The crocus prick with its spears aglow 'Gainst the rallying flakes of the routed snow, The isle-keeping titmouse wed and hatch, And the swallow come home to its native thatch: Fresh emeralds jewel the bare-brown mould, And the blond sallow tassel herself with gold, The hive of the broom brim with honeyed dew, And Springtime swarm in the gorse anew. When breastplated March his trumpets blew, We laughed in his face, till he laughed too; Then, drying our lids when the sleet was done, Smiled back to the smile of the April sun. We were first to hear, in the hazel moat, The nut-brown bird with the poet's note, 539 That sings, ``Love is neither false nor fleet,'' Makes passion tender, and sorrow sweet. We were stretched on the grass when the cuckoo's voice Bade the old grow young, and the young rejoice; The half-fledged singer who flouts and rails, So forces the note when his first note fails: Who scorns, understanding but in part, The sweet solicitudes of the heart, But might learn, from the all-year-cooing dove, That joy hath a briefer life than love. We would rather go ere the sweet Spring dies. We have seen the violet droop its eyes, The sorrel grow green where the celandine shone, And the windflower fade ere you knew 'twas gone. The campion comes to take our place, And you will not miss us in brake or chase, Now the fragile frond of the fern uncurls, And the hawthorns necklace themselves with pearls. When June's love crimsons the cheek of the rose, And the meadow-swathes sweep in rhythmic rows, And foxgloves gleam in the darkest glen, You will not recall nor regret us then. Leave us our heavenly lot, to cheer Your lives in the midnight of the year; And 'tis meet that our light should be withdrawn, Being stars of winter, with summer's dawn. For we do not sink into death's dank cave; The earth is our cradle, and not our grave: The tides and the stars sway it low and high, And the sycamore bees hum lullaby. But when winds roam lonely and dun clouds drift, Let Winter, the white-haired nurse, but lift The snowy coverlet softly, then We will open our eyelids, and smile again. 540 How oft have you longed that your little ones would Outgrow not the charm of babyhood, Keep the soft round arms and the warm moist kiss, And the magic of April sinlessness! Then chide us not, now we look good-bye: We are the children for whom you sigh. We slip 'neath the sod before summer's prime, And so keep young to the end of time. ~ Alfred Austin,

95:Hell's Gate Onward led the road again Through the sad uncoloured plain Under twilight brooding dim, And along the utmost rim Wall and rampart risen to sight Cast a shadow not of night, And beyond them seemed to glow Bonfires lighted long ago. And my dark conductor broke Silence at my side and spoke, Saying, 'You conjecture well: Yonder is the gate of hell.' Ill as yet the eye could see The eternal masonry, But beneath it on the dark To and fro there stirred a spark. And again the sombre guide Knew my question, and replied: 'At hell gate the damned in turn Pace for sentinel and burn.' Dully at the leaden sky Staring, and with idle eye Measuring the listless plain, I began to think again. Many things I thought of then, Battle, and the loves of men, Cities entered, oceans crossed, Knowledge gained and virtue lost, Cureless folly done and said, And the lovely way that led To the slimepit and the mire And the everlasting fire. And against a smoulder dun And a dawn without a sun Did the nearing bastion loom, And across the gate of gloom Still one saw the sentry go, 27 Trim and burning, to and fro, One for women to admire In his finery of fire. Something, as I watched him pace, Minded me of time and place, Soldiers of another corps And a sentry known before. Ever darker hell on high Reared its strength upon the sky, And our footfall on the track Fetched the daunting echo back. But the soldier pacing still The insuperable sill, Nursing his tormented pride, Turned his head to neither side, Sunk into himself apart And the hell-fire of his heart. But against our entering in From the drawbridge Death and Sin Rose to render key and sword To their father and their lord. And the portress foul to see Lifted up her eyes on me Smiling, and I made reply: 'Met again, my lass,' said I. Then the sentry turned his head, Looked, and knew me, and was Ned. Once he looked, and halted straight, Set his back against the gate, Caught his musket to his chin, While the hive of hell within Sent abroad a seething hum As of towns whose king is come Leading conquest home from far And the captives of his war, And the car of triumph waits, And they open wide the gates. But across the entry barred Straddled the revolted guard, Weaponed and accoutred well 28 From the arsenals of hell; And beside him, sick and white, Sin to left and Death to right Turned a countenance of fear On the flaming mutineer. Over us the darkness bowed, And the anger in the cloud Clenched the lightning for the stroke; But the traitor musket spoke. And the hollowness of hell Sounded as its master fell, And the mourning echo rolled Ruin through his kingdom old. Tyranny and terror flown Left a pair of friends alone, And beneath the nether sky All that stirred was he and I. Silent, nothing found to say, We began the backward way; And the ebbing luster died From the soldier at my side, As in all his spruce attire Failed the everlasting fire. Midmost of the homeward track Once we listened and looked back; But the city, dusk and mute, Slept, and there was no pursuit. ~ Alfred Edward Housman,

96:Occasional Address Written for the benefit of a distressed Player, detained at Brighthelmstone for Debt, November 1792. WHEN in a thousand swarms, the summer o'er, The birds of passage quit our English shore, By various routs the feather'd myriad moves; The Becca-Fica seeks Italian groves, No more a Wheat-ear ; while the soaring files Of sea-fowl gather round the Hebrid isles. But if by bird-lime touch'd, unplumed, confined, Some poor ill-fated straggler stays behind, Driven from his transient perch, beneath your eaves On his unshelter'd head the tempest raves, While drooping round, redoubling every pain, His mate and nestlings ask his help in vain. So we, the buskin and the sock who wear, And 'strut and fret,' our little season here, Dismiss'd at length, as fortune bids divide-Some (lucky rogues!) sit down on Thames's side; Others to Liffy's western banks proceed, And some--driven far a-field, across the Tweed: But, pinion'd here, alas! I cannot fly: The hapless, unplumed, lingering straggler I! Unless the healing pity you bestow, Shall imp my shatter'd wings, and let me go. Hard is his fate, whom evil stars have led To seek in scenic art precarious bread, While still, through wild vicissitudes afloat, A hero now, and now a Sans Culotte! That eleemosynary bread he gains Mingling, with real distresses, mimic pains. See in our group, a pale, lank Falstaff stare! Much needs he stuffing:--while young Ammon there Rehearses--in a garret--ten feet square! And as his soft Statira sighs consent, Roxana comes not--but a dun for rent! Here shiv'ring Edgar, in his blanket roll'd, Exclaims--with too much reason, 'Tom's a-cold! ' And vainly tries his sorrows to divert, 55 While Goneril or Regan --wash his shirt! Lo! fresh from Calais, Edward, mighty king! Revolves--a mutton chop upon a string! And Hotspur, plucking 'honour from the moon,' Feeds a sick infant with a pewter spoon! More bless'd the fisher, who undaunted braves In his small bark, the impetuous winds and waves; For though he plough the sea when others sleep, He draws, like Glendower, spirits from the deep. And while the storm howls round, amidst his trouble, Bright moonshine still illuminates the cobble. Pale with her fears for him, some fair Poissarde , Watches his nearing boat; with fond regard Smiles when she sees his little canvass handing, And clasps her dripping lover on his landing. More bless'd the peasant , who, with nervous toil Hews the rough oak, or breaks the stubborn soil: Weary, indeed, he sees the evening come, But then, the rude, yet tranquil hut, his home, Receives its rustic inmate; then are his, Secure repose, and dear domestic bliss. The orchard's blushing fruit, the garden's store, The pendant hop, that mantles round the door, Are his:--and while cheerful faggots burn, 'His lisping children hail their site's return.' But wandering Players, 'unhousel'd, unanneal'd,' And unappointed, scour life's common field, A flying squadron!--disappointments cross 'em, And the campaign concludes, perhaps, at Horsham. Oh! ye, whose timely bounty deigns to shed Compassion's balm upon my luckless head, Benevolence, with warm and glowing breast, And soft, celestial mercy, doubly bless'd! Smile on the generous act!--where means are given, To aid the wretched--is to merit heaven. ~ Charlotte Smith,

97:Hymn to Mercury : Continued 11. ... Seized with a sudden fancy for fresh meat, He in his sacred crib deposited The hollow lyre, and from the cavern sweet Rushed with great leaps up to the mountain's head, Revolving in his mind some subtle feat Of thievish craft, such as a swindler might Devise in the lone season of dun night. 12. Lo! the great Sun under the ocean's bed has Driven steeds and chariot—the child meanwhile strode O'er the Pierian mountains clothed in shadows, Where the immortal oxen of the God Are pastured in the flowering unmown meadows, And safely stalled in a remote abode.— The archer Argicide, elate and proud, Drove fifty from the herd, lowing aloud. 13. He drove them wandering o'er the sandy way, But, being ever mindful of his craft, Backward and forward drove he them astray, So that the tracks which seemed before, were aft; His sandals then he threw to the ocean spray, And for each foot he wrought a kind of raft Of tamarisk, and tamarisk-like sprigs, And bound them in a lump with withy twigs. 14. And on his feet he tied these sandals light, The trail of whose wide leaves might not betray His track; and then, a self-sufficing wight, Like a man hastening on some distant way, He from Pieria's mountain bent his flight; But an old man perceived the infant pass Down green Onchestus heaped like beds with grass. 15. The old man stood dressing his sunny vine: 'Halloo! old fellow with the crooked shoulder! You grub those stumps? before they will bear wine Methinks even you must grow a little older: Attend, I pray, to this advice of mine, As you would 'scape what might appal a bolder— Seeing, see not—and hearing, hear not—and— If you have understanding—understand.' 16. So saying, Hermes roused the oxen vast; O'er shadowy mountain and resounding dell, And flower-paven plains, great Hermes passed; Till the black night divine, which favouring fell Around his steps, grew gray, and morning fast Wakened the world to work, and from her cell Sea-strewn, the Pallantean Moon sublime Into her watch-tower just began to climb. 17. Now to Alpheus he had driven all The broad-foreheaded oxen of the Sun; They came unwearied to the lofty stall And to the water-troughs which ever run Through the fresh fields—and when with rushgrass tall, Lotus and all sweet herbage, every one Had pastured been, the great God made them move Towards the stall in a collected drove. 18. A mighty pile of wood the God then heaped, And having soon conceived the mystery Of fire, from two smooth laurel branches stripped The bark, and rubbed them in his palms;—on high Suddenly forth the burning vapour leaped And the divine child saw delightedly.— Mercury first found out for human weal Tinder-box, matches, fire-irons, flint and steel. 19. And fine dry logs and roots innumerous He gathered in a delve upon the ground— And kindled them—and instantaneous The strength of the fierce flame was breathed around: And whilst the might of glorious Vulcan thus Wrapped the great pile with glare and roaring sound, Hermes dragged forth two heifers, lowing loud, Close to the fire—such might was in the God. 20. And on the earth upon their backs he threw The panting beasts, and rolled them o'er and o'er, And bored their lives out. Without more ado He cut up fat and flesh, and down before The fire, on spits of wood he placed the two, Toasting their flesh and ribs, and all the gore Pursed in the bowels; and while this was done He stretched their hides over a craggy stone. ~ Percy Bysshe Shelley,

98:How Gilbert Died There's never a stone at the sleeper's head, There's never a fence beside, And the wandering stock on the grave may tread Unnoticed and undenied; But the smallest child on the Watershed Can tell you how Gilbert died. For he rode at dusk with his comrade Dunn To the hut at the Stockman's Ford; In the waning light of the sinking sun They peered with a fierce accord. They were outlaws both -- and on each man's head Was a thousand pounds reward. They had taken toll of the country round, And the troopers came behind With a black who tracked like a human hound In the scrub and the ranges blind: He could run the trail where a white man's eye No sign of track could find. He had hunted them out of the One Tree Hill And over the Old Man Plain, But they wheeled their tracks with a wild beast's skill, And they made for the range again; Then away to the hut where their grandsire dwelt They rode with a loosened rein. And their grandsire gave them a greeting bold: "Come in and rest in peace, No safer place does the country hold -With the night pursuit must cease, And we'll drink success to the roving boys, And to hell with the black police." But they went to death when they entered there In the hut at the Stockman's Ford, For their grandsire's words were as false as fair -They were doomed to the hangman's cord. He had sold them both to the black police 134 For the sake of the big reward. In the depth of night there are forms that glide As stealthily as serpents creep, And around the hut where the outlaws hide They plant in the shadows deep, And they wait till the first faint flush of dawn Shall waken their prey from sleep. But Gilbert wakes while the night is dark -A restless sleeper aye. He has heard the sound of a sheep-dog's bark, And his horse's warning neigh, And he says to his mate, "There are hawks abroad, And it's time that we went away." Their rifles stood at the stretcher head, Their bridles lay to hand; They wakened the old man out of his bed, When they heard the sharp command: "In the name of the Queen lay down your arms, Now, Dun and Gilbert, stand!" Then Gilbert reached for his rifle true That close at hand he kept; He pointed straight at the voice, and drew, But never a flash outleapt, For the water ran from the rifle breech -It was drenched while the outlaws slept. Then he dropped the piece with a bitter oath, And he turned to his comrade Dunn: "We are sold," he said, "we are dead men both! -Still, there may be a chance for one; I'll stop and I'll fight with the pistol here, You take to your heels and run." So Dunn crept out on his hands and knees In the dim, half-dawning light, And he made his way to a patch of trees, And was lost in the black of night; And the trackers hunted his tracks all day, 135 But they never could trace his flight. But Gilbert walked from the open door In a confident style and rash; He heard at his side the rifles roar, And he heard the bullets crash. But he laughed as he lifted his pistol-hand, And he fired at the rifle-flash. Then out of the shadows the troopers aimed At his voice and the pistol sound. With rifle flashes the darkness flamed -He staggered and spun around, And they riddled his body with rifle balls As it lay on the blood-soaked ground. There's never a stone at the sleeper's head, There's never a fence beside, And the wandering stock on the grave may tread Unnoticed and undenied; But the smallest child on the Watershed Can tell you how Gilbert died. ~ Banjo Paterson,

99:On Kiley's Run The roving breezes come and go On Kiley's Run, The sleepy river murmurs low, And far away one dimly sees Beyond the stretch of forest trees -Beyond the foothills dusk and dun -The ranges sleeping in the sun On Kiley's Run. 'Tis many years since first I came To Kiley's Run, More years than I would care to name Since I, a stripling, used to ride For miles and miles at Kiley's side, The while in stirring tones he told The stories of the days of old On Kiley's Run. I see the old bush homestead now On Kiley's Run, Just nestled down beneath the brow Of one small ridge above the sweep Of river-flat, where willows weep And jasmine flowers and roses bloom, The air was laden with perfume On Kiley's Run. We lived the good old station life On Kiley's Run, With little thought of care or strife. Old Kiley seldom used to roam, He liked to make the Run his home, The swagman never turned away With empty hand at close of day From Kiley's Run. We kept a racehorse now and then On Kiley's Run, And neighb'ring stations brought their men 200 To meetings where the sport was free, And dainty ladies came to see Their champions ride; with laugh and song The old house rang the whole night long On Kiley's Run. The station hands were friends I wot On Kiley's Run, A reckless, merry-hearted lot -All splendid riders, and they knew The `boss' was kindness through and through. Old Kiley always stood their friend, And so they served him to the end On Kiley's Run. But droughts and losses came apace To Kiley's Run, Till ruin stared him in the face; He toiled and toiled while lived the light, He dreamed of overdrafts at night: At length, because he could not pay, His bankers took the stock away From Kiley's Run. Old Kiley stood and saw them go From Kiley's Run. The well-bred cattle marching slow; His stockmen, mates for many a day, They wrung his hand and went away. Too old to make another start, Old Kiley died -- of broken heart, On Kiley's Run. ..... The owner lives in England now Of Kiley's Run. He knows a racehorse from a cow; But that is all he knows of stock: His chiefest care is how to dock Expenses, and he sends from town To cut the shearers' wages down 201 On Kiley's Run. There are no neighbours anywhere Near Kiley's Run. The hospitable homes are bare, The gardens gone; for no pretence Must hinder cutting down expense: The homestead that we held so dear Contains a half-paid overseer On Kiley's Run. All life and sport and hope have died On Kiley's Run. No longer there the stockmen ride; For sour-faced boundary riders creep On mongrel horses after sheep, Through ranges where, at racing speed, Old Kiley used to `wheel the lead' On Kiley's Run. There runs a lane for thirty miles Through Kiley's Run. On either side the herbage smiles, But wretched trav'lling sheep must pass Without a drink or blade of grass Thro' that long lane of death and shame: The weary drovers curse the name Of Kiley's Run. The name itself is changed of late Of Kiley's Run. They call it `Chandos Park Estate'. The lonely swagman through the dark Must hump his swag past Chandos Park. The name is English, don't you see, The old name sweeter sounds to me Of `Kiley's Run'. I cannot guess what fate will bring To Kiley's Run -For chances come and changes ring -I scarcely think 'twill always be 202 Locked up to suit an absentee; And if he lets it out in farms His tenants soon will carry arms On Kiley's Run. ~ Banjo Paterson,

100:CUCHULAIN’S FIGHT WITH THE SEA A MAN came slowly from the setting sun, To Emer, raddling raiment in her dun, And said, ‘I am that swineherd whom you bid Go watch the road between the wood and tide, But now I have no need to watch it more.’ Then Emer cast the web upon the floor, And raising arms all raddled with the dye, Parted her lips with a loud sudden cry. That swineherd stared upon her face and said, ‘No man alive, no man among the dead, Has won the gold his cars of battle bring.’ ‘But if your master comes home triumphing Why must you blench and shake from foot to crown?’ Thereon he shook the more and cast him down Upon the web-heaped floor, and cried his word: ‘With him is one sweet-throated like a bird.’ ‘You dare me to my face,’ and thereupon She smote with raddled fist, and where her son Herded the cattle came with stumbling feet, And cried with angry voice, ’It is not meet To idle life away, a common herd.’ ‘I have long waited, mother, for that word: But wherefore now?’ ‘There is a man to die; You have the heaviest arm under the sky.’ ‘Whether under its daylight or its stars My father stands amid his battle-cars.’ ‘But you have grown to be the taller man.’ ‘Yet somewhere under starlight or the sun My father stands.’ ‘Aged, worn out with wars On foot, on horseback or in battle-cars.’ ‘I only ask what way my journey lies, For He who made you bitter made you wise.’ ‘The Red Branch camp in a great company Between wood’s rim and the horses of the sea. Go there, and light a camp-fire at wood’s rim; But tell your name and lineage to him Whose blade compels, and wait till they have found Some feasting man that the same oath has bound.’ Among those feasting men Cuchulain dwelt, And his young sweetheart close beside him knelt, Stared on the mournful wonder of his eyes, Even as Spring upon the ancient skies, And pondered on the glory of his days; And all around the harp-string told his praise, And Conchubar, the Red Branch king of kings, With his own fingers touched the brazen strings. At last Cuchulain spake, ‘Some man has made His evening fire amid the leafy shade. I have often heard him singing to and fro, I have often heard the sweet sound of his bow. Seek out what man he is.’ One went and came. ‘He bade me let all know he gives his name At the sword-point, and waits till we have found Some feasting man that the same oath has bound.’ Cuchulain cried, ‘I am the only man Of all this host so bound from childhood on. After short fighting in the leafy shade, He spake to the young man, ’Is there no maid Who loves you, no white arms to wrap you round, Or do you long for the dim sleepy ground, That you have come and dared me to my face?’ ‘The dooms of men are in God’s hidden place,’ ‘Your head a while seemed like a woman’s head That I loved once.’ Again the fighting sped, But now the war-rage in Cuchulain woke, And through that new blade’s guard the old blade broke, And pierced him. ‘Speak before your breath is done.’ ‘Cuchulain I, mighty Cuchulain’s son.’ ‘I put you from your pain. I can no more.’ While day its burden on to evening bore, With head bowed on his knees Cuchulain stayed; Then Conchubar sent that sweet-throated maid, And she, to win him, his grey hair caressed; In vain her arms, in vain her soft white breast. Then Conchubar, the subtlest of all men, Ranking his Druids round him ten by ten, Spake thus: ‘Cuchulain will dwell there and brood For three days more in dreadful quietude, And then arise, and raving slay us all. Chaunt in his ear delusions magical, That he may fight the horses of the sea.’ The Druids took them to their mystery, And chaunted for three days. Cuchulain stirred, Stared on the horses of the sea, and heard The cars of battle and his own name cried; And fought with the invulnerable tide. ~ W B Yeats,

101:Sir Roland Whan he cam to his ain luve's bouir He tirled at the pin, And sae ready was his fair fause luve To rise and let him in. 'O welcome, welcome, Sir Roland,' she says, 'Thrice welcome thou art to me; For this night thou wilt feast in my secret bouir, And to-morrow we'll wedded be.' 'This night is hallow-eve,' he said, 'And to-morrow is hallow-day; And I dreamed a drearie dream yestreen, That has made my heart fu' wae. 'I dreamed a drearie dream yestreen, And I wish it may cum to gude: I dreamed that ye slew my best grew hound, And gied me his lappered blude.' ***** 'Unbuckle your belt, Sir Roland,' she said, And set you safely down.' O your chamber is very dark, fair maid, And the night is wondrous lown.' 'Yes, dark, dark is my secret bouir, And lown the midnight may be; For there is none waking in a' this tower But thou, my true love, and me.' ***** She has mounted on her true love's steed, By the ae light o' the moon; She has whipped him and spurred him, And roundly she rade frae the toun. 176 She hadna ridden a mile o' gate, Never a mile but ane, When she was aware of a tall young man, Slow riding o'er the plain, She turned her to the right about, Then to the left turn'd she; But aye, 'tween her and the wan moonlight, That tall knight did she see. And he was riding burd alane, On a horse as black as jet, But tho' she followed him fast and fell, No nearer could she get. 'O stop! O stop! young man,' she said; 'For I in dule am dight; O stop, and win a fair lady's luve, If you be a leal true knight.' But nothing did the tall knight say, And nothing did he blin; Still slowly ride he on before And fast she rade behind. She whipped her steed, she spurred her steed, Till his breast was all a foam; But nearer unto that tall young knight, By Our Ladye she could not come. 'O if you be a gay young knight, As well I trow you be, Pull tight your bridle reins, and stay Till I come up to thee.' But nothing did that tall knight say, And no whit did he blin, Until he reached a broad river's side And there he drew his rein. 'O is this water deep?' he said, 'As it is wondrous dun? 177 Or is it sic as a saikless maid, And a leal true knight may swim?' 'The water it is deep,' she said, 'As it is wondrous dun; But it is sic as a saikless maid, And a leal true knight may swim.' The knight spurred on his tall black steed; The lady spurred on her brown; And fast they rade unto the flood, And fast they baith swam down. 'The water weets my tae,' she said; 'The water weets my knee, And hold up my bridle reins, sir knight, For the sake of Our Ladye.' 'If I would help thee now,' he said, 'It were a deadly sin, For I've sworn neir to trust a fair may's word, Till the water weets her chin.' 'Oh, the water weets my waist,' she said, 'Sae does it weet my skin, And my aching heart rins round about, The burn maks sic a din. 'The water is waxing deeper still, Sae does it wax mair wide; And aye the farther that we ride on, Farther off is the other side. 'O help me now, thou false, false knight, Have pity on my youth, For now the water jawes owre my head, And it gurgles in my mouth.' The knight turned right and round about, All in the middle stream; And he stretched out his head to that lady, But loudly she did scream. 178 'O this is hallow-morn,' he said, 'And it is your bridal-day, But sad would be that gay wedding, If bridegroom and bride were away. 'And ride on, ride on, proud Margaret! Till the water comes o'er your bree, For the bride maun ride deep, and deeper yet, Wha rides this ford wi' me. 'Turn round, turn round, proud Margaret! Turn ye round, and look on me, Thou hast killed a true knight under trust, And his ghost now links on with thee.' ~ Andrew Lang,

102:A man came slowly from the setting sun, To Emer, raddling raiment in her dun, And said, "I am that swineherd whom you bid Go watch the road between the wood and tide, But now I have no need to watch it more." Then Emer cast the web upon the floor, And raising arms all raddled with the dye, Parted her lips with a loud sudden cry. That swineherd stared upon her face and said, "No man alive, no man among the dead, Has won the gold his cars of battle bring." "But if your master comes home triumphing Why must you blench and shake from foot to crown?" Thereon he shook the more and cast him down Upon the web-heaped floor, and cried his word: "With him is one sweet-throated like a bird." "You dare me to my face," and thereupon She smote with raddled fist, and where her son Herded the cattle came with stumbling feet, And cried with angry voice, "It is not meet To idle life away, a common herd." "I have long waited, mother, for that word: But wherefore now?"          "There is a man to die; You have the heaviest arm under the sky." "Whether under its daylight or its stars My father stands amid his battle-cars." "But you have grown to be the taller man." "Yet somewhere under starlight or the sun My father stands."          "Aged, worn out with wars On foot. on horseback or in battle-cars." "I only ask what way my journey lies, For He who made you bitter made you wise." "The Red Branch camp in a great company Between wood's rim and the horses of the sea. Go there, and light a camp-fire at wood's rim; But tell your name and lineage to him Whose blade compels, and wait till they have found Some feasting man that the same oath has bound." Among those feasting men Cuchulain dwelt, And his young sweetheart close beside him knelt, Stared on the mournful wonder of his eyes, Even as Spring upon the ancient skies, And pondered on the glory of his days; And all around the harp-string told his praise, And Conchubar, the Red Branch king of kings, With his own fingers touched the brazen strings. At last Cuchulain spake, "Some man has made His evening fire amid the leafy shade. I have often heard him singing to and fro, I have often heard the sweet sound of his bow. Seek out what man he is."              One went and came. "He bade me let all know he gives his name At the sword-point, and waits till we have found Some feasting man that the same oath has bound." Cuchulain cried, "I am the only man Of all this host so bound from childhood on!" After short fighting in the leafy shade, He spake to the young man, 'Is there no maid Who loves you, no white arms to wrap you round, Or do you long for the dim sleepy ground, That you have come and dared me to my face?" "The dooms of men are in God's hidden place," "Your head a while seemed like a woman's head That I loved once."          Again the fighting sped, But now the war-rage in Cuchulain woke, And through that new blade's guard the old blade broke, And pierced him.         "Speak before your breath is done." "Cuchulain I, mighty Cuchulain's son." "I put you from your pain. I can no more." While day its burden on to evening bore, With head bowed on his knees Cuchulain stayed; Then Conchubar sent that sweet-throated maid, And she, to win him, his grey hair caressed; In vain her arms, in vain her soft white breast. Then Conchubar, the subtlest of all men, Ranking his Druids round him ten by ten, Spake thus: "Cuchulain will dwell there and brood For three days more in dreadful quietude, And then arise, and raving slay us all. Chaunt in his ear delusions magical, That he may fight the horses of the sea." The Druids took them to their mystery, And chaunted for three days.               Cuchulain stirred, Stared on the horses of the sea, and heard The cars of battle and his own name cried; And fought with the invulnerable tide. ~ William Butler Yeats, Cuchulains Fight With The Sea ,

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

104:Argemone The terrible night-watch is over, I turn where I lie, To eastward my dim eyes discover Faint streaks in the sky ; Faint streaks on a faint light that dapples And dawns like the ripening of apples, Closes with darkness and grapples, And darkness must die. And the dawn finds us where the dusk found us— The quick and the dead ; Thou dawn-slaying darkness around us, Oh ! slay me instead ! Thou pitiless earth that would sever Twain souls, reuniting them never, Oh, gape and engulf me for ever, Oh, cover my head ! The toils that men strive with stout-hearted, The fears that men fly, I have known them, but they have departed, And thou hast gone by. Men toiling, and straining, and striving, Are glad, peradventure, for living ; I render for life no thanksgiving, Glad only to die. Too alike to me now are all changes, Naught gladdens, naught grieves. Alike, now, pale snow on the ranges, Pale gold on the sheaves. Alike now the hum of glad bees on Green boughs, and the sigh of sad trees on Sere uplands, the fall of the season, The fall of the leaves. Alike now each wind blows the breezes That kiss where they roam, The breath of the March wind that freezes 20 In the rime of the loam ; The storm-blast that lashes and scourges, And rends the white crests of the surges, As it sweeps with the thunder of dirges Across the sea foam. Alike now all rainfall and down-fall, Foul seasons and fair ; Let the rose on my patch or the thorn fall, I heed not, nor care ; Nor for grey light of dawn, nor for dun light Of dusk, nor for dazzle of sunlight At noon ; shall I seek light, or shun light ? Seek warmth or seek care ? Nor for breaking of fast neither grateful, Nor for quenching of thirst, In the dawn of the eventide hateful, In the noontide accurst, In the watch of the night sleep-forsaken Till that sleep comes, no watch shall re-waken, Be the best things of life never taken, Never feared be the worst. Skies laugh, and buds bloom, and birds warble At breaking of day ; Without and within, on grey marble, The light glimmers grey : O pale, silent mouth, surely this is The spot where death strikes and life misses : Warm lips, pressing cold lips, waste kisses Clay-cold as cold clay. Through sunset, and twilight, and nightfall, And night-watches bleak, We have lain thus. Now broad rays of light fall, And flicker, and streak ; The death-chamber glancing and shining, Where death and dead life lie reclining, My hand with her hand intertwining, My cheek to her cheek. 21 I adjure thee by days spent together, (So sad and so few), By the seasons of fair and foul weather, By the rose and the rue ; By the storms and the joys of past hours, By the thorns of the earth and the flowers, By the sun of the skies and the showers, By the mist and the dew, By the time that annihilates all things— Our woes and our crimes ; By the gath'ring of great things and small things At the end of all times, Let thy soul answer mine through the portal Of the grave, if the soul be immortal (As the wise men of all climes have taught all The fools of all climes). If these men speak truth I come quickly— My life does thee wrong : Dost thou languish in shades peopled thickly With phantoms that throng ? Have they known thee, my love ? Hast thou known one To welcome the stranger and lone one ? O loved one, O lost one, mine own one, I tarry not long. The flower that no more shall enwreath us Turns sunward : the dove Sails skyward : the grass is beneath us, The birds are above. Those skies, an illegible letter, Seem fairer and farther, scarce better Than earth to man, crushed by life's fetter When lifeless is love. And none can love twice, says the heathen, And none can twice die : More hopeful than these are, are we then, With hopes past the sky, Yon judge—will He swerve from just sentence For tardy, fear-stricken repentance ? 22 Ask those who came hither and went hence, But hope no reply. And He who shall judge us in light : How, then, shall I trust In Him, having sinned in His sight ? . . . Is jealous and just ; So priests taught me once, in their learning Perplexed, slower still in discerning : Are ashes to ashes returning, And dust seeking dust. Can life thrive when life's love expires ? Are life and love twain ? Men say so. Nay, all men are liars, Or all lives are vain. Let our dead loves and lives be forgotten With the ripening of fruits that are rotten ; So we loving fools, dust-begotten, Go dustward again. ~ Adam Lindsay Gordon,

105:I. Christ God who savest man, save most Of men Count Gismond who saved me! Count Gauthier, when he chose his post, Chose time and place and company To suit it; when he struck at length My honour, 'twas with all his strength. II. And doubtlessly ere he could draw All points to one, he must have schemed! That miserable morning saw Few half so happy as I seemed, While being dressed in queen's array To give our tourney prize away. III. I thought they loved me, did me grace To please themselves; 'twas all their deed; God makes, or fair or foul, our face; If showing mine so caused to bleed My cousins' hearts, they should have dropped A word, and straight the play had stopped. IV. They, too, so beauteous! Each a queen By virtue of her brow and breast; Not needing to be crowned, I mean, As I do. E'en when I was dressed, Had either of them spoke, instead Of glancing sideways with still head! V. But no: they let me laugh, and sing My birthday song quite through, adjust The last rose in my garland, fling A last look on the mirror, trust My arms to each an arm of theirs, And so descend the castle-stairs- VI. And come out on the morning-troop Of merry friends who kissed my cheek, And called me queen, and made me stoop Under the canopy-(a streak That pierced it, of the outside sun, Powdered with gold its gloom's soft dun)- VII. And they could let me take my state And foolish throne amid applause Of all come there to celebrate My queen's-day-Oh I think the cause Of much was, they forgot no crowd Makes up for parents in their shroud! VIII. However that be, all eyes were bent Upon me, when my cousins cast Theirs down; 'twas time I should present The victor's crown, but there, 'twill last No long time the old mist again Blinds me as then it did. How vain! IX, See! Gismond's at the gate, in talk With his two boys: I can proceed. Well, at that moment, who should stalk Forth boldly-to my face, indeed- But Gauthier, and he thundered ``Stay!'' And all stayed. ``Bring no crowns, I say! X. ``Bring torches! Wind the penance-sheet ``About her! Let her shun the chaste, ``Or lay herself before their feet! ``Shall she whose body I embraced ``A night long, queen it in the day? ``For honour's sake no crowns, I say!'' XI. I? What I answered? As I live, I never fancied such a thing As answer possible to give. What says the body when they spring Some monstrous torture-engine's whole Strength on it? No more says the soul. XII. Till out strode Gismond; then I knew That I was saved. I never met His face before, but, at first view, I felt quite sure that God had set Himself to Satan; who would spend A minute's mistrust on the end? XIII. He strode to Gauthier, in his throat Gave him the lie, then struck his mouth With one back-handed blow that wrote In blood men's verdict there. North, South, East, West, I looked. The lie was dead, And damned, and truth stood up instead. XIV. This glads me most, that I enjoyed The heart of the joy, with my content In watching Gismond unalloyed By any doubt of the event: God took that on him-I was bid Watch Gismond for my part: I did. XV. Did I not watch him while he let His armourer just brace his greaves, Rivet his hauberk, on the fret The while! His foot my memory leaves No least stamp out, nor how anon He pulled his ringing gauntlets on. XVI. And e'en before the trumpet's sound Was finished, prone lay the false knight, Prone as his lie, upon the ground: Gismond flew at him, used no sleight O' the sword, but open-breasted drove, Cleaving till out the truth he clove. XVII. Which done, he dragged him to my feet And said ``Here die, but end thy breath ``In full confession, lest thou fleet ``From my first, to God's second death! ``Say, hast thou lied?'' And, ``I have lied ``To God and her,'' he said, and died. XVIII. Then Gismond, kneeling to me, asked -What safe my heart holds, though no word Could I repeat now, if I tasked My powers forever, to a third Dear even as you are. Pass the rest Until I sank upon his breast. XIX. Over my head his arm he flung Against the world; and scarce I felt His sword (that dripped by me and swung) A little shifted in its belt: For he began to say the while How South our home lay many a mile. XX. So 'mid the shouting multitude We two walked forth to never more Return. My cousins have pursued Their life, untroubled as before I vexed them. Gauthier's dwelling-place God lighten! May his soul find grace! XXI. Our elder boy has got the clear Great brow; tho' when his brother's black Full eye slows scorn, it . . . Gismond here? And have you brought my tercel* back? I just was telling Adela How many birds it struck since May. * A male of the peregrine falcon. ~ Robert Browning, Aix In Provence ,

106:A Legend Of Madrid Francesca Crush'd and throng'd are all the places In our amphitheatre, 'Midst a sea of swarming faces I can yet distinguish her ; Dost thou triumph, dark-brow'd Nina ? Is my secret known to thee ? On the sands of yon arena I shall yet my vengeance see. Now through portals fast careering Picadors are disappearing ; Now the barriers nimbly clearing Has the hindmost chulo flown. Clots of dusky crimson streaking, Brindled flanks and haunches reeking, Wheels the wild bull, vengeance seeking, On the matador alone. Features by sombrero shaded, Pale and passionless and cold ; Doublet richly laced and braided, Trunks of velvet slash'd with gold, Blood-red scarf, and bare Toledo,— Mask more subtle, and disguise Far less shallow, thou dost need, oh Traitor, to deceive my eyes. Shouts of noisy acclamation, Breathing savage expectation, Greet him while he takes his station Leisurely, disdaining haste; Now he doffs his tall sombrero, Fools ! applaud your butcher hero, Ye would idolize a Nero, Pandering to public taste. From the restless Guadalquivir To my sire's estates he came, Woo'd and won me, how I shiver ! Though my temples burn with shame. 12 I, a proud and high-born lady, Daughter of an ancient race, 'Neath the vine and olive shade I Yielded to a churl's embrace. To a churl my vows were plighted, Well my madness he requited, Since, by priestly ties, united To the muleteer's child, And my prayers are wafted o'er him, That the bull may crush and gore him, Since the love that once I bore him Has been changed to hatred wild. Nina Save him ! aid him ! oh Madonna ! Two are slain if he is slain ; Shield his life, and guard his honour, Let me not entreat in vain. Sullenly the brindled savage Tears and tosses up the sand ; Horns that rend and hoofs that ravage, How shall man your shock withstand ? On the shaggy neck and head lie Frothy flakes, the eyeballs redly Flash, the horns so sharp and deadly Lower, short, and strong, and straight ; Fast, and furious, and fearless, Now he charges ;—Virgin peerless, Lifting lids all dry and tearless, At thy throne I supplicate. Francesca Cool and calm the perjured varlet Stands on strongly planted heel, In his left a strip of scarlet, In his right a streak of steel ; Ah ! the monster topples over, Till his haunches strike the plain !— Low-born clown and lying lover, Thou hast conquer'd once again. 13 Nina Sweet Madonna, Maiden Mother, Thou hast saved him, and no other ; Now the tears I cannot smother, Tears of joy my vision blind ; Where thou sittest I am gazing, These glad, misty eyes upraising, I have pray'd, and I am praising, Bless thee ! bless thee ! Virgin kind. Francesca While the crowd still sways and surges, Ere the applauding shouts have ceas'd, See, the second bull emerges— 'Tis the famed Cordovan beast,— By the picador ungoaded, Scathless of the chulo's dart. Slay him, and with guerdon loaded, And with honours crown'd depart. No vain brutish strife he wages, Never uselessly he rages, And his cunning, as he ages, With his hatred seems to grow ; Though he stands amid the cheering, Sluggish to the eye appearing, Few will venture on the spearing Of so resolute a foe. Nina Courage, there is little danger, Yonder dull-eyed craven seems Fitter far for stall and manger Than for scarf and blade that gleams ; Shorter, and of frame less massive, Than his comrade lying low, Tame, and cowardly, and passive,— He will prove a feebler foe. I have done with doubt and anguish, 14 Fears like dews in sunshine languish, Courage, husband, we shall vanquish, Thou art calm and so am I. For the rush he has not waited, On he strides with step elated, And the steel with blood unsated, Leaps to end the butchery. Francesca Tyro! mark the brands of battle On those shoulders dusk and dun, Such as he is are the cattle Skill'd tauridors gladly shun ; Warier than the Andalusian, Swifter far, though not so large, Think'st thou, to his own confusion, He, like him, will blindly charge ? Inch by inch the brute advances, Stealthy yet vindictive glances, Horns as straight as levell'd lances, Crouching withers, stooping haunches ;— Closer yet, until the tightening Strains of rapt excitement height'ning Grows oppressive. Ha ! like lightning On his enemy he launches. Nina O,er the horn'd front drops the streamer, In the nape the sharp steel hisses, Glances, grazes,—Christ ! Redeemer ! By a hair the spine he misses. Francesca Hark ! that shock like muffled thunder, Booming from the Pyrenees ! Both are down—the man is under— Now he struggles to his knees, Now he sinks, his features leaden, Sharpen rigidly and deaden, 15 Sands beneath him soak and redden, Skies above him spin and veer ; Through the doublet, torn and riven, Where the stunted horn was driven, Wells the life-blood—We are even, Daughter of the muleteer ! ~ Adam Lindsay Gordon,

107:The Legend Of Sir Guy A pleasant song of the valiant deeds of chivalry atchieved by that noble knight Sir Guy of Warwick, who, for the love of fair Phelis, became a hermit, and died in a cave of craggy rocke, a mile distant from Warwick. Was ever knight for ladyes sake Soe tost in love, as I, Sir Guy, For Phelis fayre, that lady bright As ever man beheld with eye? She gave me leave myself to try, The valiant knight with sheeld and speare, Ere that her love shee wold grant me; Which made mee venture far and neare. Then proved I a baron bold, In deeds of armes the doughtyest knight That in those dayes in England was, With sword and speare in feild to fight. An English man I was by birthe: In faith of Christ a christyan true: The wicked lawes of infidells I sought by prowesse to subdue. 'Nine' hundred twenty yeere and odde After our Saviour Christ his birth, When King Athelstone wore the crowne, I lived heere upon the earth. Sometime I was of Warwicke erle, And, as I sayd, of very truth A ladyes love did me constraine To seeke strange ventures in my youth; To win me fame by feates of armes In strange and sundry heathen lands; Where I atchieved for her sake Right dangerous conquests with my hands. 944 For first I sayled to Normandye, And there I stoutlye wan in fight The emperours daughter of Almaine, From manye a vallyant worthye knight. Then passed I the seas to Greece, To helpe the emperour in his right, Against the mightye souldans hoaste Of puissant Persians for to fight: Where I did slay of Sarazens, And heathen pagans, manye a man; And slew the souldans cozen deere, Who had to name doughtye Coldran. Eskeldered, a famous knight, To death likewise I did pursue; And Elmayne, King of Tyre, alsoe, Most terrible in fight to viewe. I went into the souldans hoast, To death likewise I did pursue; And Elmayne, King of Tyre, alsoe, Most terrible in fight to viewe. I went into the souldans hoast, Being thither on embassage sent, And brought his head awaye with mee; I having slaine him in his tent. There was a dragon in that land Most fiercelye mett me by the waye, As hee a lyon did pursue, Which I myself did alsoe slay. Then soon I past the seas from Greece, And came to Pavye land aright; Where I the Duke of Pavye killed, His hainous treason to requite. To England then I came with speede, To wedd faire Phelis, lady bright; 945 For love of whome I travelled farr To try my manhood and my might. But when I had espoused her, I stayd with her but fortye dayes, Ere that I left this ladye faire, And went from her beyond the seas. All cladd in gray, in pilgrim sort, My voyage from her I did take Unto the blessed Holy Land, For Jesus Christ my Saviours sake. Where I Erle Jonas did redeeme, And all his sonnes, which were fifteene, Who with the cruell Sarazens In prisons for long time had beene. I slew the giant Amarant In battel fiercelye hand to hand, And doughty Barknard killed I, A treacherous knight of Pavye land. Then I to England came againe, And here with Colbronde fell I fought; An ugly gyant, which the Danes Had for their champion hither brought. I overcame him in the field, And slewe him soone right valliantlye; Wherebye this land I did redeeme From Danish tribute utterlye. And afterwards I offered upp The use of weapons solemnlye At Winchester, whereas I fought, In sight of manye farr and nye. 'But first,' near Windsor, I did slaye A bore of passing might and strength; Whose like in England never was For hugenesse both in bredth and length. 946 Some of his bones in Warwicke yett Within the castle there doe lye; One of his sheeld-bones to this day Hangs in the citye of Coventrye. On Dunsmore heath I alsoe slewe A monstrous wyld and cruell beast, Calld the Dun-cow of Dunsmore heath; Which manye people had opprest. Some of her bones in Warwicke yett Still for a monument doe lye, And there exposed to lookers viewe, As wonderous strange, they may espye. A dragon in Northumberland I alsoe did in fight destroye, Which did bothe man and beast oppresse, And all the countrye sore annoye. At length to Warwicke I did come, Like pilgrim poore and was not knowne; And there I lived a hermitts life A mile and more out of the towne. Where with my hands I hewed a house Out of a craggy rocke of stone, And lived like a palmer poore WIthin that cave myself alone; And daylye came to begg my bread Of Phelis att my castle gate; Not knowne unto my loved wiffe, Who dailye mourned for her mate. Till att the last I fell sore sicke, Yea, sicke soe sore that I must dye; I sent to her a ring of golde By which shee knewe me presentlye. Then shee repairing to the cave, 947 Before that I gave up the ghost, Herself closd up my dying eyes; My Phelis faire, whom I lovd most. Thus dreadful death did me arrest, To bring my corpes unto the grave, And like a palmer dyed I, Whereby I sought my soule to save. My body that endured this toyle, Though now it be consumed to mold, My statue, faire engraven in stone, In Warwicke still you may behold. ~ Anonymous Olde English,

108:1038 The Rising In The North Listen, lively Lordings all, Lithe and listen unto mee, And I will sing of a noble earle, The noblest earle in the north countrie. Earle Percy is into his garden gone, And after him walkes his faire Ladie: 'I heare a bird sing in mine eare, That I must either fight or flee.' 'Now heaven forfend, my dearest Lord, That ever such harm should hap to thee: But goe to London to the court, And faire fall truth and honestie.' 'Now nay, now nay, my Ladye gay, Alas! thy counsell suits not mee; Mine enemies prevail so fast, That at the court I may not bee.' 'O goe to the court yet, good my Lord, And take thy gallant men with thee: If any dare to doe you wrong, Then your warrant they may bee.' 'O goe to the court yet, good my Lord, And take thy gallant men with thee: If any dare to doe you wrong, Then your warrant they may bee.' 'Now nay, now nay, thou Lady faire, The court is full of subtiltie; And if I goe to the court, Lady, Never more I may thee see.' 'Yet goe to the court, my Lord,' she sayes, 'And I myselfe will ryde wi' thee; At court then for my dearest Lord, His faithfull borrow I will bee.' 1039 'Now nay, now nay, my Lady deare; Far lever had I lose my life, Than leave among my cruell foes My love in jeopardy and strife. 'But come thou hither, my little foot-page, Come thou hither unto mee; To maister Norton thou must go In all the haste that ever may bee. 'Commend me to that gentleman, And beare this letter here fro mee; And say that earnestly I praye, He will ryde in my companie.' One while the little foot-page went, And another while he ran; Untill he came to his journeys end, The little foot-page never blan. When to that gentleman he came, Down he kneeled on his knee, And took the letter betwixt his hands, And lett the gentleman it see. And when the letter it was redd Affore that goodlye companye, I wis, if you the truthe wold know, There was many a weeping eye. He sayd, 'Come hither, Christopher Norton, A gallant youth thou seemst to bee; What doest thou counsell me, my sonne, Now that good erle's in jeopardy?' 'Father, my counselle's fair and free; That erle he is a noble lord, And whatsoever to him you hight, I wold not have you breake your word.' 'Gramercy, Christopher, my sonne, 1040 Thy counsell well it liketh me, And if we speed and scape with life, Well advanced shalt thou bee. 'Come you hither, my nine good sonnes, Gallant men I trowe you bee: How many of you, my children deare, Will stand by that good erle and mee?' Eight of them did answer make, Eight of them spake hastilie, 'O father, till the daye we dye We'll stand by that good erle and thee.' 'Gramercy now, my children deare, You showe yourselves right bold and brave; And whethersoe'er I live or dye, A fathers blessing you shal have. 'But what sayst thou, O Fancis Norton? Thou art mine eldest sonn and heire; Somewhat lyes brooding in thy breast; Whatever it bee, to mee declare.' 'Father, you are an aged man; Your head is white, your bearde is gray; It were a shame at these your yeares For you to ryse in such a fray.' 'Now fye upon thee, coward Francis, Thou never learndest this of mee; When thou wert yong and tender of age, Why did I make soe much of thee?' 'But, father, I will wend with you, Unarm'd and naked will I bee; And he that strikes against the crowne, Ever an ill death may he dee.' Then rose that reverend gentleman, And with him came a goodlye band, To join with the brave Erle Percy, 1041 And all the flower o' Northumberland. With them the noble Nevill came, The Erle of Westmorland was hee. At Wetherbye they mustred their host, Thirteen thousand faire to see. Lord Westmorland his ancyent raisde, The Dun Bull he rays'd on hye, And three dogs with golden collars Were there sett out most royallye. Erle Percy there his ancyent spred, The Halfe-Moone shining all soe faire: The Nortons ancyent had the crosse, And the five wounds our Lord did beare. Then Sir George Bowes he straitwaye rose, After them some spoyle to make; Those noble erles turn'd backe againe, And aye they vowed that knight to take. That baron he to his castle fled, To Barnard castle then fled hee; The uttermost walles were eathe to win, The earles have won them presentlie. The uttermost walles were lime and bricke, But thoughe they won them soon anone, Long e'er they wan the innermost walles, For they were cut in rocke of stone. Then newes unto leeve London came, In all the speede that ever might bee, And word is brought to our royall queene Of the rysing in the North countrie. Her grace she turned her round about, And like a royall queene shee swore, 'I will ordayne them such a breakfast, As never was in the North before.' 1042 Shee caus'd thirty thousand men be rays'd, With horse and harneis faire to see; She causd thirty thousand men be raised, To take the earles i' th' North countrie. Wi' them the false Erle Warwick went, Th' Erle Sussex and the Lord Hunsden; Untill they to Yorke castle came, I wiss, they never stint ne blan. Now spred thy ancyent, Westmorland, Thy dun bull faine would we spye: And thou, the Erle o' Northumberland, Now rayse thy half-moone up on hye. But the dun bulle is fled and gone, And the halfe-moone vanished away: The earles, though they were brave and bold, Against soe many could not stay. Thee, Norton, wi' thine eight good sonnes, They doom'd to dye, alas for ruth! Thy reverend lockes thee could not save, Nor them their faire and blooming youthe. Wi' them full many a gallant wight They cruellye bereav'd of life: And many a childe made fatherlesse, And widowed many a tender wife. ~ Anonymous Olde English,

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

110:I. Let those who pine in pride or in revenge, Or think that ill for ill should be repaid, Who barter wrong for wrong, until the exchange Ruins the merchants of such thriftless trade, Visit the tower of Vado, and unlearn Such bitter faith beside Marenghis urn. II. A massy tower yet overhangs the town, A scattered group of ruined dwellings now... ... III. Another scene are wise Etruria knew Its second ruin through internal strife And tyrants through the breach of discord threw The chain which binds and kills. As death to life, As winter to fair flowers (though some be poison) So Monarchy succeeds to Freedoms foison. IV. In Pisas church a cup of sculptured gold Was brimming with the blood of feuds forsworn: A Sacrament more holy neer of old Etrurians mingled mid the shades forlorn Of moon-illumined forests, when... V. And reconciling factions wet their lips With that dread wine, and swear to keep each spirit Undarkened by their countrys last eclipse... ... VI. Was Florence the liberticide? that band Of free and glorious brothers who had planted, Like a green isle mid Aethiopian sand, A nation amid slaveries, disenchanted Of many impious faithswise, justdo they, Does Florence, gorge the sated tyrants prey? VII. O foster-nurse of mans abandoned glory, Since Athens, its great mother, sunk in splendour; Thou shadowest forth that mighty shape in story, As ocean its wrecked fanes, severe yet tender: The light-invested angel Poesy Was drawn from the dim world to welcome thee. VIII. And thou in painting didst transcribe all taught By loftiest meditations; marble knew The sculptors fearless souland as he wrought, The grace of his own power and freedom grew. And more than all, heroic, just, sublime, Thou wart among the false...was this thy crime? IX. Yes; and on Pisas marble walls the twine Of direst weeds hangs garlandedthe snake Inhabits its wrecked palaces;in thine A beast of subtler venom now doth make Its lair, and sits amid their glories overthrown, And thus thy victims fate is as thine own. X. The sweetest flowers are ever frail and rare, And love and freedom blossom but to wither; And good and ill like vines entangled are, So that their grapes may oft be plucked together;-- Divide the vintage ere thou drink, then make Thy heart rejoice for dead Marenghis sake. Xa. [Albert] Marenghi was a Florentine; If he had wealth, or children, or a wife Or friends, [or farm] or cherished thoughts which twine The sights and sounds of home with lifes own life Of these he was despoiled and Florence sent... ... XI. No record of his crime remains in story, But if the morning bright as evening shone, It was some high and holy deed, by glory Pursued into forgetfulness, which won From the blind crowd he made secure and free The patriots meed, toil, death, and infamy. XII. For when by sound of trumpet was declared A price upon his life, and there was set A penalty of blood on all who shared So much of water with him as might wet His lips, which speech divided nothe went Alone, as you may guess, to banishment. XIII. Amid the mountains, like a hunted beast, He hid himself, and hunger, toil, and cold, Month after month endured; it was a feast Wheneer he found those globes of deep-red gold Which in the woods the strawberry-tree doth bear, Suspended in their emerald atmosphere. XIV. And in the roofless huts of vast morasses, Deserted by the fever-stricken serf, All overgrown with reeds and long rank grasses, And hillocks heaped of moss-inwoven turf, And where the huge and speckled aloe made, Rooted in stones, a broad and pointed shade,-- XV. He housed himself. There is a point of strand Near Vados tower and town; and on one side The treacherous marsh divides it from the land, Shadowed by pine and ilex forests wide, And on the other, creeps eternally, Through muddy weeds, the shallow sullen sea. XVI. Here the earths breath is pestilence, and few But things whose nature is at war with life-- Snakes and ill wormsendure its mortal dew. The trophies of the climes victorious strife-- And ringed horns which the buffalo did wear, And the wolfs dark gray scalp who tracked him there. XVII. And at the utmost point...stood there The relics of a reed-inwoven cot, 95 Thatched with broad flags. An outlawed murderer Had lived seven days there: the pursuit was hot When he was cold. The birds that were his grave Fell dead after their feast in Vados wave. XVIII. There must have burned within Marenghis breast That fire, more warm and bright than life and hope, (Which to the martyr makes his dungeon... More joyous than free heavens majestic cope To his oppressor), warring with decay,-- Or he could neer have lived years, day by day. XIX. Nor was his state so lone as you might think. He had tamed every newt and snake and toad, And every seagull which sailed down to drink Those freshes ere the death-mist went abroad. And each one, with peculiar talk and play, Wiled, not untaught, his silent time away. XX. And the marsh-meteors, like tame beasts, at night Came licking with blue tongues his veined feet; And he would watch them, as, like spirits bright, In many entangled figures quaint and sweet To some enchanted music they would dance-- Until they vanished at the first moon-glance. XXI. He mocked the stars by grouping on each weed The summer dew-globes in the golden dawn; And, ere the hoar-frost languished, he could read Its pictured path, as on bare spots of lawn Its delicate brief touch in silver weaves The likeness of the woods remembered leaves. XXII. And many a fresh Spring morn would he awaken-- While yet the unrisen sun made glow, like iron Quivering in crimson fire, the peaks unshaken Of mountains and blue isles which did environ With air-clad crags that plain of land and sea,-- And feel ... liberty. XXIII. And in the moonless nights when the dun ocean Heaved underneath wide heaven, star-impearled, Starting from dreams... Communed with the immeasurable world; And felt his life beyond his limbs dilated, Till his mind grew like that it contemplated. XXIV. His food was the wild fig and strawberry; The milky pine-nuts which the autumn-blast Shakes into the tall grass; or such small fry As from the sea by winter-storms are cast; And the coarse bulbs of iris-flowers he found Knotted in clumps under the spongy ground. XXV. And so were kindled powers and thoughts which made His solitude less dark. When memory came (For years gone by leave each a deepening shade), His spirit basked in its internal flame,-- As, when the black storm hurries round at night, The fisher basks beside his red firelight. XXVI. Yet human hopes and cares and faiths and errors, Like billows unawakened by the wind, Slept in Marenghi still; but that all terrors, Weakness, and doubt, had withered in his mind. His couch... ... XXVII. And, when he saw beneath the sunsets planet A black ship walk over the crimson ocean,-- Its pennon streaming on the blasts that fan it, Its sails and ropes all tense and without motion, Like the dark ghost of the unburied even Striding athwart the orange-coloured heaven,-- XXVIII. The thought of his own kind who made the soul Which sped that winged shape through night and day,-- The thought of his own country... ... This fragment refers to an event told in Sismondi's Histoire des Republiques Italiennes, which occurred during the war when Florence finally subdued Pisa, and reduced it to a province.--[MRS. SHELLEYS NOTE, 1824.] ~ Percy Bysshe Shelley, Marenghi ,

111:Improvisations: Light And Snow The girl in the room beneath Before going to bed Strums on a mandolin The three simple tunes she knows. How inadequate they are to tell how her heart feels! When she has finished them several times She thrums the strings aimlessly with her finger-nails And smiles, and thinks happily of many things. II I stood for a long while before the shop window Looking at the blue butterflies embroidered on tawny silk. The building was a tower before me, Time was loud behind me, Sun went over the housetops and dusty trees; And there they were, glistening, brilliant, motionless, Stitched in a golden sky By yellow patient fingers long since turned to dust. III The first bell is silver, And breathing darkness I think only of the long scythe of time. The second bell is crimson, And I think of a holiday night, with rockets Furrowing the sky with red, and a soft shatter of stars. The third bell is saffron and slow, And I behold a long sunset over the sea With wall on wall of castled cloud and glittering balustrades. The fourth bell is color of bronze, I walk by a frozen lake in the dun light of dusk: Muffled crackings run in the ice, Trees creak, birds fly. The fifth bell is cold clear azure, Delicately tinged with green: One golden star hangs melting in it, 58 And towards this, sleepily, I go. The sixth bell is as if a pebble Had been dropped into a deep sea far above me . . . Rings of sound ebb slowly into the silence. IV On the day when my uncle and I drove to the cemetery, Rain rattled on the roof of the carriage; And talkng constrainedly of this and that We refrained from looking at the child's coffin on the seat before us. When we reached the cemetery We found that the thin snow on the grass Was already transparent with rain; And boards had been laid upon it That we might walk without wetting our feet. When I was a boy, and saw bright rows of icicles In many lengths along a wall I was dissappointed to find That I could not play music upon them: I ran my hand lightly across them And they fell, tinkling. I tell you this, young man, so that your expectations of life Will not be too great. VI It is now two hours since I left you, And the perfume of your hands is still on my hands. And though since then I have looked at the stars, walked in the cold blue streets, And heard the dead leaves blowing over the ground Under the trees, I still remember the sound of your laughter. How will it be, lady, when there is none left to remember you Even as long as this? Will the dust braid your hair? VII 59 The day opens with the brown light of snowfall And past the window snowflakes fall and fall. I sit in my chair all day and work and work Measuring words against each other. I open the piano and play a tune But find it does not say what I feel, I grow tired of measuring words against each other, I grow tired of these four walls, And I think of you, who write me that you have just had a daughter And named her after your first sweetheart, And you, who break your heart, far away, In the confusion and savagery of a long war, And you who, worn by the bitterness of winter, Will soon go south. The snowflakes fall almost straight in the brown light Past my window, And a sparrow finds refuge on my window-ledge. This alone comes to me out of the world outside As I measure word with word. VIII Many things perplex me and leave me troubled, Many things are locked away in the white book of stars Never to be opened by me. The starr'd leaves are silently turned, And the mooned leaves; And as they are turned, fall the shadows of life and death. Perplexed and troubled, I light a small light in a small room, The lighted walls come closer to me, The familiar pictures are clear. I sit in my favourite chair and turn in my mind The tiny pages of my own life, whereon so little is written, And hear at the eastern window the pressure of a long wind, coming From I know not where. How many times have I sat here, How many times will I sit here again, Thinking these same things over and over in solitude As a child says over and over 60 The first word he has learned to say. IX This girl gave her heart to me, And this, and this. This one looked at me as if she loved me, And silently walked away. This one I saw once and loved, and never saw her again. Shall I count them for you upon my fingers? Or like a priest solemnly sliding beads? Or pretend they are roses, pale pink, yellow, and white, And arrange them for you in a wide bowl To be set in sunlight? See how nicely it sounds as I count them for you -'This girl gave her heart to me And this, and this, . . . ! And nevertheless, my heart breaks when I think of them, When I think their names, And how, like leaves, they have changed and blown And will lie, at last, forgotten, Under the snow. It is night time, and cold, and snow is falling, And no wind grieves the walls. In the small world of light around the arc-lamp A swarm of snowflakes falls and falls. The street grows silent. The last stranger passes. The sound of his feet, in the snow, is indistinct. What forgotten sadness is it, on a night like this, Takes possession of my heart? Why do I think of a camellia tree in a southern garden, With pink blossoms among dark leaves, Standing, surprised, in the snow? Why do I think of spring? The snowflakes, helplessly veering,, Fall silently past my window; 61 They come from darkness and enter darkness. What is it in my heart is surprised and bewildered Like that camellia tree, Beautiful still in its glittering anguish? And spring so far away! XI As I walked through the lamplit gardens, On the thin white crust of snow, So intensely was I thinking of my misfortune, So clearly were my eyes fixed On the face of this grief which has come to me, That I did not notice the beautiful pale colouring Of lamplight on the snow; Nor the interlaced long blue shadows of trees; And yet these things were there, And the white lamps, and the orange lamps, and the lamps of lilac were there, As I have seen them so often before; As they will be so often again Long after my grief is forgotten. And still, though I know this, and say this, it cannot console me. XII How many times have we been interrupted Just as I was about to make up a story for you! One time it was because we suddenly saw a firefly Lighting his green lantern among the boughs of a fir-tree. Marvellous! Marvellous! He is making for himself A little tent of light in the darkness! And one time it was because we saw a lilac lightning flash Run wrinkling into the blue top of the mountain, -We heard boulders of thunder rolling down upon us And the plat-plat of drops on the window, And we ran to watch the rain Charging in wavering clouds across the long grass of the field! Or at other times it was because we saw a star Slipping easily out of the sky and falling, far off, Among pine-dark hills; 62 Or because we found a crimson eft Darting in the cold grass! These things interrupted us and left us wondering; And the stories, whatever they might have been, Were never told. A fairy, binding a daisy down and laughing? A golden-haired princess caught in a cobweb? A love-story of long ago? Some day, just as we are beginning again, Just as we blow the first sweet note, Death itself will interrupt us. XIII My heart is an old house, and in that forlorn old house, In the very centre, dark and forgotten, Is a locked room where an enchanted princess Lies sleeping. But sometimes, in that dark house, As if almost from the stars, far away, Sounds whisper in that secret room -Faint voices, music, a dying trill of laughter? And suddenly, from her long sleep, The beautiful princess awakes and dances. Who is she? I do not know. Why does she dance? Do not ask me! -Yet to-day, when I saw you, When I saw your eyes troubled with the trouble of happiness, And your mouth trembling into a smile, And your fingers pull shyly forward, -Softly, in that room, The little princess arose And danced; And as she danced the old house gravely trembled With its vague and delicious secret. XIV Like an old tree uprooted by the wind And flung down cruelly 63 With roots bared to the sun and stars And limp leaves brought to earth -Torn from its house -So do I seem to myself When you have left me. XV The music of the morning is red and warm; Snow lies against the walls; And on the sloping roof in the yellow sunlight Pigeons huddle against the wind. The music of evening is attenuated and thin -The moon seen through a wave by a mermaid; The crying of a violin. Far down there, far down where the river turns to the west, The delicate lights begin to twinkle On the dusky arches of the bridge: In the green sky a long cloud, A smouldering wave of smoky crimson, Breaks in the freezing wind: and above it, unabashed, Remote, untouched, fierly palpitant, Sings the first star. ~ Conrad Potter Aiken,

112:Many a green isle needs must be In the deep wide sea of Misery, Or the mariner, worn and wan, Never thus could voyage on - Day and night, and night and day, Drifting on his dreary way, With the solid darkness black Closing round his vessel's track: Whilst above the sunless sky, Big with clouds, hangs heavily, And behind the tempest fleet Hurries on with lightning feet, He is ever drifted on O'er the unreposing wave To the haven of the grave. What, if there no friends will greet; What, if there no heart will meet His with love's impatient beat; Wander wheresoe'er he may, Can he dream before that day To find refuge from distress In friendship's smile, in love's caress? Then 'twill wreak him little woe Whether such there be or no: Senseless is the breast, and cold, Which relenting love would fold; Bloodless are the veins and chill Which the pulse of pain did fill; Every little living nerve That from bitter words did swerve Round the tortured lips and brow, Are like sapless leaflets now Frozen upon December's bough. On the beach of a northern sea Which tempests shake eternally, As once the wretch there lay to sleep, Lies a solitary heap, One white skull and seven dry bones, On the margin of the stones, Where a few grey rushes stand, Boundaries of the sea and land: Nor is heard one voice of wail But the sea-mews, as they sail O'er the billows of the gale; Or the whirlwind up and down Howling, like a slaughtered town, When a king in glory rides Through the pomp and fratricides: Those unburied bones around There is many a mournful sound; There is no lament for him, Like a sunless vapour, dim, Who once clothed with life and thought What now moves nor murmurs not. Ay, many flowering islands lie In the waters of wide Agony: To such a one this morn was led, My bark by soft winds piloted: 'Mid the mountains Euganean I stood listening to the paean With which the legioned rooks did hail The sun's uprise majestical; Gathering round with wings all hoar, Through the dewy mist they soar Like gray shades, till the eastern heaven Bursts, and then, as clouds of even, Flecked with fire and azure, lie In the unfathomable sky, So their plumes of purple grain, Starred with drops of golden rain, Gleam above the sunlight woods, As in silent multitudes On the morning's fitful gale Through the broken mist they sail, And the vapours cloven and gleaming Follow, down the dark steep streaming, Till all is bright, and clear, and still, Round the solitary hill. Beneath is spread like a green sea The waveless plain of Lombardy, Bounded by the vaporous air, Islanded by cities fair; Underneath Day's azure eyes Ocean's nursling, Venice, lies, A peopled labyrinth of walls, Amphitrite's destined halls, Which her hoary sire now paves With his blue and beaming waves. Lo! the sun upsprings behind, Broad, red, radiant, half-reclined On the level quivering line Of the waters crystalline; And before that chasm of light, As within a furnace bright, Column, tower, and dome, and spire, Shine like obelisks of fire, Pointing with inconstant motion From the altar of dark ocean To the sapphire-tinted skies; As the flames of sacrifice From the marble shrines did rise, As to pierce the dome of gold Where Apollo spoke of old. Sea-girt City, thou hast been Ocean's child, and then his queen; Now is come a darker day, And thou soon must be his prey, If the power that raised thee here Hallow so thy watery bier. A less drear ruin then than now, With thy conquest-branded brow Stooping to the slave of slaves From thy throne, among the waves Wilt thou be, when the sea-mew Flies, as once before it flew, O'er thine isles depopulate, And all is in its ancient state, Save where many a palace gate With green sea-flowers overgrown Like a rock of Ocean's own, Topples o'er the abandoned sea As the tides change sullenly. The fisher on his watery way, Wandering at the close of day, Will spread his sail and seize his oar Till he pass the gloomy shore, Lest thy dead should, from their sleep Bursting o'er the starlight deep, Lead a rapid masque of death O'er the waters of his path. Those who alone thy towers behold Quivering through aereal gold, As I now behold them here, Would imagine not they were Sepulchres, where human forms, Like pollution-nourished worms, To the corpse of greatness cling, Murdered, and now mouldering: But if Freedom should awake In her omnipotence and shake From the Celtic Anarch's hold All the keys of dungeons cold, Where a hundred cities lie Chained like thee, ingloriously, Thou and all thy sister band Might adorn this sunny land, Twining memories of old time With new virtues more sublime; If not, perish thou ldering: But if Freedom should awake In her omnipotence and shake From the Celtic Anarch's hold All the keys of dungeons cold, Where a hundred cities lie Chained like thee, ingloriously, Thou and all thy sister band Might adorn this sunny land, Twining memories of old time With new virtues more sublime; If not, perish thou and they! - Clouds which stain truth's rising day By her sun consumed away - Earth can spare ye; while like flowers, In the waste of years and hours, From your dust new nations spring With more kindly blossoming. Perish -let there only be Floating o'er thy heartless sea As the garment of thy sky Clothes the world immortally, One remembrance, more sublime Than the tattered pall of time, Which scarce hides thy visage wan; - That a tempest-cleaving Swan Of the sons of Albion, Driven from his ancestral streams By the might of evil dreams, Found a nest in thee; and Ocean Welcomed him with such emotion That its joy grew his, and sprung From his lips like music flung O'er a mighty thunder-fit, Chastening terror: -what though yet Poesy's unfailing River, Which through Albion winds forever Lashing with melodious wave Many a sacred Poet's grave, Mourn its latest nursling fled? What though thou with all thy dead Scarce can for this fame repay Aught thine own? oh, rather say Though thy sins and slaveries foul Overcloud a sunlike soul? As the ghost of Homer clings Round Scamander's wasting springs; As divinest Shakespeare's might Fills Avon and the world with light Like omniscient power which he Imaged 'mid mortality; As the love from Petrarch's urn, Yet amid yon hills doth burn, A quenchless lamp by which the heart Sees things unearthly; -so thou art, Mighty spirit -so shall be The City that did refuge thee. Lo, the sun floats up the sky Like thought-winged Liberty, Till the universal light Seems to level plain and height; From the sea a mist has spread, And the beams of morn lie dead On the towers of Venice now, Like its glory long ago. By the skirts of that gray cloud Many-domed Padua proud Stands, a peopled solitude, 'Mid the harvest-shining plain, Where the peasant heaps his grain In the garner of his foe, And the milk-white oxen slow With the purple vintage strain, Heaped upon the creaking wain, That the brutal Celt may swill Drunken sleep with savage will; And the sickle to the sword Lies unchanged, though many a lord, Like a weed whose shade is poison, Overgrows this region's foison, Sheaves of whom are ripe to come To destruction's harvest-home: Men must reap the things they sow, Force from force must ever flow, Or worse; but 'tis a bitter woe That love or reason cannot change The despot's rage, the slave's revenge. Padua, thou within whose walls Those mute guests at festivals, Son and Mother, Death and Sin, Played at dice for Ezzelin, Till Death cried, "I win, I win!" And Sin cursed to lose the wager, But Death promised, to assuage her, That he would petition for Her to be made Vice-Emperor, When the destined years were o'er, Over all between the Po And the eastern Alpine snow, Under the mighty Austrian. She smiled so as Sin only can, And since that time, ay, long before, Both have ruled from shore to shore, - That incestuous pair, who follow Tyrants as the sun the swallow, As Repentance follows Crime, And as changes follow Time. In thine halls the lamp of learning, Padua, now no more is burning; Like a meteor, whose wild way Is lost over the grave of day, It gleams betrayed and to betray: Once remotest nations came To adore that sacred flame, When it lit not many a hearth On this cold and gloomy earth: Now new fires from antique light Spring beneath the wide world's might; But their spark lies dead in thee, Trampled out by Tyranny. As the Norway woodman quells, In the depth of piny dells, One light flame among the brakes, While the boundless forest shakes, And its mighty trunks are torn By the fire thus lowly born: The spark beneath his feet is dead, He starts to see the flames it fed Howling through the darkened sky With a myriad tongues victoriously, And sinks down in fear: so thou, O Tyranny, beholdest now Light around thee, and thou hearest The loud flames ascend, and fearest: Grovel on the earth; ay, hide In the dust thy purple pride! Noon descends around me now: 'Tis the noon of autumn's glow, When a soft and purple mist Like a vapourous amethyst, Or an air-dissolved star Mingling light and fragrance, far From the curved horizon's bound To the point of Heaven's profound, Fills the overflowing sky; And the plains that silent lie Underneath the leaves unsodden Where the infant Frost has trodden With his morning-winged feet, Whose bright print is gleaming yet; And the red and golden vines, Piercing with their trellised lines The rough, dark-skirted wilderness; The dun and bladed grass no less, Pointing from this hoary tower In the windless air; the flower Glimmering at my feet; the line Of the olive-sandalled Apennine In the south dimly islanded; And the Alps, whose snows are spread High between the clouds and sun; And of living things each one; And my spirit which so long Darkened this swift stream of song, - Interpenetrated lie By the glory of the sky: Be it love, light, harmony, Odour, or the soul of all Which from Heaven like dew doth fall, Or the mind which feeds this verse Peopling the lone universe. Noon descends, and after noon Autumn's evening meets me soon, Leading the infantine moon, And that one star, which to her Almost seems to minister Half the crimson light she brings From the sunset's radiant springs: And the soft dreams of the morn (Which like winged winds had borne To that silent isle, which lies Mid remembered agonies, The frail bark of this lone being) Pass, to other sufferers fleeing, And its ancient pilot, Pain, Sits beside the helm again. Other flowering isles must be In the sea of Life and Agony: Other spirits float and flee O'er that gulf: even now, perhaps, On some rock the wild wave wraps, With folded wings they waiting sit For my bark, to pilot it To some calm and blooming cove, Where for me, and those I love, May a windless bower be built, Far from passion, pain, and guilt, In a dell mid lawny hills, Which the wild sea-murmur fills, And soft sunshine, and the sound Of old forests echoing round, And the light and smell divine Of all flowers that breathe and shine: We may live so happy there, That the Spirits of the Air, Envying us, may even entice To our healing Paradise The polluting multitude; But their rage would be subdued By that clime divine and calm, And the winds whose wings rain balm On the uplifted soul, and leaves Under which the bright sea heaves; While each breathless interval In their whisperings musical The inspired soul supplies With its own deep melodies; And the love which heals all strife Circling, like the breath of life, All things in that sweet abode With its own mild brotherhood: They, not it, would change; and soon Every sprite beneath the moon Would repent its envy vain, And the earth grow young again. Composed at Este, October, 1818. Published with Rosalind and Helen, 1819. Amongst the late Mr. Fredk. Locker-Lampsons collections at Rowfant there is a manuscript of the lines (167-205) on Byron, interpolated after the completion of the poem. ~ Percy Bysshe Shelley, Lines Written Among The Euganean Hills ,

113:Eighteen Hundred And Eleven Still the loud death drum, thundering from afar, O'er the vext nations pours the storm of war: To the stern call still Britain bends her ear, Feeds the fierce strife, the' alternate hope and fear; Bravely, though vainly, dares to strive with Fate, And seeks by turns to prop each sinking state. Colossal power with overwhelming force Bears down each fort of Freedom in its course; Prostrate she lies beneath the Despot's sway, While the hushed nations curse him—and obey. Bounteous in vain, with frantic man at strife, Glad Nature pours the means—the joys of life; In vain with orange-blossoms scents the gale, The hills with olives clothes, with corn the vale; Man calls to Famine, nor invokes in vain, Disease and Rapine follow in her train; The tramp of marching hosts disturbs the plough, The sword, not sickle, reaps the harvest now, And where the soldier gleans the scant supply, The helpless peasant but retires to die; No laws his hut from licensed outrage shield, And war's least horror is the' ensanguined field. Fruitful in vain, the matron counts with pride The blooming youths that grace her honoured side; No son returns to press her widowed hand, Her fallen blossoms strew a foreign strand. —Fruitful in vain, she boasts her virgin race, Whom cultured arts adorn and gentlest grace; Defrauded of its homage, Beauty mourns, And the rose withers on its virgin thorns. Frequent, some stream obscure, some uncouth name, By deeds of blood is lifted into fame; Oft o'er the daily page some soft one bends To learn the fate of husband, brothers, friends, Or the spread map with anxious eye explores, Its dotted boundaries and penciled shores, 48 Asks where the spot that wrecked her bliss is found, And learns its name but to detest the sound. And think'st thou, Britain, still to sit at ease, An island queen amidst thy subject seas, While the vext billows, in their distant roar, But soothe thy slumbers, and but kiss thy shore? To sport in wars, while danger keeps aloof, Thy grassy turf unbruised by hostile hoof? So sing thy flatterers;—but, Britain, know, Thou who hast shared the guilt must share the woe. Nor distant is the hour; low murmurs spread, And whispered fears, creating what they dread; Ruin, as with an earthquake shock, is here, There, the heart-witherings of unuttered fear, And that sad death, whence most affection bleeds, Which sickness, only of the soul, precedes. Thy baseless wealth dissolves in air away, Like mists that melt before the morning ray: No more on crowded mart or busy street Friends, meeting friends, with cheerful hurry greet; Sad, on the ground thy princely merchants bend Their altered looks, and evil days portend, And fold their arms, and watch with anxious breast The tempest blackening in the distant West. Yes, thou must droop; thy Midas dream is o'er; The golden tide of Commerce leaves thy shore, Leaves thee to prove the' alternate ills that haunt Enfeebling Luxury and ghastly Want; Leaves thee, perhaps, to visit distant lands, And deal the gifts of Heaven with equal hands. Yet, O my Country, name beloved, revered, By every tie that binds the soul endeared, Whose image to my infant senses came Mixt with Religion's light and Freedom's holy flame! If prayers may not avert, if 'tis thy fate To rank amongst the names that once were great, Not like the dim, cold Crescent shalt thou fade, Thy debt to Science and the Muse unpaid; 49 Thine are the laws surrounding states revere, Thine the full harvest of the mental year, Thine the bright stars in Glory's sky that shine, And arts that make it life to live are thine. If westward streams the light that leaves thy shores, Still from thy lamp the streaming radiance pours. Wide spreads thy race from Ganges to the pole, O'er half the western world thy accents roll: Nations beyond the Apalachian hills Thy hand has planted and thy spirit fills: Soon as their gradual progress shall impart The finer sense of morals and of art, Thy stores of knowledge the new states shall know, And think thy thoughts, and with thy fancy glow; Thy Lockes, thy Paleys shall instruct their youth, Thy leading star direct their search for truth; Beneath the spreading platan's tent-like shade, Or by Missouri's rushing waters laid, “Old father Thames” shall be the poet's theme, Of Hagley's woods the' enamoured virgin dream, And Milton's tones the raptured ear enthrall, Mixt with the roaring of Niagara's fall; In Thomson's glass the' ingenuous youth shall learn A fairer face of Nature to discern; Nor of the bards that swept the British lyre Shall fade one laurel, or one note expire. Then, loved Joanna, to admiring eyes Thy storied groups in scenic pomp shall rise; Their high-souled strains and Shakespear's noble rage Shall with alternate passion shake the stage. Some youthful Basil from thy moral lay With stricter hand his fond desires shall sway; Some Ethwald, as the fleeting shadows pass, Start at his likeness in the mystic glass; The tragic Muse resume her just controul, With pity and with terror purge the soul, While wide o'er transatlantic realms thy name Shall live in light, and gather all its fame. Where wanders Fancy down the lapse of years Shedding o'er imaged woes untimely tears? 50 Fond moody power! as hopes—as fears prevail, She longs, or dreads, to lift the awful veil, On visions of delight now loves to dwell, Now hears the shriek of woe or Freedom's knell: Perhaps, she says, long ages past away, And set in western waves our closing day, Night, Gothic night, again may shade the plains Where Power is seated, and where Science reigns; England, the seat of arts, be only known By the grey ruin and the mouldering stone; That Time may tear the garland from her brow, And Europe sit in dust, as Asia now. Yet then the' ingenuous youth whom Fancy fires With pictured glories of illustrious sires, With duteous zeal their pilgrimage shall take From the Blue Mountains, or Ontario's lake, With fond adoring steps to press the sod By statesmen, sages, poets, heroes trod; On Isis' banks to draw inspiring air, From Runnymede to send the patriot's prayer; In pensive thought, where Cam's slow waters wind, To meet those shades that ruled the realms of mind; In silent halls to sculptured marbles bow, And hang fresh wreaths round Newton's awful brow. Oft shall they seek some peasant's homely shed, Who toils, unconscious of the mighty dead, To ask where Avon's winding waters stray, And thence a knot of wild flowers bear away; Anxious inquire where Clarkson, friend of man, Or all-accomplished Jones his race began; If of the modest mansion aught remains Where Heaven and Nature prompted Cowper's strains; Where Roscoe, to whose patriot breast belong The Roman virtue and the Tuscan song, Led Ceres to the black and barren moor Where Ceres never gained a wreath before: With curious search their pilgrim steps shall rove By many a ruined tower and proud alcove, Shall listen for those strains that soothed of yore Thy rock, stern Skiddaw, and thy fall, Lodore; Feast with Dun Edin's classic brow their sight, 51 And “visit Melross by the pale moonlight.” But who their mingled feelings shall pursue When London's faded glories rise to view? The mighty city, which by every road, In floods of people poured itself abroad; Ungirt by walls, irregularly great, No jealous drawbridge, and no closing gate; Whose merchants (such the state which commerce brings) Sent forth their mandates to dependent kings; Streets, where the turban'd Moslem, bearded Jew, And woolly Afric, met the brown Hindu; Where through each vein spontaneous plenty flowed, Where Wealth enjoyed, and Charity bestowed. Pensive and thoughtful shall the wanderers greet Each splendid square, and still, untrodden street; Or of some crumbling turret, mined by time, The broken stairs with perilous step shall climb, Thence stretch their view the wide horizon round, By scattered hamlets trace its ancient bound, And, choked no more with fleets, fair Thames survey Through reeds and sedge pursue his idle way. With throbbing bosoms shall the wanderers tread The hallowed mansions of the silent dead, Shall enter the long isle and vaulted dome Where Genius and where Valour find a home; Awe-struck, midst chill sepulchral marbles breathe, Where all above is still, as all beneath; Bend at each antique shrine, and frequent turn To clasp with fond delight some sculptured urn, The ponderous mass of Johnson's form to greet, Or breathe the prayer at Howard's sainted feet. Perhaps some Briton, in whose musing mind Those ages live which Time has cast behind, To every spot shall lead his wondering guests On whose known site the beam of glory rests: Here Chatham's eloquence in thunder broke, Here Fox persuaded, or here Garrick spoke; Shall boast how Nelson, fame and death in view, 52 To wonted victory led his ardent crew, In England's name enforced, with loftiest tone, Their duty,—and too well fulfilled his own: How gallant Moore, as ebbing life dissolved, But hoped his country had his fame absolved. Or call up sages whose capacious mind Left in its course a track of light behind; Point where mute crowds on Davy's lips reposed, And Nature's coyest secrets were disclosed; Join with their Franklin, Priestley's injured name, Whom, then, each continent shall proudly claim. Oft shall the strangers turn their eager feet The rich remains of ancient art to greet, The pictured walls with critic eye explore, And Reynolds be what Raphael was before. On spoils from every clime their eyes shall gaze, Egyptian granites and the' Etruscan vase; And when midst fallen London, they survey The stone where Alexander's ashes lay, Shall own with humbled pride the lesson just By Time's slow finger written in the dust. There walks a Spirit o'er the peopled earth, Secret his progress is, unknown his birth; Moody and viewless as the changing wind, No force arrests his foot, no chains can bind; Where'er he turns, the human brute awakes, And, roused to better life, his sordid hut forsakes: He thinks, he reasons, glows with purer fires, Feels finer wants, and burns with new desires: Obedient Nature follows where he leads; The steaming marsh is changed to fruitful meads; The beasts retire from man's asserted reign, And prove his kingdom was not given in vain. Then from its bed is drawn the ponderous ore, Then Commerce pours her gifts on every shore, Then Babel's towers and terraced gardens rise, And pointed obelisks invade the skies; The prince commands, in Tyrian purple drest, 53 And Egypt's virgins weave the linen vest. Then spans the graceful arch the roaring tide, And stricter bounds the cultured fields divide. Then kindles Fancy, then expands the heart, Then blow the flowers of Genius and of Art; Saints, heroes, sages, who the land adorn, Seem rather to descend than to be born; Whilst History, midst the rolls consigned to fame, With pen of adamant inscribes their name. The Genius now forsakes the favoured shore, And hates, capricious, what he loved before; Then empires fall to dust, then arts decay, And wasted realms enfeebled despots sway; Even Nature's changed; without his fostering smile Ophir no gold, no plenty yields the Nile; The thirsty sand absorbs the useless rill, And spotted plagues from putrid fens distill. In desert solitudes then Tadmor sleeps, Stern Marius then o'er fallen Carthage weeps; Then with enthusiast love the pilgrim roves To seek his footsteps in forsaken groves, Explores the fractured arch, the ruined tower, Those limbs disjointed of gigantic power; Still at each step he dreads the adder's sting, The Arab's javelin, or the tiger's spring; With doubtful caution treads the echoing ground, And asks where Troy or Babylon is found. And now the vagrant Power no more detains The vale of Tempe, or Ausonian plains; Northward he throws the animating ray, O'er Celtic nations bursts the mental day: And, as some playful child the mirror turns, Now here now there the moving lustre burns; Now o'er his changeful fancy more prevail Batavia's dykes than Arno's purple vale, And stinted suns, and rivers bound with frost, Than Enna's plains or Baia's viny coast; Venice the Adriatic weds in vain, And Death sits brooding o'er Campania's plain; O'er Baltic shores and through Hercynian groves, 54 Stirring the soul, the mighty impulse moves; Art plies his tools, and Commerce spreads her sail, And wealth is wafted in each shifting gale. The sons of Odin tread on Persian looms, And Odin's daughters breathe distilled perfumes Loud minstrel bards, in Gothic halls, rehearse The Runic rhyme, and “build the lofty verse:” The Muse, whose liquid notes were wont to swell To the soft breathings of the' Æolian shell, Submits, reluctant, to the harsher tone, And scarce believes the altered voice her own. And now, where Cæsar saw with proud disdain The wattled hut and skin of azure stain, Corinthian columns rear their graceful forms, And light varandas brave the wintry storms, While British tongues the fading fame prolong Of Tully's eloquence and Maro's song. Where once Bonduca whirled the scythed car, And the fierce matrons raised the shriek of war, Light forms beneath transparent muslins float, And tutored voices swell the artful note. Light-leaved acacias and the shady plane And spreading cedar grace the woodland reign; While crystal walls the tenderer plants confine, The fragrant orange and the nectared pine; The Syrian grape there hangs her rich festoons, Nor asks for purer air, or brighter noons: Science and Art urge on the useful toil, New mould a climate and create the soil, Subdue the rigour of the northern Bear, O'er polar climes shed aromatic air, On yielding Nature urge their new demands, And ask not gifts but tribute at her hands. London exults:—on London Art bestows Her summer ices and her winter rose; Gems of the East her mural crown adorn, And Plenty at her feet pours forth her horn; While even the exiles her just laws disclaim, People a continent, and build a name: August she sits, and with extended hands Holds forth the book of life to distant lands. 55 But fairest flowers expand but to decay; The worm is in thy core, thy glories pass away; Arts, arms and wealth destroy the fruits they bring; Commerce, like beauty, knows no second spring. Crime walks thy streets, Fraud earns her unblest bread, O'er want and woe thy gorgeous robe is spread, And angel charities in vain oppose: With grandeur's growth the mass of misery grows. For see,—to other climes the Genius soars, He turns from Europe's desolated shores; And lo, even now, midst mountains wrapt in storm, On Andes' heights he shrouds his awful form; On Chimborazo's summits treads sublime, Measuring in lofty thought the march of Time; Sudden he calls:—“'Tis now the hour!” he cries, Spreads his broad hand, and bids the nations rise. La Plata hears amidst her torrents' roar; Potosi hears it, as she digs the ore: Ardent, the Genius fans the noble strife, And pours through feeble souls a higher life, Shouts to the mingled tribes from sea to sea, And swears—Thy world, Columbus, shall be free. ~ Anna Laetitia Barbauld,

114:S. Patrick. You who are bent, and bald, and blind, With a heavy heart and a wandering mind, Have known three centuries, poets sing, Of dalliance with a demon thing. Oisin. Sad to remember, sick with years, The swift innumerable spears, The horsemen with their floating hair, And bowls of barley, honey, and wine, Those merry couples dancing in tune, And the white body that lay by mine; But the tale, though words be lighter than air. Must live to be old like the wandering moon. Caoilte, and Conan, and Finn were there, When we followed a deer with our baying hounds. With Bran, Sceolan, and Lomair, And passing the Firbolgs' burial-moteds, Came to the cairn-heaped grassy hill Where passionate Maeve is stony-still; And found On the dove-grey edge of the sea A pearl-pale, high-born lady, who rode On a horse with bridle of findrinny; And like a sunset were her lips, A stormy sunset on doomed ships; A citron colour gloomed in her hair, But down to her feet white vesture flowed, And with the glimmering crimson glowed Of many a figured embroidery; And it was bound with a pearl-pale shell That wavered like the summer streams, As her soft bosom rose and fell. S. Patrick. You are still wrecked among heathen dreams. Oisin. 'Why do you wind no horn?' she said 'And every hero droop his head? The hornless deer is not more sad That many a peaceful moment had, More sleek than any granary mouse, In his own leafy forest house Among the waving fields of fern: The hunting of heroes should be glad.' 'O pleasant woman,' answered Finn, 'We think on Oscar's pencilled urn, And on the heroes lying slain On Gabhra's raven-covered plain; But where are your noble kith and kin, And from what country do you ride?' 'My father and my mother are Aengus and Edain, my own name Niamh, and my country far Beyond the tumbling of this tide.' 'What dream came with you that you came Through bitter tide on foam-wet feet? Did your companion wander away From where the birds of Aengus wing?' Thereon did she look haughty and sweet: 'I have not yet, war-weary king, Been spoken of with any man; Yet now I choose, for these four feet Ran through the foam and ran to this That I might have your son to kiss.' 'Were there no better than my son That you through all that foam should run?' 'I loved no man, though kings besought, Until the Danaan poets brought Rhyme that rhymed upon Oisin's name, And now I am dizzy with the thought Of all that wisdom and the fame Of battles broken by his hands, Of stories builded by his words That are like coloured Asian birds At evening in their rainless lands.' O Patrick, by your brazen bell, There was no limb of mine but fell Into a desperate gulph of love! 'You only will I wed,' I cried, 'And I will make a thousand songs, And set your name all names above, And captives bound with leathern thongs Shall kneel and praise you, one by one, At evening in my western dun.' 'O Oisin, mount by me and ride To shores by the wash of the tremulous tide, Where men have heaped no burial-mounds, And the days pass by like a wayward tune, Where broken faith has never been known And the blushes of first love never have flown; And there I will give you a hundred hounds; No mightier creatures bay at the moon; And a hundred robes of murmuring silk, And a hundred calves and a hundred sheep Whose long wool whiter than sea-froth flows, And a hundred spears and a hundred bows, And oil and wine and honey and milk, And always never-anxious sleep; While a hundred youths, mighty of limb, But knowing nor tumult nor hate nor strife, And a hundred ladies, merry as birds, Who when they dance to a fitful measure Have a speed like the speed of the salmon herds, Shall follow your horn and obey your whim, And you shall know the Danaan leisure; And Niamh be with you for a wife.' Then she sighed gently, 'It grows late. Music and love and sleep await, Where I would be when the white moon climbs, The red sun falls and the world grows dim.' And then I mounted and she bound me With her triumphing arms around me, And whispering to herself enwound me; He shook himself and neighed three times: Caoilte, Conan, and Finn came near, And wept, and raised their lamenting hands, And bid me stay, with many a tear; But we rode out from the human lands. In what far kingdom do you go' Ah Fenians, with the shield and bow? Or are you phantoms white as snow, Whose lips had life's most prosperous glow? O you, with whom in sloping valleys, Or down the dewy forest alleys, I chased at morn the flying deer, With whom I hurled the hurrying spear, And heard the foemen's bucklers rattle, And broke the heaving ranks of battle! And Bran, Sceolan, and Lomair, Where are you with your long rough hair? You go not where the red deer feeds, Nor tear the foemen from their steeds. S. Patrick. Boast not, nor mourn with drooping head Companions long accurst and dead, And hounds for centuries dust and air. Oisin. We galloped over the glossy sea: I know not if days passed or hours, And Niamh sang continually Danaan songs, and their dewy showers Of pensive laughter, unhuman sound, Lulled weariness, and softly round My human sorrow her white arms wound. We galloped; now a hornless deer Passed by us, chased by a phantom hound All pearly white, save one red ear; And now a lady rode like the wind With an apple of gold in her tossing hand; And a beautiful young man followed behind With quenchless gaze and fluttering hair. 'Were these two born in the Danaan land, Or have they breathed the mortal air?' 'Vex them no longer,' Niamh said, And sighing bowed her gentle head, And sighing laid the pearly tip Of one long finger on my lip. But now the moon like a white rose shone In the pale west, and the sun'S rim sank, And clouds atrayed their rank on rank About his fading crimson ball: The floor of Almhuin's hosting hall Was not more level than the sea, As, full of loving fantasy, And with low murmurs, we rode on, Where many a trumpet-twisted shell That in immortal silence sleeps Dreaming of her own melting hues, Her golds, her ambers, and her blues, Pierced with soft light the shallowing deeps. But now a wandering land breeze came And a far sound of feathery quires; It seemed to blow from the dying flame, They seemed to sing in the smouldering fires. The horse towards the music raced, Neighing along the lifeless waste; Like sooty fingers, many a tree Rose ever out of the warm sea; And they were trembling ceaselessly, As though they all were beating time, Upon the centre of the sun, To that low laughing woodland rhyme. And, now our wandering hours were done, We cantered to the shore, and knew The reason of the trembling trees: Round every branch the song-birds flew, Or clung thereon like swarming bees; While round the shore a million stood Like drops of frozen rainbow light, And pondered in a soft vain mood Upon their shadows in the tide, And told the purple deeps their pride, And murmured snatches of delight; And on the shores were many boats With bending sterns and bending bows, And carven figures on their prows Of bitterns, and fish-eating stoats, And swans with their exultant throats: And where the wood and waters meet We tied the horse in a leafy clump, And Niamh blew three merry notes Out of a little silver trump; And then an answering whispering flew Over the bare and woody land, A whisper of impetuous feet, And ever nearer, nearer grew; And from the woods rushed out a band Of men and ladies, hand in hand, And singing, singing all together; Their brows were white as fragrant milk, Their cloaks made out of yellow silk, And trimmed with many a crimson feather; And when they saw the cloak I wore Was dim with mire of a mortal shore, They fingered it and gazed on me And laughed like murmurs of the sea; But Niamh with a swift distress Bid them away and hold their peace; And when they heard her voice they ran And knelt there, every girl and man, And kissed, as they would never cease, Her pearl-pale hand and the hem of her dress. She bade them bring us to the hall Where Aengus dreams, from sun to sun, A Druid dream of the end of days When the stars are to wane and the world be done. They led us by long and shadowy ways Where drops of dew in myriads fall, And tangled creepers every hour Blossom in some new crimson flower, And once a sudden laughter sprang From all their lips, and once they sang Together, while the dark woods rang, And made in all their distant parts, With boom of bees in honey-marts, A rumour of delighted hearts. And once a lady by my side Gave me a harp, and bid me sing, And touch the laughing silver string; But when I sang of human joy A sorrow wrapped each merry face, And, patrick! by your beard, they wept, Until one came, a tearful boy; 'A sadder creature never stept Than this strange human bard,' he cried; And caught the silver harp away, And, weeping over the white strings, hurled It down in a leaf-hid, hollow place That kept dim waters from the sky; And each one said, with a long, long sigh, 'O saddest harp in all the world, Sleep there till the moon and the stars die!' And now, still sad, we came to where A beautiful young man dreamed within A house of wattles, clay, and skin; One hand upheld his beardless chin, And one a sceptre flashing out Wild flames of red and gold and blue, Like to a merry wandering rout Of dancers leaping in the air; And men and ladies knelt them there And showed their eyes with teardrops dim, And with low murmurs prayed to him, And kissed the sceptre with red lips, And touched it with their finger-tips. He held that flashing sceptre up. 'Joy drowns the twilight in the dew, And fills with stars night's purple cup, And wakes the sluggard seeds of corn, And stirs the young kid's budding horn, And makes the infant ferns unwrap, And for the peewit paints his cap, And rolls along the unwieldy sun, And makes the little planets run: And if joy were not on the earth, There were an end of change and birth, And Earth and Heaven and Hell would die, And in some gloomy barrow lie Folded like a frozen fly; Then mock at Death and Time with glances And wavering arms and wandering dances. 'Men's hearts of old were drops of flame That from the saffron morning came, Or drops of silver joy that fell Out of the moon's pale twisted shell; But now hearts cry that hearts are slaves, And toss and turn in narrow caves; But here there is nor law nor rule, Nor have hands held a weary tool; And here there is nor Change nor Death, But only kind and merry breath, For joy is God and God is joy.' With one long glance for girl and boy And the pale blossom of the moon, He fell into a Druid swoon. And in a wild and sudden dance We mocked at Time and Fate and Chance And swept out of the wattled hall And came to where the dewdrops fall Among the foamdrops of the sea, And there we hushed the revelry; And, gathering on our brows a frown, Bent all our swaying bodies down, And to the waves that glimmer by That sloping green De Danaan sod Sang, 'God is joy and joy is God, And things that have grown sad are wicked, And things that fear the dawn of the morrow Or the grey wandering osprey Sorrow.' We danced to where in the winding thicket The damask roses, bloom on bloom, Like crimson meteors hang in the gloom. And bending over them softly said, Bending over them in the dance, With a swift and friendly glance From dewy eyes: 'Upon the dead Fall the leaves of other roses, On the dead dim earth encloses: But never, never on our graves, Heaped beside the glimmering waves, Shall fall the leaves of damask roses. For neither Death nor Change comes near us, And all listless hours fear us, And we fear no dawning morrow, Nor the grey wandering osprey Sorrow.' The dance wound through the windless woods; The ever-summered solitudes; Until the tossing arms grew still Upon the woody central hill; And, gathered in a panting band, We flung on high each waving hand, And sang unto the starry broods. In our raised eyes there flashed a glow Of milky brightness to and fro As thus our song arose: 'You stars, Across your wandering ruby cars Shake the loose reins: you slaves of God. He rules you with an iron rod, He holds you with an iron bond, Each one woven to the other, Each one woven to his brother Like bubbles in a frozen pond; But we in a lonely land abide Unchainable as the dim tide, With hearts that know nor law nor rule, And hands that hold no wearisome tool, Folded in love that fears no morrow, Nor the grey wandering osprey Sorrow.' O Patrick! for a hundred years I chased upon that woody shore The deer, the badger, and the boar. O patrick! for a hundred years At evening on the glimmering sands, Beside the piled-up hunting spears, These now outworn and withered hands Wrestled among the island bands. O patrick! for a hundred years We went a-fishing in long boats With bending sterns and bending bows, And carven figures on their prows Of bitterns and fish-eating stoats. O patrick! for a hundred years The gentle Niamh was my wife; But now two things devour my life; The things that most of all I hate: Fasting and prayers. S. Patrick.   Tell on. Oisin.         Yes, yes, For these were ancient Oisin's fate Loosed long ago from Heaven's gate, For his last days to lie in wait. When one day by the tide I stood, I found in that forgetfulness Of dreamy foam a staff of wood From some dead warrior's broken lance: I turned it in my hands; the stains Of war were on it, and I wept, Remembering how the Fenians stept Along the blood-bedabbled plains, Equal to good or grievous chance: Thereon young Niamh softly came And caught my hands, but spake no word Save only many times my name, In murmurs, like a frighted bird. We passed by woods, and lawns of clover, And found the horse and bridled him, For we knew well the old was over. I heard one say, 'His eyes grow dim With all the ancient sorrow of men'; And wrapped in dreams rode out again With hoofs of the pale findrinny Over the glimmering purple sea. Under the golden evening light, The Immortals moved among the fountains By rivers and the woods' old night; Some danced like shadows on the mountains Some wandered ever hand in hand; Or sat in dreams on the pale strand, Each forehead like an obscure star Bent down above each hooked knee, And sang, and with a dreamy gaze Watched where the sun in a saffron blaze Was slumbering half in the sea-ways; And, as they sang, the painted birds Kept time with their bright wings and feet; Like drops of honey came their words, But fainter than a young lamb's bleat. 'An old man stirs the fire to a blaze, In the house of a child, of a friend, of a brother. He has over-lingered his welcome; the days, Grown desolate, whisper and sigh to each other; He hears the storm in the chimney above, And bends to the fire and shakes with the cold, While his heart still dreams of battle and love, And the cry of the hounds on the hills of old. But We are apart in the grassy places, Where care cannot trouble the least of our days, Or the softness of youth be gone from our faces, Or love's first tenderness die in our gaze. The hare grows old as she plays in the sun And gazes around her with eyes of brightness; Before the swift things that she dreamed of were done She limps along in an aged whiteness; A storm of birds in the Asian trees Like tulips in the air a-winging, And the gentle waves of the summer seas, That raise their heads and wander singing, Must murmur at last, "Unjust, unjust"; And "My speed is a weariness," falters the mouse, And the kingfisher turns to a ball of dust, And the roof falls in of his tunnelled house. But the love-dew dims our eyes till the day When God shall come from the Sea with a sigh And bid the stars drop down from the sky, And the moon like a pale rose wither away.' ~ William Butler Yeats, The Wanderings Of Oisin - Book I ,

115:The Emigrants: Book I Scene, on the Cliffs to the Eastward of the Town of Brighthelmstone in Sussex. Time, a Morning in November, 1792. Slow in the Wintry Morn, the struggling light Throws a faint gleam upon the troubled waves; Their foaming tops, as they approach the shore And the broad surf that never ceasing breaks On the innumerous pebbles, catch the beams Of the pale Sun, that with reluctance gives To this cold northern Isle, its shorten'd day. Alas! how few the morning wakes to joy! How many murmur at oblivious night For leaving them so soon; for bearing thus Their fancied bliss (the only bliss they taste!) , On her black wings away! - Changing the dreams That sooth'd their sorrows, for calamities (And every day brings its own sad proportion) For doubts, diseases, abject dread of Death, And faithless friends, and fame and fortune lost; Fancied or real wants; and wounded pride, That views the day star, but to curse his beams. Yet He, whose Spirit into being call'd This wond'rous World of Waters; He who bids The wild wind lift them till they dash the clouds, And speaks to them in thunder; or whose breath, Low murmuring, o'er the gently heaving tides, When the fair Moon, in summer night serene, Irradiates with long trembling lines of light Their undulating surface; that great Power, Who, governing the Planets, also knows If but a Sea-Mew falls, whose nest is hid In these incumbent cliffs; He surely means To us, his reasoning Creatures, whom He bids Acknowledge and revere his awful hand, Nothing but good: Yet Man, misguided Man, Mars the fair work that he was bid enjoy, And makes himself the evil he deplores. How often, when my weary soul recoils 154 From proud oppression, and from legal crimes (For such are in this Land, where the vain boast Of equal Law is mockery, while the cost Of seeking for redress is sure to plunge Th' already injur'd to more certain ruin And the wretch starves, before his Counsel pleads) How often do I half abjure Society, And sigh for some lone Cottage, deep embower'd In the green woods, that these steep chalky Hills Guard from the strong South West; where round their base The Beach wide flourishes, and the light Ash With slender leaf half hides the thymy turf! There do I wish to hide me; well content If on the short grass, strewn with fairy flowers, I might repose thus shelter'd; or when Eve In Orient crimson lingers in the west, Gain the high mound, and mark these waves remote (Lucid tho' distant) , blushing with the rays Of the far-flaming Orb, that sinks beneath them; For I have thought, that I should then behold The beauteous works of God, unspoil'd by Man And less affected then, by human woes I witness'd not; might better learn to bear Those that injustice, and duplicity And faithlessness and folly, fix on me: For never yet could I derive relief, When my swol'n heart was bursting with its sorrows, From the sad thought, that others like myself Live but to swell affliction's countless tribes! - Tranquil seclusion I have vainly sought; Peace, who delights solitary shade, No more will spread for me her downy wings, But, like the fabled Danaïds- or the wretch, Who ceaseless, up the steep acclivity, Was doom'd to heave the still rebounding rock, Onward I labour; as the baffled wave, Which yon rough beach repulses, that returns With the next breath of wind, to fail again.Ah! Mourner- cease these wailings: cease and learn, That not the Cot sequester'd, where the briar And wood-bine wild, embrace the mossy thatch, (Scarce seen amid the forest gloom obscure!) 155 Or more substantial farm, well fenced and warm, Where the full barn, and cattle fodder'd round Speak rustic plenty; nor the statelier dome By dark firs shaded, or the aspiring pine, Close by the village Church (with care conceal'd By verdant foliage, lest the poor man's grave Should mar the smiling prospect of his Lord) , Where offices well rang'd, or dove-cote stock'd, Declare manorial residence; not these Or any of the buildings, new and trim With windows circling towards the restless Sea, Which ranged in rows, now terminate my walk, Can shut out for an hour the spectre Care, That from the dawn of reason, follows still Unhappy Mortals, 'till the friendly grave (Our sole secure asylum) 'ends the chace 1.' Behold, in witness of this mournful truth, A group approach me, whose dejected looks, Sad Heralds of distress! proclaim them Men Banish'd for ever and for conscience sake From their distracted Country, whence the name Of Freedom misapplied, and much abus'd By lawless Anarchy, has driven them far To wander; with the prejudice they learn'd From Bigotry (the Tut'ress of the blind) , Thro' the wide World unshelter'd; their sole hope, That German spoilers, thro' that pleasant land May carry wide the desolating scourge Of War and Vengeance; yet unhappy Men, Whate'er your errors, I lament your fate: And, as disconsolate and sad ye hang Upon the barrier of the rock, and seem To murmur your despondence, waiting long Some fortunate reverse that never comes; Methinks in each expressive face, I see Discriminated anguish; there droops one, Who in a moping cloister long consum'd This life inactive, to obtain a better, And thought that meagre abstinence, to wake From his hard pallet with the midnight bell, To live on eleemosynary bread, And to renounce God's works, would please that God. 156 And now the poor pale wretch receives, amaz'd, The pity, strangers give to his distress, Because these Strangers are, by his dark creed, Condemn'd as Heretics- and with sick heart Regrets 2 his pious prison, and his beads.Another, of more haughty port, declines The aid he needs not; while in mute despair His high indignant thoughts go back to France, Dwelling on all he lost- the Gothic dome, That vied with splendid palaces 3; the beds Of silk and down, the silver chalices, Vestments with gold enwrought for blazing altars; Where, amid clouds of incense, he held forth To kneeling crowds the imaginary bones Of Saints suppos'd, in pearl and gold enchas'd, And still with more than living Monarchs' pomp Surrounded; was believ'd by mumbling bigots To hold the keys of Heaven, and to admit Whom he thought good to share it- Now alas! He, to whose daring soul and high ambition The World seem'd circumscrib'd; who, wont to dream, Of Fleuri, Richelieu, Alberoni, men Who trod on Empire, and whose politics Were not beyond the grasp of his vast mind, Is, in a Land once hostile, still prophan'd By disbelief, and rites un-orthodox, The object of compassion- At his side, Lighter of heart than these, but heavier far Than he was wont, another victim comes, An Abbé- who with less contracted brow Still smiles and flatters, and still talks of Hope; Which, sanguine as he is, he does not feel, And so he cheats the sad and weighty pressure Of evils present; - - Still, as Men misled By early prejudice (so hard to break) , I mourn your sorrows; for I too have known Involuntary exile; and while yet England had charms for me, have felt how sad It is to look across the dim cold sea, That melancholy rolls its refluent tides Between us and the dear regretted land We call our own- as now ye pensive wait 157 On this bleak morning, gazing on the waves That seem to leave your shore; from whence the wind Is loaded to your ears, with the deep groans Of martyr'd Saints and suffering Royalty, While to your eyes the avenging power of Heaven Appears in aweful anger to prepare The storm of vengeance, fraught with plagues and death. Even he of milder heart, who was indeed The simple shepherd in a rustic scene, And, 'mid the vine-clad hills of Languedoc, Taught to the bare-foot peasant, whose hard hands Produc'd 4 the nectar he could seldom taste, Submission to the Lord for whom he toil'd; He, or his brethren, who to Neustria's sons Enforc'd religious patience, when, at times, On their indignant hearts Power's iron hand Too strongly struck; eliciting some sparks Of the bold spirit of their native North; Even these Parochial Priests, these humbled men; Whose lowly undistinguish'd cottages Witness'd a life of purest piety, While the meek tenants were, perhaps, unknown Each to the haughty Lord of his domain, Who mark'd them not; the Noble scorning still The poor and pious Priest, as with slow pace He glided thro' the dim arch'd avenue Which to the Castle led; hoping to cheer The last sad hour of some laborious life That hasten'd to its close- even such a Man Becomes an exile; staying not to try By temperate zeal to check his madd'ning flock, Who, at the novel sound of Liberty (Ah! most intoxicating sound to slaves!) , Start into licence- Lo! dejected now, The wandering Pastor mourns, with bleeding heart, His erring people, weeps and prays for them, And trembles for the account that he must give To Heaven for souls entrusted to his care.Where the cliff, hollow'd by the wintry storm, Affords a seat with matted sea-weed strewn, A softer form reclines; around her run, On the rough shingles, or the chalky bourn, 158 Her gay unconscious children, soon amus'd; Who pick the fretted stone, or glossy shell, Or crimson plant marine: or they contrive The fairy vessel, with its ribband sail And gilded paper pennant: in the pool, Left by the salt wave on the yielding sands, They launch the mimic navy- Happy age! Unmindful of the miseries of Man! Alas! too long a victim to distress, Their Mother, lost in melancholy thought, Lull'd for a moment by the murmurs low Of sullen billows, wearied by the task Of having here, with swol'n and aching eyes Fix'd on the grey horizon, since the dawn Solicitously watch'd the weekly sail From her dear native land, now yields awhile To kind forgetfulness, while Fancy brings, In waking dreams, that native land again! Versailles appears- its painted galleries, And rooms of regal splendour, rich with gold, Where, by long mirrors multiply'd, the crowd Paid willing homage- and, united there, Beauty gave charms to empire- Ah! too soon From the gay visionary pageant rous'd, See the sad mourner start! - and, drooping, look With tearful eyes and heaving bosom round On drear reality- where dark'ning waves, Urg'd by the rising wind, unheeded foam Near her cold rugged seat:- To call her thence A fellow-sufferer comes: dejection deep Checks, but conceals not quite, the martial air, And that high consciousness of noble blood, Which he has learn'd from infancy to think Exalts him o'er the race of common men: Nurs'd in the velvet lap of luxury, And fed by adulation- could he learn, That worth alone is true Nobility? And that the peasant who, 'amid 5 the sons 'Of Reason, Valour, Liberty, and Virtue, 'Displays distinguish'd merit, is a Noble 'Of Nature's own creation! '- If even here, If in this land of highly vaunted Freedom, 159 Even Britons controvert the unwelcome truth, Can it be relish'd by the sons of France? Men, who derive their boasted ancestry From the fierce leaders of religious wars, The first in Chivalry's emblazon'd page; Who reckon Gueslin, Bayard, or De Foix, Among their brave Progenitors? Their eyes, Accustom'd to regard the splendid trophies Of Heraldry (that with fantastic hand Mingles, like images in feverish dreams, 'Gorgons and Hydras, and Chimeras dire,' With painted puns, and visionary shapes ;) , See not the simple dignity of Virtue, But hold all base, whom honours such as these Exalt not from the crowd 6 - As one, who long Has dwelt amid the artificial scenes Of populous City, deems that splendid shows, The Theatre, and pageant pomp of Courts, Are only worth regard; forgets all taste For Nature's genuine beauty; in the lapse Of gushing waters hears no soothing sound, Nor listens with delight to sighing winds, That, on their fragrant pinions, waft the notes Of birds rejoicing in the trangled copse; Nor gazes pleas'd on Ocean's silver breast, While lightly o'er it sails the summer clouds Reflected in the wave, that, hardly heard, Flows on the yellow sands: so to his mind, That long has liv'd where Despotism hides His features harsh, beneath the diadem Of worldly grandeur, abject Slavery seems, If by that power impos'd, slavery no more: For luxury wreathes with silk the iron bonds, And hides the ugly rivets with her flowers, Till the degenerate triflers, while they love The glitter of the chains, forget their weight. But more the Men, whose ill acquir'd wealth Was wrung from plunder'd myriads, by the means Too often legaliz'd by power abus'd, Feel all the horrors of the fatal change, When their ephemeral greatness, marr'd at once (As a vain toy that Fortune's childish hand 160 Equally joy'd to fashion or to crush) , Leaves them expos'd to universal scorn For having nothing else; not even the claim To honour, which respect for Heroes past Allows to ancient titles; Men, like these, Sink even beneath the level, whence base arts Alone had rais'd them; - unlamented sink, And know that they deserve the woes they feel. Poor wand'ring wretches! whosoe'er ye are, That hopeless, houseless, friendless, travel wide O'er these bleak russet downs; where, dimly seen, The solitary Shepherd shiv'ring tends His dun discolour'd flock (Shepherd, unlike Him, whom in song the Poet's fancy crowns With garlands, and his crook with vi'lets binds): Poor vagrant wretches! outcasts of the world! Whom no abode receives, no parish owns; Roving, like Nature's commoners, the land That boasts such general plenty: if the sight Of wide-extended misery softens yours Awhile, suspend your murmurs! - here behold The strange vicissitudes of fate- while thus The exil'd Nobles, from their country driven, Whose richest luxuries were their's, must feel More poignant anguish, than the lowest poor, Who, born to indigence, have learn'd to brave Rigid Adversity's depressing breath! Ah! rather Fortune's worthless favourites! Who feed on England's vitals- Pensioners Of base corruption, who, in quick ascent To opulence unmerited, become Giddy with pride, and as ye rise, forgetting The dust ye lately left, with scorn look down On those beneath ye (tho' your equals once In fortune, and in worth superior still, They view the eminence, on which ye stand, With wonder, not with envy; for they know The means, by which ye reach'd it, have been such As, in all honest eyes, degrade ye far Beneath the poor dependent, whose sad heart Reluctant pleads for what your pride denies): Ye venal, worthless hirelings of a Court! 161 Ye pamper'd Parasites! whom Britons pay For forging fetters for them; rather here Study a lesson that concerns ye much; And, trembling, learn, that if oppress'd too long, The raging multitude, to madness stung, Will turn on their oppressors; and, no more By sounding titles and parading forms Bound like tame victims, will redress themselves! Then swept away by the resistless torrent, Not only all your pomp may disappear, But, in the tempest lost, fair Order sink Her decent head, and lawless Anarchy O'erturn celestial Freedom's radiant throne; As now in Gallia; where Confusion, born Of party rage and selfish love of rule, Sully the noblest cause that ever warm'd The heart of Patriot Virtue 8 - There arise The infernal passions; Vengeance, seeking blood, And Avarice; and Envy's harpy fangs Pollute the immortal shrine of Liberty, Dismay her votaries, and disgrace her name. Respect is due to principle; and they, Who suffer for their conscience, have a claim, Whate'er that principle may be, to praise. These ill-starr'd Exiles then, who, bound by ties, To them the bonds of honour; who resign'd Their country to preserve them, and now seek In England an asylum- well deserve To find that (every prejudice forgot, Which pride and ignorance teaches) , we for them Feel as our brethren; and that English hearts, Of just compassion ever own the sway, As truly as our element, the deep, Obeys the mild dominion of the MoonThis they have found; and may they find it still! Thus may'st thou, Britain, triumph! - May thy foes, By Reason's gen'rous potency subdued, Learn, that the God thou worshippest, delights In acts of pure humanity! - May thine Be still such bloodless laurels! nobler far Than those acquir'd at Cressy or Poictiers, Or of more recent growth, those well bestow'd 162 On him who stood on Calpe's blazing height Amid the thunder of a warring world, Illustrious rather from the crowds he sav'd From flood and fire, than from the ranks who fell Beneath his valour! - Actions such as these, Like incense rising to the Throne of Heaven, Far better justify the pride, that swells In British bosoms, than the deafening roar Of Victory from a thousand brazen throats, That tell with what success wide-wasting War Has by our brave Compatriots thinned the world. ~ Charlotte Smith,

116:The Duellist - Book Iii Ah me! what mighty perils wait The man who meddles with a state, Whether to strengthen, or oppose! False are his friends, and firm his foes: How must his soul, once ventured in, Plunge blindly on from sin to sin! What toils he suffers, what disgrace, To get, and then to keep, a place! How often, whether wrong or right, Must he in jest or earnest fight, Risking for those both life and limb Who would not risk one groat for him! Under the Temple lay a Cave, Made by some guilty, coward slave, Whose actions fear'd rebuke: a maze Of intricate and winding ways, Not to be found without a clue; One passage only, known to few, In paths direct led to a cell, Where Fraud in secret loved to dwell, With all her tools and slaves about her, Nor fear'd lest Honesty should rout her. In a dark corner, shunning sight Of man, and shrinking from the light, One dull, dim taper through the cell Glimmering, to make more horrible The face of darkness, she prepares, Working unseen, all kinds of snares, With curious, but destructive art: Here, through the eye to catch the heart, Gay stars their tinsel beams afford, Neat artifice to trap a lord; There, fit for all whom Folly bred, Wave plumes of feathers for the head; Garters the hag contrives to make, Which, as it seems, a babe might break, But which ambitious madmen feel More firm and sure than chains of steel; Which, slipp'd just underneath the knee, 153 Forbid a freeman to be free. Purses she knew, (did ever curse Travel more sure than in a purse?) Which, by some strange and magic bands, Enslave the soul, and tie the hands. Here Flattery, eldest-born of Guile, Weaves with rare skill the silken smile, The courtly cringe, the supple bow, The private squeeze, the levee vow, With which--no strange or recent case-Fools in, deceive fools out of place. Corruption, (who, in former times, Through fear or shame conceal'd her crimes, And what she did, contrived to do it So that the public might not view it) Presumptuous grown, unfit was held For their dark councils, and expell'd, Since in the day her business might Be done as safe as in the night. Her eye down-bending to the ground, Planning some dark and deadly wound, Holding a dagger, on which stood, All fresh and reeking, drops of blood, Bearing a lantern, which of yore, By Treason borrow'd, Guy Fawkes bore, By which, since they improved in trade, Excisemen have their lanterns made, Assassination, her whole mind Blood-thirsting, on her arm reclined; Death, grinning, at her elbow stood, And held forth instruments of blood,-Vile instruments, which cowards choose, But men of honour dare not use; Around, his Lordship and his Grace, Both qualified for such a place, With many a Forbes, and many a Dun, Each a resolved, and pious son, Wait her high bidding; each prepared, As she around her orders shared, Proof 'gainst remorse, to run, to fly, And bid the destined victim die, Posting on Villany's black wing, 154 Whether he patriot is, or king. Oppression,--willing to appear An object of our love, not fear, Or, at the most, a reverend awe To breed, usurp'd the garb of Law. A book she held, on which her eyes Were deeply fix'd, whence seem'd to rise Joy in her breast; a book, of might Most wonderful, which black to white Could turn, and without help of laws, Could make the worse the better cause. She read, by flattering hopes deceived; She wish'd, and what she wish'd, believed, To make that book for ever stand The rule of wrong through all the land; On the back, fair and worthy note, At large was Magna Charta wrote; But turn your eye within, and read, A bitter lesson, Norton's Creed. Ready, e'en with a look, to run, Fast as the coursers of the sun, To worry Virtue, at her hand Two half-starved greyhounds took their stand. A curious model, cut in wood, Of a most ancient castle stood Full in her view; the gates were barr'd, And soldiers on the watch kept guard; In the front, openly, in black Was wrote, The Tower: but on the back, Mark'd with a secretary's seal, In bloody letters, The Bastile. Around a table, fully bent On mischief of most black intent, Deeply determined that their reign Might longer last, to work the bane Of one firm patriot, whose heart, tied To Honour, all their power defied, And brought those actions into light They wish'd to have conceal'd in night, Begot, born, bred to infamy, A privy-council sat of three: Great were their names, of high repute 155 And favour through the land of Bute. The first (entitled to the place Of Honour both by gown and grace, Who never let occasion slip To take right-hand of fellowship, And was so proud, that should he meet The twelve apostles in the street, He'd turn his nose up at them all, And shove his Saviour from the wall! Who was so mean (Meanness and Pride Still go together side by side) That he would cringe, and creep, be civil, And hold a stirrup for the Devil; If in a journey to his mind, He'd let him mount and ride behind; Who basely fawn'd through all his life, For patrons first, then for a wife: Wrote Dedications which must make The heart of every Christian quake; Made one man equal to, or more Than God, then left him, as before His God he left, and, drawn by pride, Shifted about to t' other side) Was by his sire a parson made, Merely to give the boy a trade; But he himself was thereto drawn By some faint omens of the lawn, And on the truly Christian plan To make himself a gentleman,-A title in which Form array'd him, Though Fate ne'er thought on 't when she made him. The oaths he took, 'tis very true, But took them as all wise men do, With an intent, if things should turn, Rather to temporise, than burn; Gospel and loyalty were made To serve the purposes of trade; Religions are but paper ties, Which bind the fool, but which the wise, Such idle notions far above, Draw on and off, just like a glove; All gods, all kings (let his great aim 156 Be answer'd) were to him the same. A curate first, he read and read, And laid in, whilst he should have fed The souls of his neglected flock, Of reading such a mighty stock, That he o'ercharged the weary brain With more than she could well contain; More than she was with spirits fraught To turn and methodise to thought, And which, like ill-digested food, To humours turn'd, and not to blood. Brought up to London, from the plough And pulpit, how to make a bow He tried to learn; he grew polite, And was the poet's parasite. With wits conversing, (and wits then Were to be found 'mongst noblemen) He caught, or would have caught, the flame, And would be nothing, or the same. He drank with drunkards, lived with sinners, Herded with infidels for dinners; With such an emphasis and grace Blasphemed, that Potter kept not pace: He, in the highest reign of noon, Bawled bawdy songs to a psalm tune; Lived with men infamous and vile, Truck'd his salvation for a smile; To catch their humour caught their plan, And laugh'd at God to laugh with man; Praised them, when living, in each breath, And damn'd their memories after death. To prove his faith, which all admit Is at least equal to his wit, And make himself a man of note, He in defence of Scripture wrote: So long he wrote, and long about it, That e'en believers 'gan to doubt it: He wrote, too, of the inward light, Though no one knew how he came by 't, And of that influencing grace Which in his life ne'er found a place: He wrote, too, of the Holy Ghost, 157 Of whom no more than doth a post He knew; nor, should an angel show him, Would he, or know, or choose to know him. Next (for he knew 'twixt every science There was a natural alliance) He wrote, to advance his Maker's praise, Comments on rhymes, and notes on plays, And with an all-sufficient air Placed himself in the critic's chair; Usurp'd o'er Reason full dominion, And govern'd merely by Opinion. At length dethroned, and kept in awe By one plain simple man of law, He arm'd dead friends, to vengeance true, To abuse the man they never knew. Examine strictly all mankind, Most characters are mix'd, we find; And Vice and Virtue take their turn In the same breast to beat and burn. Our priest was an exception here, Nor did one spark of grace appear, Not one dull, dim spark in his soul; Vice, glorious Vice, possess'd the whole, And, in her service truly warm, He was in sin most uniform. Injurious Satire! own at least One snivelling virtue in the priest, One snivelling virtue, which is placed, They say, in or about the waist, Call'd Chastity; the prudish dame Knows it at large by Virtue's name. To this his wife (and in these days Wives seldom without reason praise) Bears evidence--then calls her child, And swears that Tom was vastly wild. Ripen'd by a long course of years, He great and perfect now appears. In shape scarce of the human kind, A man, without a manly mind; No husband, though he's truly wed; Though on his knees a child is bred, No father; injured, without end 158 A foe; and though obliged, no friend; A heart, which virtue ne'er disgraced; A head, where learning runs to waste; A gentleman well-bred, if breeding Rests in the article of reading; A man of this world, for the next Was ne'er included in his text; A judge of genius, though confess'd With not one spark of genius bless'd; Amongst the first of critics placed, Though free from every taint of taste; A Christian without faith or works, As he would be a Turk 'mongst Turks; A great divine, as lords agree, Without the least divinity; To crown all, in declining age, Inflamed with church and party rage, Behold him, full and perfect quite, A false saint, and true hypocrite. Next sat a lawyer, often tried In perilous extremes; when Pride And Power, all wild and trembling, stood, Nor dared to tempt the raging flood; This bold, bad man arose to view, And gave his hand to help them through: Steel'd 'gainst compassion, as they pass'd He saw poor Freedom breathe her last; He saw her struggle, heard her groan; He saw her helpless and alone, Whelm'd in that storm, which, fear'd and praised By slaves less bold, himself had raised. Bred to the law, he from the first Of all bad lawyers was the worst. Perfection (for bad men maintain In ill we may perfection gain) In others is a work of time, And they creep on from crime to crime; He, for a prodigy design'd, To spread amazement o'er mankind, Started full ripen'd all at once A perfect knave, and perfect dunce. Who will, for him, may boast of sense, 159 His better guard is impudence; His front, with tenfold plates of brass Secured, Shame never yet could pass, Nor on the surface of his skin Blush for that guilt which dwelt within. How often, in contempt of laws, To sound the bottom of a cause, To search out every rotten part, And worm into its very heart, Hath he ta'en briefs on false pretence, And undertaken the defence Of trusting fools, whom in the end He meant to ruin, not defend! How often, e'en in open court, Hath the wretch made his shame his sport, And laugh'd off, with a villain's ease, Throwing up briefs, and keeping fees! Such things as, though to roguery bred, Had struck a little villain dead! Causes, whatever their import, He undertakes, to serve a court; For he by art this rule had got, Power can effect what Law cannot. Fools he forgives, but rogues he fears; If Genius, yoked with Worth, appears, His weak soul sickens at the sight, And strives to plunge them down in night. So loud he talks, so very loud, He is an angel with the crowd; Whilst he makes Justice hang her head, And judges turn from pale to red. Bid all that Nature, on a plan Most intimate, makes dear to man, All that with grand and general ties Binds good and bad, the fool and wise, Knock at his heart; they knock in vain; No entrance there such suitors gain; Bid kneeling kings forsake the throne, Bid at his feet his country groan; Bid Liberty stretch out her hands, Religion plead her stronger bands; Bid parents, children, wife, and friends, 160 If they come 'thwart his private ends-Unmoved he hears the general call, And bravely tramples on them all. Who will, for him, may cant and whine, And let weak Conscience with her line Chalk out their ways; such starving rules Are only fit for coward fools; Fellows who credit what priests tell, And tremble at the thoughts of Hell; His spirit dares contend with Grace, And meets Damnation face to face. Such was our lawyer; by his side, In all bad qualities allied, In all bad counsels, sat a third, By birth a lord. Oh, sacred word! Oh, word most sacred! whence men get A privilege to run in debt; Whence they at large exemption claim From Satire, and her servant Shame; Whence they, deprived of all her force, Forbid bold Truth to hold her course. Consult his person, dress, and air, He seems, which strangers well might swear, The master, or, by courtesy, The captain of a colliery. Look at his visage, and agree Half-hang'd he seems, just from the tree Escaped; a rope may sometimes break, Or men be cut down by mistake. He hath not virtue (in the school Of Vice bred up) to live by rule, Nor hath he sense (which none can doubt Who know the man) to live without. His life is a continued scene Of all that's infamous and mean; He knows not change, unless, grown nice And delicate, from vice to vice; Nature design'd him, in a rage, To be the Wharton of his age; But, having given all the sin, Forgot to put the virtues in. To run a horse, to make a match, 161 To revel deep, to roar a catch, To knock a tottering watchman down, To sweat a woman of the town; By fits to keep the peace, or break it, In turn to give a pox, or take it; He is, in faith, most excellent, And, in the word's most full intent, A true choice spirit, we admit; With wits a fool, with fools a wit: Hear him but talk, and you would swear Obscenity herself was there, And that Profaneness had made choice, By way of trump, to use his voice; That, in all mean and low things great, He had been bred at Billingsgate; And that, ascending to the earth Before the season of his birth, Blasphemy, making way and room, Had mark'd him in his mother's womb. Too honest (for the worst of men In forms are honest, now and then) Not to have, in the usual way, His bills sent in; too great to pay: Too proud to speak to, if he meets The honest tradesman whom he cheats: Too infamous to have a friend; Too bad for bad men to commend, Or good to name; beneath whose weight Earth groans; who hath been spared by Fate Only to show, on Mercy's plan, How far and long God bears with man. Such were the three, who, mocking sleep, At midnight sat, in counsel deep, Plotting destruction 'gainst a head Whose wisdom could not be misled; Plotting destruction 'gainst a heart Which ne'er from honour would depart. 'Is he not rank'd amongst our foes? Hath not his spirit dared oppose Our dearest measures, made our name Stand forward on the roll of Shame Hath he not won the vulgar tribes, 162 By scorning menaces and bribes, And proving that his darling cause Is, of their liberties and laws To stand the champion? In a word, Nor need one argument be heard Beyond this to awake our zeal, To quicken our resolves, and steel Our steady souls to bloody bent, (Sure ruin to each dear intent, Each flattering hope) he, without fear, Hath dared to make the truth appear.' They said, and, by resentment taught, Each on revenge employ'd his thought; Each, bent on mischief, rack'd his brain To her full stretch, but rack'd in vain; Scheme after scheme they brought to view; All were examined; none would do: When Fraud, with pleasure in her face, Forth issued from her hiding-place, And at the table where they meet, First having bless'd them, took her seat. 'No trifling cause, my darling boys, Your present thoughts and cares employs; No common snare, no random blow, Can work the bane of such a foe: By nature cautious as he's brave, To Honour only he's a slave; In that weak part without defence, We must to honour make pretence; That lure shall to his ruin draw The wretch, who stands secure in law. Nor think that I have idly plann'd This full-ripe scheme; behold at hand, With three months' training on his head, An instrument, whom I have bred, Born of these bowels, far from sight Of Virtue's false but glaring light, My youngest-born, my dearest joy, Most like myself, my darling boy! He, never touch'd with vile remorse, Resolved and crafty in his course, Shall work our ends, complete our schemes, 163 Most mine, when most he Honour's seems; Nor can be found, at home, abroad, So firm and full a slave of Fraud.' She said, and from each envious son A discontented murmur run Around the table; all in place Thought his full praise their own disgrace, Wondering what stranger she had got, Who had one vice that they had not; When straight the portals open flew, And, clad in armour, to their view Martin, the Duellist, came forth. All knew, and all confess'd his worth; All justified, with smiles array'd, The happy choice their dam had made. ~ Charles Churchill,

117:The Conference Grace said in form, which sceptics must agree, When they are told that grace was said by me; The servants gone to break the scurvy jest On the proud landlord, and his threadbare guest; 'The King' gone round, my lady too withdrawn; My lord, in usual taste, began to yawn, And, lolling backward in his elbow-chair, With an insipid kind of stupid stare, Picking his teeth, twirling his seals about-Churchill, you have a poem coming out: You've my best wishes; but I really fear Your Muse, in general, is too severe; Her spirit seems her interest to oppose, And where she makes one friend, makes twenty foes. _C_. Your lordship's fears are just; I feel their force, But only feel it as a thing of course. The man whose hardy spirit shall engage To lash, the vices of a guilty age, At his first setting forward ought to know That every rogue he meets must be his foe; That the rude breath of satire will provoke Many who feel, and more who fear the stroke. But shall the partial rage of selfish men From stubborn Justice wrench the righteous pen? Or shall I not my settled course pursue, Because my foes are foes to Virtue too? _L_. What is this boasted Virtue, taught in schools, And idly drawn from antiquated rules? What is her use? Point out one wholesome end. Will she hurt foes, or can she make a friend? When from long fasts fierce appetites arise, Can this same Virtue stifle Nature's cries? Can she the pittance of a meal afford, Or bid thee welcome to one great man's board? When northern winds the rough December arm With frost and snow, can Virtue keep thee warm? Canst thou dismiss the hard unfeeling dun Barely by saying, thou art Virtue's son? Or by base blundering statesmen sent to jail, 128 Will Mansfield take this Virtue for thy bail? Believe it not, the name is in disgrace; Virtue and Temple now are out of place. Quit then this meteor, whose delusive ray Prom wealth and honour leads thee far astray. True virtue means--let Reason use her eyes-Nothing with fools, and interest with the wise. Wouldst thou be great, her patronage disclaim, Nor madly triumph in so mean a name: Let nobler wreaths thy happy brows adorn, And leave to Virtue poverty and scorn. Let Prudence be thy guide; who doth not know How seldom Prudence can with Virtue go? To be successful try thy utmost force, And Virtue follows as a thing of course. Hirco--who knows not Hirco?--stains the bed Of that kind master who first gave him bread; Scatters the seeds of discord through the land, Breaks every public, every private band; Beholds with joy a trusting friend undone; Betrays a brother, and would cheat a son: What mortal in his senses can endure The name of Hirco? for the wretch is poor! Let him hang, drown, starve, on a dunghill rot, By all detested live, and die forgot; Let him--a poor return--in every breath Feel all Death's pains, yet be whole years in death, Is now the general cry we all pursue. Let Fortune change, and Prudence changes too; Supple and pliant, a new system feels, Throws up her cap, and spaniels at his heels: Long live great Hirco, cries, by interest taught, And let his foes, though I prove one, be nought. _C_. Peace to such men, if such men can have peace; Let their possessions, let their state increase; Let their base services in courts strike root, And in the season bring forth golden fruit. I envy not; let those who have the will, And, with so little spirit, so much skill, With such vile instruments their fortunes carve; Rogues may grow fat, an honest man dares starve. _L_. These stale conceits thrown off, let us advance 129 For once to real life, and quit romance. Starve! pretty talking! but I fain would view That man, that honest man, would do it too. Hence to yon mountain which outbraves the sky, And dart from pole to pole thy strengthen'd eye, Through all that space you shall not view one man, Not one, who dares to act on such a plan. Cowards in calms will say, what in a storm The brave will tremble at, and not perform. Thine be the proof, and, spite of all you've said, You'd give your honour for a crust of bread. _C_. What proof might do, what hunger might effect, What famish'd Nature, looking with neglect On all she once held dear; what fear, at strife With fainting virtue for the means of life, Might make this coward flesh, in love with breath, Shuddering at pain, and shrinking back from death, In treason to my soul, descend to boar, Trusting to fate, I neither know nor care. Once,--at this hour those wounds afresh I feel, Which, nor prosperity, nor time, can heal; Those wounds which Fate severely hath decreed, Mention'd or thought of, must for ever bleed; Those wounds which humbled all that pride of man, Which brings such mighty aid to Virtue's plan-Once, awed by Fortune's most oppressive frown, By legal rapine to the earth bow'd clown, My credit at last gasp, my state undone, Trembling to meet the shock I could not shun, Virtue gave ground, and blank despair prevail'd; Sinking beneath the storm, my spirits fail'd Like Peter's faith, till one, a friend indeed-May all distress find such in time of need!-One kind good man, in act, in word, in thought, By Virtue guided, and by Wisdom taught, Image of Him whom Christians should adore, Stretch'd forth his hand, and brought me safe to shore. Since, by good fortune into notice raised, And for some little merit largely praised, Indulged in swerving from prudential rules, Hated by rogues, and not beloved by fools; Placed above want, shall abject thirst of wealth, 130 So fiercely war 'gainst my soul's dearest health, That, as a boon, I should base shackles crave, And, born to freedom, make myself a slave? That I should in the train of those appear, Whom Honour cannot love, nor Manhood fear? That I no longer skulk from street to street, Afraid lest duns assail, and bailiffs meet; That I from place to place this carcase bear; Walk forth at large, and wander free as air; That I no longer dread the awkward friend. Whose very obligations must offend; Nor, all too froward, with impatience burn At suffering favours which I can't return; That, from dependence and from pride secure, I am not placed so high to scorn the poor, Nor yet so low that I my lord should fear, Or hesitate to give him sneer for sneer; That, whilst sage Prudence my pursuits confirms, I can enjoy the world on equal terms; That, kind to others, to myself most true, Feeling no want, I comfort those who do, And, with the will, have power to aid distress: These, and what other blessings I possess, From the indulgence of the public rise, All private patronage my soul defies. By candour more inclined to save, than damn, A generous Public made me what I am. All that I have, they gave; just Memory bears The grateful stamp, and what I am is theirs. _L_. To feign a red-hot zeal for Freedom's cause, To mouth aloud for liberties and laws, For public good to bellow all abroad, Serves well the purposes of private fraud. Prudence, by public good intends her own; If you mean otherwise, you stand alone. What do we mean by country and by court? What is it to oppose? what to support? Mere words of course; and what is more absurd Than to pay homage to an empty word? Majors and minors differ but in name; Patriots and ministers are much the same; The only difference, after all their rout, 131 Is, that the one is in, the other out. Explore the dark recesses of the mind, In the soul's honest volume read mankind, And own, in wise and simple, great and small, The same grand leading principle in all. Whate'er we talk of wisdom to the wise, Of goodness to the good, of public ties Which to our country link, of private bands Which claim most dear attention at our hands; For parent and for child, for wife and friend, Our first great mover, and our last great end Is one, and, by whatever name we call The ruling tyrant, Self is all in all. This, which unwilling Faction shall admit, Guided in different ways a Bute and Pitt; Made tyrants break, made kings observe the law; And gave the world a Stuart and Nassau. Hath Nature (strange and wild conceit of pride!) Distinguished thee from all her sons beside? Doth virtue in thy bosom brighter glow, Or from a spring more pure doth action flow? Is not thy soul bound with those very chains Which shackle us? or is that Self, which reigns O'er kings and beggars, which in all we see Most strong and sovereign, only weak in thee? Fond man, believe it not; experience tells 'Tis not thy virtue, but thy pride rebels. Think, (and for once lay by thy lawless pen) Think, and confess thyself like other men; Think but one hour, and, to thy conscience led By Reason's hand, bow down and hang thy head: Think on thy private life, recall thy youth, View thyself now, and own, with strictest truth, That Self hath drawn thee from fair Virtue's way Farther than Folly would have dared to stray; And that the talents liberal Nature gave, To make thee free, have made thee more a slave. Quit then, in prudence quit, that idle train Of toys, which have so long abused thy brain. And captive led thy powers; with boundless will Let Self maintain her state and empire still; But let her, with more worthy objects caught, 132 Strain all the faculties and force of thought To things of higher daring; let her range Through better pastures, and learn how to change; Let her, no longer to weak Faction tied, Wisely revolt, and join our stronger side. _C_. Ah! what, my lord, hath private life to do With things of public nature? Why to view Would you thus cruelly those scenes unfold Which, without pain and horror to behold, Must speak me something more or less than man, Which friends may pardon, but I never can? Look back! a thought which borders on despair, Which human nature must, yet cannot bear. 'Tis not the babbling of a busy world, Where praise and censure are at random hurl'd, Which can the meanest of my thoughts control, Or shake one settled purpose of my soul; Free and at large might their wild curses roam, If all, if all, alas! were well at home. No--'tis the tale which angry Conscience tells, When she with more than tragic horror swells Each circumstance of guilt; when, stern but true, She brings bad actions forth into review; And like the dread handwriting on the wall, Bids late Remorse awake at Reason's call; Arm'd at all points, bids scorpion Vengeance pass, And to the mind holds up Reflection's glass,-The mind which, starting, heaves the heartfelt groan, And hates that form she knows to be her own. Enough of this,--let private sorrows rest,-As to the public, I dare stand the test; Dare proudly boast, I feel no wish above The good of England, and my country's love. Stranger to party-rage, by Reason's voice, Unerring guide! directed in my choice, Not all the tyrant powers of earth combined, No, nor of hell, shall make me change my mind. What! herd with men my honest soul disdains, Men who, with servile zeal, are forging chains For Freedom's neck, and lend a helping hand To spread destruction o'er my native land? What! shall I not, e'en to my latest breath, 133 In the full face of danger and of death, Exert that little strength which Nature gave, And boldly stem, or perish in the wave? _L_. When I look backward for some fifty years, And see protesting patriots turn'd to peers; Hear men, most loose, for decency declaim, And talk of character, without a name; See infidels assert the cause of God, And meek divines wield Persecution's rod; See men transferred to brutes, and brutes to men; See Whitehead take a place, Ralph change his pen; I mock the zeal, and deem the men in sport, Who rail at ministers, and curse a court. Thee, haughty as thou art, and proud in rhyme, Shall some preferment, offer'd at a time When Virtue sleeps, some sacrifice to Pride, Or some fair victim, move to change thy side. Thee shall these eyes behold, to health restored, Using, as Prudence bids, bold Satire's sword, Galling thy present friends, and praising those Whom now thy frenzy holds thy greatest foes. _C_. May I (can worse disgrace on manhood fall?) Be born a Whitehead, and baptized a Paul; May I (though to his service deeply tied By sacred oaths, and now by will allied), With false, feign'd zeal an injured God defend, And use his name for some base private end; May I (that thought bids double horrors roll O'er my sick spirits, and unmans my soul) Ruin the virtue which I held most dear, And still must hold; may I, through abject fear, Betray my friend; may to succeeding times, Engraved on plates of adamant, my crimes Stand blazing forth, whilst, mark'd with envious blot, Each little act of virtue is forgot; Of all those evils which, to stamp men cursed, Hell keeps in store for vengeance, may the worst Light on my head; and in my day of woe, To make the cup of bitterness o'erflow, May I be scorn'd by every man of worth, Wander, like Cain, a vagabond on earth; Bearing about a hell in my own mind, 134 Or be to Scotland for my life confined; If I am one among the many known Whom Shelburne fled, and Calcraft blush'd to own. _L_. Do you reflect what men you make your foes? _C_. I do, and that's the reason I oppose. Friends I have made, whom Envy must commend, But not one foe whom I would wish a friend. What if ten thousand Butes and Hollands bawl? One Wilkes had made a large amends for all. 'Tis not the title, whether handed down From age to age, or flowing from the crown In copious streams, on recent men, who came From stems unknown, and sires without a name: Tis not the star which our great Edward gave To mark the virtuous, and reward the brave, Blazing without, whilst a base heart within Is rotten to the core with filth and sin; 'Tis not the tinsel grandeur, taught to wait, At Custom's call, to mark a fool of state From fools of lesser note, that soul can awe, Whose pride is reason, whose defence is law. _L_. Suppose, (a thing scarce possible in art, Were it thy cue to play a common part) Suppose thy writings so well fenced in law, That Norton cannot find nor make a flaw-Hast thou not heard, that 'mongst our ancient tribes, By party warp'd, or lull'd asleep by bribes, Or trembling at the ruffian hand of Force, Law hath suspended stood, or changed its course? Art thou assured, that, for destruction ripe, Thou may'st not smart beneath the self-same gripe? What sanction hast thou, frantic in thy rhymes, Thy life, thy freedom to secure? _G_. The Times. 'Tis not on law, a system great and good, By wisdom penn'd, and bought by noblest blood, My faith relies; by wicked men and vain, Law, once abused, may be abused again. No; on our great Lawgiver I depend, Who knows and guides her to her proper end; 135 Whose royalty of nature blazes out So fierce, 'twere sin to entertain a doubt. Did tyrant Stuarts now the law dispense, (Bless'd be the hour and hand which sent them hence!) For something, or for nothing, for a word Or thought, I might be doom'd to death, unheard. Life we might all resign to lawless power, Nor think it worth the purchase of an hour; But Envy ne'er shall fix so foul a stain On the fair annals of a Brunswick's reign. If, slave to party, to revenge, or pride; If, by frail human error drawn aside, I break the law, strict rigour let her wear; 'Tis hers to punish, and 'tis mine to bear; Nor, by the voice of Justice doom'd to death Would I ask mercy with my latest breath: But, anxious only for my country's good, In which my king's, of course, is understood; Form'd on a plan with some few patriot friends, Whilst by just means I aim at noblest ends, My spirits cannot sink; though from the tomb Stern Jeffries should be placed in Mansfield's room; Though he should bring, his base designs to aid, Some black attorney, for his purpose made, And shove, whilst Decency and Law retreat, The modest Norton from his maiden seat; Though both, in ill confederates, should agree, In damned league, to torture law and me, Whilst George is king, I cannot fear endure; Not to be guilty, is to be secure. But when, in after-times, (be far removed That day!) our monarch, glorious and beloved, Sleeps with his fathers, should imperious Fate, In vengeance, with fresh Stuarts curse our state; Should they, o'erleaping every fence of law, Butcher the brave to keep tame fools in awe; Should they, by brutal and oppressive force, Divert sweet Justice from her even course; Should they, of every other means bereft, Make my right hand a witness 'gainst my left; Should they, abroad by inquisitions taught, Search out my soul, and damn me for a thought; 136 Still would I keep my course, still speak, still write, Till Death had plunged me in the shades of night. Thou God of truth, thou great, all-searching eye, To whom our thoughts, our spirits, open lie! Grant me thy strength, and in that needful hour, (Should it e'er come) when Law submits to Power, With firm resolve my steady bosom steel, Bravely to suffer, though I deeply feel. Let me, as hitherto, still draw my breath, In love with life, but not in fear of death; And if Oppression brings me to the grave, And marks me dead, she ne'er shall mark a slave. Let no unworthy marks of grief be heard, No wild laments, not one unseemly word; Let sober triumphs wait upon my bier; I won't forgive that friend who drops one tear. Whether he's ravish'd in life's early morn, Or in old age drops like an ear of corn, Full ripe he falls, on Nature's noblest plan, Who lives to Reason, and who dies a Man. ~ Charles Churchill,

118:Goblin Market MORNING and evening Maids heard the goblins cry: "Come buy our orchard fruits, Come buy, come buy: Apples and quinces, Lemons and oranges, Plump unpecked cherriesMelons and raspberries, Bloom-down-cheeked peaches, Swart-headed mulberries, Wild free-born cranberries, Crab-apples, dewberries, Pine-apples, blackberries, Apricots, strawberries-All ripe together In summer weather-Morns that pass by, Fair eves that fly; Come buy, come buy; Our grapes fresh from the vine, Pomegranates full and fine, Dates and sharp bullaces, Rare pears and greengages, Damsons and bilberries, Taste them and try: Currants and gooseberries, Bright-fire-like barberries, Figs to fill your mouth, Citrons from the South, Sweet to tongue and sound to eye, Come buy, come buy." Evening by evening Among the brookside rushes, Laura bowed her head to hear, Lizzie veiled her blushes: Crouching close together In the cooling weather, With clasping arms and cautioning lips, 168 With tingling cheeks and finger-tips. "Lie close," Laura said, Pricking up her golden head: We must not look at goblin men, We must not buy their fruits: Who knows upon what soil they fed Their hungry thirsty roots?" "Come buy," call the goblins Hobbling down the glen. "O! cried Lizzie, Laura, Laura, You should not peep at goblin men." Lizzie covered up her eyes Covered close lest they should look; Laura reared her glossy head, And whispered like the restless brook: "Look, Lizzie, look, Lizzie, Down the glen tramp little men. One hauls a basket, One bears a plate, One lugs a golden dish Of many pounds' weight. How fair the vine must grow Whose grapes are so luscious; How warm the wind must blow Through those fruit bushes." "No," said Lizzie, "no, no, no; Their offers should not charm us, Their evil gifts would harm us." She thrust a dimpled finger In each ear, shut eyes and ran: Curious Laura chose to linger Wondering at each merchant man. One had a cat's face, One whisked a tail, One tramped at a rat's pace, One crawled like a snail, One like a wombat prowled obtuse and furry, One like a ratel tumbled hurry-scurry. Lizzie heard a voice like voice of doves Cooing all together: They sounded kind and full of loves In the pleasant weather. 169 Laura stretched her gleaming neck Like a rush-imbedded swan, Like a lily from the beck, Like a moonlit poplar branch, Like a vessel at the launch When its last restraint is gone. Backwards up the mossy glen Turned and trooped the goblin men, With their shrill repeated cry, "Come buy, come buy." When they reached where Laura was They stood stock still upon the moss, Leering at each other, Brother with queer brother; Signalling each other, Brother with sly brother. One set his basket down, One reared his plate; One began to weave a crown Of tendrils, leaves, and rough nuts brown (Men sell not such in any town); One heaved the golden weight Of dish and fruit to offer her: "Come buy, come buy," was still their cry. Laura stared but did not stir, Longed but had no money: The whisk-tailed merchant bade her taste In tones as smooth as honey, The cat-faced purr'd, The rat-paced spoke a word Of welcome, and the snail-paced even was heard; One parrot-voiced and jolly Cried "Pretty Goblin" still for "Pretty Polly"; One whistled like a bird. But sweet-tooth Laura spoke in haste: "Good folk, I have no coin; To take were to purloin: I have no copper in my purse, I have no silver either, 170 And all my gold is on the furze That shakes in windy weather Above the rusty heather." "You have much gold upon your head," They answered altogether: "Buy from us with a golden curl." She clipped a precious golden lock, She dropped a tear more rare than pearl, Then sucked their fruit globes fair or red: Sweeter than honey from the rock, Stronger than man-rejoicing wine, Clearer than water flowed that juice; She never tasted such before, How should it cloy with length of use? She sucked and sucked and sucked the more Fruits which that unknown orchard bore, She sucked until her lips were sore; Then flung the emptied rinds away, But gathered up one kernel stone, And knew not was it night or day As she turned home alone. Lizzie met her at the gate Full of wise upbraidings: "Dear, you should not stay so late, Twilight is not good for maidens; Should not loiter in the glen In the haunts of goblin men. Do you not remember Jeanie, How she met them in the moonlight, Took their gifts both choice and many, Ate their fruits and wore their flowers Plucked from bowers Where summer ripens at all hours? But ever in the moonlight She pined and pined away; Sought them by night and day, Found them no more, but dwindled and grew gray; Then fell with the first snow, While to this day no grass will grow Where she lies low: I planted daisies there a year ago 171 That never blow. You should not loiter so." "Nay hush," said Laura. "Nay hush, my sister: I ate and ate my fill, Yet my mouth waters still; To-morrow night I will Buy more," and kissed her. "Have done with sorrow; I'll bring you plums to-morrow Fresh on their mother twigs, Cherries worth getting; You cannot think what figs My teeth have met in, What melons, icy-cold Piled on a dish of gold Too huge for me to hold, What peaches with a velvet nap, Pellucid grapes without one seed: Odorous indeed must be the mead Whereon they grow, and pure the wave they drink, With lilies at the brink, And sugar-sweet their sap." Golden head by golden head, Like two pigeons in one nest Folded in each other's wings, They lay down, in their curtained bed: Like two blossoms on one stem, Like two flakes of new-fallen snow, Like two wands of ivory Tipped with gold for awful kings. Moon and stars beamed in at them, Wind sang to them lullaby, Lumbering owls forbore to fly, Not a bat flapped to and fro Round their rest: Cheek to cheek and breast to breast Locked together in one nest. Early in the morning When the first cock crowed his warning, 172 Neat like bees, as sweet and busy, Laura rose with Lizzie: Fetched in honey, milked the cows, Aired and set to rights the house, Kneaded cakes of whitest wheat, Cakes for dainty mouths to eat, Next churned butter, whipped up cream, Fed their poultry, sat and sewed; Talked as modest maidens should Lizzie with an open heart, Laura in an absent dream, One content, one sick in part; One warbling for the mere bright day's delight, One longing for the night. At length slow evening came-They went with pitchers to the reedy brook; Lizzie most placid in her look, Laura most like a leaping flame. They drew the gurgling water from its deep Lizzie plucked purple and rich golden flags, Then turning homeward said: "The sunset flushes Those furthest loftiest crags; Come, Laura, not another maiden lags, No wilful squirrel wags, The beasts and birds are fast asleep." But Laura loitered still among the rushes And said the bank was steep. And said the hour was early still, The dew not fallen, the wind not chill: Listening ever, but not catching The customary cry, "Come buy, come buy," With its iterated jingle Of sugar-baited words: Not for all her watching Once discerning even one goblin Racing, whisking, tumbling, hobbling; Let alone the herds That used to tramp along the glen, In groups or single, 173 Of brisk fruit-merchant men. Till Lizzie urged, "O Laura, come, I hear the fruit-call, but I dare not look: You should not loiter longer at this brook: Come with me home. The stars rise, the moon bends her arc, Each glow-worm winks her spark, Let us get home before the night grows dark; For clouds may gather even Though this is summer weather, Put out the lights and drench us through; Then if we lost our way what should we do?" Laura turned cold as stone To find her sister heard that cry alone, That goblin cry, "Come buy our fruits, come buy." Must she then buy no more such dainty fruit? Must she no more such succous pasture find, Gone deaf and blind? Her tree of life drooped from the root: She said not one word in her heart's sore ache; But peering thro' the dimness, naught discerning, Trudged home, her pitcher dripping all the way; So crept to bed, and lay Silent 'til Lizzie slept; Then sat up in a passionate yearning, And gnashed her teeth for balked desire, and wept As if her heart would break. Day after day, night after night, Laura kept watch in vain, In sullen silence of exceeding pain. She never caught again the goblin cry: "Come buy, come buy," She never spied the goblin men Hawking their fruits along the glen: But when the noon waxed bright Her hair grew thin and gray; She dwindled, as the fair full moon doth turn To swift decay, and burn 174 Her fire away. One day remembering her kernel-stone She set it by a wall that faced the south; Dewed it with tears, hoped for a root, Watched for a waxing shoot, But there came none; It never saw the sun, It never felt the trickling moisture run: While with sunk eyes and faded mouth She dreamed of melons, as a traveller sees False waves in desert drouth With shade of leaf-crowned trees, And burns the thirstier in the sandful breeze. She no more swept the house, Tended the fowls or cows, Fetched honey, kneaded cakes of wheat, Brought water from the brook: But sat down listless in the chimney-nook And would not eat. Tender Lizzie could not bear To watch her sister's cankerous care, Yet not to share. She night and morning Caught the goblins' cry: "Come buy our orchard fruits, Come buy, come buy." Beside the brook, along the glen She heard the tramp of goblin men, The voice and stir Poor Laura could not hear; Longed to buy fruit to comfort her, But feared to pay too dear. She thought of Jeanie in her grave, Who should have been a bride; But who for joys brides hope to have Fell sick and died In her gay prime, In earliest winter-time, 175 With the first glazing rime, With the first snow-fall of crisp winter-time. Till Laura, dwindling, Seemed knocking at Death's door: Then Lizzie weighed no more Better and worse, But put a silver penny in her purse, Kissed Laura, crossed the heath with clumps of furze At twilight, halted by the brook, And for the first time in her life Began to listen and look. Laughed every goblin When they spied her peeping: Came towards her hobbling, Flying, running, leaping, Puffing and blowing, Chuckling, clapping, crowing, Clucking and gobbling, Mopping and mowing, Full of airs and graces, Pulling wry faces, Demure grimaces, Cat-like and rat-like, Ratel and wombat-like, Snail-paced in a hurry, Parrot-voiced and whistler, Helter-skelter, hurry-skurry, Chattering like magpies, Fluttering like pigeons, Gliding like fishes, -Hugged her and kissed her; Squeezed and caressed her; Stretched up their dishes, Panniers and plates: "Look at our apples Russet and dun, Bob at our cherries Bite at our peaches, Citrons and dates, Grapes for the asking, 176 Pears red with basking Out in the sun, Plums on their twigs; Pluck them and suck them, Pomegranates, figs." "Good folk," said Lizzie, Mindful of Jeanie, "Give me much and many"; -Held out her apron, Tossed them her penny. "Nay, take a seat with us, Honor and eat with us," They answered grinning; "Our feast is but beginning. Night yet is early, Warm and dew-pearly, Wakeful and starry: Such fruits as these No man can carry; Half their bloom would fly, Half their dew would dry, Half their flavor would pass by. Sit down and feast with us, Be welcome guest with us, Cheer you and rest with us." "Thank you," said Lizzie; "but one waits At home alone for me: So, without further parleying, If you will not sell me any Of your fruits though much and many, Give me back my silver penny I tossed you for a fee." They began to scratch their pates, No longer wagging, purring, But visibly demurring, Grunting and snarling. One called her proud, Cross-grained, uncivil; Their tones waxed loud, Their looks were evil. Lashing their tails 177 They trod and hustled her, Elbowed and jostled her, Clawed with their nails, Barking, mewing, hissing, mocking, Tore her gown and soiled her stocking, Twitched her hair out by the roots, Stamped upon her tender feet, Held her hands and squeezed their fruits Against her mouth to make her eat. White and golden Lizzie stood, Like a lily in a flood, Like a rock of blue-veined stone Lashed by tides obstreperously, -Like a beacon left alone In a hoary roaring sea, Sending up a golden fire, -Like a fruit-crowned orange-tree White with blossoms honey-sweet Sore beset by wasp and bee, -Like a royal virgin town Topped with gilded dome and spire Close beleaguered by a fleet Mad to tear her standard down. One may lead a horse to water, Twenty cannot make him drink. Though the goblins cuffed and caught her, Coaxed and fought her, Bullied and besought her, Scratched her, pinched her black as ink, Kicked and knocked her, Mauled and mocked her, Lizzie uttered not a word; Would not open lip from lip Lest they should cram a mouthful in; But laughed in heart to feel the drip Of juice that syruped all her face, And lodged in dimples of her chin, And streaked her neck which quaked like curd. At last the evil people, Worn out by her resistance, 178 Flung back her penny, kicked their fruit Along whichever road they took, Not leaving root or stone or shoot. Some writhed into the ground, Some dived into the brook With ring and ripple. Some scudded on the gale without a sound, Some vanished in the distance. In a smart, ache, tingle, Lizzie went her way; Knew not was it night or day; Sprang up the bank, tore through the furze, Threaded copse and dingle, And heard her penny jingle Bouncing in her purse, -Its bounce was music to her ear. She ran and ran As if she feared some goblin man Dogged her with gibe or curse Or something worse: But not one goblin skurried after, Nor was she pricked by fear; The kind heart made her windy-paced That urged her home quite out of breath with haste And inward laughter. She cried "Laura," up the garden, "Did you miss me ? Come and kiss me. Never mind my bruises, Hug me, kiss me, suck my juices Squeezed from goblin fruits for you, Goblin pulp and goblin dew. Eat me, drink me, love me; Laura, make much of me: For your sake I have braved the glen And had to do with goblin merchant men." Laura started from her chair, Flung her arms up in the air, Clutched her hair: 179 "Lizzie, Lizzie, have you tasted For my sake the fruit forbidden? Must your light like mine be hidden, Your young life like mine be wasted, Undone in mine undoing, And ruined in my ruin; Thirsty, cankered, goblin-ridden?" She clung about her sister, Kissed and kissed and kissed her: Tears once again Refreshed her shrunken eyes, Dropping like rain After long sultry drouth; Shaking with aguish fear, and pain, She kissed and kissed her with a hungry mouth. Her lips began to scorch, That juice was wormwood to her tongue, She loathed the feast: Writhing as one possessed she leaped and sung, Rent all her robe, and wrung Her hands in lamentable haste, And beat her breast. Her locks streamed like the torch Borne by a racer at full speed, Or like the mane of horses in their flight, Or like an eagle when she stems the light Straight toward the sun, Or like a caged thing freed, Or like a flying flag when armies run. Swift fire spread through her veins, knocked at her heart, Met the fire smouldering there And overbore its lesser flame, She gorged on bitterness without a name: Ah! fool, to choose such part Of soul-consuming care! Sense failed in the mortal strife: Like the watch-tower of a town Which an earthquake shatters down, Like a lightning-stricken mast, Like a wind-uprooted tree 180 Spun about, Like a foam-topped water-spout Cast down headlong in the sea, She fell at last; Pleasure past and anguish past, Is it death or is it life ? Life out of death. That night long Lizzie watched by her, Counted her pulse's flagging stir, Felt for her breath, Held water to her lips, and cooled her face With tears and fanning leaves: But when the first birds chirped about their eaves, And early reapers plodded to the place Of golden sheaves, And dew-wet grass Bowed in the morning winds so brisk to pass, And new buds with new day Opened of cup-like lilies on the stream, Laura awoke as from a dream, Laughed in the innocent old way, Hugged Lizzie but not twice or thrice; Her gleaming locks showed not one thread of gray, Her breath was sweet as May, And light danced in her eyes. Days, weeks, months,years Afterwards, when both were wives With children of their own; Their mother-hearts beset with fears, Their lives bound up in tender lives; Laura would call the little ones And tell them of her early prime, Those pleasant days long gone Of not-returning time: Would talk about the haunted glen, The wicked, quaint fruit-merchant men, Their fruits like honey to the throat, But poison in the blood; (Men sell not such in any town;) Would tell them how her sister stood 181 In deadly peril to do her good, And win the fiery antidote: Then joining hands to little hands Would bid them cling together, "For there is no friend like a sister, In calm or stormy weather, To cheer one on the tedious way, To fetch one if one goes astray, To lift one if one totters down, To strengthen whilst one stands." ~ Christina Georgina Rossetti,

119:The Dunciad: Book Ii. High on a gorgeous seat, that far out-shone Henley's gilt tub, or Flecknoe's Irish throne, Or that where on her Curlls the public pours, All-bounteous, fragrant grains and golden showers, Great Cibber sate: the proud Parnassian sneer, The conscious simper, and the jealous leer, Mix on his look: all eyes direct their rays On him, and crowds turn coxcombs as they gaze. His peers shine round him with reflected grace, New edge their dulness, and new bronze their face. So from the sun's broad beam, in shallow urns Heaven's twinkling sparks draw light, and point their horns. Not with more glee, by hands Pontific crown'd, With scarlet hats wide-waving circled round, Rome in her Capitol saw Querno sit, Throned on seven hills, the Antichrist of wit. And now the queen, to glad her sons, proclaims By herald hawkers, high heroic games. They summon all her race: an endless band Pours forth, and leaves unpeopled half the land. A motley mixture! in long wigs, in bags, In silks, in crapes, in garters, and in rags, From drawing-rooms, from colleges, from garrets, On horse, on foot, in hacks, and gilded chariots: All who true dunces in her cause appear'd, And all who knew those dunces to reward. Amid that area wide they took their stand, Where the tall maypole once o'er-looked the Strand, But now (so Anne and piety ordain) A church collects the saints of Drury Lane. With authors, stationers obey'd the call, (The field of glory is a field for all). Glory and gain the industrious tribe provoke; And gentle Dulness ever loves a joke. A poet's form she placed before their eyes, 179 And bade the nimblest racer seize the prize; No meagre, muse-rid mope, adust and thin, In a dun night-gown of his own loose skin; But such a bulk as no twelve bards could raise, Twelve starveling bards of these degenerate days. All as a partridge plump, full-fed, and fair, She form'd this image of well-bodied air; With pert flat eyes she window'd well its head; A brain of feathers, and a heart of lead; And empty words she gave, and sounding strain, But senseless, lifeless! idol void and vain! Never was dash'd out, at one lucky hit, A fool, so just a copy of a wit; So like, that critics said, and courtiers swore, A wit it was, and call'd the phantom More. All gaze with ardour: some a poet's name, Others a sword-knot and laced suit inflame. But lofty Lintot in the circle rose: 'This prize is mine; who tempt it are my foes; With me began this genius, and shall end.' He spoke: and who with Lintot shall contend? Fear held them mute. Alone, untaught to fear, Stood dauntless Curll: 'Behold that rival here! The race by vigour, not by vaunts is won; So take the hindmost Hell.' He said, and run. Swift as a bard the bailiff leaves behind, He left huge Lintot, and out-stripp'd the wind. As when a dab-chick waddles through the copse On feet and wings, and flies, and wades, and hops: So labouring on, with shoulders, hands, and head, Wide as a wind-mill all his figure spread, With arms expanded Bernard rows his state, And left-legg'd Jacob seems to emulate. Full in the middle way there stood a lake, Which Curll's Corinna chanced that morn to make: (Such was her wont, at early dawn to drop Her evening cates before his neighbour's shop,) Here fortuned Curll to slide; loud shout the band, And Bernard! Bernard! rings through all the Strand. Obscene with filth the miscreant lies bewray'd, Fallen in the plash his wickedness had laid: 180 Then first (if poets aught of truth declare) The caitiff vaticide conceived a prayer: 'Hear, Jove! whose name my bards and I adore, As much at least as any god's, or more; And him and his if more devotion warms, Down with the Bible, up with the Pope's arms.' A place there is, betwixt earth, air, and seas, Where, from Ambrosia, Jove retires for ease. There in his seat two spacious vents appear, On this he sits, to that he leans his ear, And hears the various vows of fond mankind; Some beg an eastern, some a western wind: All vain petitions, mounting to the sky, With reams abundant this abode supply; Amused he reads, and then returns the bills Sign'd with that ichor which from gods distils. In office here fair Cloacina stands, And ministers to Jove with purest hands. Forth from the heap she pick'd her votary's prayer, And placed it next him, a distinction rare! Oft had the goddess heard her servant's call, From her black grottos near the Temple-wall, Listening delighted to the jest unclean Of link-boys vile, and watermen obscene; Where as he fish'd her nether realms for wit, She oft had favour'd him, and favours yet. Renew'd by ordure's sympathetic force, As oil'd with magic juices for the course, Vigorous he rises; from the effluvia strong Imbibes new life, and scours and stinks along; Repasses Lintot, vindicates the race, Nor heeds the brown dishonours of his face. And now the victor stretch'd his eager hand Where the tall Nothing stood, or seem'd to stand; A shapeless shade, it melted from his sight, Like forms in clouds, or visions of the night. To seize his papers, Curll, was next thy care; His papers light, fly diverse, toss'd in air; Songs, sonnets, epigrams the winds uplift, 181 And whisk them back to Evans, Young, and Swift. The embroider'd suit at least he deem'd his prey, That suit an unpaid tailor snatch'd away. No rag, no scrap, of all the beau, or wit, That once so flutter'd, and that once so writ. Heaven rings with laughter: of the laughter vain, Dulness, good queen, repeats the jest again. Three wicked imps, of her own Grub Street choir, She deck'd like Congreve, Addison, and Prior; Mears, Warner, Wilkins run: delusive thought! Breval, Bond, Bezaleel, the varlets caught. Curll stretches after Gay, but Gay is gone, He grasps an empty Joseph for a John: So Proteus, hunted in a nobler shape, Became, when seized, a puppy, or an ape. To him the goddess: 'Son! thy grief lay down, And turn this whole illusion on the town: As the sage dame, experienced in her trade, By names of toasts retails each batter'd jade; (Whence hapless Monsieur much complains at Paris Of wrongs from duchesses and Lady Maries Be thine, my stationer! this magic gift; Cook shall be Prior, and Concanen, Swift: So shall each hostile name become our own, And we too boast our Garth and Addison.' With that she gave him (piteous of his case, Yet smiling at his rueful length of face) A shaggy tapestry, worthy to be spread On Codrus' old, or Dunton's modern bed; Instructive work! whose wry-mouth'd portraiture Display'd the fates her confessors endure. Earless on high, stood unabash'd Defoe, And Tutchin flagrant from the scourge below. There Ridpath, Roper, cudgell'd might ye view, The very worsted still look'd black and blue. Himself among the storied chiefs he spies, As, from the blanket, high in air he flies, And oh! (he cried) what street, what lane but knows Our purgings, pumpings, blanketings, and blows? 182 In every loom our labours shall be seen, And the fresh vomit run for ever green! See in the circle next, Eliza placed, Two babes of love close clinging to her waist; Fair as before her works she stands confess'd, In flowers and pearls by bounteous Kirkall dress'd. The goddess then: 'Who best can send on high The salient spout, far-streaming to the sky; His be yon Juno of majestic size, With cow-like udders, and with ox-like eyes. This China Jordan let the chief o'ercome Replenish, not ingloriously, at home.' Osborne and Curll accept the glorious strife, (Though this his son dissuades, and that his wife One on his manly confidence relies, One on his vigour and superior size. First Osborne lean'd against his letter'd post; It rose, and labour'd to a curve at most. So Jove's bright bow displays its watery round (Sure sign, that no spectator shall be drown'd), A second effort brought but new disgrace, The wild meander wash'd the artist's face: Thus the small jet, which hasty hands unlock, Spurts in the gardener's eyes who turns the cock. Not so from shameless Curll; impetuous spread The stream, and smoking flourish'd o'er his head. So (famed like thee for turbulence and horns) Eridanus his humble fountain scorns; Through half the heavens he pours the exalted urn; His rapid waters in their passage burn. Swift as it mounts, all follow with their eyes: Still happy impudence obtains the prize. Thou triumph'st, victor of the high-wrought day, And the pleased dame, soft-smiling, lead'st away. Osborne, through perfect modesty o'ercome, Crown'd with the Jordan, walks contented home. But now for authors nobler palms remain; Room for my lord! three jockeys in his train; 183 Six huntsmen with a shout precede his chair: He grins, and looks broad nonsense with a stare. His honour's meaning Dulness thus express'd, 'He wins this patron, who can tickle best.' He chinks his purse, and takes his seat of state: With ready quills the dedicators wait; Now at his head the dext'rous task commence, And, instant, fancy feels the imputed sense; Now gentle touches wanton o'er his face, He struts Adonis, and affects grimace: Rolli the feather to his ear conveys, Then his nice taste directs our operas: Bentley his mouth with classic flattery opes, And the puff'd orator bursts out in tropes. But Welsted most the poet's healing balm Strives to extract from his soft, giving palm; Unlucky Welsted! thy unfeeling master, The more thou ticklest, gripes his fist the faster. While thus each hand promotes the pleasing pain, And quick sensations skip from vein to vein; A youth unknown to Phoebus, in despair, Puts his last refuge all in Heaven and prayer. What force have pious vows! The Queen of Love Her sister sends, her votaress, from above. As taught by Venus, Paris learn'd the art To touch Achilles' only tender part; Secure, through her, the noble prize to carry, He marches off, his Grace's secretary. 'Now turn to different sports (the goddess cries), And learn, my sons, the wondrous power of noise. To move, to raise, to ravish every heart, With Shakspeare's nature, or with Jonson's art, Let others aim: 'tis yours to shake the soul With thunder rumbling from the mustard bowl, With horns and trumpets now to madness swell, Now sink in sorrows with a tolling bell; Such happy arts attention can command, When fancy flags, and sense is at a stand. Improve we these. Three cat-calls be the bribe 184 Of him whose chattering shames the monkey tribe: And his this drum whose hoarse heroic bass Drowns the loud clarion of the braying ass.' Now thousand tongues are heard in one loud din: The monkey-mimics rush discordant in; 'Twas chattering, grinning, mouthing, jabbering all, And noise and Norton, brangling and Breval, Dennis and dissonance, and captious art, And snip-snap short, and interruption smart, And demonstration thin, and theses thick, And major, minor, and conclusion quick. 'Hold' (cried the queen) 'a cat-call each shall win; Equal your merits! equal is your din! But that this well-disputed game may end, Sound forth, nay brayers, and the welkin rend.' As when the long-ear'd milky mothers wait At some sick miser's triple-bolted gate, For their defrauded, absent foals they make A moan so loud, that all the guild awake; Sore sighs Sir Gilbert, starting at the bray, From dreams of millions, and three groats to pay. So swells each windpipe; ass intones to ass, Harmonic twang! of leather, horn, and brass; Such as from labouring lungs the enthusiast blows, High sound, attemper'd to the vocal nose, Or such as bellow from the deep divine; There, Webster! peal'd thy voice, and, Whitfield! thine. But far o'er all, sonorous Blackmore's strain; Walls, steeples, skies, bray back to him again. In Tottenham fields, the brethren, with amaze, Prick all their ears up, and forget to graze; 'Long Chancery Lane retentive rolls the sound, And courts to courts return it round and round; Thames wafts it thence to Rufus' roaring hall, And Hungerford re-echoes bawl for bawl. All hail him victor in both gifts of song, Who sings so loudly, and who sings so long. This labour past, by Bridewell all descend, (As morning prayer, and flagellation end) 185 To where Fleet-ditch with disemboguing streams Rolls the large tribute of dead dogs to Thames, The king of dikes! than whom no sluice of mud With deeper sable blots the silver flood. 'Here strip, my children! here at once leap in, Here prove who best can dash through thick and thin, And who the most in love of dirt excel, Or dark dexterity of groping well. Who flings most filth, and wide pollutes around The stream, be his the weekly journals bound; A pig of lead to him who dives the best; A peck of coals a-piece shall glad the rest.' In naked majesty Oldmixon stands, And, Milo-like, surveys his arms and hands; Then sighing, thus, 'And am I now threescore? Ah why, ye gods! should two and two make four?' He said, and climb'd a stranded lighter's height, Shot to the black abyss, and plunged downright. The senior's judgment all the crowd admire, Who but to sink the deeper, rose the higher. Next Smedley dived; slow circles dimpled o'er The quaking mud, that closed, and oped no more. All look, all sigh, and call on Smedley lost; 'Smedley!' in vain, resounds through all the coast. Then Hill essay'd; scarce vanish'd out of sight, He buoys up instant, and returns to light: He bears no token of the sable streams, And mounts far off among the swans of Thames. True to the bottom, see Concanen creep, A cold, long-winded, native of the deep: If perseverance gain the diver's prize, Not everlasting Blackmore this denies: No noise, no stir, no motion can'st thou make, The unconscious stream sleeps o'er thee like a lake. Next plunged a feeble, but a desperate pack, With each a sickly brother at his back: Sons of a day! just buoyant on the flood, 186 Then number'd with the puppies in the mud. Ask ye their names? I could as soon disclose The names of these blind puppies as of those. Fast by, like Niobe (her children gone) Sits Mother Osborne, stupified to stone! And monumental brass this record bears, 'These are,-ah no! these were, the gazetteers!' Not so bold Arnall; with a weight of skull, Furious he dives, precipitately dull. Whirlpools and storms his circling arm invest, With all the might of gravitation bless'd. No crab more active in the dirty dance, Downward to climb, and backward to advance. He brings up half the bottom on his head, And loudly claims the journals and the lead. The plunging Prelate, and his ponderous Grace, With holy envy gave one layman place. When, lo! a burst of thunder shook the flood, Slow rose a form, in majesty of mud: Shaking the horrors of his sable brows, And each ferocious feature grim with ooze. Greater he looks, and more than mortal stares: Then thus the wonders of the deep declares. First he relates, how sinking to the chin, Smit with his mien, the mud-nymphs suck'd him in: How young Lutetia, softer than the down, Nigrina black, and Merdamante brown, Vied for his love in jetty bowers below, As Hylas fair was ravish'd long ago. Then sung, how, shown him by the nut-brown maids; A branch of Styx here rises from the shades, That, tinctured as it runs with Lethe's streams, And wafting vapours from the land of dreams, (As under seas Alpheus' secret sluice Bears Pisa's offerings to his Arethuse,) Pours into Thames: and hence the mingled wave Intoxicates the pert, and lulls the grave: Here brisker vapours o'er the Temple creep, There, all from Paul's to Aldgate drink and sleep. 187 Thence to the banks where reverend bards repose, They led him soft; each reverend bard arose; And Milbourn chief, deputed by the rest, Gave him the cassock, surcingle, and vest. 'Receive (he said) these robes which once were mine, Dulness is sacred in a sound divine.' He ceased, and spread the robe; the crowd confess The reverend Flamen in his lengthen'd dress. Around him wide a sable army stand, A low-born, cell-bred, selfish, servile band, Prompt or to guard or stab, to saint or damn, Heaven's Swiss, who fight for any god, or man. Through Lud's famed gates, along the well-known Fleet Rolls the black troop, and overshades the street, Till showers of sermons, characters, essays, In circling fleeces whiten all the ways: So clouds replenish'd from some bog below, Mount in dark volumes, and descend in snow. Here stopp'd the goddess; and in pomp proclaims A gentler exercise to close the games. 'Ye critics! in whose heads, as equal scales, I weigh what author's heaviness prevails, Which most conduce to soothe the soul in slumbers, My Henley's periods, or my Blackmore's numbers, Attend the trial we propose to make: If there be man, who o'er such works can wake, Sleep's all-subduing charms who dares defy, And boasts Ulysses' ear with Argus' eye; To him we grant our amplest powers to sit Judge of all present, past, and future wit; To cavil, censure, dictate, right or wrong, Full and eternal privilege of tongue.' Three college Sophs, and three pert Templars came, The same their talents, and their tastes the same; Each prompt to query, answer, and debate, And smit with love of poesy and prate. The ponderous books two gentle readers bring; The heroes sit, the vulgar form a ring. 188 The clamorous crowd is hush'd with mugs of mum, Till all, tuned equal, send a general hum. Then mount the clerks, and in one lazy tone Through the long, heavy, painful page drawl on; Soft creeping, words on words, the sense compose, At every line they stretch, they yawn, they doze. As to soft gales top-heavy pines bow low Their heads, and lift them as they cease to blow, Thus oft they rear, and oft the head decline, As breathe, or pause, by fits, the airs divine; And now to this side, now to that they nod, As verse or prose infuse the drowsy god. Thrice Budgell aim'd to speak, but thrice suppress'd By potent Arthur, knock'd his chin and breast. Toland and Tindal, prompt at priests to jeer, Yet silent bow'd to Christ's no kingdom here. Who sate the nearest, by the words o'ercome, Slept first; the distant nodded to the hum. Then down are roll'd the books; stretch'd o'er 'em lies Each gentle clerk, and, muttering, seals his eyes, As what a Dutchman plumps into the lakes, One circle first, and then a second makes; What Dulness dropp'd among her sons impress'd Like motion from one circle to the rest; So from the midmost the nutation spreads Round and more round, o'er all the sea of heads. At last Centlivre felt her voice to fail, Motteux himself unfinished left his tale, Boyer the state, and Law the stage gave o'er, Morgan and Mandeville could prate no more; Norton, from Daniel and Ostroea sprung, Bless'd with his father's front and mother's tongue, Hung silent down his never-blushing head; And all was hush'd, as Polly's self lay dead. Thus the soft gifts of sleep conclude the day, And stretch'd on bulks, as usual, poets lay. Why should I sing what bards the nightly Muse Did slumbering visit, and convey to stews; Who prouder march'd, with magistrates in state, To some famed round-house, ever open gate! How Henley lay inspired beside a sink, 189 And to mere mortals seem'd a priest in drink; While others, timely, to the neighbouring Fleet (Haunt of the Muses!) made their safe retreat? ~ Alexander Pope,

120:Swift as a spirit hastening to his task Of glory & of good, the Sun sprang forth Rejoicing in his splendour, & the mask Of darkness fell from the awakened Earth. The smokeless altars of the mountain snows Flamed above crimson clouds, & at the birth Of light, the Ocean's orison arose To which the birds tempered their matin lay, All flowers in field or forest which unclose Their trembling eyelids to the kiss of day, Swinging their censers in the element, With orient incense lit by the new ray Burned slow & inconsumably, & sent Their odorous sighs up to the smiling air, And in succession due, did Continent, Isle, Ocean, & all things that in them wear The form & character of mortal mould Rise as the Sun their father rose, to bear Their portion of the toil which he of old Took as his own & then imposed on them; But I, whom thoughts which must remain untold Had kept as wakeful as the stars that gem The cone of night, now they were laid asleep, Stretched my faint limbs beneath the hoary stem Which an old chestnut flung athwart the steep Of a green Apennine: before me fled The night; behind me rose the day; the Deep Was at my feet, & Heaven above my head When a strange trance over my fancy grew Which was not slumber, for the shade it spread Was so transparent that the scene came through As clear as when a veil of light is drawn O'er evening hills they glimmer; and I knew That I had felt the freshness of that dawn, Bathed in the same cold dew my brow & hair And sate as thus upon that slope of lawn Under the self same bough, & heard as there The birds, the fountains & the Ocean hold Sweet talk in music through the enamoured air. And then a Vision on my brain was rolled. As in that trance of wondrous thought I lay This was the tenour of my waking dream. Methought I sate beside a public way Thick strewn with summer dust, & a great stream Of people there was hurrying to & fro Numerous as gnats upon the evening gleam, All hastening onward, yet none seemed to know Whither he went, or whence he came, or why He made one of the multitude, yet so Was borne amid the crowd as through the sky One of the million leaves of summer's bier. Old age & youth, manhood & infancy, Mixed in one mighty torrent did appear, Some flying from the thing they feared & some Seeking the object of another's fear, And others as with steps towards the tomb Pored on the trodden worms that crawled beneath, And others mournfully within the gloom Of their own shadow walked, and called it death   And some fled from it as it were a ghost, Half fainting in the affliction of vain breath. But more with motions which each other crost Pursued or shunned the shadows the clouds threw Or birds within the noonday ether lost, Upon that path where flowers never grew; And weary with vain toil & faint for thirst Heard not the fountains whose melodious dew Out of their mossy cells forever burst Nor felt the breeze which from the forest told Of grassy paths, & wood lawns interspersed With overarching elms & caverns cold, And violet banks where sweet dreams brood, but they Pursued their serious folly as of old. And as I gazed methought that in the way The throng grew wilder, as the woods of June When the South wind shakes the extinguished day. And a cold glare, intenser than the noon But icy cold, obscured with [[blank]] light The Sun as he the stars. Like the young moon When on the sunlit limits of the night Her white shell trembles amid crimson air And whilst the sleeping tempest gathers might Doth, as a herald of its coming, bear The ghost of her dead Mother, whose dim form Bends in dark ether from her infant's chair, So came a chariot on the silent storm Of its own rushing splendour, and a Shape So sate within as one whom years deform Beneath a dusky hood & double cape Crouching within the shadow of a tomb, And o'er what seemed the head, a cloud like crape, Was bent a dun & faint etherial gloom Tempering the light; upon the chariot's beam A Janus-visaged Shadow did assume The guidance of that wonder-winged team. The Shapes which drew it in thick lightnings Were lost: I heard alone on the air's soft stream The music of their ever moving wings. All the four faces of that charioteer Had their eyes banded . . . little profit brings Speed in the van & blindness in the rear, Nor then avail the beams that quench the Sun Or that his banded eyes could pierce the sphere Of all that is, has been, or will be done. So ill was the car guided, but it past With solemn speed majestically on . . . The crowd gave way, & I arose aghast, Or seemed to rise, so mighty was the trance, And saw like clouds upon the thunder blast The million with fierce song and maniac dance Raging around; such seemed the jubilee As when to greet some conqueror's advance Imperial Rome poured forth her living sea From senatehouse & prison & theatre When Freedom left those who upon the free Had bound a yoke which soon they stooped to bear. Nor wanted here the true similitude Of a triumphal pageant, for where'er The chariot rolled a captive multitude Was driven; althose who had grown old in power Or misery,all who have their age subdued, By action or by suffering, and whose hour Was drained to its last sand in weal or woe, So that the trunk survived both fruit & flower; All those whose fame or infamy must grow Till the great winter lay the form & name Of their own earth with them forever low, All but the sacred few who could not tame Their spirits to the Conqueror, but as soon As they had touched the world with living flame Fled back like eagles to their native noon, Of those who put aside the diadem Of earthly thrones or gems, till the last one Were there;for they of Athens & Jerusalem Were neither mid the mighty captives seen Nor mid the ribald crowd that followed them Or fled before . . Now swift, fierce & obscene The wild dance maddens in the van, & those Who lead it, fleet as shadows on the green, Outspeed the chariot & without repose Mix with each other in tempestuous measure To savage music. Wilder as it grows, They, tortured by the agonizing pleasure, Convulsed & on the rapid whirlwinds spun Of that fierce spirit, whose unholy leisure Was soothed by mischief since the world begun, Throw back their heads & loose their streaming hair, And in their dance round her who dims the Sun Maidens & youths fling their wild arms in air As their feet twinkle; they recede, and now Bending within each other's atmosphere Kindle invisibly; and as they glow Like moths by light attracted & repelled, Oft to new bright destruction come & go. Till like two clouds into one vale impelled That shake the mountains when their lightnings mingle And die in rain,the fiery band which held Their natures, snaps . . . ere the shock cease to tingle One falls and then another in the path Senseless, nor is the desolation single, Yet ere I can say where the chariot hath Past over them; nor other trace I find But as of foam after the Ocean's wrath Is spent upon the desert shore.Behind, Old men, and women foully disarrayed Shake their grey hair in the insulting wind, Limp in the dance & strain, with limbs decayed, Seeking to reach the light which leaves them still Farther behind & deeper in the shade. But not the less with impotence of will They wheel, though ghastly shadows interpose Round them & round each other, and fulfill Their work and to the dust whence they arose Sink & corruption veils them as they lie And frost in these performs what fire in those. Struck to the heart by this sad pageantry, Half to myself I said, "And what is this? Whose shape is that within the car? & why"- I would have added"is all here amiss?" But a voice answered . . "Life" . . . I turned & knew (O Heaven have mercy on such wretchedness!) That what I thought was an old root which grew To strange distortion out of the hill side Was indeed one of that deluded crew, And that the grass which methought hung so wide And white, was but his thin discoloured hair, And that the holes it vainly sought to hide Were or had been eyes."lf thou canst forbear To join the dance, which I had well forborne," Said the grim Feature, of my thought aware, "I will now tell that which to this deep scorn Led me & my companions, and relate The progress of the pageant since the morn; "If thirst of knowledge doth not thus abate, Follow it even to the night, but I Am weary" . . . Then like one who with the weight Of his own words is staggered, wearily He paused, and ere he could resume, I cried, "First who art thou?" . . . "Before thy memory "I feared, loved, hated, suffered, did, & died, And if the spark with which Heaven lit my spirit Earth had with purer nutriment supplied "Corruption would not now thus much inherit Of what was once Rousseaunor this disguise Stained that within which still disdains to wear it. "If I have been extinguished, yet there rise A thousand beacons from the spark I bore." "And who are those chained to the car?" "The Wise, "The great, the unforgotten: they who wore Mitres & helms & crowns, or wreathes of light, Signs of thought's empire over thought; their lore "Taught them not thisto know themselves; their might Could not repress the mutiny within, And for the morn of truth they feigned, deep night "Caught them ere evening." "Who is he with chin Upon his breast and hands crost on his chain?" "The Child of a fierce hour; he sought to win "The world, and lost all it did contain Of greatness, in its hope destroyed; & more Of fame & peace than Virtue's self can gain "Without the opportunity which bore Him on its eagle's pinion to the peak From which a thousand climbers have before "Fall'n as Napoleon fell."I felt my cheek Alter to see the great form pass away Whose grasp had left the giant world so weak That every pigmy kicked it as it lay And much I grieved to think how power & will In opposition rule our mortal day And why God made irreconcilable Good & the means of good; and for despair I half disdained mine eye's desire to fill With the spent vision of the times that were And scarce have ceased to be . . . "Dost thou behold," Said then my guide, "those spoilers spoiled, Voltaire, "Frederic, & Kant, Catherine, & Leopold, Chained hoary anarch, demagogue & sage Whose name the fresh world thinks already old "For in the battle Life & they did wage She remained conquerorI was overcome By my own heart alone, which neither age "Nor tears nor infamy nor now the tomb Could temper to its object.""Let them pass" I cried"the world & its mysterious doom "Is not so much more glorious than it was That I desire to worship those who drew New figures on its false & fragile glass "As the old faded.""Figures ever new Rise on the bubble, paint them how you may; We have but thrown, as those before us threw, "Our shadows on it as it past away. But mark, how chained to the triumphal chair The mighty phantoms of an elder day "All that is mortal of great Plato there Expiates the joy & woe his master knew not; That star that ruled his doom was far too fair "And Life, where long that flower of Heaven grew not, Conquered the heart by love which gold or pain Or age or sloth or slavery could subdue not "And near [[blank]] walk the [[blank]] twain, The tutor & his pupil, whom Dominion Followed as tame as vulture in a chain. "The world was darkened beneath either pinion Of him whom from the flock of conquerors Fame singled as her thunderbearing minion; "The other long outlived both woes & wars, Throned in new thoughts of men, and still had kept The jealous keys of truth's eternal doors "If Bacon's spirit [[blank]] had not leapt Like lightning out of darkness; he compelled The Proteus shape of Nature's as it slept "To wake & to unbar the caves that held The treasure of the secrets of its reign See the great bards of old who inly quelled "The passions which they sung, as by their strain May well be known: their living melody Tempers its own contagion to the vein "Of those who are infected with itI Have suffered what I wrote, or viler pain! "And so my words were seeds of misery Even as the deeds of others.""Not as theirs," I saidhe pointed to a company In which I recognized amid the heirs Of Caesar's crime from him to Constantine, The Anarchs old whose force & murderous snares Had founded many a sceptre bearing line And spread the plague of blood & gold abroad, And Gregory & John and men divine Who rose like shadows between Man & god Till that eclipse, still hanging under Heaven, Was worshipped by the world o'er which they strode For the true Sun it quenched."Their power was given But to destroy," replied the leader"I Am one of those who have created, even "If it be but a world of agony." "Whence camest thou & whither goest thou? How did thy course begin," I said, "& why? "Mine eyes are sick of this perpetual flow Of people, & my heart of one sad thought. Speak.""Whence I came, partly I seem to know, "And how & by what paths I have been brought To this dread pass, methinks even thou mayst guess; Why this should be my mind can compass not; "Whither the conqueror hurries me still less. But follow thou, & from spectator turn Actor or victim in this wretchedness, "And what thou wouldst be taught I then may learn From thee.Now listen . . . In the April prime When all the forest tops began to burn "With kindling green, touched by the azure clime Of the young year, I found myself asleep Under a mountain which from unknown time "Had yawned into a cavern high & deep, And from it came a gentle rivulet Whose water like clear air in its calm sweep "Bent the soft grass & kept for ever wet The stems of the sweet flowers, and filled the grove With sound which all who hear must needs forget "All pleasure & all pain, all hate & love, Which they had known before that hour of rest: A sleeping mother then would dream not of "The only child who died upon her breast At eventide, a king would mourn no more The crown of which his brow was dispossest "When the sun lingered o'er the Ocean floor To gild his rival's new prosperity. Thou wouldst forget thus vainly to deplore "Ills, which if ills, can find no cure from thee, The thought of which no other sleep will quell Nor other music blot from memory "So sweet & deep is the oblivious spell. Whether my life had been before that sleep The Heaven which I imagine, or a Hell "Like this harsh world in which I wake to weep, I know not. I arose & for a space The scene of woods & waters seemed to keep, "Though it was now broad day, a gentle trace Of light diviner than the common Sun Sheds on the common Earth, but all the place "Was filled with many sounds woven into one Oblivious melody, confusing sense Amid the gliding waves & shadows dun; "And as I looked the bright omnipresence Of morning through the orient cavern flowed, And the Sun's image radiantly intense "Burned on the waters of the well that glowed Like gold, and threaded all the forest maze With winding paths of emerald firethere stood "Amid the sun, as he amid the blaze Of his own glory, on the vibrating Floor of the fountain, paved with flashing rays, "A shape all light, which with one hand did fling Dew on the earth, as if she were the Dawn Whose invisible rain forever seemed to sing "A silver music on the mossy lawn, And still before her on the dusky grass Iris her many coloured scarf had drawn. "In her right hand she bore a crystal glass Mantling with bright Nepenthe;the fierce splendour Fell from her as she moved under the mass "Of the deep cavern, & with palms so tender Their tread broke not the mirror of its billow, Glided along the river, and did bend her "Head under the dark boughs, till like a willow Her fair hair swept the bosom of the stream That whispered with delight to be their pillow. "As one enamoured is upborne in dream O'er lily-paven lakes mid silver mist To wondrous music, so this shape might seem "Partly to tread the waves with feet which kist The dancing foam, partly to glide along The airs that roughened the moist amethyst, "Or the slant morning beams that fell among The trees, or the soft shadows of the trees; And her feet ever to the ceaseless song "Of leaves & winds & waves & birds & bees And falling drops moved in a measure new Yet sweet, as on the summer evening breeze "Up from the lake a shape of golden dew Between two rocks, athwart the rising moon, Moves up the east, where eagle never flew. "And still her feet, no less than the sweet tune To which they moved, seemed as they moved, to blot The thoughts of him who gazed on them, & soon "All that was seemed as if it had been not, As if the gazer's mind was strewn beneath Her feet like embers, & she, thought by thought, "Trampled its fires into the dust of death, As Day upon the threshold of the east Treads out the lamps of night, until the breath "Of darkness reillumines even the least Of heaven's living eyeslike day she came, Making the night a dream; and ere she ceased "To move, as one between desire and shame Suspended, I said'If, as it doth seem, Thou comest from the realm without a name, " 'Into this valley of perpetual dream, Shew whence I came, and where I am, and why Pass not away upon the passing stream.' " 'Arise and quench thy thirst,' was her reply, And as a shut lily, stricken by the wand Of dewy morning's vital alchemy, "I rose; and, bending at her sweet command, Touched with faint lips the cup she raised, And suddenly my brain became as sand "Where the first wave had more than half erased The track of deer on desert Labrador, Whilst the fierce wolf from which they fled amazed "Leaves his stamp visibly upon the shore Until the second burstsso on my sight Burst a new Vision never seen before. "And the fair shape waned in the coming light As veil by veil the silent splendour drops From Lucifer, amid the chrysolite "Of sunrise ere it strike the mountain tops And as the presence of that fairest planet Although unseen is felt by one who hopes "That his day's path may end as he began it In that star's smile, whose light is like the scent Of a jonquil when evening breezes fan it, "Or the soft note in which his dear lament The Brescian shepherd breathes, or the caress That turned his weary slumber to content. "So knew I in that light's severe excess The presence of that shape which on the stream Moved, as I moved along the wilderness, "More dimly than a day appearing dream, The ghost of a forgotten form of sleep A light from Heaven whose half extinguished beam "Through the sick day in which we wake to weep Glimmers, forever sought, forever lost. So did that shape its obscure tenour keep "Beside my path, as silent as a ghost; But the new Vision, and its cold bright car, With savage music, stunning music, crost "The forest, and as if from some dread war Triumphantly returning, the loud million Fiercely extolled the fortune of her star. "A moving arch of victory the vermilion And green & azure plumes of Iris had Built high over her wind-winged pavilion, "And underneath aetherial glory clad The wilderness, and far before her flew The tempest of the splendour which forbade Shadow to fall from leaf or stone;the crew Seemed in that light like atomies that dance Within a sunbeam.Some upon the new "Embroidery of flowers that did enhance The grassy vesture of the desart, played, Forgetful of the chariot's swift advance; "Others stood gazing till within the shade Of the great mountain its light left them dim. Others outspeeded it, and others made "Circles around it like the clouds that swim Round the high moon in a bright sea of air, And more did follow, with exulting hymn, "The chariot & the captives fettered there, But all like bubbles on an eddying flood Fell into the same track at last & were "Borne onward.I among the multitude Was swept; me sweetest flowers delayed not long, Me not the shadow nor the solitude, "Me not the falling stream's Lethean song, Me, not the phantom of that early form Which moved upon its motion,but among "The thickest billows of the living storm I plunged, and bared my bosom to the clime Of that cold light, whose airs too soon deform. "Before the chariot had begun to climb The opposing steep of that mysterious dell, Behold a wonder worthy of the rhyme "Of him whom from the lowest depths of Hell Through every Paradise & through all glory Love led serene, & who returned to tell "In words of hate & awe the wondrous story How all things are transfigured, except Love; For deaf as is a sea which wrath makes hoary "The world can hear not the sweet notes that move The sphere whose light is melody to lovers- A wonder worthy of his rhymethe grove "Grew dense with shadows to its inmost covers, The earth was grey with phantoms, & the air Was peopled with dim forms, as when there hovers "A flock of vampire-bats before the glare Of the tropic sun, bring ere evening Strange night upon some Indian isle,thus were "Phantoms diffused around, & some did fling Shadows of shadows, yet unlike themselves, Behind them, some like eaglets on the wing "Were lost in the white blaze, others like elves Danced in a thousand unimagined shapes Upon the sunny streams & grassy shelves; "And others sate chattering like restless apes On vulgar paws and voluble like fire. Some made a cradle of the ermined capes "Of kingly mantles, some upon the tiar Of pontiffs sate like vultures, others played Within the crown which girt with empire "A baby's or an idiot's brow, & made Their nests in it; the old anatomies Sate hatching their bare brood under the shade "Of demon wings, and laughed from their dead eyes To reassume the delegated power Arrayed in which these worms did monarchize "Who make this earth their charnel.Others more Humble, like falcons sate upon the fist Of common men, and round their heads did soar, "Or like small gnats & flies, as thick as mist On evening marshes, thronged about the brow Of lawyer, statesman, priest & theorist, "And others like discoloured flakes of snow On fairest bosoms & the sunniest hair Fell, and were melted by the youthful glow "Which they extinguished; for like tears, they were A veil to those from whose faint lids they rained In drops of sorrow.I became aware "Of whence those forms proceeded which thus stained The track in which we moved; after brief space From every form the beauty slowly waned, "From every firmest limb & fairest face The strength & freshness fell like dust, & left The action & the shape without the grace "Of life; the marble brow of youth was cleft With care, and in the eyes where once hope shone Desire like a lioness bereft "Of its last cub, glared ere it died; each one Of that great crowd sent forth incessantly These shadows, numerous as the dead leaves blown "In Autumn evening from a popular tree Each, like himself & like each other were, At first, but soon distorted, seemed to be "Obscure clouds moulded by the casual air; And of this stuff the car's creative ray Wrought all the busy phantoms that were there "As the sun shapes the cloudsthus, on the way Mask after mask fell from the countenance And form of all, and long before the day "Was old, the joy which waked like Heaven's glance The sleepers in the oblivious valley, died, And some grew weary of the ghastly dance "And fell, as I have fallen by the way side, Those soonest from whose forms most shadows past And least of strength & beauty did abide." "Then, what is Life?" I said . . . the cripple cast His eye upon the car which now had rolled Onward, as if that look must be the last, And answered. "Happy those for whom the fold Of Composed at Lerici on the Gulf of Spezzia in the spring and early summer of 1822 -- the poem on which Shelley was engaged at the time of his death. Published by Mrs. Shelley in the Posthumous Poems of 1824, from a MS. (now in the Bodleian library), whose corrections, omitted words, passages of unrevised improvisation, difficult hand, and long inaccessibility have so far prevented much certainty in the establishment of a text. Form: terza rima. The reference to Dante's Divine Comedy in lines 471-76 and to Petrarch's Triumphs in the title (both of which, like The Triumph of Life, are written in terza rima stanzas) suggests two probable models for the poem. 132-34. Mary Shelley's text seems impossible, but no textual authority has been adduced for amending it. Misreading or miswriting of some kind must be responsible for that apparently parallel, but conflicting, pair, "were there" and "were neither." W. M. Rossetti makes some sense out of the passage by amending "or" in 132 to "for" and "were there" in 134 to "whether", and by placing a semi-colon at the end of 131. 134. Of Athens or Jerusalem. Commentators assume that the renouncing figures of which Shelley is thinking are Socrates in Athens and Jesus in Jerusalem. But the corruption of the text here makes any interpretation doubtful. 190. Grim Feature: a reminiscence of Paradise Lost, X, 279, where it represents Death and carries the Latin meaning of "factura" or "creature." 204. Rousseau. Compare Byron's portrait of Rousseau in Childe Harold's Pilgrimage, III, lxxvii-lxxxii. 236. Frederick and Paul, Catherine and Leopold: Frederick the Great of Prussia, Czar Paul and Catherine the Great of Russia, and Leopold II of the Holy Roman Empire. 254. Plato. In the lines which follow, Shelley refers to the legend that Plato in his old age fell in love with a boy, whose name, Aster, is Greek for a star as well as for a particular (and short-lived) flower. 261. The tutor and his pupil: Aristotle and Alexander the Great. 283-84. The heirs of Caesar's crime from him to Constantine. Julius Caesar's crime was to undermine the Roman republic and prepare the way for the Roman emperors ("anarch chiefs" in 286), a procession of which up to Constantine Shelley now observes. 288. Gregory and John. "Gregory the Great is appropriate, as the true founder of the independent political power of the papacy. Which of many Johns is involved, there is no way of telling" (H. Bloom). 414. Lucifer: the Morning Star. 421-22. The soft note in which his dear lament the Brescian shepherd breathes. "The favourite song, 'Stanco di pascolar le peccorelle, [being weary of pasturing the little sheep], is a Brescian national air" (Mrs. Shelley's note). 439. Iris: classical goddess of the rainbow. 472. Him: Dante in The Divine Comedy. 544. Here the MS. breaks off. ~ Percy Bysshe Shelley, The Triumph Of Life ,

121:The Botanic Garden (Part Iv) The Economy Of Vegetation Canto IV As when at noon in Hybla's fragrant bowers CACALIA opens all her honey'd flowers; Contending swarms on bending branches cling, And nations hover on aurelian wing; So round the GODDESS, ere she speaks, on high Impatient SYLPHS in gawdy circlets fly; Quivering in air their painted plumes expand, And coloured shadows dance upon the land. I. 'SYLPHS! YOUR light troops the tropic Winds confine, And guide their streaming arrows to the Line; While in warm floods ecliptic breezes rise, And sink with wings benumb'd in colder skies. You bid Monsoons on Indian seas reside, And veer, as moves the sun, their airy tide; While southern gales o'er western oceans roll, And Eurus steals his ice-winds from the Pole. Your playful trains, on sultry islands born, Turn on fantastic toe at eve and morn; With soft susurrant voice alternate sweep Earth's green pavilions and encircling deep. OR in itinerant cohorts, borne sublime On tides of ether, float from clime to clime; O'er waving Autumn bend your airy ring, Or waft the fragrant bosom of the Spring. II. 'When Morn, escorted by the dancing Hours, O'er the bright plains her dewy lustre showers; Till from her sable chariot Eve serene Drops the dark curtain o'er the brilliant scene; You form with chemic hands the airy surge, Mix with broad vans, with shadowy tridents urge. SYLPHS! from each sun-bright leaf, that twinkling shakes O'er Earth's green lap, or shoots amid her lakes, Your playful bands with simpering lips invite, 10 And wed the enamour'd OXYGENE to LIGHT.Round their white necks with fingers interwove, Cling the fond Pair with unabating love; Hand link'd in hand on buoyant step they rise, And soar and glisten in unclouded skies. Whence in bright floods the VITAL AIR expands, And with concentric spheres involves the lands; Pervades the swarming seas, and heaving earths, Where teeming Nature broods her myriad births; Fills the fine lungs of all that breathe or bud Warms the new heart, and dyes the gushing blood; With Life's first spark inspires the organic frame, And, as it wastes, renews the subtile flame. 'So pure, so soft, with sweet attraction shone Fair PSYCHE, kneeling at the ethereal throne; Won with coy smiles the admiring court of Jove, And warm'd the bosom of unconquer'd LOVE.Beneath a moving shade of fruits and flowers Onward they march to HYMEN'S sacred bowers; With lifted torch he lights the festive train, Sublime, and leads them in his golden chain; Joins the fond pair, indulgent to their vows, And hides with mystic veil their blushing brows. Round their fair forms their mingling arms they fling, Meet with warm lip, and clasp with rustling wing.-Hence plastic Nature, as Oblivion whelms Her fading forms, repeoples all her realms; Soft Joys disport on purple plumes unfurl'd, And Love and Beauty rule the willing world. III. 1. 'SYLPHS! Your bold myriads on the withering heath Stay the fell SYROC'S suffocative breath; Arrest SIMOOM in his realms of sand, The poisoned javelin balanced in his hand;Fierce on blue streams he rides the tainted air, Points his keen eye, and waves his whistling hair; While, as he turns, the undulating soil Rolls in red waves, and billowy deserts boil. 11 You seize TORNADO by his locks of mist, Burst his dense clouds, his wheeling spires untwist; Wide o'er the West when borne on headlong gales, Dark as meridian night, the Monster sails, Howls high in air, and shakes his curled brow, Lashing with serpent-train the waves below, Whirls his black arm, the forked lightning flings, And showers a deluge from his demon-wings. 2. 'SYLPHS! with light shafts YOU pierce the drowsy FOG, That lingering slumbers on the sedge-wove bog, With webbed feet o'er midnight meadows creeps, Or flings his hairy limbs on stagnant deeps. YOU meet CONTAGION issuing from afar, And dash the baleful conqueror from his car; When, Guest of DEATH! from charnel vaults he steals, And bathes in human gore his armed wheels. 'Thus when the PLAGUE, upborne on Belgian air, Look'd through the mist and shook his clotted hair, O'er shrinking nations steer'd malignant clouds, And rain'd destruction on the gasping crouds. The beauteous AEGLE felt the venom'd dart, Slow roll'd her eye, and feebly throbb'd her heart; Each fervid sigh seem'd shorter than the last, And starting Friendship shunn'd her, as she pass'd. -With weak unsteady step the fainting Maid Seeks the cold garden's solitary shade, Sinks on the pillowy moss her drooping head, And prints with lifeless limbs her leafy bed. -On wings of Love her plighted Swain pursues, Shades her from winds, and shelters her from dews, Extends on tapering poles the canvas roof, Spreads o'er the straw-wove matt the flaxen woof, Sweet buds and blossoms on her bolster strows, And binds his kerchief round her aching brows; Sooths with soft kiss, with tender accents charms, And clasps the bright Infection in his arms.With pale and languid smiles the grateful Fair Applauds his virtues, and rewards his care; Mourns with wet cheek her fair companions fled On timorous step, or number'd with the dead; Calls to its bosom all its scatter'd rays, And pours on THYRSIS the collected blaze; 12 Braves the chill night, caressing and caress'd, And folds her Hero-lover to her breast.Less bold, LEANDER at the dusky hour Eyed, as he swam, the far love-lighted tower; Breasted with struggling arms the tossing wave, And sunk benighted in the watery grave. Less bold, TOBIAS claim'd the nuptial bed, Where seven fond Lovers by a Fiend had bled; And drove, instructed by his Angel-Guide, The enamour'd Demon from the fatal bride.-SYLPHS! while your winnowing pinions fan'd the air, And shed gay visions o'er the sleeping pair; LOVE round their couch effused his rosy breath, And with his keener arrows conquer'd DEATH. IV. 1. 'You charm'd, indulgent SYLPHS! their learned toil, And crown'd with fame your TORRICELL, and BOYLE; Taught with sweet smiles, responsive to their prayer, The spring and pressure of the viewless air. -How up exhausted tubes bright currents flow Of liquid silver from the lake below, Weigh the long column of the incumbent skies, And with the changeful moment fall and rise. -How, as in brazen pumps the pistons move, The membrane-valve sustains the weight above; Stroke follows stroke, the gelid vapour falls, And misty dew-drops dim the crystal walls; Rare and more rare expands the fluid thin, And Silence dwells with Vacancy within.So in the mighty Void with grim delight Primeval Silence reign'd with ancient Night. 2. 'SYLPHS! your soft voices, whispering from the skies, Bade from low earth the bold MONGULFIER rise; Outstretch'd his buoyant ball with airy spring, And bore the Sage on levity of wing;Where were ye, SYLPHS! when on the ethereal main Young ROSIERE launch'd, and call'd your aid in vain? Fair mounts the light balloon, by Zephyr driven, Parts the thin clouds, and sails along the heaven; Higher and yet higher the expanding bubble flies, Lights with quick flash, and bursts amid the skies.Headlong He rushes through the affrighted air 13 With limbs distorted, and dishevel'd hair, Whirls round and round, the flying croud alarms, And DEATH receives him in his sable arms!So erst with melting wax and loosen'd strings Sunk hapless ICARUS on unfaithful wings; His scatter'd plumage danced upon the wave, And sorrowing Mermaids deck'd his watery grave; O'er his pale corse their pearly sea-flowers shed, And strew'd with crimson moss his marble bed; Struck in their coral towers the pausing bell, And wide in ocean toll'd his echoing knell. V. 'SYLPHS! YOU, retiring to sequester'd bowers, Where oft your PRIESTLEY woos your airy powers, On noiseless step or quivering pinion glide, As sits the Sage with Science by his side; To his charm'd eye in gay undress appear, Or pour your secrets on his raptured ear. How nitrous Gas from iron ingots driven Drinks with red lips the purest breath of heaven; How, while Conferva from its tender hair Gives in bright bubbles empyrean air; The crystal floods phlogistic ores calcine, And the pure ETHER marries with the MINE. 'So in Sicilia's ever-blooming shade When playful PROSERPINE from CERES stray'd, Led with unwary step her virgin trains O'er Etna's steeps, and Enna's golden plains; Pluck'd with fair hand the silver-blossom'd bower, And purpled mead,-herself a fairer flower; Sudden, unseen amid the twilight glade, Rush'd gloomy DIS, and seized the trembling maid.Her starting damsels sprung from mossy seats, Dropp'd from their gauzy laps the gather'd sweets, Clung round the struggling Nymph, with piercing cries, Pursued the chariot, and invoked the skies;Pleased as he grasps her in his iron arms, Frights with soft sighs, with tender words alarms, The wheels descending roll'd in smoky rings, Infernal Cupids flapp'd their demon wings; Earth with deep yawn received the Fair, amaz'd, And far in Night celestial Beauty blaz'd. 14 VI. 'Led by the Sage, Lo! Britain's sons shall guide Huge SEA-BALLOONS beneath the tossing tide; The diving castles, roof'd with spheric glass, Ribb'd with strong oak, and barr'd with bolts of brass, Buoy'd with pure air shall endless tracks pursue, And PRIESTLEY'S hand the vital flood renew.Then shall BRITANNIA rule the wealthy realms, Which Ocean's wide insatiate wave o'erwhelms; Confine in netted bowers his scaly flocks, Part his blue plains, and people all his rocks. Deep, in warm waves beneath the Line that roll, Beneath the shadowy ice-isles of the Pole, Onward, through bright meandering vales, afar, Obedient Sharks shall trail her sceptred car, With harness'd necks the pearly flood disturb, Stretch the silk rein, and champ the silver curb; Pleased round her triumph wondering Tritons play, And Seamaids hail her on the watery way. -Oft shall she weep beneath the crystal waves O'er shipwreck'd lovers weltering in their graves; Mingling in death the Brave and Good behold With slaves to glory, and with slaves to gold; Shrin'd in the deep shall DAY and SPALDING mourn, Each in his treacherous bell, sepulchral urn!Oft o'er thy lovely daughters, hapless PIERCE! Her sighs shall breathe, her sorrows dew their hearse.With brow upturn'd to Heaven, 'WE WILL NOT PART!' He cried, and clasp'd them to his aching heart,-Dash'd in dread conflict on the rocky grounds, Crash the mock'd masts, the staggering wreck rebounds; Through gaping seams the rushing deluge swims, Chills their pale bosoms, bathes their shuddering limbs, Climbs their white shoulders, buoys their streaming hair, And the last sea-shriek bellows in the air.Each with loud sobs her tender sire caress'd, And gasping strain'd him closer to her breast!-Stretch'd on one bier they sleep beneath the brine, And their white bones with ivory arms intwine! 'VII. SYLPHS OF NICE EAR! with beating wings you guide The fine vibrations of the aerial tide; 15 Join in sweet cadences the measured words, Or stretch and modulate the trembling cords. You strung to melody the Grecian lyre, Breathed the rapt song, and fan'd the thought of fire, Or brought in combinations, deep and clear, Immortal harmony to HANDEL'S ear.YOU with soft breath attune the vernal gale, When breezy evening broods the listening vale; Or wake the loud tumultuous sounds, that dwell In Echo's many-toned diurnal shell. YOU melt in dulcet chords, when Zephyr rings The Eolian Harp, and mingle all its strings; Or trill in air the soft symphonious chime, When rapt CECILIA lifts her eye sublime, Swell, as she breathes, her bosoms rising snow, O'er her white teeth in tuneful accents slow, Through her fair lips on whispering pinions move, And form the tender sighs, that kindle love! 'So playful LOVE on Ida's flowery sides With ribbon-rein the indignant Lion guides; Pleased on his brinded back the lyre he rings, And shakes delirious rapture from the strings; Slow as the pausing Monarch stalks along, Sheaths his retractile claws, and drinks the song; Soft Nymphs on timid step the triumph view, And listening Fawns with beating hoofs pursue; With pointed ears the alarmed forest starts, And Love and Music soften savage hearts. VIII. 'SYLPHS! YOUR bold hosts, when Heaven with justice dread Calls the red tempest round the guilty head, Fierce at his nod assume vindictive forms, And launch from airy cars the vollied storms.From Ashur's vales when proud SENACHERIB trod, Pour'd his swoln heart, defied the living GOD, Urged with incessant shouts his glittering powers; And JUDAH shook through all her massy towers; Round her sad altars press'd the prostrate crowd, Hosts beat their breasts, and suppliant chieftains bow'd; Loud shrieks of matrons thrill'd the troubled air, And trembling virgins rent their scatter'd hair; High in the midst the kneeling King adored, 16 Spread the blaspheming scroll before the Lord, Raised his pale hands, and breathed his pausing sighs, And fixed on Heaven his dim imploring eyes,'Oh! MIGHTY GOD! amidst thy Seraph-throng 'Who sit'st sublime, the Judge of Right and Wrong; 'Thine the wide earth, bright sun, and starry zone, 'That twinkling journey round thy golden throne; 'Thine is the crystal source of life and light, 'And thine the realms of Death's eternal night. 'Oh, bend thine ear, thy gracious eye incline, 'Lo! Ashur's King blasphemes thy holy shrine, 'Insults our offerings, and derides our vows,-'Oh! strike the diadem from his impious brows, 'Tear from his murderous hand the bloody rod, 'And teach the trembling nations, 'THOU ART GOD!'-SYLPHS! in what dread array with pennons broad Onward ye floated o'er the ethereal road, Call'd each dank steam the reeking marsh exhales, Contagious vapours, and volcanic gales, Gave the soft South with poisonous breath to blow, And rolled the dreadful whirlwind on the foe!Hark! o'er the camp the venom'd tempest sings, Man falls on Man, on buckler buckler rings; Groan answers groan, to anguish anguish yields, And DEATH'S loud accents shake the tented fields! -High rears the Fiend his grinning jaws, and wide Spans the pale nations with colossal stride, Waves his broad falchion with uplifted hand, And his vast shadow darkens all the land. IX. 1. 'Ethereal cohorts! Essences of Air! Make the green children of the Spring your care! Oh, SYLPHS! disclose in this inquiring age One GOLDEN SECRET to some favour'd sage; Grant the charm'd talisman, the chain, that binds, Or guides the changeful pinions of the winds! -No more shall hoary Boreas, issuing forth With Eurus, lead the tempests of the North; Rime the pale Dawn, or veil'd in flaky showers Chill the sweet bosoms of the smiling Hours. By whispering Auster waked shall Zephyr rise, Meet with soft kiss, and mingle in the skies, 17 Fan the gay floret, bend the yellow ear, And rock the uncurtain'd cradle of the year; Autumn and Spring in lively union blend, And from the skies the Golden Age descend. 2. 'Castled on ice, beneath the circling Bear, A vast CAMELION spits and swallows air; O'er twelve degrees his ribs gigantic bend, And many a league his leathern jaws extend; Half-fish, beneath, his scaly volutes spread, And vegetable plumage crests his head; Huge fields of air his wrinkled skin receives, From panting gills, wide lungs, and waving leaves; Then with dread throes subsides his bloated form, His shriek the thunder, and his sigh the storm. Oft high in heaven the hissing Demon wins His towering course, upborne on winnowing fins; Steers with expanded eye and gaping mouth, His mass enormous to the affrighted South; Spreads o'er the shuddering Line his shadowy limbs, And Frost and Famine follow as he swims.SYLPHS! round his cloud-built couch your bands array, And mould the Monster to your gentle sway; Charm with soft tones, with tender touches check, Bend to your golden yoke his willing neck, With silver curb his yielding teeth restrain, And give to KIRWAN'S hand the silken rein. -Pleased shall the Sage, the dragon-wings between, Bend o'er discordant climes his eye serene, With Lapland breezes cool Arabian vales, And call to Hindostan antarctic gales, Adorn with wreathed ears Kampschatca's brows, And scatter roses on Zealandic snows, Earth's wondering Zones the genial seasons share, And nations hail him 'MONARCH OF THE AIR.' X. 1. 'SYLPHS! as you hover on ethereal wing, Brood the green children of parturient Spring!Where in their bursting cells my Embryons rest, I charge you guard the vegetable nest; Count with nice eye the myriad SEEDS, that swell Each vaulted womb of husk, or pod, or shell; Feed with sweet juices, clothe with downy hair, 18 Or hang, inshrined, their little orbs in air. 'So, late descry'd by HERSCHEL'S piercing sight, Hang the bright squadrons of the twinkling Night; Ten thousand marshall'd stars, a silver zone, Effuse their blended lustres round her throne; Suns call to suns, in lucid clouds conspire, And light exterior skies with golden fire; Resistless rolls the illimitable sphere, And one great circle forms the unmeasured year. -Roll on, YE STARS! exult in youthful prime, Mark with bright curves the printless steps of Time; Near and more near your beamy cars approach, And lessening orbs on lessening orbs encroach;Flowers of the sky! ye too to age must yield, Frail as your silken sisters of the field! Star after star from Heaven's high arch shall rush, Suns sink on suns, and systems systems crush, Headlong, extinct, to one dark centre fall, And Death and Night and Chaos mingle all! -Till o'er the wreck, emerging from the storm, Immortal NATURE lifts her changeful form, Mounts from her funeral pyre on wings of flame, And soars and shines, another and the same. 2. 'Lo! on each SEED within its slender rind Life's golden threads in endless circles wind; Maze within maze the lucid webs are roll'd, And, as they burst, the living flame unfold. The pulpy acorn, ere it swells, contains The Oak's vast branches in its milky veins; Each ravel'd bud, fine film, and fibre-line Traced with nice pencil on the small design. The young Narcissus, in it's bulb compress'd, Cradles a second nestling on its breast; In whose fine arms a younger embryon lies, Folds its thin leaves, and shuts its floret-eyes; Grain within grain successive harvests dwell, And boundless forests slumber in a shell. -So yon grey precipice, and ivy'd towers, Long winding meads, and intermingled bowers, Green files of poplars, o'er the lake that bow, And glimmering wheel, which rolls and foams below, In one bright point with nice distinction lie 19 Plan'd on the moving tablet of the eye. -So, fold on fold, Earth's wavy plains extend, And, sphere in sphere, its hidden strata bend;Incumbent Spring her beamy plumes expands O'er restless oceans, and impatient lands, With genial lustres warms the mighty ball, And the GREAT SEED evolves, disclosing ALL; LIFE buds or breathes from Indus to the Poles, And the vast surface kindles, as it rolls! 3. 'Come, YE SOFT SYLPHS! who sport on Latian land, Come, sweet-lip'd Zephyr, and Favonius bland! Teach the fine SEED, instinct with life, to shoot On Earth's cold bosom its descending root; With Pith elastic stretch its rising stem, Part the twin Lobes, expand the throbbing Gem; Clasp in your airy arms the aspiring Plume, Fan with your balmy breath its kindling bloom, Each widening scale and bursting film unfold, Swell the green cup, and tint the flower with gold; While in bright veins the silvery Sap ascends, And refluent blood in milky eddies bends; While, spread in air, the leaves respiring play, Or drink the golden quintessence of day. -So from his shell on Delta's shower-less isle Bursts into life the Monster of the Nile; First in translucent lymph with cobweb-threads The Brain's fine floating tissue swells, and spreads; Nerve after nerve the glistening spine descends, The red Heart dances, the Aorta bends; Through each new gland the purple current glides, New veins meandering drink the refluent tides; Edge over edge expands the hardening scale, And sheaths his slimy skin in silver mail. -Erewhile, emerging from the brooding sand, With Tyger-paw He prints the brineless strand, High on the flood with speckled bosom swims, Helm'd with broad tail, and oar'd with giant limbs; Rolls his fierce eye-balls, clasps his iron claws, 20 And champs with gnashing teeth his massy jaws; Old Nilus sighs along his cane-crown'd shores, And swarthy Memphis trembles and adores. XI. 'Come, YE SOFT SYLPHS! who fan the Paphian groves, And bear on sportive wings the callow Loves; Call with sweet whisper, in each gale that blows, The slumbering Snow-drop from her long repose; Charm the pale Primrose from her clay-cold bed, Unveil the bashful Violet's tremulous head; While from her bud the playful Tulip breaks, And young Carnations peep with blushing cheeks; Bid the closed Petals from nocturnal cold The virgin Style in silken curtains fold, Shake into viewless air the morning dews, And wave in light their iridescent hues; While from on high the bursting Anthers trust To the mild breezes their prolific dust; Or bend in rapture o'er the central Fair, Love out their hour, and leave their lives in air. So in his silken sepulchre the Worm, Warm'd with new life, unfolds his larva-form; Erewhile aloft in wanton circles moves, And woos on Hymen-wings his velvet loves. XII. 1. 'If prouder branches with exuberance rude Point their green gems, their barren shoots protrude; Wound them, ye SYLPHS! with little knives, or bind A wiry ringlet round the swelling rind; Bisect with chissel fine the root below, Or bend to earth the inhospitable bough. So shall each germ with new prolific power Delay the leaf-bud, and expand the flower; Closed in the Style the tender pith shall end, 21 The lengthening Wood in circling Stamens bend; The smoother Rind its soft embroidery spread In vaulted Petals o'er their fertile bed; While the rough Bark, in circling mazes roll'd, Forms the green Cup with many a wrinkled fold; And each small bud-scale spreads its foliage hard, Firm round the callow germ, a Floral Guard 2. 'Where cruder juices swell the leafy vein, Stint the young germ, the tender blossom stain; On each lop'd shoot a softer scion bind, Pith press'd to pith, and rind applied to rind, So shall the trunk with loftier crest ascend, And wide in air its happier arms extend; Nurse the new buds, admire the leaves unknown, And blushing bend with fruitage not its own. 'Thus when in holy triumph Aaron trod, And offer'd on the shrine his mystic rod; First a new bark its silken tissue weaves, New buds emerging widen into leaves; Fair fruits protrude, enascent flowers expand, And blush and tremble round the living wand. XIII. 1. 'SYLPHS! on each Oak-bud wound the wormy galls, With pigmy spears, or crush the venom'd balls; Fright the green Locust from his foamy bed, Unweave the Caterpillar's gluey thread; Chase the fierce Earwig, scare the bloated Toad, Arrest the snail upon his slimy road; Arm with sharp thorns the Sweet-brier's tender wood, And dash the Cynips from her damask bud; Steep in ambrosial dews the Woodbine's bells, And drive the Night-moth from her honey'd cells. So where the Humming-bird in Chili's bowers On murmuring pinions robs the pendent flowers; 22 Seeks, where fine pores their dulcet balm distill, And sucks the treasure with proboscis-bill; Fair CYPREPEDIA with successful guile Knits her smooth brow, extinguishes her smile; A Spiders bloated paunch and jointed arms Hide her fine form, and mask her blushing charms; In ambush sly the mimic warrior lies, And on quick wing the panting plunderer flies. 2. 'Shield the young Harvest from devouring blight, The Smut's dark poison, and the Mildew white; Deep-rooted Mould, and Ergot's horn uncouth, And break the Canker's desolating tooth. First in one point the festering wound confin'd Mines unperceived beneath the shrivel'd rin'd; Then climbs the branches with increasing strength, Spreads as they spread, and lengthens with their length; -Thus the slight wound ingraved on glass unneal'd Runs in white lines along the lucid field; Crack follows crack, to laws elastic just, And the frail fabric shivers into dust. XIV. 1. 'SYLPHS! if with morn destructive Eurus springs, O, clasp the Harebel with your velvet wings; Screen with thick leaves the Jasmine as it blows, And shake the white rime from the shuddering Rose; Whilst Amaryllis turns with graceful ease Her blushing beauties, and eludes the breeze.SYLPHS! if at noon the Fritillary droops, With drops nectareous hang her nodding cups; Thin clouds of Gossamer in air display, And hide the vale's chaste Lily from the ray; Whilst Erythrina o'er her tender flower Bends all her leaves, and braves the sultry hour;Shield, when cold Hesper sheds his dewy light, Mimosa's soft sensations from the night; Fold her thin foilage, close her timid flowers, And with ambrosial slumbers guard her bowers; O'er each warm wall while Cerea flings her arms, And wastes on night's dull eye a blaze of charms. 2. Round her tall Elm with dewy fingers twine The gadding tendrils of the adventurous Vine; From arm to arm in gay festoons suspend 23 Her fragrant flowers, her graceful foliage bend; Swell with sweet juice her vermil orbs, and feed Shrined in transparent pulp her pearly seed; Hang round the Orange all her silver bells, And guard her fragrance with Hesperian spells; Bud after bud her polish'd leaves unfold, And load her branches with successive gold. So the learn'd Alchemist exulting sees Rise in his bright matrass DIANA'S trees; Drop after drop, with just delay he pours The red-fumed acid on Potosi's ores; With sudden flash the fierce bullitions rise, And wide in air the gas phlogistic flies; Slow shoot, at length, in many a brilliant mass Metallic roots across the netted glass; Branch after branch extend their silver stems, Bud into gold, and blossoms into gems. So sits enthron'd in vegetable pride Imperial KEW by Thames's glittering side; Obedient sails from realms unfurrow'd bring For her the unnam'd progeny of spring; Attendant Nymphs her dulcet mandates hear, And nurse in fostering arms the tender year, Plant the young bulb, inhume the living seed, Prop the weak stem, the erring tendril lead; Or fan in glass-built fanes the stranger flowers With milder gales, and steep with warmer showers. Delighted Thames through tropic umbrage glides, And flowers antarctic, bending o'er his tides; Drinks the new tints, the sweets unknown inhales, And calls the sons of science to his vales. In one bright point admiring Nature eyes The fruits and foliage of discordant skies, Twines the gay floret with the fragrant bough, And bends the wreath round GEORGE'S royal brow. -Sometimes retiring, from the public weal One tranquil hour the ROYAL PARTNERS steal; Through glades exotic pass with step sublime, Or mark the growths of Britain's happier clime; With beauty blossom'd, and with virtue blaz'd, Mark the fair Scions, that themselves have rais'd; Sweet blooms the Rose, the towering Oak expands, 24 The Grace and Guard of Britain's golden lands. XV. SYLPHS! who, round earth on purple pinions borne, Attend the radiant chariot of the morn; Lead the gay hours along the ethereal hight, And on each dun meridian shower the light; SYLPHS! who from realms of equatorial day To climes, that shudder in the polar ray, From zone to zone pursue on shifting wing, The bright perennial journey of the spring; Bring my rich Balms from Mecca's hallow'd glades, Sweet flowers, that glitter in Arabia's shades; Fruits, whose fair forms in bright succession glow Gilding the Banks of Arno, or of Po; Each leaf, whose fragrant steam with ruby lip Gay China's nymphs from pictur'd vases sip; Each spicy rind, which sultry India boasts, Scenting the night-air round her breezy coasts; Roots whose bold stems in bleak Siberia blow, And gem with many a tint the eternal snow; Barks, whose broad umbrage high in ether waves O'er Ande's steeps, and hides his golden caves; -And, where yon oak extends his dusky shoots Wide o'er the rill, that bubbles from his roots; Beneath whose arms, protected from the storm A turf-built altar rears it's rustic form; SYLPHS! with religious hands fresh garlands twine, And deck with lavish pomp HYGEIA'S shrine. 'Call with loud voice the Sisterhood, that dwell On floating cloud, wide wave, or bubbling well; Stamp with charm'd foot, convoke the alarmed Gnomes From golden beds, and adamantine domes; Each from her sphere with beckoning arm invite, Curl'd with red flame, the Vestal Forms of light. Close all your spotted wings, in lucid ranks Press with your bending knees the crowded banks, Cross your meek arms, incline your wreathed brows, And win the Goddess with unwearied vows. 'Oh, wave, HYGEIA! o'er BRITANNIA'S throne Thy serpent-wand, and mark it for thy own; Lead round her breezy coasts thy guardian trains, Her nodding forests, and her waving plains; 25 Shed o'er her peopled realms thy beamy smile, And with thy airy temple crown her isle!' The GODDESS ceased,-and calling from afar The wandering Zephyrs, joins them to her car; Mounts with light bound, and graceful, as she bends, Whirls the long lash, the flexile rein extends; On whispering wheels the silver axle slides, Climbs into air, and cleaves the crystal tides; Burst from its pearly chains, her amber hair Streams o'er her ivory shoulders, buoy'd in air; Swells her white veil, with ruby clasp confined Round her fair brow, and undulates behind; The lessening coursers rise in spiral rings, Pierce the slow-sailing clouds, and stretch their shadowy wings. ~ Erasmus Darwin,

122:TO MARY (ON HER OBJECTING TO THE FOLLOWING POEM, UPON THE SCORE OF ITS CONTAINING NO HUMAN INTEREST) I. How, my dear Mary, -- are you critic-bitten (For vipers kill, though dead) by some review, That you condemn these verses I have written, Because they tell no story, false or true? What, though no mice are caught by a young kitten, May it not leap and play as grown cats do, Till its claws come? Prithee, for this one time, Content thee with a visionary rhyme. II. What hand would crush the silken-wingd fly, The youngest of inconstant April's minions, Because it cannot climb the purest sky, Where the swan sings, amid the sun's dominions? Not thine. Thou knowest 'tis its doom to die, When Day shall hide within her twilight pinions The lucent eyes, and the eternal smile, Serene as thine, which lent it life awhile. III. To thy fair feet a wingd Vision came, Whose date should have been longer than a day, And o'er thy head did beat its wings for fame, And in thy sight its fading plumes display; The watery bow burned in the evening flame, But the shower fell, the swift Sun went his way And that is dead.O, let me not believe That anything of mine is fit to live! IV. Wordsworth informs us he was nineteen years Considering and retouching Peter Bell; Watering his laurels with the killing tears Of slow, dull care, so that their roots to Hell Might pierce, and their wide branches blot the spheres Of Heaven, with dewy leaves and flowers; this well May be, for Heaven and Earth conspire to foil The over-busy gardener's blundering toil. V. My Witch indeed is not so sweet a creature As Ruth or Lucy, whom his graceful praise Clothes for our grandsonsbut she matches Peter, Though he took nineteen years, and she three days In dressing. Light the vest of flowing metre She wears; he, proud as dandy with his stays, Has hung upon his wiry limbs a dress Like King Lear's 'looped and windowed raggedness.' VI. If you strip Peter, you will see a fellow Scorched by Hell's hyperequatorial climate Into a kind of a sulphureous yellow: A lean mark, hardly fit to fling a rhyme at; In shape a Scaramouch, in hue Othello. If you unveil my Witch, no priest nor primate Can shrive you of that sin, -- if sin there be In love, when it becomes idolatry. THE WITCH OF ATLAS. I. Before those cruel Twins, whom at one birth Incestuous Change bore to her father Time, Error and Truth, had hunted from the Earth All those bright natures which adorned its prime, And left us nothing to believe in, worth The pains of putting into learnd rhyme, A lady-witch there lived on Atlas' mountain Within a cavern, by a secret fountain. II. Her mother was one of the Atlantides: The all-beholding Sun had ne'er beholden In his wide voyage o'er continents and seas So fair a creature, as she lay enfolden In the warm shadow of her loveliness;-- He kissed her with his beams, and made all golden The chamber of gray rock in which she lay-- She, in that dream of joy, dissolved away. III. 'Tis said, she first was changed into a vapour, And then into a cloud, such clouds as flit, Like splendour-wingd moths about a taper, Round the red west when the sun dies in it: And then into a meteor, such as caper On hill-tops when the moon is in a fit: Then, into one of those mysterious stars Which hide themselves between the Earth and Mars. IV. Ten times the Mother of the Months had bent Her bow beside the folding-star, and bidden With that bright sign the billows to indent The sea-deserted sand -- like children chidden, At her command they ever came and went-- Since in that cave a dewy splendour hidden Took shape and motion: with the living form Of this embodied Power, the cave grew warm. V. A lovely lady garmented in light From her own beauty -- deep her eyes, as are Two openings of unfathomable night Seen through a Temple's cloven roof -- her hair Darkthe dim brain whirls dizzy with delight, Picturing her form; her soft smiles shone afar, And her low voice was heard like love, and drew All living things towards this wonder new. VI. And first the spotted cameleopard came, And then the wise and fearless elephant; Then the sly serpent, in the golden flame Of his own volumes intervolved -- all gaunt And sanguine beasts her gentle looks made tame. They drank before her at her sacred fount; And every beast of beating heart grew bold, Such gentleness and power even to behold. VII. The brinded lioness led forth her young, That she might teach them how they should forego Their inborn thirst of death; the pard unstrung His sinews at her feet, and sought to know With looks whose motions spoke without a tongue How he might be as gentle as the doe. The magic circle of her voice and eyes All savage natures did imparadise. VIII. And old Silenus, shaking a green stick Of lilies, and the wood-gods in a crew Came, blithe, as in the olive copses thick Cicadae are, drunk with the noonday dew: And Dryope and Faunus followed quick, Teasing the God to sing them something new; Till in this cave they found the lady lone, Sitting upon a seat of emerald stone. IX. And universal Pan, 'tis said, was there, And though none saw him,through the adamant Of the deep mountains, through the trackless air, And through those living spirits, like a want, He passed out of his everlasting lair Where the quick heart of the great world doth pant, And felt that wondrous lady all alone, And she felt him, upon her emerald throne. X. And every nymph of stream and spreading tree, And every shepherdess of Ocean's flocks, Who drives her white waves over the green sea, And Ocean with the brine on his gray locks, And quaint Priapus with his company, All came, much wondering how the enwombd rocks Could have brought forth so beautiful a birth; Her love subdued their wonder and their mirth. XI. The herdsmen and the mountain maidens came, And the rude kings of pastoral Garamant Their spirits shook within them, as a flame Stirred by the air under a cavern gaunt: Pigmies, and Polyphemes, by many a name, Centaurs, and Satyrs, and such shapes as haunt Wet clefts,and lumps neither alive nor dead, Dog-headed, bosom-eyed, and bird-footed. XII. For she was beautifulher beauty made The bright world dim, and everything beside Seemed like the fleeting image of a shade: No thought of living spirit could abide, Which to her looks had ever been betrayed, On any object in the world so wide, On any hope within the circling skies, But on her form, and in her inmost eyes. XIII. Which when the lady knew, she took her spindle And twined three threads of fleecy mist, and three Long lines of light, such as the dawn may kindle The clouds and waves and mountains with; and she As many star-beams, ere their lamps could dwindle In the belated moon, wound skilfully; And with these threads a subtle veil she wove A shadow for the splendour of her love. XIV. The deep recesses of her odorous dwelling Were stored with magic treasuressounds of air, Which had the power all spirits of compelling, Folded in cells of crystal silence there; Such as we hear in youth, and think the feeling Will never dieyet ere we are aware, The feeling and the sound are fled and gone, And the regret they leave remains alone. XV. And there lay Visions swift, and sweet, and quaint, Each in its thin sheath, like a chrysalis, Some eager to burst forth, some weak and faint With the soft burthen of intensest bliss It was its work to bear to many a saint Whose heart adores the shrine which holiest is, Even Love's -- and others white, green, gray, and black, And of all shapesand each was at her beck. XVI. And odours in a kind of aviary Of ever-blooming Eden-trees she kept, Clipped in a floating net, a love-sick Fairy Had woven from dew-beams while the moon yet slept; As bats at the wired window of a dairy. They beat their vans; and each was an adept, When loosed and missioned, making wings of winds, To stir sweet thoughts or sad, in destined minds. XVII. And liquors clear and sweet, whose healthful might Could medicine the sick soul to happy sleep, And change eternal death into a night Of glorious dreamsor if eyes needs must weep, Could make their tears all wonder and delight, She in her crystal vials did closely keep: If men could drink of those clear vials, 'tis said The living were not envied of the dead. XVIII. Her cave was stored with scrolls of strange device, The works of some Saturnian Archimage, Which taught the expiations at whose price Men from the Gods might win that happy age Too lightly lost, redeeming native vice; And which might quench the Earth-consuming rage Of gold and bloodtill men should live and move Harmonious as the sacred stars above; XIX. And how all things that seem untameable, Not to be checked and not to be confined, Obey the spells of Wisdom's wizard skill; Time, earth, and firethe ocean and the wind, And all their shapes -- and man's imperial will; And other scrolls whose writings did unbind The inmost lore of Lovelet the profane Tremble to ask what secrets they contain. XX. And wondrous works of substances unknown, To which the enchantment of her father's power Had changed those ragged blocks of savage stone, Were heaped in the recesses of her bower; Carved lamps and chalices, and vials which shone In their own golden beams -- each like a flower, Out of whose depth a fire-fly shakes his light Under a cypress in a starless night. XXI. At first she lived alone in this wild home, And her own thoughts were each a minister, Clothing themselves, or with the ocean foam, Or with the wind, or with the speed of fire, To work whatever purposes might come Into her mind; such power her mighty Sire Had girt them with, whether to fly or run, Through all the regions which he shines upon. XXII. The Ocean-nymphs and Hamadryades, Oreads and Naiads, with long weedy locks, Offered to do her bidding through the seas, Under the earth, and in the hollow rocks, And far beneath the matted roots of trees, And in the gnarld heart of stubborn oaks, So they might live for ever in the light Of her sweet presence -- each a satellite. XXIII. 'This may not be,' the wizard maid replied; 'The fountains where the Naiades bedew Their shining hair, at length are drained and dried; The solid oaks forget their strength, and strew Their latest leaf upon the mountains wide; The boundless ocean like a drop of dew Will be consumedthe stubborn centre must Be scattered, like a cloud of summer dust. XXIV. 'And ye with them will perish, one by one; If I must sigh to think that this shall be, If I must weep when the surviving Sun Shall smile on your decay -- oh, ask not me To love you till your little race is run; I cannot die as ye must -- over me Your leaves shall glance -- the streams in which ye dwell Shall be my paths henceforth, and so -- farewell!'-- XXV. She spoke and wept:the dark and azure well Sparkled beneath the shower of her bright tears, And every little circlet where they fell Flung to the cavern-roof inconstant spheres And intertangled lines of light:a knell Of sobbing voices came upon her ears From those departing Forms, o'er the serene Of the white streams and of the forest green. XXVI. All day the wizard lady sate aloof, Spelling out scrolls of dread antiquity, Under the cavern's fountain-lighted roof; Or broidering the pictured poesy Of some high tale upon her growing woof, Which the sweet splendour of her smiles could dye In hues outshining heavenand ever she Added some grace to the wrought poesy. XXVII. While on her hearth lay blazing many a piece Of sandal wood, rare gums, and cinnamon; Men scarcely know how beautiful fire is Each flame of it is as a precious stone Dissolved in ever-moving light, and this Belongs to each and all who gaze upon. The Witch beheld it not, for in her hand She held a woof that dimmed the burning brand. XXVIII. This lady never slept, but lay in trance All night within the fountain -- as in sleep. Its emerald crags glowed in her beauty's glance; Through the green splendour of the water deep She saw the constellations reel and dance Like fire-flies -- and withal did ever keep The tenour of her contemplations calm, With open eyes, closed feet, and folded palm. XXIX. And when the whirlwinds and the clouds descended From the white pinnacles of that cold hill, She passed at dewfall to a space extended, Where in a lawn of flowering asphodel Amid a wood of pines and cedars blended, There yawned an inextinguishable well Of crimson firefull even to the brim, And overflowing all the margin trim. XXX. Within the which she lay when the fierce war Of wintry winds shook that innocuous liquor In many a mimic moon and bearded star O'er woods and lawns -- the serpent heard it flicker In sleep, and dreaming still, he crept afar-- And when the windless snow descended thicker Than autumn leaves, she watched it as it came Melt on the surface of the level flame. XXXI. She had a boat, which some say Vulcan wrought For Venus, as the chariot of her star; But it was found too feeble to be fraught With all the ardours in that sphere which are, And so she sold it, and Apollo bought And gave it to this daughter: from a car Changed to the fairest and the lightest boat Which ever upon mortal stream did float. XXXII. And others say, that, when but three hours old, The first-born Love out of his cradle lept, And clove dun Chaos with his wings of gold, And like an horticultural adept, Stole a strange seed, and wrapped it up in mould, And sowed it in his mother's star, and kept Watering it all the summer with sweet dew, And with his wings fanning it as it grew. XXXIII. The plant grew strong and green, the snowy flower Fell, and the long and gourd-like fruit began To turn the light and dew by inward power To its own substance; woven tracery ran Of light firm texture, ribbed and branching, o'er The solid rind, like a leaf's veind fan-- Of which Love scooped this boat -- and with soft motion Piloted it round the circumfluous ocean. XXXIV. This boat she moored upon her fount, and lit A living spirit within all its frame, Breathing the soul of swiftness into it. Couched on the fountain like a panther tame, One of the twain at Evan's feet that sit-- Or as on Vesta's sceptre a swift flame-- Or on blind Homer's heart a wingd thought,-- In joyous expectation lay the boat. XXXV. Then by strange art she kneaded fire and snow Together, tempering the repugnant mass With liquid love -- all things together grow Through which the harmony of love can pass; And a fair Shape out of her hands did flow-- A living Image, which did far surpass In beauty that bright shape of vital stone Which drew the heart out of Pygmalion. XXXVI. A sexless thing it was, and in its growth It seemed to have developed no defect Of either sex, yet all the grace of both,-- In gentleness and strength its limbs were decked; The bosom swelled lightly with its full youth, The countenance was such as might select Some artist that his skill should never die, Imaging forth such perfect purity. XXXVII. From its smooth shoulders hung two rapid wings, Fit to have borne it to the seventh sphere, Tipped with the speed of liquid lightenings, Dyed in the ardours of the atmosphere: She led her creature to the boiling springs Where the light boat was moored, and said: 'Sit here!' And pointed to the prow, and took her seat Beside the rudder, with opposing feet. XXXVIII. And down the streams which clove those mountains vast, Around their inland islets, and amid The panther-peopled forests, whose shade cast Darkness and odours, and a pleasure hid In melancholy gloom, the pinnace passed; By many a star-surrounded pyramid Of icy crag cleaving the purple sky, And caverns yawning round unfathomably. XXXIX. The silver noon into that winding dell, With slanted gleam athwart the forest tops, Tempered like golden evening, feebly fell; A green and glowing light, like that which drops From folded lilies in which glow-worms dwell, When Earth over her face Night's mantle wraps; Between the severed mountains lay on high, Over the stream, a narrow rift of sky. XL. And ever as she went, the Image lay With folded wings and unawakened eyes; And o'er its gentle countenance did play The busy dreams, as thick as summer flies, Chasing the rapid smiles that would not stay, And drinking the warm tears, and the sweet sighs Inhaling, which, with busy murmur vain, They had aroused from that full heart and brain. XLI. And ever down the prone vale, like a cloud Upon a stream of wind, the pinnace went: Now lingering on the pools, in which abode The calm and darkness of the deep content In which they paused; now o'er the shallow road Of white and dancing waters, all besprent With sand and polished pebbles:mortal boat In such a shallow rapid could not float. XLII. And down the earthquaking cataracts which shiver Their snow-like waters into golden air, Or under chasms unfathomable ever Sepulchre them, till in their rage they tear A subterranean portal for the river, It fledthe circling sunbows did upbear Its fall down the hoar precipice of spray, Lighting it far upon its lampless way. XLIII. And when the wizard lady would ascend The labyrinths of some many-winding vale, Which to the inmost mountain upward tend She called 'Hermaphroditus!'and the pale And heavy hue which slumber could extend Over its lips and eyes, as on the gale A rapid shadow from a slope of grass, Into the darkness of the stream did pass. XLIV. And it unfurled its heaven-coloured pinions, With stars of fire spotting the stream below; And from above into the Sun's dominions Flinging a glory, like the golden glow In which Spring clothes her emerald-wingd minions, All interwoven with fine feathery snow And moonlight splendour of intensest rime, With which frost paints the pines in winter time. XLV. And then it winnowed the Elysian air Which ever hung about that lady bright, With its aethereal vansand speeding there, Like a star up the torrent of the night, Or a swift eagle in the morning glare Breasting the whirlwind with impetuous flight, The pinnace, oared by those enchanted wings, Clove the fierce streams towards their upper springs. XLVI. The water flashed, like sunlight by the prow Of a noon-wandering meteor flung to Heaven; The still air seemed as if its waves did flow In tempest down the mountains; loosely driven The lady's radiant hair streamed to and fro: Beneath, the billows having vainly striven Indignant and impetuous, roared to feel The swift and steady motion of the keel. XLVII. Or, when the weary moon was in the wane, Or in the noon of interlunar night, The lady-witch in visions could not chain Her spirit; but sailed forth under the light Of shooting stars, and bade extend amain Its storm-outspeeding wings, the Hermaphrodite; She to the Austral waters took her way, Beyond the fabulous Thamondocana, XLVIII. Where, like a meadow which no scythe has shaven, Which rain could never bend, or whirl-blast shake, With the Antarctic constellations paven, Canopus and his crew, lay the Austral lake There she would build herself a windless haven Out of the clouds whose moving turrets make The bastions of the storm, when through the sky The spirits of the tempest thundered by: XLIX. A haven beneath whose translucent floor The tremulous stars sparkled unfathomably, And around which the solid vapours hoar, Based on the level waters, to the sky Lifted their dreadful crags, and like a shore Of wintry mountains, inaccessibly Hemmed in with rifts and precipices gray, And hanging crags, many a cove and bay. L. And whilst the outer lake beneath the lash Of the wind's scourge, foamed like a wounded thing, And the incessant hail with stony clash Ploughed up the waters, and the flagging wing Of the roused cormorant in the lightning flash Looked like the wreck of some wind-wandering Fragment of inky thunder-smoke -- this haven Was as a gem to copy Heaven engraven,-- LI. On which that lady played her many pranks, Circling the image of a shooting star, Even as a tiger on Hydaspes' banks Outspeeds the antelopes which speediest are, In her light boat; and many quips and cranks She played upon the water, till the car Of the late moon, like a sick matron wan, To journey from the misty east began. LII. And then she called out of the hollow turrets Of those high clouds, white, golden and vermilion, The armies of her ministering spirits In mighty legions, million after million, They came, each troop emblazoning its merits On meteor flags; and many a proud pavilion Of the intertexture of the atmosphere They pitched upon the plain of the calm mere. LIII. They framed the imperial tent of their great Queen Of woven exhalations, underlaid With lambent lightning-fire, as may be seen A dome of thin and open ivory inlaid With crimson silk -- cressets from the serene Hung there, and on the water for her tread A tapestry of fleece-like mist was strewn, Dyed in the beams of the ascending moon. LIV. And on a throne o'erlaid with starlight, caught Upon those wandering isles of ary dew, Which highest shoals of mountain shipwreck not, She sate, and heard all that had happened new Between the earth and moon, since they had brought The last intelligence -- and now she grew Pale as that moon, lost in the watery night-- And now she wept, and now she laughed outright. LV. These were tame pleasures; she would often climb The steepest ladder of the crudded rack Up to some beakd cape of cloud sublime, And like Arion on the dolphin's back Ride singing through the shoreless air; -- oft-time Following the serpent lightning's winding track, She ran upon the platforms of the wind, And laughed to hear the fire-balls roar behind. LVI. And sometimes to those streams of upper air Which whirl the earth in its diurnal round, She would ascend, and win the spirits there To let her join their chorus. Mortals found That on those days the sky was calm and fair, And mystic snatches of harmonious sound Wandered upon the earth where'er she passed, And happy thoughts of hope, too sweet to last. LVII. But her choice sport was, in the hours of sleep, To glide adown old Nilus, where he threads Egypt and Aethiopia, from the steep Of utmost Axum, until he spreads, Like a calm flock of silver-fleecd sheep, His waters on the plain: and crested heads Of cities and proud temples gleam amid, And many a vapour-belted pyramid. LVIII. By Moeris and the Mareotid lakes, Strewn with faint blooms like bridal chamber floors, Where naked boys bridling tame water-snakes, Or charioteering ghastly alligators, Had left on the sweet waters mighty wakes Of those huge forms -- within the brazen doors Of the great Labyrinth slept both boy and beast, Tired with the pomp of their Osirian feast. LIX. And where within the surface of the river The shadows of the massy temples lie, And never are erased -- but tremble ever Like things which every cloud can doom to die, Through lotus-paven canals, and wheresoever The works of man pierced that serenest sky With tombs, and towers, and fanes, 'twas her delight To wander in the shadow of the night. LX. With motion like the spirit of that wind Whose soft step deepens slumber, her light feet Passed through the peopled haunts of humankind, Scattering sweet visions from her presence sweet, Through fane, and palace-court, and labyrinth mined With many a dark and subterranean street Under the Nile, through chambers high and deep She passed, observing mortals in their sleep. LXI. A pleasure sweet doubtless it was to see Mortals subdued in all the shapes of sleep. Here lay two sister twins in infancy; There, a lone youth who in his dreams did weep; Within, two lovers linkd innocently In their loose locks which over both did creep Like ivy from one stem;and there lay calm Old age with snow-bright hair and folded palm. LXII. But other troubled forms of sleep she saw, Not to be mirrored in a holy song-- Distortions foul of supernatural awe, And pale imaginings of visioned wrong; And all the code of Custom's lawless law Written upon the brows of old and young: 'This,' said the wizard maiden, 'is the strife Which stirs the liquid surface of man's life.' LXIII. And little did the sight disturb her soul.-- We, the weak mariners of that wide lake Where'er its shores extend or billows roll, Our course unpiloted and starless make O'er its wild surface to an unknown goal:-- But she in the calm depths her way could take, Where in bright bowers immortal forms abide Beneath the weltering of the restless tide. LXIV. And she saw princes couched under the glow Of sunlike gems; and round each temple-court In dormitories ranged, row after row, She saw the priests asleepall of one sort-- For all were educated to be so. The peasants in their huts, and in the port The sailors she saw cradled on the waves, And the dead lulled within their dreamless graves. LXV. And all the forms in which those spirits lay Were to her sight like the diaphanous Veils, in which those sweet ladies oft array Their delicate limbs, who would conceal from us Only their scorn of all concealment: they Move in the light of their own beauty thus. But these and all now lay with sleep upon them, And little thought a Witch was looking on them. LXVI. She, all those human figures breathing there, Beheld as living spirits -- to her eyes The naked beauty of the soul lay bare, And often through a rude and worn disguise She saw the inner form most bright and fair-- And then she had a charm of strange device, Which, murmured on mute lips with tender tone, Could make that spirit mingle with her own. LXVII. Alas! Aurora, what wouldst thou have given For such a charm when Tithon became gray? Or how much, Venus, of thy silver heaven Wouldst thou have yielded, ere Proserpina Had half (oh! why not all?) the debt forgiven Which dear Adonis had been doomed to pay, To any witch who would have taught you it? The Heliad doth not know its value yet. LXVIII. 'Tis said in after times her spirit free Knew what love was, and felt itself alone-- But holy Dian could not chaster be Before she stooped to kiss Endymion, Than now this lady -- like a sexless bee Tasting all blossoms, and confined to none, Among those mortal forms, the wizard-maiden Passed with an eye serene and heart unladen. LXIX. To those she saw most beautiful, she gave Strange panacea in a crystal bowl:-- They drank in their deep sleep of that sweet wave, And lived thenceforward as if some control, Mightier than life, were in them; and the grave Of such, when death oppressed the weary soul, Was as a green and overarching bower Lit by the gems of many a starry flower. LXX. For on the night when they were buried, she Restored the embalmers' ruining, and shook The light out of the funeral lamps, to be A mimic day within that deathy nook; And she unwound the woven imagery Of second childhood's swaddling bands, and took The coffin, its last cradle, from its niche, And threw it with contempt into a ditch. LXXI. And there the body lay, age after age, Mute, breathing, beating, warm, and undecaying, Like one asleep in a green hermitage, With gentle smiles about its eyelids playing, And living in its dreams beyond the rage Of death or life; while they were still arraying In liveries ever new, the rapid, blind And fleeting generations of mankind. LXXII. And she would write strange dreams upon the brain Of those who were less beautiful, and make All harsh and crooked purposes more vain Than in the desert is the serpent's wake Which the sand coversall his evil gain The miser in such dreams would rise and shake Into a beggar's lap;the lying scribe Would his own lies betray without a bribe. LXXIII. The priests would write an explanation full, Translating hieroglyphics into Greek, How the God Apis really was a bull, And nothing more; and bid the herald stick The same against the temple doors, and pull The old cant down; they licensed all to speak What'er they thought of hawks, and cats, and geese, By pastoral letters to each diocese. LXXIV. The king would dress an ape up in his crown And robes, and seat him on his glorious seat, And on the right hand of the sunlike throne Would place a gaudy mock-bird to repeat The chatterings of the monkey.Every one Of the prone courtiers crawled to kiss the feet Of their great Emperor, when the morning came, And kissed -- alas, how many kiss the same! LXXV. The soldiers dreamed that they were blacksmiths, and Walked out of quarters in somnambulism; Round the red anvils you might see them stand Like Cyclopses in Vulcan's sooty abysm, Beating their swords to ploughshares; -- in a band The gaolers sent those of the liberal schism Free through the streets of Memphis, much, I wis, To the annoyance of king Amasis. LXXVI. And timid lovers who had been so coy, They hardly knew whether they loved or not, Would rise out of their rest, and take sweet joy, To the fulfilment of their inmost thought; And when next day the maiden and the boy Met one another, both, like sinners caught, Blushed at the thing which each believed was done Only in fancy -- till the tenth moon shone; LXXVII. And then the Witch would let them take no ill: Of many thousand schemes which lovers find, The Witch found one,and so they took their fill Of happiness in marriage warm and kind. Friends who, by practice of some envious skill, Were torn apart -- a wide wound, mind from mind!-- She did unite again with visions clear Of deep affection and of truth sincere. LXXVIII. These were the pranks she played among the cities Of mortal men, and what she did to Sprites And Gods, entangling them in her sweet ditties To do her will, and show their subtle sleights, I will declare another time; for it is A tale more fit for the weird winter nights Than for these garish summer days, when we Scarcely believe much more than we can see. Composed at the Baths of San Giuliano, near Pisa, August 14-16, 1820; published in Posthumous Poems, ed. Mrs. Shelley, 1824. The dedication To Mary first appeared in the Poetical Works, 1839, 1st ed. Note by Mrs. Shelley: 'We spent the summer of 1820 at the Baths of San Giuliano, four miles from Pisa. These baths were of great use to Shelley in soothing his nervous irritability. We made several excursions in the neighbourhood. The country around is fertile, and diversified and rendered picturesque by ranges of near hills and more distant mountains. The peasantry are a handsome intelligent race; and there was a gladsome sunny heaven spread over us, that rendered home and every scene we visited cheerful and bright. During some of the hottest days of August, Shelley made a solitary journey on foot to the summit of Monte San Pellegrino -- a mountain of some height, on the top of which there is a chapel, the object, during certain days of the year, of many pilgrimages. The excursion delighted him while it lasted; though he exerted himself too much, and the effect was considerable lsasitude and weakness on his return. During the expedition he conceived the idea, and wrote, in the three days immediately succeeding to his return, the Witch of Atlas. This poem is peculiarly characteristic of his tastes -- wildly fanciful, full of brilliant imagery, and discarding human interest and passion, to revel in the fantastic ideas that his imagination suggested.' ~ Percy Bysshe Shelley, The Witch Of Atlas ,

123:TRANSLATED FROM THE GREEK OF HOMER. I. Sing, Muse, the son of Maia and of Jove, The Herald-child, king of Arcadia And all its pastoral hills, whom in sweet love Having been interwoven, modest May Bore Heavens dread Supreme. An antique grove Shadowed the cavern where the lovers lay In the deep night, unseen by Gods or Men, And white-armed Juno slumbered sweetly then. II. Now, when the joy of Jove had its fulfilling, And Heavens tenth moon chronicled her relief, She gave to light a babe all babes excelling, A schemer subtle beyond all belief; A shepherd of thin dreams, a cow-stealing, A night-watching, and door-waylaying thief, Who mongst the Gods was soon about to thieve, And other glorious actions to achieve. III. The babe was born at the first peep of day; He began playing on the lyre at noon, And the same evening did he steal away Apollos herds;the fourth day of the moon On which him bore the venerable May, From her immortal limbs he leaped full soon, Nor long could in the sacred cradle keep, But out to seek Apollos herds would creep. IV. Out of the lofty cavern wandering He found a tortoise, and cried out--'A treasure!' (For Mercury first made the tortoise sing) The beast before the portal at his leisure The flowery herbage was depasturing, Moving his feet in a deliberate measure Over the turf. Joves profitable son Eying him laughed, and laughing thus begun:-- V. A useful godsend are you to me now, King of the dance, companion of the feast, Lovely in all your nature! Welcome, you Excellent plaything! Where, sweet mountain-beast, Got you that speckled shell? Thus much I know, You must come home with me and be my guest; You will give joy to me, and I will do All that is in my power to honour you. VI. Better to be at home than out of door, So come with me; and though it has been said That you alive defend from magic power, I know you will sing sweetly when youre dead. Thus having spoken, the quaint infant bore, Lifting it from the grass on which it fed And grasping it in his delighted hold, His treasured prize into the cavern old. VII. Then scooping with a chisel of gray steel, He bored the life and soul out of the beast.-- Not swifter a swift thought of woe or weal Darts through the tumult of a human breast Which thronging cares annoynot swifter wheel The flashes of its torture and unrest Out of the dizzy eyesthan Maias son All that he did devise hath featly done. VIII. ... And through the tortoises hard stony skin At proper distances small holes he made, And fastened the cut stems of reeds within, And with a piece of leather overlaid The open space and fixed the cubits in, Fitting the bridge to both, and stretched oer all Symphonious cords of sheep-gut rhythmical. IX. When he had wrought the lovely instrument, He tried the chords, and made division meet, Preluding with the plectrum, and there went Up from beneath his hand a tumult sweet Of mighty sounds, and from his lips he sent A strain of unpremeditated wit Joyous and wild and wanton--such you may Hear among revellers on a holiday. X. He sung how Jove and May of the bright sandal Dallied in love not quite legitimate; And his own birth, still scoffing at the scandal, And naming his own name, did celebrate; His mothers cave and servant maids he planned all In plastic verse, her household stuff and state, Perennial pot, trippet, and brazen pan,-- But singing, he conceived another plan. XI. ... Seized with a sudden fancy for fresh meat, He in his sacred crib deposited The hollow lyre, and from the cavern sweet Rushed with great leaps up to the mountains head, Revolving in his mind some subtle feat Of thievish craft, such as a swindler might Devise in the lone season of dun night. XII. Lo! the great Sun under the oceans bed has Driven steeds and chariot--the child meanwhile strode Oer the Pierian mountains clothed in shadows, Where the immortal oxen of the God Are pastured in the flowering unmown meadows, And safely stalled in a remote abode.-- The archer Argicide, elate and proud, Drove fifty from the herd, lowing aloud. XIII. He drove them wandering oer the sandy way, But, being ever mindful of his craft, Backward and forward drove he them astray, So that the tracks which seemed before, were aft; His sandals then he threw to the ocean spray, And for each foot he wrought a kind of raft Of tamarisk, and tamarisk-like sprigs, And bound them in a lump with withy twigs. XIV. And on his feet he tied these sandals light, The trail of whose wide leaves might not betray His track; and then, a self-sufficing wight, Like a man hastening on some distant way, He from Pierias mountain bent his flight; But an old man perceived the infant pass Down green Onchestus heaped like beds with grass. XV. The old man stood dressing his sunny vine: Halloo! old fellow with the crooked shoulder! You grub those stumps? before they will bear wine Methinks even you must grow a little older: Attend, I pray, to this advice of mine, As you would scape what might appal a bolder-- Seeing, see not--and hearing, hear not--and-- If you have understanding--understand. XVI. So saying, Hermes roused the oxen vast; Oer shadowy mountain and resounding dell, And flower-paven plains, great Hermes passed; Till the black night divine, which favouring fell Around his steps, grew gray, and morning fast Wakened the world to work, and from her cell Sea-strewn, the Pallantean Moon sublime Into her watch-tower just began to climb. XVII. Now to Alpheus he had driven all The broad-foreheaded oxen of the Sun; They came unwearied to the lofty stall And to the water-troughs which ever run Through the fresh fields--and when with rushgrass tall, Lotus and all sweet herbage, every one Had pastured been, the great God made them move Towards the stall in a collected drove. XVIII. A mighty pile of wood the God then heaped, And having soon conceived the mystery Of fire, from two smooth laurel branches stripped The bark, and rubbed them in his palms;--on high Suddenly forth the burning vapour leaped And the divine child saw delightedly.-- Mercury first found out for human weal Tinder-box, matches, fire-irons, flint and steel. XIX. And fine dry logs and roots innumerous He gathered in a delve upon the ground-- And kindled themand instantaneous The strength of the fierce flame was breathed around: And whilst the might of glorious Vulcan thus Wrapped the great pile with glare and roaring sound, Hermes dragged forth two heifers, lowing loud, Close to the firesuch might was in the God. XX. And on the earth upon their backs he threw The panting beasts, and rolled them oer and oer, And bored their lives out. Without more ado He cut up fat and flesh, and down before The fire, on spits of wood he placed the two, Toasting their flesh and ribs, and all the gore Pursed in the bowels; and while this was done He stretched their hides over a craggy stone. XXI. We mortals let an ox grow old, and then Cut it up after long consideration,-- But joyous-minded Hermes from the glen Drew the fat spoils to the more open station Of a flat smooth space, and portioned them; and when He had by lot assigned to each a ration Of the twelve Gods, his mind became aware Of all the joys which in religion are. XXII. For the sweet savour of the roasted meat Tempted him though immortal. Natheless He checked his haughty will and did not eat, Though what it cost him words can scarce express, And every wish to put such morsels sweet Down his most sacred throat, he did repress; But soon within the lofty portalled stall He placed the fat and flesh and bones and all. XXIII. And every trace of the fresh butchery And cooking, the God soon made disappear, As if it all had vanished through the sky; He burned the hoofs and horns and head and hair,-- The insatiate fire devoured them hungrily;-- And when he saw that everything was clear, He quenched the coal, and trampled the black dust, And in the stream his bloody sandals tossed. XXIV. All night he worked in the serene moonshine-- But when the light of day was spread abroad He sought his natal mountain-peaks divine. On his long wandering, neither Man nor God Had met him, since he killed Apollos kine, Nor house-dog had barked at him on his road; Now he obliquely through the keyhole passed, Like a thin mist, or an autumnal blast. XXV. Right through the temple of the spacious cave He went with soft light feetas if his tread Fell not on earth; no sound their falling gave; Then to his cradle he crept quick, and spread The swaddling-clothes about him; and the knave Lay playing with the covering of the bed With his left hand about his knees--the right Held his beloved tortoise-lyre tight. XXVI. There he lay innocent as a new-born child, As gossips say; but though he was a God, The Goddess, his fair mother, unbeguiled, Knew all that he had done being abroad: Whence come you, and from what adventure wild, You cunning rogue, and where have you abode All the long night, clothed in your impudence? What have you done since you departed hence? XXVII. Apollo soon will pass within this gate And bind your tender body in a chain Inextricably tight, and fast as fate, Unless you can delude the God again, Even when within his arms--ah, runagate! A pretty torment both for Gods and Men Your father made when he made you!--Dear mother, Replied sly Hermes, wherefore scold and bother? XXVIII. As if I were like other babes as old, And understood nothing of what is what; And cared at all to hear my mother scold. I in my subtle brain a scheme have got, Which whilst the sacred stars round Heaven are rolled Will profit you and me--nor shall our lot Be as you counsel, without gifts or food, To spend our lives in this obscure abode. XXIX. But we will leave this shadow-peopled cave And live among the Gods, and pass each day In high communion, sharing what they have Of profuse wealth and unexhausted prey; And from the portion which my father gave To Phoebus, I will snatch my share away, Which if my father will not--natheless I, Who am the king of robbers, can but try. XXX. And, if Latonas son should find me out, Ill countermine him by a deeper plan; Ill pierce the Pythian temple-walls, though stout, And sack the fane of everything I can-- Caldrons and tripods of great worth no doubt, Each golden cup and polished brazen pan, 235 All the wrought tapestries and garments gay.-- So they together talked;--meanwhile the Day XXXI. Aethereal born arose out of the flood Of flowing Ocean, bearing light to men. Apollo passed toward the sacred wood, Which from the inmost depths of its green glen Echoes the voice of Neptune,--and there stood On the same spot in green Onchestus then That same old animal, the vine-dresser, Who was employed hedging his vineyard there. XXXII. Latonas glorious Son began:--I pray Tell, ancient hedger of Onchestus green, Whether a drove of kine has passed this way, All heifers with crooked horns? for they have been Stolen from the herd in high Pieria, Where a black bull was fed apart, between Two woody mountains in a neighbouring glen, And four fierce dogs watched there, unanimous as men. XXXIII. And what is strange, the author of this theft Has stolen the fatted heifers every one, But the four dogs and the black bull are left:-- Stolen they were last night at set of sun, Of their soft beds and their sweet food bereft.-- Now tell me, man born ere the world begun, Have you seen any one pass with the cows?-- To whom the man of overhanging brows: XXXIV. My friend, it would require no common skill Justly to speak of everything I see: On various purposes of good or ill Many pass by my vineyard,--and to me Tis difficult to know the invisible Thoughts, which in all those many minds may be:-- Thus much alone I certainly can say, I tilled these vines till the decline of day, XXXV. And then I thought I saw, but dare not speak With certainty of such a wondrous thing, A child, who could not have been born a week, Those fair-horned cattle closely following, And in his hand he held a polished stick: And, as on purpose, he walked wavering From one side to the other of the road, And with his face opposed the steps he trod. XXXVI. Apollo hearing this, passed quickly on-- No winged omen could have shown more clear That the deceiver was his fathers son. So the God wraps a purple atmosphere Around his shoulders, and like fire is gone To famous Pylos, seeking his kine there, And found their track and his, yet hardly cold, And criedWhat wonder do mine eyes behold! XXXVII. Here are the footsteps of the horned herd Turned back towards their fields of asphodel;-- But THESE are not the tracks of beast or bird, Gray wolf, or bear, or lion of the dell, Or maned Centaur--sand was never stirred By man or woman thus! Inexplicable! Who with unwearied feet could eer impress The sand with such enormous vestiges? XXXVIII. That was most strange--but this is stranger still! Thus having said, Phoebus impetuously Sought high Cyllenes forest-cinctured hill, And the deep cavern where dark shadows lie, And where the ambrosial nymph with happy will Bore the Saturnians love-child, Mercury-- And a delightful odour from the dew Of the hill pastures, at his coming, flew. XXXIX. And Phoebus stooped under the craggy roof Arched over the dark cavern:--Maias child Perceived that he came angry, far aloof, About the cows of which he had been beguiled; And over him the fine and fragrant woof Of his ambrosial swaddling-clothes he piled-- As among fire-brands lies a burning spark Covered, beneath the ashes cold and dark. XL. There, like an infant who had sucked his fill And now was newly washed and put to bed, Awake, but courting sleep with weary will, And gathered in a lump, hands, feet, and head, He lay, and his beloved tortoise still He grasped and held under his shoulder-blade. Phoebus the lovely mountain-goddess knew, Not less her subtle, swindling baby, who XLI. Lay swathed in his sly wiles. Round every crook Of the ample cavern, for his kine, Apollo Looked sharp; and when he saw them not, he took The glittering key, and opened three great hollow Recesses in the rock--where many a nook Was filled with the sweet food immortals swallow, And mighty heaps of silver and of gold Were piled within--a wonder to behold! XLII. And white and silver robes, all overwrought With cunning workmanship of tracery sweet-- Except among the Gods there can be nought In the wide world to be compared with it. Latonas offspring, after having sought His herds in every corner, thus did greet Great Hermes:--Little cradled rogue, declare Of my illustrious heifers, where they are! XLIII. Speak quickly! or a quarrel between us Must rise, and the event will be, that I Shall hurl you into dismal Tartarus, In fiery gloom to dwell eternally; Nor shall your father nor your mother loose The bars of that black dungeonutterly You shall be cast out from the light of day, To rule the ghosts of men, unblessed as they. XLIV. To whom thus Hermes slily answered:--Son Of great Latona, what a speech is this! Why come you here to ask me what is done With the wild oxen which it seems you miss? I have not seen them, nor from any one Have heard a word of the whole business; If you should promise an immense reward, I could not tell more than you now have heard. XLV. An ox-stealer should be both tall and strong, And I am but a little new-born thing, Who, yet at least, can think of nothing wrong:-- My business is to suck, and sleep, and fling The cradle-clothes about me all day long,-- Or half asleep, hear my sweet mother sing, And to be washed in water clean and warm, And hushed and kissed and kept secure from harm. XLVI. O, let not eer this quarrel be averred! The astounded Gods would laugh at you, if eer You should allege a story so absurd As that a new-born infant forth could fare Out of his home after a savage herd. I was born yesterday--my small feet are Too tender for the roads so hard and rough:-- And if you think that this is not enough, XLVII. I swear a great oath, by my fathers head, That I stole not your cows, and that I know Of no one else, who might, or could, or did.-- Whatever things cows are, I do not know, For I have only heard the name.--This said He winked as fast as could be, and his brow Was wrinkled, and a whistle loud gave he, Like one who hears some strange absurdity. XLVIII. Apollo gently smiled and said:--Ay, ay,-- You cunning little rascal, you will bore Many a rich mans house, and your array Of thieves will lay their siege before his door, Silent as night, in night; and many a day In the wild glens rough shepherds will deplore That you or yours, having an appetite, Met with their cattle, comrade of the night! XLIX. And this among the Gods shall be your gift, To be considered as the lord of those Who swindle, house-break, sheep-steal, and shop-lift;-- But now if you would not your last sleep doze; Crawl out!--Thus saying, Phoebus did uplift The subtle infant in his swaddling clothes, And in his arms, according to his wont, A scheme devised the illustrious Argiphont. L. ... ... And sneezed and shuddered--Phoebus on the grass Him threw, and whilst all that he had designed He did perform--eager although to pass, Apollo darted from his mighty mind Towards the subtle babe the following scoff:-- Do not imagine this will get you off, LI. You little swaddled child of Jove and May! And seized him:--By this omen I shall trace My noble herds, and you shall lead the way.-- Cyllenian Hermes from the grassy place, Like one in earnest haste to get away, Rose, and with hands lifted towards his face Round both his ears up from his shoulders drew His swaddling clothes, andWhat mean you to do LII. With me, you unkind God?--said Mercury: Is it about these cows you tease me so? I wish the race of cows were perished!--I Stole not your cows--I do not even know What things cows are. Alas! I well may sigh That since I came into this world of woe, I should have ever heard the name of one-- But I appeal to the Saturnians throne. LIII. Thus Phoebus and the vagrant Mercury Talked without coming to an explanation, With adverse purpose. As for Phoebus, he Sought not revenge, but only information, And Hermes tried with lies and roguery To cheat Apollo.--But when no evasion Served--for the cunning one his match had found-- He paced on first over the sandy ground. LIV. ... He of the Silver Bow the child of Jove Followed behind, till to their heavenly Sire Came both his children, beautiful as Love, And from his equal balance did require A judgement in the cause wherein they strove. Oer odorous Olympus and its snows A murmuring tumult as they came arose,-- LV. And from the folded depths of the great Hill, While Hermes and Apollo reverent stood Before Joves throne, the indestructible Immortals rushed in mighty multitude; And whilst their seats in order due they fill, The lofty Thunderer in a careless mood To Phoebus said:Whence drive you this sweet prey, This herald-baby, born but yesterday?-- LVI. A most important subject, trifler, this To lay before the Gods!--Nay, Father, nay, When you have understood the business, Say not that I alone am fond of prey. I found this little boy in a recess Under Cyllenes mountains far away-- A manifest and most apparent thief, A scandalmonger beyond all belief. LVII. I never saw his like either in Heaven Or upon earth for knavery or craft:-- Out of the field my cattle yester-even, By the low shore on which the loud sea laughed, He right down to the river-ford had driven; And mere astonishment would make you daft To see the double kind of footsteps strange He has impressed wherever he did range. LVIII. The cattles track on the black dust, full well Is evident, as if they went towards The place from which they came--that asphodel Meadow, in which I feed my many herds,-- HIS steps were most incomprehensible-- I know not how I can describe in words Those trackshe could have gone along the sands Neither upon his feet nor on his hands;-- LIX. He must have had some other stranger mode Of moving on: those vestiges immense, Far as I traced them on the sandy road, Seemed like the trail of oak-toppings:--but thence No mark nor track denoting where they trod The hard ground gave:but, working at his fence, A mortal hedger saw him as he passed To Pylos, with the cows, in fiery haste. LX. I found that in the dark he quietly Had sacrificed some cows, and before light Had thrown the ashes all dispersedly About the roadthen, still as gloomy night, Had crept into his cradle, either eye Rubbing, and cogitating some new sleight. No eagle could have seen him as he lay Hid in his cavern from the peering day. LXI. I taxed him with the fact, when he averred Most solemnly that he did neither see Nor even had in any manner heard Of my lost cows, whatever things cows be; Nor could he tell, though offered a reward, Not even who could tell of them to me. So speaking, Phoebus sate; and Hermes then Addressed the Supreme Lord of Gods and Men:-- LXII. Great Father, you know clearly beforehand That all which I shall say to you is sooth; I am a most veracious person, and Totally unacquainted with untruth. At sunrise Phoebus came, but with no band Of Gods to bear him witness, in great wrath, To my abode, seeking his heifers there, And saying that I must show him where they are, LXIII. Or he would hurl me down the dark abyss. I know that every Apollonian limb Is clothed with speed and might and manliness, As a green bank with flowersbut unlike him I was born yesterday, and you may guess He well knew this when he indulged the whim Of bullying a poor little new-born thing That slept, and never thought of cow-driving. LXIV. Am I like a strong fellow who steals kine? Believe me, dearest Father--such you are-- This driving of the herds is none of mine; Across my threshold did I wander neer, So may I thrive! I reverence the divine Sun and the Gods, and I love you, and care Even for this hard accuser--who must know I am as innocent as they or you. LXV. I swear by these most gloriously-wrought portals (It is, you will allow, an oath of might) Through which the multitude of the Immortals Pass and repass forever, day and night, Devising schemes for the affairs of mortals-- I am guiltless; and I will requite, Although mine enemy be great and strong, His cruel threat--do thou defend the young! LXVI. So speaking, the Cyllenian Argiphont Winked, as if now his adversary was fitted: And Jupiter, according to his wont, Laughed heartily to hear the subtle-witted Infant give such a plausible account, And every word a lie. But he remitted Judgement at presentand his exhortation Was, to compose the affair by arbitration. LXVII. And they by mighty Jupiter were bidden To go forth with a single purpose both, Neither the other chiding nor yet chidden: And Mercury with innocence and truth To lead the way, and show where he had hidden The mighty heifers.--Hermes, nothing loth, Obeyed the Aegis-bearers willfor he Is able to persuade all easily. LXVIII. These lovely children of Heavens highest Lord Hastened to Pylos and the pastures wide And lofty stalls by the Alphean ford, Where wealth in the mute night is multiplied With silent growth. Whilst Hermes drove the herd Out of the stony cavern, Phoebus spied The hides of those the little babe had slain, Stretched on the precipice above the plain. LXIX. How was it possible, then Phoebus said, That you, a little child, born yesterday, A thing on mothers milk and kisses fed, Could two prodigious heifers ever flay? Even I myself may well hereafter dread Your prowess, offspring of Cyllenian May, When you grow strong and tall.--He spoke, and bound Stiff withy bands the infants wrists around. LXX. He might as well have bound the oxen wild; The withy bands, though starkly interknit, Fell at the feet of the immortal child, Loosened by some device of his quick wit. Phoebus perceived himself again beguiled, And staredwhile Hermes sought some hole or pit, Looking askance and winking fast as thought, Where he might hide himself and not be caught. LXXI. Sudden he changed his plan, and with strange skill Subdued the strong Latonian, by the might Of winning music, to his mightier will; His left hand held the lyre, and in his right The plectrum struck the chordsunconquerable Up from beneath his hand in circling flight The gathering music roseand sweet as Love The penetrating notes did live and move LXXII. Within the heart of great Apollo--he Listened with all his soul, and laughed for pleasure. Close to his side stood harping fearlessly The unabashed boy; and to the measure Of the sweet lyre, there followed loud and free His joyous voice; for he unlocked the treasure Of his deep song, illustrating the birth Of the bright Gods, and the dark desert Earth: LXXIII. And how to the Immortals every one A portion was assigned of all that is; But chief Mnemosyne did Maias son Clothe in the light of his loud melodies;-- And, as each God was born or had begun, He in their order due and fit degrees Sung of his birth and beingand did move Apollo to unutterable love. LXXIV. These words were winged with his swift delight: You heifer-stealing schemer, well do you Deserve that fifty oxen should requite Such minstrelsies as I have heard even now. Comrade of feasts, little contriving wight, One of your secrets I would gladly know, Whether the glorious power you now show forth Was folded up within you at your birth, LXXV. Or whether mortal taught or God inspired The power of unpremeditated song? Many divinest sounds have I admired, The Olympian Gods and mortal men among; But such a strain of wondrous, strange, untired, And soul-awakening music, sweet and strong, Yet did I never hear except from thee, Offspring of May, impostor Mercury! LXXVI. What Muse, what skill, what unimagined use, What exercise of subtlest art, has given Thy songs such power?--for those who hear may choose From three, the choicest of the gifts of Heaven, Delight, and love, and sleep,--sweet sleep, whose dews Are sweeter than the balmy tears of even:-- And I, who speak this praise, am that Apollo Whom the Olympian Muses ever follow: LXXVII. And their delight is dance, and the blithe noise Of song and overflowing poesy; And sweet, even as desire, the liquid voice Of pipes, that fills the clear air thrillingly; But never did my inmost soul rejoice In this dear work of youthful revelry As now. I wonder at thee, son of Jove; Thy harpings and thy song are soft as love. LXXVIII. Now since thou hast, although so very small, Science of arts so glorious, thus I swear,-- And let this cornel javelin, keen and tall, Witness between us what I promise here,-- That I will lead thee to the Olympian Hall, Honoured and mighty, with thy mother dear, And many glorious gifts in joy will give thee, And even at the end will neer deceive thee. LXXIX. To whom thus Mercury with prudent speech:-- Wisely hast thou inquired of my skill: I envy thee no thing I know to teach Even this day:for both in word and will I would be gentle with thee; thou canst reach All things in thy wise spirit, and thy sill Is highest in Heaven among the sons of Jove, Who loves thee in the fulness of his love. LXXX. The Counsellor Supreme has given to thee Divinest gifts, out of the amplitude Of his profuse exhaustless treasury; By thee, tis said, the depths are understood Of his far voice; by thee the mystery Of all oracular fates,and the dread mood Of the diviner is breathed up; even I-- A childperceive thy might and majesty. LXXXI. Thou canst seek out and compass all that wit Can find or teach;--yet since thou wilt, come take The lyre--be mine the glory giving it-- Strike the sweet chords, and sing aloud, and wake Thy joyous pleasure out of many a fit Of tranced sound--and with fleet fingers make Thy liquid-voiced comrade talk with thee,-- It can talk measured music eloquently. LXXXII. Then bear it boldly to the revel loud, Love-wakening dance, or feast of solemn state, A joy by night or day--for those endowed With art and wisdom who interrogate It teaches, babbling in delightful mood All things which make the spirit most elate, Soothing the mind with sweet familiar play, Chasing the heavy shadows of dismay. LXXXIII. To those who are unskilled in its sweet tongue, Though they should question most impetuously Its hidden soul, it gossips something wrong-- Some senseless and impertinent reply. But thou who art as wise as thou art strong Canst compass all that thou desirest. I Present thee with this music-flowing shell, Knowing thou canst interrogate it well. LXXXIV. And let us two henceforth together feed, On this green mountain-slope and pastoral plain, The herds in litigation -- they will breed Quickly enough to recompense our pain, If to the bulls and cows we take good heed;-- And thou, though somewhat over fond of gain, Grudge me not half the profit.Having spoke, The shell he proffered, and Apollo took; LXXXV. And gave him in return the glittering lash, Installing him as herdsman;--from the look Of Mercury then laughed a joyous flash. And then Apollo with the plectrum strook The chords, and from beneath his hands a crash Of mighty sounds rushed up, whose music shook The soul with sweetness, and like an adept His sweeter voice a just accordance kept. LXXXVI. The herd went wandering oer the divine mead, Whilst these most beautiful Sons of Jupiter Won their swift way up to the snowy head Of white Olympus, with the joyous lyre Soothing their journey; and their father dread Gathered them both into familiar Affection sweet,and then, and now, and ever, Hermes must love Him of the Golden Quiver, LXXXVII. To whom he gave the lyre that sweetly sounded, Which skilfully he held and played thereon. He piped the while, and far and wide rebounded The echo of his pipings; every one Of the Olympians sat with joy astounded; While he conceived another piece of fun, One of his old trickswhich the God of Day Perceiving, said:I fear thee, Son of May;-- LXXXVIII. I fear thee and thy sly chameleon spirit, Lest thou should steal my lyre and crooked bow; This glory and power thou dost from Jove inherit, To teach all craft upon the earth below; Thieves love and worship theeit is thy merit To make all mortal business ebb and flow By roguery:now, Hermes, if you dare By sacred Styx a mighty oath to swear LXXXIX. That you will never rob me, you will do A thing extremely pleasing to my heart. Then Mercury swore by the Stygian dew, That he would never steal his bow or dart, Or lay his hands on what to him was due, Or ever would employ his powerful art Against his Pythian fane. Then Phoebus swore There was no God or Man whom he loved more. XC. And I will give thee as a good-will token, The beautiful wand of wealth and happiness; A perfect three-leaved rod of gold unbroken, Whose magic will thy footsteps ever bless; And whatsoever by Joves voice is spoken Of earthly or divine from its recess, It, like a loving soul, to thee will speak, And more than this, do thou forbear to seek. XCI. For, dearest child, the divinations high Which thou requirest, tis unlawful ever That thou, or any other deity Should understandand vain were the endeavour; For they are hidden in Joves mind, and I, In trust of them, have sworn that I would never Betray the counsels of Joves inmost will To any Godthe oath was terrible. XCII. Then, golden-wanded brother, ask me not To speak the fates by Jupiter designed; But be it mine to tell their various lot To the unnumbered tribes of human-kind. Let good to these, and ill to those be wrought As I dispensebut he who comes consigned By voice and wings of perfect augury To my great shrine, shall find avail in me. XCIII. Him will I not deceive, but will assist; But he who comes relying on such birds As chatter vainly, who would strain and twist The purpose of the Gods with idle words, And deems their knowledge light, he shall have missed His roadwhilst I among my other hoards His gifts deposit. Yet, O son of May, I have another wondrous thing to say. XCIV. There are three Fates, three virgin Sisters, who Rejoicing in their wind-outspeeding wings, Their heads with flour snowed over white and new, Sit in a vale round which Parnassus flings Its circling skirtsfrom these I have learned true Vaticinations of remotest things. My father cared not. Whilst they search out dooms, They sit apart and feed on honeycombs. XCV. They, having eaten the fresh honey, grow Drunk with divine enthusiasm, and utter With earnest willingness the truth they know; But if deprived of that sweet food, they mutter All plausible delusions;--these to you I give;--if you inquire, they will not stutter; Delight your own soul with them:--any man You would instruct may profit if he can. XCVI. Take these and the fierce oxen, Maias child-- Oer many a horse and toil-enduring mule, Oer jagged-jawed lions, and the wild White-tusked boars, oer all, by field or pool, Of cattle which the mighty Mother mild Nourishes in her bosom, thou shalt rule-- Thou dost alone the veil from death uplift-- Thou givest notyet this is a great gift. XCVII. Thus King Apollo loved the child of May In truth, and Jove covered their love with joy. Hermes with Gods and Men even from that day Mingled, and wrought the latter much annoy, And little profit, going far astray Through the dun night. Farewell, delightful Boy, Of Jove and Maia sprung,never by me, Nor thou, nor other songs, shall unremembered be Published by Mrs. Shelley, Posthumous Poems, 1824. This alone of the Translations is included in the Harvard manuscript book. Fragments of the drafts of this and the other Hymns of Homer exist among the Boscombe manuscripts (Forman). ~ Percy Bysshe Shelley, Hymn To Mercury ,

124:Earth, Ocean, Air, belovd brotherhood! If our great Mother has imbued my soul With aught of natural piety to feel Your love, and recompense the boon with mine; If dewy morn, and odorous noon, and even, With sunset and its gorgeous ministers, And solemn midnight's tingling silentness; If Autumn's hollow sighs in the sere wood, And Winter robing with pure snow and crowns Of starry ice the gray grass and bare boughs; If Spring's voluptuous pantings when she breathes Her first sweet kisses,have been dear to me; If no bright bird, insect, or gentle beast I consciously have injured, but still loved And cherished these my kindred; then forgive This boast, belovd brethren, and withdraw No portion of your wonted favor now! Mother of this unfathomable world! Favor my solemn song, for I have loved Thee ever, and thee only; I have watched Thy shadow, and the darkness of thy steps, And my heart ever gazes on the depth Of thy deep mysteries. I have made my bed In charnels and on coffins, where black death Keeps record of the trophies won from thee, Hoping to still these obstinate questionings Of thee and thine, by forcing some lone ghost, Thy messenger, to render up the tale Of what we are. In lone and silent hours, When night makes a weird sound of its own stillness, Like an inspired and desperate alchemist Staking his very life on some dark hope, Have I mixed awful talk and asking looks With my most innocent love, until strange tears, Uniting with those breathless kisses, made Such magic as compels the charmd night To render up thy charge; and, though ne'er yet Thou hast unveiled thy inmost sanctuary, Enough from incommunicable dream, And twilight phantasms, and deep noonday thought, Has shone within me, that serenely now And moveless, as a long-forgotten lyre Suspended in the solitary dome Of some mysterious and deserted fane, I wait thy breath, Great Parent, that my strain May modulate with murmurs of the air, And motions of the forests and the sea, And voice of living beings, and woven hymns Of night and day, and the deep heart of man. There was a Poet whose untimely tomb No human hands with pious reverence reared, But the charmed eddies of autumnal winds Built o'er his mouldering bones a pyramid Of mouldering leaves in the waste wilderness: A lovely youth,no mourning maiden decked With weeping flowers, or votive cypress wreath, The lone couch of his everlasting sleep: Gentle, and brave, and generous,no lorn bard Breathed o'er his dark fate one melodious sigh: He lived, he died, he sung in solitude.   Strangers have wept to hear his passionate notes, And virgins, as unknown he passed, have pined And wasted for fond love of his wild eyes. The fire of those soft orbs has ceased to burn, And Silence, too enamoured of that voice, Locks its mute music in her rugged cell. By solemn vision and bright silver dream His infancy was nurtured. Every sight And sound from the vast earth and ambient air Sent to his heart its choicest impulses. The fountains of divine philosophy Fled not his thirsting lips, and all of great, Or good, or lovely, which the sacred past In truth or fable consecrates, he felt And knew. When early youth had passed, he left His cold fireside and alienated home To seek strange truths in undiscovered lands. Many a wide waste and tangled wilderness Has lured his fearless steps; and he has bought With his sweet voice and eyes, from savage men, His rest and food. Nature's most secret steps He like her shadow has pursued, where'er The red volcano overcanopies Its fields of snow and pinnacles of ice With burning smoke, or where bitumen lakes On black bare pointed islets ever beat With sluggish surge, or where the secret caves, Rugged and dark, winding among the springs Of fire and poison, inaccessible To avarice or pride, their starry domes Of diamond and of gold expand above Numberless and immeasurable halls, Frequent with crystal column, and clear shrines Of pearl, and thrones radiant with chrysolite. Nor had that scene of ampler majesty Than gems or gold, the varying roof of heaven And the green earth, lost in his heart its claims To love and wonder; he would linger long In lonesome vales, making the wild his home, Until the doves and squirrels would partake From his innocuous band his bloodless food, Lured by the gentle meaning of his looks, And the wild antelope, that starts whene'er The dry leaf rustles in the brake, suspend Her timid steps, to gaze upon a form More graceful than her own. His wandering step, Obedient to high thoughts, has visited The awful ruins of the days of old: Athens, and Tyre, and Balbec, and the waste Where stood Jerusalem, the fallen towers Of Babylon, the eternal pyramids, Memphis and Thebes, and whatsoe'er of strange, Sculptured on alabaster obelisk Or jasper tomb or mutilated sphinx, Dark thiopia in her desert hills Conceals. Among the ruined temples there, Stupendous columns, and wild images Of more than man, where marble daemons watch The Zodiac's brazen mystery, and dead men Hang their mute thoughts on the mute walls around, He lingered, poring on memorials Of the world's youth: through the long burning day Gazed on those speechless shapes; nor, when the moon Filled the mysterious halls with floating shades Suspended he that task, but ever gazed And gazed, till meaning on his vacant mind Flashed like strong inspiration, and he saw The thrilling secrets of the birth of time. Meanwhile an Arab maiden brought his food, Her daily portion, from her father's tent, And spread her matting for his couch, and stole From duties and repose to tend his steps, Enamoured, yet not daring for deep awe To speak her love, and watched his nightly sleep, Sleepless herself, to gaze upon his lips Parted in slumber, whence the regular breath Of innocent dreams arose; then, when red morn Made paler the pale moon, to her cold home Wildered, and wan, and panting, she returned. The Poet, wandering on, through Arabie, And Persia, and the wild Carmanian waste, And o'er the arial mountains which pour down Indus and Oxus from their icy caves, In joy and exultation held his way; Till in the vale of Cashmire, far within Its loneliest dell, where odorous plants entwine Beneath the hollow rocks a natural bower, Beside a sparkling rivulet he stretched His languid limbs. A vision on his sleep There came, a dream of hopes that never yet Had flushed his cheek. He dreamed a veild maid Sate near him, talking in low solemn tones. Her voice was like the voice of his own soul Heard in the calm of thought; its music long, Like woven sounds of streams and breezes, held His inmost sense suspended in its web Of many-colored woof and shifting hues. Knowledge and truth and virtue were her theme, And lofty hopes of divine liberty, Thoughts the most dear to him, and poesy, Herself a poet. Soon the solemn mood Of her pure mind kindled through all her frame A permeating fire; wild numbers then She raised, with voice stifled in tremulous sobs Subdued by its own pathos; her fair hands Were bare alone, sweeping from some strange harp Strange symphony, and in their branching veins The eloquent blood told an ineffable tale. The beating of her heart was heard to fill The pauses of her music, and her breath Tumultuously accorded with those fits Of intermitted song. Sudden she rose, As if her heart impatiently endured Its bursting burden; at the sound he turned, And saw by the warm light of their own life Her glowing limbs beneath the sinuous veil Of woven wind, her outspread arms now bare, Her dark locks floating in the breath of night, Her beamy bending eyes, her parted lips Outstretched, and pale, and quivering eagerly. His strong heart sunk and sickened with excess Of love. He reared his shuddering limbs, and quelled His gasping breath, and spread his arms to meet Her panting bosom:she drew back awhile, Then, yielding to the irresistible joy, With frantic gesture and short breathless cry Folded his frame in her dissolving arms. Now blackness veiled his dizzy eyes, and night Involved and swallowed up the vision; sleep, Like a dark flood suspended in its course, Rolled back its impulse on his vacant brain. Roused by the shock, he started from his trance The cold white light of morning, the blue moon Low in the west, the clear and garish hills, The distinct valley and the vacant woods, Spread round him where he stood. Whither have fled The hues of heaven that canopied his bower Of yesternight? The sounds that soothed his sleep, The mystery and the majesty of Earth, The joy, the exultation? His wan eyes Gaze on the empty scene as vacantly As ocean's moon looks on the moon in heaven. The spirit of sweet human love has sent A vision to the sleep of him who spurned Her choicest gifts. He eagerly pursues Beyond the realms of dream that fleeting shade; He overleaps the bounds. Alas! alas! Were limbs and breath and being intertwined Thus treacherously? Lost, lost, forever lost In the wide pathless desert of dim sleep, That beautiful shape! Does the dark gate of death Conduct to thy mysterious paradise, O Sleep? Does the bright arch of rainbow clouds And pendent mountains seen in the calm lake Lead only to a black and watery depth, While death's blue vault with loathliest vapors hung, Where every shade which the foul grave exhales Hides its dead eye from the detested day, Conducts, O Sleep, to thy delightful realms? This doubt with sudden tide flowed on his heart; The insatiate hope which it awakened stung His brain even like despair. While daylight held The sky, the Poet kept mute conference With his still soul. At night the passion came, Like the fierce fiend of a distempered dream, And shook him from his rest, and led him forth Into the darkness. As an eagle, grasped In folds of the green serpent, feels her breast Burn with the poison, and precipitates Through night and day, tempest, and calm, and cloud, Frantic with dizzying anguish, her blind flight O'er the wide ary wilderness: thus driven By the bright shadow of that lovely dream, Beneath the cold glare of the desolate night, Through tangled swamps and deep precipitous dells, Startling with careless step the moon-light snake, He fled. Red morning dawned upon his flight, Shedding the mockery of its vital hues Upon his cheek of death. He wandered on Till vast Aornos seen from Petra's steep Hung o'er the low horizon like a cloud; Through Balk, and where the desolated tombs Of Parthian kings scatter to every wind Their wasting dust, wildly he wandered on, Day after day, a weary waste of hours, Bearing within his life the brooding care That ever fed on its decaying flame. And now his limbs were lean; his scattered hair, Sered by the autumn of strange suffering, Sung dirges in the wind; his listless hand Hung like dead bone within its withered skin; Life, and the lustre that consumed it, shone, As in a furnace burning secretly, From his dark eyes alone. The cottagers, Who ministered with human charity His human wants, beheld with wondering awe Their fleeting visitant. The mountaineer, Encountering on some dizzy precipice That spectral form, deemed that the Spirit of Wind, With lightning eyes, and eager breath, and feet Disturbing not the drifted snow, had paused In its career; the infant would conceal His troubled visage in his mother's robe In terror at the glare of those wild eyes, To remember their strange light in many a dream Of after times; but youthful maidens, taught By nature, would interpret half the woe That wasted him, would call him with false names Brother and friend, would press his pallid hand At parting, and watch, dim through tears, the path Of his departure from their father's door. At length upon the lone Chorasmian shore He paused, a wide and melancholy waste Of putrid marshes. A strong impulse urged His steps to the sea-shore. A swan was there, Beside a sluggish stream among the reeds. It rose as he approached, and, with strong wings Scaling the upward sky, bent its bright course High over the immeasurable main. His eyes pursued its flight:'Thou hast a home, Beautiful bird! thou voyagest to thine home, Where thy sweet mate will twine her downy neck With thine, and welcome thy return with eyes Bright in the lustre of their own fond joy. And what am I that I should linger here, With voice far sweeter than thy dying notes, Spirit more vast than thine, frame more attuned To beauty, wasting these surpassing powers In the deaf air, to the blind earth, and heaven That echoes not my thoughts?' A gloomy smile Of desperate hope wrinkled his quivering lips. For sleep, he knew, kept most relentlessly Its precious charge, and silent death exposed, Faithless perhaps as sleep, a shadowy lure, With doubtful smile mocking its own strange charms. Startled by his own thoughts, he looked around. There was no fair fiend near him, not a sight Or sound of awe but in his own deep mind. A little shallop floating near the shore Caught the impatient wandering of his gaze. It had been long abandoned, for its sides Gaped wide with many a rift, and its frail joints Swayed with the undulations of the tide. A restless impulse urged him to embark And meet lone Death on the drear ocean's waste; For well he knew that mighty Shadow loves The slimy caverns of the populous deep. The day was fair and sunny; sea and sky Drank its inspiring radiance, and the wind Swept strongly from the shore, blackening the waves. Following his eager soul, the wanderer Leaped in the boat; he spread his cloak aloft On the bare mast, and took his lonely seat, And felt the boat speed o'er the tranquil sea Like a torn cloud before the hurricane. As one that in a silver vision floats Obedient to the sweep of odorous winds Upon resplendent clouds, so rapidly Along the dark and ruffled waters fled The straining boat. A whirlwind swept it on, With fierce gusts and precipitating force, Through the white ridges of the chafd sea. The waves arose. Higher and higher still Their fierce necks writhed beneath the tempest's scourge Like serpents struggling in a vulture's grasp. Calm and rejoicing in the fearful war Of wave ruining on wave, and blast on blast Descending, and black flood on whirlpool driven With dark obliterating course, he sate: As if their genii were the ministers Appointed to conduct him to the light Of those belovd eyes, the Poet sate, Holding the steady helm. Evening came on; The beams of sunset hung their rainbow hues High 'mid the shifting domes of sheeted spray That canopied his path o'er the waste deep; Twilight, ascending slowly from the east, Entwined in duskier wreaths her braided locks O'er the fair front and radiant eyes of Day; Night followed, clad with stars. On every side More horribly the multitudinous streams Of ocean's mountainous waste to mutual war Rushed in dark tumult thundering, as to mock The calm and spangled sky. The little boat Still fled before the storm; still fled, like foam Down the steep cataract of a wintry river; Now pausing on the edge of the riven wave; Now leaving far behind the bursting mass That fell, convulsing ocean; safely fled As if that frail and wasted human form Had been an elemental god. At midnight The moon arose; and lo! the ethereal cliffs Of Caucasus, whose icy summits shone Among the stars like sunlight, and around Whose caverned base the whirlpools and the waves Bursting and eddying irresistibly Rage and resound forever.Who shall save? The boat fled on,the boiling torrent drove, The crags closed round with black and jagged arms, The shattered mountain overhung the sea, And faster still, beyond all human speed, Suspended on the sweep of the smooth wave, The little boat was driven. A cavern there Yawned, and amid its slant and winding depths Ingulfed the rushing sea. The boat fled on With unrelaxing speed.'Vision and Love!' The Poet cried aloud, 'I have beheld The path of thy departure. Sleep and death Shall not divide us long.' The boat pursued The windings of the cavern. Daylight shone At length upon that gloomy river's flow; Now, where the fiercest war among the waves Is calm, on the unfathomable stream The boat moved slowly. Where the mountain, riven, Exposed those black depths to the azure sky, Ere yet the flood's enormous volume fell Even to the base of Caucasus, with sound That shook the everlasting rocks, the mass Filled with one whirlpool all that ample chasm; Stair above stair the eddying waters rose, Circling immeasurably fast, and laved With alternating dash the gnarld roots Of mighty trees, that stretched their giant arms In darkness over it. I' the midst was left, Reflecting yet distorting every cloud, A pool of treacherous and tremendous calm. Seized by the sway of the ascending stream, With dizzy swiftness, round and round and round, Ridge after ridge the straining boat arose, Till on the verge of the extremest curve, Where through an opening of the rocky bank The waters overflow, and a smooth spot Of glassy quiet 'mid those battling tides Is left, the boat paused shuddering.Shall it sink Down the abyss? Shall the reverting stress Of that resistless gulf embosom it? Now shall it fall?A wandering stream of wind Breathed from the west, has caught the expanded sail, And, lo! with gentle motion between banks Of mossy slope, and on a placid stream, Beneath a woven grove, it sails, and, hark! The ghastly torrent mingles its far roar With the breeze murmuring in the musical woods. Where the embowering trees recede, and leave A little space of green expanse, the cove Is closed by meeting banks, whose yellow flowers Forever gaze on their own drooping eyes, Reflected in the crystal calm. The wave Of the boat's motion marred their pensive task, Which naught but vagrant bird, or wanton wind, Or falling spear-grass, or their own decay Had e'er disturbed before. The Poet longed To deck with their bright hues his withered hair, But on his heart its solitude returned, And he forbore. Not the strong impulse hid In those flushed cheeks, bent eyes, and shadowy frame, Had yet performed its ministry; it hung Upon his life, as lightning in a cloud Gleams, hovering ere it vanish, ere the floods Of night close over it. The noonday sun   Now shone upon the forest, one vast mass Of mingling shade, whose brown magnificence A narrow vale embosoms. There, huge caves, Scooped in the dark base of their ary rocks, Mocking its moans, respond and roar forever. The meeting boughs and implicated leaves Wove twilight o'er the Poet's path, as, led By love, or dream, or god, or mightier Death, He sought in Nature's dearest haunt some bank, Her cradle and his sepulchre. More dark And dark the shades accumulate. The oak, Expanding its immense and knotty arms, Embraces the light beech. The pyramids Of the tall cedar overarching frame Most solemn domes within, and far below, Like clouds suspended in an emerald sky, The ash and the acacia floating hang Tremulous and pale. Like restless serpents, clothed In rainbow and in fire, the parasites, Starred with ten thousand blossoms, flow around The gray trunks, and, as gamesome infants' eyes, With gentle meanings, and most innocent wiles, Fold their beams round the hearts of those that love, These twine their tendrils with the wedded boughs, Uniting their close union; the woven leaves Make network of the dark blue light of day And the night's noontide clearness, mutable As shapes in the weird clouds. Soft mossy lawns Beneath these canopies extend their swells, Fragrant with perfumed herbs, and eyed with blooms Minute yet beautiful. One darkest glen Sends from its woods of musk-rose twined with jasmine A soul-dissolving odor to invite To some more lovely mystery. Through the dell Silence and Twilight here, twin-sisters, keep Their noonday watch, and sail among the shades, Like vaporous shapes half-seen; beyond, a well, Dark, gleaming, and of most translucent wave, Images all the woven boughs above, And each depending leaf, and every speck Of azure sky darting between their chasms; Nor aught else in the liquid mirror laves Its portraiture, but some inconstant star, Between one foliaged lattice twinkling fair, Or painted bird, sleeping beneath the moon, Or gorgeous insect floating motionless, Unconscious of the day, ere yet his wings Have spread their glories to the gaze of noon. Hither the Poet came. His eyes beheld Their own wan light through the reflected lines Of his thin hair, distinct in the dark depth Of that still fountain; as the human heart, Gazing in dreams over the gloomy grave, Sees its own treacherous likeness there. He heard The motion of the leavesthe grass that sprung Startled and glanced and trembled even to feel An unaccustomed presenceand the sound Of the sweet brook that from the secret springs Of that dark fountain rose. A Spirit seemed To stand beside himclothed in no bright robes Of shadowy silver or enshrining light, Borrowed from aught the visible world affords Of grace, or majesty, or mystery; But undulating woods, and silent well, And leaping rivulet, and evening gloom Now deepening the dark shades, for speech assuming, Held commune with him, as if he and it Were all that was; onlywhen his regard Was raised by intense pensivenesstwo eyes, Two starry eyes, hung in the gloom of thought, And seemed with their serene and azure smiles To beckon him. Obedient to the light That shone within his soul, he went, pursuing The windings of the dell. The rivulet, Wanton and wild, through many a green ravine Beneath the forest flowed. Sometimes it fell Among the moss with hollow harmony Dark and profound. Now on the polished stones It danced, like childhood laughing as it went; Then, through the plain in tranquil wanderings crept, Reflecting every herb and drooping bud That overhung its quietness.'O stream! Whose source is inaccessibly profound, Whither do thy mysterious waters tend? Thou imagest my life. Thy darksome stillness, Thy dazzling waves, thy loud and hollow gulfs, Thy searchless fountain and invisible course, Have each their type in me; and the wide sky And measureless ocean may declare as soon What oozy cavern or what wandering cloud Contains thy waters, as the universe Tell where these living thoughts reside, when stretched Upon thy flowers my bloodless limbs shall waste I' the passing wind!' Beside the grassy shore Of the small stream he went; he did impress On the green moss his tremulous step, that caught Strong shuddering from his burning limbs. As one Roused by some joyous madness from the couch Of fever, he did move; yet not like him Forgetful of the grave, where, when the flame Of his frail exultation shall be spent, He must descend. With rapid steps he went Beneath the shade of trees, beside the flow Of the wild babbling rivulet; and now The forest's solemn canopies were changed For the uniform and lightsome evening sky. Gray rocks did peep from the spare moss, and stemmed The struggling brook; tall spires of windlestrae Threw their thin shadows down the rugged slope, And nought but gnarld roots of ancient pines Branchless and blasted, clenched with grasping roots The unwilling soil. A gradual change was here Yet ghastly. For, as fast years flow away, The smooth brow gathers, and the hair grows thin And white, and where irradiate dewy eyes Had shone, gleam stony orbs:so from his steps Bright flowers departed, and the beautiful shade Of the green groves, with all their odorous winds And musical motions. Calm he still pursued The stream, that with a larger volume now Rolled through the labyrinthine dell; and there Fretted a path through its descending curves With its wintry speed. On every side now rose Rocks, which, in unimaginable forms, Lifted their black and barren pinnacles In the light of evening, and its precipice Obscuring the ravine, disclosed above, 'Mid toppling stones, black gulfs and yawning caves, Whose windings gave ten thousand various tongues To the loud stream. Lo! where the pass expands Its stony jaws, the abrupt mountain breaks, And seems with its accumulated crags To overhang the world; for wide expand Beneath the wan stars and descending moon Islanded seas, blue mountains, mighty streams, Dim tracts and vast, robed in the lustrous gloom Of leaden-colored even, and fiery hills Mingling their flames with twilight, on the verge Of the remote horizon. The near scene, In naked and severe simplicity,   Made contrast with the universe. A pine, Rock-rooted, stretched athwart the vacancy Its swinging boughs, to each inconstant blast Yielding one only response at each pause In most familiar cadence, with the howl, The thunder and the hiss of homeless streams Mingling its solemn song, whilst the broad river Foaming and hurrying o'er its rugged path, Fell into that immeasurable void, Scattering its waters to the passing winds. Yet the gray precipice and solemn pine And torrent were not all;one silent nook Was there. Even on the edge of that vast mountain, Upheld by knotty roots and fallen rocks, It overlooked in its serenity The dark earth and the bending vault of stars. It was a tranquil spot that seemed to smile Even in the lap of horror. Ivy clasped The fissured stones with its entwining arms, And did embower with leaves forever green   And berries dark the smooth and even space Of its inviolated floor; and here The children of the autumnal whirlwind bore In wanton sport those bright leaves whose decay, Red, yellow, or ethereally pale, Rivals the pride of summer. 'T is the haunt Of every gentle wind whose breath can teach The wilds to love tranquillity. One step, One human step alone, has ever broken The stillness of its solitude; one voice   Alone inspired its echoes;even that voice Which hither came, floating among the winds, And led the loveliest among human forms To make their wild haunts the depository Of all the grace and beauty that endued Its motions, render up its majesty, Scatter its music on the unfeeling storm, And to the damp leaves and blue cavern mould, Nurses of rainbow flowers and branching moss, Commit the colors of that varying cheek, That snowy breast, those dark and drooping eyes. The dim and hornd moon hung low, and poured A sea of lustre on the horizon's verge That overflowed its mountains. Yellow mist Filled the unbounded atmosphere, and drank Wan moonlight even to fulness; not a star Shone, not a sound was heard; the very winds, Danger's grim playmates, on that precipice Slept, clasped in his embrace.O storm of death, Whose sightless speed divides this sullen night!   And thou, colossal Skeleton, that, still Guiding its irresistible career In thy devastating omnipotence, Art king of this frail world! from the red field Of slaughter, from the reeking hospital, The patriot's sacred couch, the snowy bed Of innocence, the scaffold and the throne, A mighty voice invokes thee! Ruin calls His brother Death! A rare and regal prey He hath prepared, prowling around the world;   Glutted with which thou mayst repose, and men Go to their graves like flowers or creeping worms, Nor ever more offer at thy dark shrine The unheeded tribute of a broken heart. When on the threshold of the green recess The wanderer's footsteps fell, he knew that death Was on him. Yet a little, ere it fled, Did he resign his high and holy soul To images of the majestic past, That paused within his passive being now,         Like winds that bear sweet music, when they breathe Through some dim latticed chamber. He did place His pale lean hand upon the rugged trunk Of the old pine; upon an ivied stone Reclined his languid head; his limbs did rest, Diffused and motionless, on the smooth brink Of that obscurest chasm;and thus he lay, Surrendering to their final impulses The hovering powers of life. Hope and Despair, The torturers, slept; no mortal pain or fear     Marred his repose; the influxes of sense And his own being, unalloyed by pain, Yet feebler and more feeble, calmly fed The stream of thought, till he lay breathing there At peace, and faintly smiling. His last sight Was the great moon, which o'er the western line Of the wide world her mighty horn suspended, With whose dun beams inwoven darkness seemed To mingle. Now upon the jagged hills It rests; and still as the divided frame     Of the vast meteor sunk, the Poet's blood, That ever beat in mystic sympathy With Nature's ebb and flow, grew feebler still; And when two lessening points of light alone Gleamed through the darkness, the alternate gasp Of his faint respiration scarce did stir The stagnate night:till the minutest ray Was quenched, the pulse yet lingered in his heart. It pausedit fluttered. But when heaven remained Utterly black, the murky shades involved   An image silent, cold, and motionless, As their own voiceless earth and vacant air. Even as a vapor fed with golden beams That ministered on sunlight, ere the west Eclipses it, was now that wondrous frame No sense, no motion, no divinity A fragile lute, on whose harmonious strings The breath of heaven did wandera bright stream Once fed with many-voicd wavesa dream Of youth, which night and time have quenched forever   Still, dark, and dry, and unremembered now. Oh, for Medea's wondrous alchemy, Which wheresoe'er it fell made the earth gleam With bright flowers, and the wintry boughs exhale From vernal blooms fresh fragrance! Oh, that God, Profuse of poisons, would concede the chalice Which but one living man has drained, who now, Vessel of deathless wrath, a slave that feels No proud exemption in the blighting curse He bears, over the world wanders forever,   Lone as incarnate death! Oh, that the dream Of dark magician in his visioned cave, Raking the cinders of a crucible For life and power, even when his feeble hand Shakes in its last decay, were the true law Of this so lovely world! But thou art fled, Like some frail exhalation, which the dawn Robes in its golden beams,ah! thou hast fled! The brave, the gentle and the beautiful, The child of grace and genius. Heartless things     Are done and said i' the world, and many worms And beasts and men live on, and mighty Earth From sea and mountain, city and wilderness, In vesper low or joyous orison, Lifts still its solemn voice:but thou art fled Thou canst no longer know or love the shapes Of this phantasmal scene, who have to thee Been purest ministers, who are, alas! Now thou art not! Upon those pallid lips So sweet even in their silence, on those eyes That image sleep in death, upon that form Yet safe from the worm's outrage, let no tear Be shednot even in thought. Nor, when those hues Are gone, and those divinest lineaments, Worn by the senseless wind, shall live alone In the frail pauses of this simple strain, Let not high verse, mourning the memory Of that which is no more, or painting's woe Or sculpture, speak in feeble imagery Their own cold powers. Art and eloquence, And all the shows o' the world, are frail and vain To weep a loss that turns their lights to shade. It is a woe "too deep for tears," when all Is reft at once, when some surpassing Spirit, Whose light adorned the world around it, leaves Those who remain behind, not sobs or groans, The passionate tumult of a clinging hope; But pale despair and cold tranquillity, Nature's vast frame, the web of human things, Birth and the grave, that are not as they were. Composed at Bishopsgate Heath, near Windsor Park, 1815 (autumn). Note by Mrs. Shelley: 'Alastor is written in a very different tone from Queen Mab. In the latter, Shelley poured out all the cherished speculations of his youth -- all the irrepressible emotions of sympathy, censure, and hope, to which the present suffering, and what he considers the proper destiny, of his fellow-creatures, gave birth. Alastor, on the contrary, contains an individual interest only. A very few years, with their attendant events, had checked the ardour of Shelley's hopes, though he still thought them well grounded, and that to advance their fulfilment was the noblest task man could achieve. This is neither the time nor the place to speak of the misfortunes that chequered his life. It will be sufficient to say that, in all he did, he at the time of doing it believed himself justified to his own conscience; while the various ills of poverty and loss of friends brought home to him the sad realities of life. Physical suffering had also considerable influence in causing him to turn his eyes inward; inclining him rather to brood over the thoughts and emotions of his own soul than to glance abroad, and to make, as in Queen Mab, the whole universe the object and subject of his song. In the Spring of 1815 an eminent physician pronounced that he was dying rapidly of a consumption; abscesses were formed on his lungs, and he suffered acute spasms. suddenly a complete change took place; and, though through life he was a martyr to pain and debility, every symptom of pulmonary disease vanished. His nerves, which nature had formed sensitive to an unexampled degree, were rendered still more susceptible by the state of his health. As soon as the peace of 1814 had opened the Continent, he went abroad. He visited some of the more magnificent scenes of Switzerland, and returned to England from Lucerne, by the Reuss and the Rhine. The river-navigation enchanted him. In his favourite poem of Thalaba, his imagination had been excited by a description of such a voyage. In the summer of 1815, after a tour along the southern coast of Devonshire and a visit to Clifton, he rented a house on Bishopgate Heath, on the borders of Windsor Forest, where he enjoyed several months of comparative health and tranquil happiness. The later summer months were warm and dry. Accompanied by a few friends, he visited the source of the Thames, making a voyage in a wherry from Winsdor to Crickdale. His beautiful stanzas in the churchyard of Lechlade were written on that occasion. Alastor was composed on his return. He spent his days under the oak-shades of Windsor Great Park; and the magnificent woodland was a fitting study to inspire the various descriptions of forest-scenery we find in the poem. None of Shelley's poems is more characteristic than this. The solemn spirit that reigns throughout, the worship of the majesty of nature, the broodings of a poet's heart in solitude -- the mingling of the exulting joy which the various aspects of the visible universe inspires with the sad and struggling pangs which human passion imparts -- give a touching interest to the whole. The death which he had often contemplated during the last months as certain and near he here represented in such colours as had, in his lonely musings, soothed his soul to peace. The versification sustains the solemn spirit which breathes throughout: it is peculiarly melodious. The poem ought rather to be considered didactic than narrative: it was the outpouring of his own emotions, embodied in the purest form he could conceive, painted in the ideal hues which his brilliant imagination inspired, and softened by the recent anticipation of death.' ~ Percy Bysshe Shelley, Alastor - or, the Spirit of Solitude ,

125:Rose Mary Of her two fights with the Beryl-stone Lost the first, but the second won. PART I “MARY mine that art Mary's Rose Come in to me from the garden-close. The sun sinks fast with the rising dew, And we marked not how the faint moon grew; But the hidden stars are calling you. “Tall Rose Mary, come to my side, And read the stars if you'd be a bride. In hours whose need was not your own, While you were a young maid yet ungrown You've read the stars in the Beryl-stone. “Daughter, once more I bid you read; But now let it be for your own need: Because to-morrow, at break of day, To Holy Cross he rides on his way, Your knight Sir James of Heronhaye. “Ere he wed you, flower of mine, For a heavy shrift he seeks the shrine. Now hark to my words and do not fear; Ill news next I have for your ear; But be you strong, and our help is here. “On his road, as the rumour's rife, An ambush waits to take his life. He needs will go, and will go alone; Where the peril lurks may not be known; But in this glass all things are shown.” Pale Rose Mary sank to the floor:— “The night will come if the day is o'er!” “Nay, heaven takes counsel, star with star, And help shall reach your heart from afar: A bride you'll be, as a maid you are.” The lady unbound her jewelled zone And drew from her robe the Beryl-stone. Shaped it was to a shadowy sphere,— World of our world, the sun's compeer, 219 That bears and buries the toiling year. With shuddering light 'twas stirred and strewn Like the cloud-nest of the wading moon: Freaked it was as the bubble's ball, Rainbow-hued through a misty pall Like the middle light of the waterfall. Shadows dwelt in its teeming girth Of the known and unknown things of earth; The cloud above and the wave around,— The central fire at the sphere's heart bound, Like doomsday prisoned underground. A thousand years it lay in the sea With a treasure wrecked from Thessaly; Deep it lay 'mid the coiled sea-wrack, But the ocean-spirits found the track: A soul was lost to win it back. The lady upheld the wondrous thing:— “Ill fare”(she said) “with a fiend's-faring: But Moslem blood poured forth like wine Can hallow Hell, 'neath the Sacred Sign; And my lord brought this from Palestine. “Spirits who fear the Blessed Rood Drove forth the accursed multitude That heathen worship housed herein,— Never again such home to win, Save only by a Christian's sin. “All last night at an altar fair I burnt strange fires and strove with prayer; Till the flame paled to the red sunrise, All rites I then did solemnize; And the spell lacks nothing but your eyes.” Low spake maiden Rose Mary:— “O mother mine, if I should not see!” “Nay, daughter, cover your face no more, But bend love's heart to the hidden lore, And you shall see now as heretofore.” Paler yet were the pale cheeks grown As the grey eyes sought the Beryl-stone: Then over her mother's lap leaned she, And stretched her thrilled throat passionately, And sighed from her soul, and said, “I see.” Even as she spoke, they two were 'ware 220 Of music-notes that fell through the air; A chiming shower of strange device, Drop echoing drop, once, twice, and thrice, As rain may fall in Paradise. An instant come, in an instant gone, No time there was to think thereon. The mother held the sphere on her knee:— “Lean this way and speak low to me, And take no note but of what you see.” “I see a man with a besom grey That sweeps the flying dust away.” “Ay, that comes first in the mystic sphere; But now that the way is swept and clear, Heed well what next you look on there.” “Stretched aloft and adown I see Two roads that part in waste-country: The glen lies deep and the ridge stands tall; What's great below is above seen small, And the hill-side is the valley-wall.” “Stream-bank, daughter, or moor and moss, Both roads will take to Holy Cross. The hills are a weary waste to wage; But what of the valley-road's presage? That way must tend his pilgrimage.” “As 'twere the turning leaves of a book, The road runs past me as I look; Or it is even as though mine eye Should watch calm waters filled with sky While lights and clouds and wings went by.” “In every covert seek a spear; They'll scarce lie close till he draws near.” “The stream has spread to a river now; The stiff blue sedge is deep in the slough, But the banks are bare of shrub or bough.’ “Is there any roof that near at hand Might shelter yield to a hidden band?” “On the further bank I see but one, And a herdsman now in the sinking sun Unyokes his team at the threshold-stone.” “Keep heedful watch by the water's edge,— Some boat might lurk 'neath the shadowed sedge.” “One slid but now 'twixt the winding shores, 221 But a peasant woman bent to the oars And only a young child steered its course. “Mother, something flashed to my sight!— Nay, it is but the lapwing's flight.— What glints there like a lance that flees?— Nay, the flags are stirred in the breeze, And the water's bright through the dart-rushes. “Ah! vainly I search from side to side:— Woe's me! and where do the foemen hide? Woe's me! and perchance I pass them by, And under the new dawn's blood-red sky Even where I gaze the dead shall lie.” Said the mother: “For dear love's sake, Speak more low, lest the spell should break.” Said the daughter: “By love's control, My eyes, my words, are strained to the goal; But oh! the voice that cries in my soul!” “Hush, sweet, hush! be calm and behold.” “I see two floodgates broken and old: The grasses wave o'er the ruined weir, But the bridge still leads to the breakwater; And—mother, mother, O mother dear!” The damsel clung to her mother's knee, And dared not let the shriek go free; Low she crouched by the lady's chair, And shrank blindfold in her fallen hair, And whispering said, “The spears are there!” The lady stooped aghast from her place, And cleared the locks from her daughter's face. “More's to see, and she swoons, alas! Look, look again, ere the moment pass! One shadow comes but once to the glass. “See you there what you saw but now?” “I see eight men 'neath the willow bough. All over the weir a wild growth's spread: Ah me! it will hide a living head As well as the water hides the dead. “They lie by the broken water-gate As men who have a while to wait. The chief's high lance has a blazoned scroll,— He seems some lord of tithe and toll With seven squires to his bannerole. 222 “The little pennon quakes in the air, I cannot trace the blazon there:— Ah! now I can see the field of blue, The spurs and the merlins two and two;— It is the Warden of Holycleugh!” “God be thanked for the thing we know! You have named your good knight's mortal foe. Last Shrovetide in the tourney-game He sought his life by treasonous shame; And this way now doth he seek the same. “So, fair lord, such a thing you are! But we too watch till the morning star. Well, June is kind and the moon is clear: Saint Judas send you a merry cheer For the night you lie in Warisweir! “Now, sweet daughter, but one more sight, And you may lie soft and sleep to-night. We know in the vale what perils be: Now look once more in the glass, and see If over the hills the road lies free.” Rose Mary pressed to her mother's cheek, And almost smiled but did not speak; Then turned again to the saving spell, With eyes to search and with lips to tell The heart of things invisible. “Again the shape with the besom grey Comes back to sweep the clouds away. Again I stand where the roads divide; But now all's near on the steep hillside, And a thread far down is the rivertide.” “Ay, child, your road is o'er moor and moss, Past Holycleugh to Holy Cross. Our hunters lurk in the valley's wake, As they knew which way the chase would take: Yet search the hills for your true love's sake.” “Swift and swifter the waste runs by, And nought I see but the heath and the sky; No brake is there that could hide a spear, And the gaps to a horseman's sight lie clear; Still past it goes, and there's nought to fear.” “Fear no trap that you cannot see,— They'd not lurk yet too warily. 223 Below by the weir they lie in sight, And take no heed how they pass the night Till close they crouch with the morning light.” “The road shifts ever and brings in view Now first the heights of Holycleugh: Dark they stand o'er the vale below, And hide that heaven which yet shall show The thing their master's heart doth know. “Where the road looks to the castle steep, There are seven hill-clefts wide and deep: Six mine eyes can search as they list, But the seventh hollow is brimmed with mist: If aught were there, it might not be wist.” “Small hope, my girl, for a helm to hide In mists that cling to a wild moorside: Soon they melt with the wind and sun, And scarce would wait such deeds to be done God send their snares be the worst to shun.” “Still the road winds ever anew As it hastens on towards Holycleugh; And ever the great walls loom more near, Till the castle-shadow, steep and sheer, Drifts like a cloud, and the sky is clear.” “Enough, my daughter,” the mother said, And took to her breast the bending head; “Rest, poor head, with my heart below, While love still lulls you as long ago: For all is learnt that we need to know. “Long the miles and many the hours From the castle-height to the abbey-towers; But here the journey has no more dread; Too thick with life is the whole road spread For murder's trembling foot to tread.” She gazed on the Beryl-stone full fain Ere she wrapped it close in her robe again: The flickering shades were dusk and dun And the lights throbbed faint in unison Like a high heart when a race is run. As the globe slid to its silken gloom, Once more a music rained through the room; Low it splashed like a sweet star-spray, And sobbed like tears at the heart of May, 224 And died as laughter dies away. The lady held her breath for a space, And then she looked in her daughter's face: But wan Rose Mary had never heard; Deep asleep like a sheltered bird She lay with the long spell minister'd. “Ah! and yet I must leave you, dear, For what you have seen your knight must hear. Within four days, by the help of God, He comes back safe to his heart's abode: Be sure he shall shun the valley-road.” Rose Mary sank with a broken moan, And lay in the chair and slept alone, Weary, lifeless, heavy as lead: Long it was ere she raised her head And rose up all discomforted. She searched her brain for a vanished thing, And clasped her brows, remembering; Then knelt and lifted her eyes in awe, And sighed with a long sigh sweet to draw:— “Thank God, thank God, thank God I saw!” The lady had left her as she lay, To seek the Knight of Heronhaye. But first she clomb by a secret stair, And knelt at a carven altar fair, And laid the precious Beryl there. Its girth was graved with a mystic rune In a tongue long dead 'neath sun and moon: A priest of the Holy Sepulchre Read that writing and did not err; And her lord had told its sense to her. She breathed the words in an undertone:— “None sees here but the pure alone.” “And oh!” she said, “what rose may be In Mary's bower more pure to see Than my own sweet maiden Rose Mary?” BERYL-SONG We whose home is the Beryl, Fire-spirits of dread desire, 225 Who entered in By a secret sin, 'Gainst whom all powers that strive with ours are sterile,— We cry, Woe to thee, mother! What hast thou taught her, the girl thy daughter, That she and none other Should this dark morrow to her deadly sorrow imperil? What were her eyes But the fiend's own spies, O mother, And shall We not fee her, our proper prophet and seër? Go to her, mother, Even thou, yea thou and none other, Thou, from the Beryl: Her fee must thou take her, Her fee that We send, and make her, Even in this hour, her sin's unsheltered avower. Whose steed did neigh, Riderless, bridleless, At her gate before it was day? Lo! where doth hover The soul of her lover? She sealed his doom, she, she was the sworn approver,— Whose eyes were so wondrous wise, Yet blind, ah! blind to his peril! For stole not We in Through a love-linked sin, 'Gainst whom all powers at war with ours are sterile,— Fire-spirits of dread desire, We whose home is the Beryl? PART II “PALE Rose Mary, what shall be done With a rose that Mary weeps upon?” “Mother, let it fall from the tree, And never walk where the strewn leaves be Till winds have passed and the path is free.” “Sad Rose Mary, what shall be done With a cankered flower beneath the sun?” “Mother, let it wait for the night; 226 Be sure its shame shall be out of sight Ere the moon pale or the east grow light.” “Lost Rose Mary, what shall be done With a heart that is but a broken one?” “Mother, let it lie where it must; The blood was drained with the bitter thrust, And dust is all that sinks in the dust.” “Poor Rose Mary, what shall I do,— I, your mother, that lovèd you?” “O my mother, and is love gone? Then seek you another love anon: Who cares what shame shall lean upon?” Low drooped trembling Rose Mary, Then up as though in a dream stood she. “Come, my heart, it is time to go; This is the hour that has whispered low When thy pulse quailed in the nights we know. “Yet O my heart, thy shame has a mate Who will not leave thee desolate. Shame for shame, yea and sin for sin: Yet peace at length may our poor souls win If love for love be found therein. “O thou who seek'st our shrift to-day,” She cried, “O James of Heronhaye— Thy sin and mine was for love alone; And oh! in the sight of God 'tis known How the heart has since made heavy moan. “Three days yet!” she said to her heart; “But then he comes, and we will not part. God, God be thanked that I still could see! Oh! he shall come back assuredly, But where, alas! must he seek for me? “O my heart, what road shall we roam Till my wedding-music fetch me home? For love's shut from us and bides afar, And scorn leans over the bitter bar And knows us now for the thing we are.” Tall she stood with a cheek flushed high And a gaze to burn the heart-strings by. 'Twas the lightning-flash o'er sky and plain Ere labouring thunders heave the chain From the floodgates of the drowning rain. 227 The mother looked on the daughter still As on a hurt thing that's yet to kill. Then wildly at length the pent tears came; The love swelled high with the swollen shame, And their hearts' tempest burst on them. Closely locked, they clung without speech, And the mirrored souls shook each to each, As the cloud-moon and the water-moon Shake face to face when the dim stars swoon In stormy bowers of the night's mid-noon. They swayed together, shuddering sore, Till the mother's heart could bear no more. 'Twas death to feel her own breast shake Even to the very throb and ache Of the burdened heart she still must break. All her sobs ceased suddenly, And she sat straight up but scarce could see. “O daughter, where should my speech begin? Your heart held fast its secret sin: How think you, child, that I read therein?” “Ah me! but I thought not how it came When your words showed that you knew my shame: And now that you call me still your own, I half forget you have ever known. Did you read my heart in the Beryl-stone?” The lady answered her mournfully:— “The Beryl-stone has no voice for me: But when you charged its power to show The truth which none but the pure may know, Did naught speak once of a coming woe?” Her hand was close to her daughter's heart, And it felt the life-blood's sudden start: A quick deep breath did the damsel draw, Like the struck fawn in the oakenshaw: “O mother,” she cried, “but still I saw!” “O child, my child, why held you apart From my great love your hidden heart? Said I not that all sin must chase From the spell's sphere the spirits of grace, And yield their rule to the evil race? “Ah! would to God I had clearly told How strong those powers, accurst of old: 228 Their heart is the ruined house of lies; O girl, they can seal the sinful eyes, Or show the truth by contraries!” The daughter sat as cold as a stone, And spoke no word but gazed alone, Nor moved, though her mother strove a space To clasp her round in a close embrace, Because she dared not see her face. “Oh!” at last did the mother cry, “Be sure, as he loved you, so will I! Ah! still and dumb is the bride, I trow; But cold and stark as the winter snow Is the bridegroom's heart, laid dead below! “Daughter, daughter, remember you That cloud in the hills by Holycleugh? 'Twas a Hell-screen hiding truth away: There, not i' the vale, the ambush lay, And thence was the dead borne home to-day.” Deep the flood and heavy the shock When sea meets sea in the riven rock: But calm is the pulse that shakes the sea To the prisoned tide of doom set free In the breaking heart of Rose Mary. Once she sprang as the heifer springs With the wolf's teeth at its red heart-strings. First 'twas fire in her breast and brain, And then scarce hers but the whole world's pain, As she gave one shriek and sank again. In the hair dark-waved the face lay white As the moon lies in the lap of night; And as night through which no moon may dart Lies on a pool in the woods apart, So lay the swoon on the weary heart. The lady felt for the bosom's stir, And wildly kissed and called on her; Then turned away with a quick footfall, And slid the secret door in the wall, And clomb the strait stair's interval. There above in the altar-cell A little fountain rose and fell: She set a flask to the water's flow, And, backward hurrying, sprinkled now 229 The still cold breast and the pallid brow. Scarce cheek that warmed or breath on the air, Yet something told that life was there. “Ah! not with the heart the body dies!” The lady moaned in a bitter wise; Then wrung her hands and hid her eyes. “Alas! and how may I meet again In the same poor eyes the selfsame pain? What help can I seek, such grief to guide? Ah! one alone might avail,” she cried— “The priest who prays at the dead man's side.” The lady arose, and sped down all The winding stairs to the castle-hall. Long-known valley and wood and stream, As the loopholes passed, naught else did seem Than the torn threads of a broken dream. The hall was full of the castle-folk; The women wept, but the men scarce spoke. As the lady crossed the rush-strewn floor, The throng fell backward, murmuring sore, And pressed outside round the open door. A stranger shadow hung on the hall Than the dark pomp of a funeral. 'Mid common sights that were there alway, As 'twere a chance of the passing day, On the ingle-bench the dead man lay. A priest who passed by Holycleugh The tidings brought when the day was new. He guided them who had fetched the dead; And since that hour, unwearièd, He knelt in prayer at the low bier's head. Word had gone to his own domain That in evil wise the knight was slain: Soon the spears must gather apace And the hunt be hard on the hunters' trace; But all things yet lay still for a space. As the lady's hurried step drew near, The kneeling priest looked up to her. “Father, death is a grievous thing; But oh! the woe has a sharper sting That craves by me your ministering. “Alas for the child that should have wed 230 This noble knight here lying dead! Dead in hope, with all blessed boon Of love thus rent from her heart ere noon, I left her laid in a heavy swoon. “O haste to the open bower-chamber That's topmost as you mount the stair: Seek her, father, ere yet she wake; Your words, not mine, be the first to slake This poor heart's fire, for Christ's sweet sake! “God speed!” she said as the priest passed through, “And I ere long will be with you.” Then low on the hearth her knees sank prone; She signed all folk from the threshold-stone, And gazed in the dead man's face alone. The fight for life found record yet In the clenched lips and the teeth hard-set; The wrath from the bent brow was not gone, And stark in the eyes the hate still shone Of that they last had looked upon. The blazoned coat was rent on his breast Where the golden field was goodliest; But the shivered sword, close-gripped, could tell That the blood shed round him where he fell Was not all his in the distant dell. The lady recked of the corpse no whit, But saw the soul and spoke to it: A light there was in her steadfast eyes,— The fire of mortal tears and sighs That pity and love immortalize. “By thy death have I learnt to-day Thy deed, O James of Heronhaye! Great wrong thou hast done to me and mine; And haply God hath wrought for a sign By our blind deed this doom of thine. “Thy shrift, alas! thou wast not to win; But may death shrive thy soul herein! Full well do I know thy love should be Even yet—had life but stayed with thee— Our honour's strong security.” She stooped, and said with a sob's low stir,— “Peace be thine,—but what peace for her?” But ere to the brow her lips were press'd, 231 She marked, half-hid in the riven vest, A packet close to the dead man's breast. 'Neath surcoat pierced and broken mail It lay on the blood-stained bosom pale. The clot hung round it, dull and dense, And a faintness seized her mortal sense As she reached her hand and drew it thence. 'Twas steeped in the heart's flood welling high From the heart it there had rested by: 'Twas glued to a broidered fragment gay,— A shred by spear-thrust rent away From the heron-wings of Heronhaye. She gazed on the thing with piteous eyne:— “Alas, poor child, some pledge of thine! Ah me! in this troth the hearts were twain, And one hath ebbed to this crimson stain, And when shall the other throb again?” She opened the packet heedfully; The blood was stiff, and it scarce might be. She found but a folded paper there, And round it, twined with tenderest care, A long bright tress of golden hair. Even as she looked, she saw again That dark-haired face in its swoon of pain: It seemed a snake with a golden sheath Crept near, as a slow flame flickereth, And stung her daughter's heart to death. She loosed the tress, but her hand did shake As though indeed she had touched a snake; And next she undid the paper's fold, But that too trembled in her hold, And the sense scarce grasped the tale it told. “My heart's sweet lord,” ('twas thus she read,) “At length our love is garlanded. At Holy Cross, within eight days' space, I seek my shrift; and the time and place Shall fit thee too for thy soul's good grace. “From Holycleugh on the seventh day My brother rides, and bides away: And long or e'er he is back, mine own, Afar where the face of fear's unknown We shall be safe with our love alone. 232 “Ere yet at the shrine my knees I bow, I shear one tress for our holy vow. As round these words these threads I wind, So, eight days hence, shall our loves be twined, Says my lord's poor lady, JOCELIND.” She read it twice, with a brain in thrall, And then its echo told her all. O'er brows low-fall'n her hands she drew:— “O God!” she said, as her hands fell too,— “The Warden's sister of Holycleugh!” She rose upright with a long low moan, And stared in the dead man's face new-known. Had it lived indeed? She scarce could tell: 'Twas a cloud where fiends had come to dwell,— A mask that hung on the gate of Hell. She lifted the lock of gleaming hair And smote the lips and left it there. “Here's gold that Hell shall take for thy toll! Full well hath thy treason found its goal, O thou dead body and damnèd soul!” She turned, sore dazed, for a voice was near, And she knew that some one called to her. On many a column fair and tall A high court ran round the castle-hall; And thence it was that the priest did call. “I sought your child where you bade me go, And in rooms around and rooms below; But where, alas! may the maiden be? Fear nought,—we shall find her speedily,— But come, come hither, and seek with me.” She reached the stair like a lifelorn thing, But hastened upward murmuring, “Yea, Death's is a face that's fell to see; But bitterer pang Life hoards for thee, Thou broken heart of Rose Mary!” BERYL-SONG We whose throne is the Beryl, Dire-gifted spirits of fire, Who for a twin 233 Leash Sorrow to Sin, Who on no flower refrain to lour with peril,— We cry,—O desolate daughter! Thou and thy mother share newer shame with each other Than last night's slaughter. Awake and tremble, for our curses assemble! What more, that thou know'st not yet,— That life nor death shall forget? No help from Heaven,—thy woes heart-riven are sterile! O once a maiden, With yet worse sorrow can any morrow be laden? It waits for thee, It looms, it must be, O lost among women,— It comes and thou canst not flee. Amen to the omen, Says the voice of the Beryl. Thou sleep'st? Awake,— What dar'st thou yet for his sake, Who each for other did God's own Future imperil? Dost dare to live `Mid the pangs each hour must give? Nay, rather die,— With him thy lover 'neath Hell's cloud-cover to fly,— Hopeless, yet not apart, Cling heart to heart, And beat through the nether storm-eddying winds together? Shall this be so? There thou shalt meet him, but mayst thou greet him? ah no ! He loves, but thee he hoped nevermore to see,— He sighed as he died, But with never a thought for thee. Alone! Alone, for ever alone,— Whose eyes were such wondrous spies for the fate foreshown! Lo! have not We leashed the twin Of endless Sorrow to Sin,— Who on no flower refrain to lour with peril,— Dire-gifted spirits of fire, We whose throne is the Beryl? 234 PART III A SWOON that breaks is the whelming wave When help comes late but still can save. With all blind throes is the instant rife,— Hurtling clangour and clouds at strife,— The breath of death, but the kiss of life. The night lay deep on Rose Mary's heart, For her swoon was death's kind counterpart: The dawn broke dim on Rose Mary's soul,— No hill-crown's heavenly aureole, But a wild gleam on a shaken shoal. Her senses gasped in the sudden air, And she looked around, but none was there. She felt the slackening frost distil Through her blood the last ooze dull and chill: Her lids were dry and her lips were still. Her tears had flooded her heart again; As after a long day's bitter rain, At dusk when the wet flower-cups shrink, The drops run in from the beaded brink, And all the close-shut petals drink. Again her sighs on her heart were rolled; As the wind that long has swept the wold,— Whose moan was made with the moaning sea,— Beats out its breath in the last torn tree, And sinks at length in lethargy. She knew she had waded bosom-deep Along death's bank in the sedge of sleep: All else was lost to her clouded mind; Nor, looking back, could she see defin'd O'er the dim dumb waste what lay behind. Slowly fades the sun from the wall Till day lies dead on the sun-dial: And now in Rose Mary's lifted eye 'Twas shadow alone that made reply To the set face of the soul's dark sky. Yet still through her soul there wandered past Dread phantoms borne on a wailing blast,— Death and sorrow and sin and shame; And, murmured still, to her lips there came Her mother's and her lover's name. 235 How to ask, and what thing to know? She might not stay and she dared not go. From fires unseen these smoke-clouds curled; But where did the hidden curse lie furled? And how to seek through the weary world? With toiling breath she rose from the floor And dragged her steps to an open door: 'Twas the secret panel standing wide, As the lady's hand had let it bide In hastening back to her daughter's side. She passed, but reeled with a dizzy brain And smote the door which closed again. She stood within by the darkling stair, But her feet might mount more freely there,— 'Twas the open light most blinded her. Within her mind no wonder grew At the secret path she never knew: All ways alike were strange to her now,— One field bare-ridged from the spirit's plough, One thicket black with the cypress-bough. Once she thought that she heard her name; And she paused, but knew not whence it came. Down the shadowed stair a faint ray fell That guided the weary footsteps well Till it led her up to the altar-cell. No change there was on Rose Mary's face As she leaned in the portal's narrow space: Still she stood by the pillar's stem, Hand and bosom and garment's hem, As the soul stands by at the requiem. The altar-cell was a dome low-lit, And a veil hung in the midst of it: At the pole-points of its circling girth Four symbols stood of the world's first birth,— Air and water and fire and earth. To the north, a fountain glittered free; To the south, there glowed a red fruit-tree; To the east, a lamp flamed high and fair; To the west, a crystal casket rare Held fast a cloud of the fields of air. The painted walls were a mystic show Of time's ebb-tide and overflow; 236 His hoards long-locked and conquering key, His service-fires that in heaven be, And earth-wheels whirled perpetually. Rose Mary gazed from the open door As on idle things she cared not for,— The fleeting shapes of an empty tale; Then stepped with a heedless visage pale, And lifted aside the altar-veil. The altar stood from its curved recess In a coiling serpent's life-likeness: Even such a serpent evermore Lies deep asleep at the world's dark core Till the last Voice shake the sea and shore. From the altar-cloth a book rose spread And tapers burned at the altar-head; And there in the altar-midst alone, 'Twixt wings of a sculptured beast unknown, Rose Mary saw the Beryl-stone. Firm it sat 'twixt the hollowed wings, As an orb sits in the hand of kings: And lo! for that Foe whose curse far-flown Had bound her life with a burning zone, Rose Mary knew the Beryl-stone. Dread is the meteor's blazing sphere When the poles throb to its blind career; But not with a light more grim and ghast Thereby is the future doom forecast, Than now this sight brought back the past. The hours and minutes seemed to whirr In a clanging swarm that deafened her; They stung her heart to a writhing flame, And marshalled past in its glare they came,— Death and sorrow and sin and shame. Round the Beryl's sphere she saw them pass And mock her eyes from the fated glass: One by one in a fiery train The dead hours seemed to wax and wane, And burned till all was known again. From the drained heart's fount there rose no cry, There sprang no tears, for the source was dry. Held in the hand of some heavy law, Her eyes she might not once withdraw, 237 Nor shrink away from the thing she saw. Even as she gazed, through all her blood The flame was quenched in a coming flood: Out of the depth of the hollow gloom On her soul's bare sands she felt it boom,— The measured tide of a sea of doom. Three steps she took through the altar-gate, And her neck reared and her arms grew straight: The sinews clenched like a serpent's throe, And the face was white in the dark hair's flow, As her hate beheld what lay below. Dumb she stood in her malisons,— A silver statue tressed with bronze: As the fabled head by Perseus mown, It seemed in sooth that her gaze alone Had turned the carven shapes to stone. O'er the altar-sides on either hand There hung a dinted helm and brand: By strength thereof, 'neath the Sacred Sign, That bitter gift o'er the salt sea-brine Her father brought from Palestine. Rose Mary moved with a stern accord And reached her hand to her father's sword; Nor did she stir her gaze one whit From the thing whereon her brows were knit; But gazing still, she spoke to it. “O ye, three times accurst,” she said, “By whom this stone is tenanted! Lo! here ye came by a strong sin's might; Yet a sinner's hand that's weak to smite Shall send you hence ere the day be night. “This hour a clear voice bade me know My hand shall work your overthrow: Another thing in mine ear it spake,— With the broken spell my life shall break. I thank Thee, God, for the dear death's sake! “And he Thy heavenly minister Who swayed erewhile this spell-bound sphere,— My parting soul let him haste to greet, And none but he be guide for my feet To where Thy rest is made complete.” Then deep she breathed, with a tender moan:— 238 “My love, my lord, my only one! Even as I held the cursed clue, When thee, through me, these foul ones slew,— By mine own deed shall they slay me too! “Even while they speed to Hell, my love, Two hearts shall meet in Heaven above. Our shrift thou sought'st, but might'st not bring: And oh! for me 'tis a blessed thing To work hereby our ransoming. “One were our hearts in joy and pain, And our souls e'en now grow one again. And O my love, if our souls are three, O thine and mine shall the third soul be,— One threefold love eternally.” Her eyes were soft as she spoke apart, And the lips smiled to the broken heart: But the glance was dark and the forehead scored With the bitter frown of hate restored, As her two hands swung the heavy sword. Three steps back from her Foe she trod:— “Love, for thy sake! In Thy Name, O God!” In the fair white hands small strength was shown; Yet the blade flashed high and the edge fell prone, And she cleft the heart of the Beryl-stone. What living flesh in the thunder-cloud Hath sat and felt heaven cry aloud? Or known how the levin's pulse may beat? Or wrapped the hour when the whirlwinds meet About its breast for a winding-sheet? Who hath crouched at the world's deep heart While the earthquake rends its loins apart? Or walked far under the seething main While overhead the heavens ordain The tempest-towers of the hurricane? Who hath seen or what ear hath heard The secret things unregister'd Of the place where all is past and done, And tears and laughter sound as one In Hell's unhallowed unison? Nay, is it writ how the fiends despair In earth and water and fire and air? Even so no mortal tongue may tell 239 How to the clang of the sword that fell The echoes shook the altar-cell. When all was still on the air again The Beryl-stone lay cleft in twain; The veil was rent from the riven dome; And every wind that's winged to roam Might have the ruined place for home. The fountain no more glittered free; The fruit hung dead on the leafless tree; The flame of the lamp had ceased to flare; And the crystal casket shattered there Was emptied now of its cloud of air. And lo! on the ground Rose Mary lay, With a cold brow like the snows ere May, With a cold breast like the earth till Spring, With such a smile as the June days bring When the year grows warm with harvesting. The death she had won might leave no trace On the soft sweet form and gentle face: In a gracious sleep she seemed to lie; And over her head her hand on high Held fast the sword she triumphed by. 'Twas then a clear voice said in the room:— “Behold the end of the heavy doom. O come,—for thy bitter love's sake blest; By a sweet path now thou journeyest, And I will lead thee to thy rest. “Me thy sin by Heaven's sore ban Did chase erewhile from the talisman: But to my heart, as a conquered home, In glory of strength thy footsteps come Who hast thus cast forth my foes therefrom. “Already thy heart remembereth No more his name thou sought'st in death: For under all deeps, all heights above,— So wide the gulf in the midst thereof,— Are Hell of Treason and Heaven of Love. “Thee, true soul, shall thy truth prefer To blessed Mary's rose-bower: Warmed and lit is thy place afar With guerdon-fires of the sweet Love-star Where hearts of steadfast lovers are:— 240 “Though naught for the poor corpse lying here Remain to-day but the cold white bier, But burial-chaunt and bended knee, But sighs and tears that heaviest be, But rent rose-flower and rosemary.” BERYL-SONG We, cast forth from the Beryl, Gyre-circling spirits of fire, Whose pangs begin With God's grace to sin, For whose spent powers the immortal hours are sterile,— Woe! must We behold this mother Find grace in her dead child's face, and doubt of none other But that perfect pardon, alas! hath assured her guerdon? Woe! must We behold this daughter, Made clean from the soil of sin wherewith We had fraught her, Shake off a man's blood like water? Write up her story On the Gate of Heaven's glory, Whom there We behold so fair in shining apparel, And beneath her the ruin Of our own undoing! Alas, the Beryl! We had for a foeman But one weak woman; In one day's strife, Her hope fell dead from her life; And yet no iron, Her soul to environ, Could this manslayer, this false soothsayer imperil! Lo, where she bows In the Holy House! Who now shall dissever her soul from its joy for ever While every ditty Of love and plentiful pity Fills the White City, And the floor of Heaven to her feet for ever is given? Hark, a voice cries “Flee!” Woe! woe! what shelter have We, 241 Whose pangs begin With God's grace to sin, For whose spent powers the immortal hours are sterile, Gyre-circling spirits of fire, We, cast forth from the Beryl? ~ Dante Gabriel Rossetti,

126:I. In midmost Ind, beside Hydaspes cool, There stood, or hover'd, tremulous in the air, A faery city 'neath the potent rule Of Emperor Elfinan; fam'd ev'rywhere For love of mortal women, maidens fair, Whose lips were solid, whose soft hands were made Of a fit mould and beauty, ripe and rare, To tamper his slight wooing, warm yet staid: He lov'd girls smooth as shades, but hated a mere shade. II. This was a crime forbidden by the law; And all the priesthood of his city wept, For ruin and dismay they well foresaw, If impious prince no bound or limit kept, And faery Zendervester overstept; They wept, he sin'd, and still he would sin on, They dreamt of sin, and he sin'd while they slept; In vain the pulpit thunder'd at the throne, Caricature was vain, and vain the tart lampoon. III. Which seeing, his high court of parliament Laid a remonstrance at his Highness' feet, Praying his royal senses to content Themselves with what in faery land was sweet, Befitting best that shade with shade should meet: Whereat, to calm their fears, he promis'd soon From mortal tempters all to make retreat,-- Aye, even on the first of the new moon, An immaterial wife to espouse as heaven's boon. IV. Meantime he sent a fluttering embassy To Pigmio, of Imaus sovereign, To half beg, and half demand, respectfully, The hand of his fair daughter Bellanaine; An audience had, and speeching done, they gain Their point, and bring the weeping bride away; Whom, with but one attendant, safely lain Upon their wings, they bore in bright array, While little harps were touch'd by many a lyric fay. V. As in old pictures tender cherubim A child's soul thro' the sapphir'd canvas bear, So, thro' a real heaven, on they swim With the sweet princess on her plumag'd lair, Speed giving to the winds her lustrous hair; And so she journey'd, sleeping or awake, Save when, for healthful exercise and air, She chose to "promener l'aile," or take A pigeon's somerset, for sport or change's sake. VI. "Dear Princess, do not whisper me so loud," Quoth Corallina, nurse and confidant, "Do not you see there, lurking in a cloud, Close at your back, that sly old Crafticant? He hears a whisper plainer than a rant: Dry up your tears, and do not look so blue; He's Elfinan's great state-spy militant, His running, lying, flying foot-man too,-- Dear mistress, let him have no handle against you! VII. "Show him a mouse's tail, and he will guess, With metaphysic swiftness, at the mouse; Show him a garden, and with speed no less, He'll surmise sagely of a dwelling house, And plot, in the same minute, how to chouse The owner out of it; show him a" --- "Peace! Peace! nor contrive thy mistress' ire to rouse!" Return'd the Princess, "my tongue shall not cease Till from this hated match I get a free release. VIII. "Ah, beauteous mortal!" "Hush!" quoth Coralline, "Really you must not talk of him, indeed." "You hush!" reply'd the mistress, with a shinee Of anger in her eyes, enough to breed In stouter hearts than nurse's fear and dread: 'Twas not the glance itself made nursey flinch, But of its threat she took the utmost heed; Not liking in her heart an hour-long pinch, Or a sharp needle run into her back an inch. IX. So she was silenc'd, and fair Bellanaine, Writhing her little body with ennui, Continued to lament and to complain, That Fate, cross-purposing, should let her be Ravish'd away far from her dear countree; That all her feelings should be set at nought, In trumping up this match so hastily, With lowland blood; and lowland blood she thought Poison, as every staunch true-born Imaian ought. X. Sorely she griev'd, and wetted three or four White Provence rose-leaves with her faery tears, But not for this cause; -- alas! she had more Bad reasons for her sorrow, as appears In the fam'd memoirs of a thousand years, Written by Crafticant, and published By Parpaglion and Co., (those sly compeers Who rak'd up ev'ry fact against the dead,) In Scarab Street, Panthea, at the Jubal's Head. XI. Where, after a long hypercritic howl Against the vicious manners of the age, He goes on to expose, with heart and soul, What vice in this or that year was the rage, Backbiting all the world in every page; With special strictures on the horrid crime, (Section'd and subsection'd with learning sage,) Of faeries stooping on their wings sublime To kiss a mortal's lips, when such were in their prime. XII. Turn to the copious index, you will find Somewhere in the column, headed letter B, The name of Bellanaine, if you're not blind; Then pray refer to the text, and you will see An article made up of calumny Against this highland princess, rating her For giving way, so over fashionably, To this new-fangled vice, which seems a burr Stuck in his moral throat, no coughing e'er could stir. XIII. There he says plainly that she lov'd a man! That she around him flutter'd, flirted, toy'd, Before her marriage with great Elfinan; That after marriage too, she never joy'd In husband's company, but still employ'd Her wits to 'scape away to Angle-land; Where liv'd the youth, who worried and annoy'd Her tender heart, and its warm ardours fann'd To such a dreadful blaze, her side would scorch her hand. XIV. But let us leave this idle tittle-tattle To waiting-maids, and bed-room coteries, Nor till fit time against her fame wage battle. Poor Elfinan is very ill at ease, Let us resume his subject if you please: For it may comfort and console him much, To rhyme and syllable his miseries; Poor Elfinan! whose cruel fate was such, He sat and curs'd a bride he knew he could not touch. XV. Soon as (according to his promises) The bridal embassy had taken wing, And vanish'd, bird-like, o'er the suburb trees, The Emperor, empierc'd with the sharp sting Of love, retired, vex'd and murmuring Like any drone shut from the fair bee-queen, Into his cabinet, and there did fling His limbs upon a sofa, full of spleen, And damn'd his House of Commons, in complete chagrin. XVI. "I'll trounce some of the members," cry'd the Prince, "I'll put a mark against some rebel names, I'll make the Opposition-benches wince, I'll show them very soon, to all their shames, What 'tis to smother up a Prince's flames; That ministers should join in it, I own, Surprises me! -- they too at these high games! Am I an Emperor? Do I wear a crown? Imperial Elfinan, go hang thyself or drown! XVII. "I'll trounce 'em! -- there's the square-cut chancellor, His son shall never touch that bishopric; And for the nephew of old Palfior, I'll show him that his speeches made me sick, And give the colonelcy to Phalaric; The tiptoe marquis, mortal and gallant, Shall lodge in shabby taverns upon tick; And for the Speaker's second cousin's aunt, She sha'n't be maid of honour,-- by heaven that she sha'n't! XVIII. "I'll shirk the Duke of A.; I'll cut his brother; I'll give no garter to his eldest son; I won't speak to his sister or his mother! The Viscount B. shall live at cut-and-run; But how in the world can I contrive to stun That fellow's voice, which plagues me worse than any, That stubborn fool, that impudent state-dun, Who sets down ev'ry sovereign as a zany,-- That vulgar commoner, Esquire Biancopany? XIX. "Monstrous affair! Pshaw! pah! what ugly minx Will they fetch from Imaus for my bride? Alas! my wearied heart within me sinks, To think that I must be so near ally'd To a cold dullard fay,--ah, woe betide! Ah, fairest of all human loveliness! Sweet Bertha! what crime can it be to glide About the fragrant plaintings of thy dress, Or kiss thine eyes, or count thy locks, tress after tress?" XX. So said, one minute's while his eyes remaind' Half lidded, piteous, languid, innocent; But, in a wink, their splendour they regain'd, Sparkling revenge with amorous fury blent. Love thwarted in bad temper oft has vent: He rose, he stampt his foot, he rang the bell, And order'd some death-warrants to be sent For signature: -- somewhere the tempest fell, As many a poor fellow does not live to tell. XXI. "At the same time, Eban," -- (this was his page, A fay of colour, slave from top to toe, Sent as a present, while yet under age, From the Viceroy of Zanguebar, -- wise, slow, His speech, his only words were "yes" and "no," But swift of look, and foot, and wing was he,--) "At the same time, Eban, this instant go To Hum the soothsayer, whose name I see Among the fresh arrivals in our empery. XXII. "Bring Hum to me! But stay -- here, take my ring, The pledge of favour, that he not suspect Any foul play, or awkward murdering, Tho' I have bowstrung many of his sect; Throw in a hint, that if he should neglect One hour, the next shall see him in my grasp, And the next after that shall see him neck'd, Or swallow'd by my hunger-starved asp,-- And mention ('tis as well) the torture of the wasp." XXIII. These orders given, the Prince, in half a pet, Let o'er the silk his propping elbow slide, Caught up his little legs, and, in a fret, Fell on the sofa on his royal side. The slave retreated backwards, humble-ey'd, And with a slave-like silence clos'd the door, And to old Hun thro' street and alley hied; He "knew the city," as we say, of yore, And for short cuts and turns, was nobody knew more. XXIV. It was the time when wholesale dealers close Their shutters with a moody sense of wealth, But retail dealers, diligent, let loose The gas (objected to on score of health), Convey'd in little solder'd pipes by stealth, And make it flare in many a brilliant form, That all the powers of darkness it repell'th, Which to the oil-trade doth great scaith and harm, And superseded quite the use of the glow-worm. XXV. Eban, untempted by the pastry-cooks, (Of pastry he got store within the palace,) With hasty steps, wrapp'd cloak, and solemn looks, Incognito upon his errand sallies, His smelling-bottle ready for the allies; He pass'd the Hurdy-gurdies with disdain, Vowing he'd have them sent on board the gallies; Just as he made his vow; it 'gan to rain, Therefore he call'd a coach, and bade it drive amain. XXVI. "I'll pull the string," said he, and further said, "Polluted Jarvey! Ah, thou filthy hack! Whose springs of life are all dry'd up and dead, Whose linsey-woolsey lining hangs all slack, Whose rug is straw, whose wholeness is a crack; And evermore thy steps go clatter-clitter; Whose glass once up can never be got back, Who prov'st, with jolting arguments and bitter, That 'tis of modern use to travel in a litter. XXVII. "Thou inconvenience! thou hungry crop For all corn! thou snail-creeper to and fro, Who while thou goest ever seem'st to stop, And fiddle-faddle standest while you go; I' the morning, freighted with a weight of woe, Unto some lazar-house thou journeyest, And in the evening tak'st a double row Of dowdies, for some dance or party drest, Besides the goods meanwhile thou movest east and west. XXVIII. "By thy ungallant bearing and sad mien, An inch appears the utmost thou couldst budge; Yet at the slightest nod, or hint, or sign, Round to the curb-stone patient dost thou trudge, School'd in a beckon, learned in a nudge, A dull-ey'd Argus watching for a fare; Quiet and plodding, thou dost bear no grudge To whisking Tilburies, or Phaetons rare, Curricles, or Mail-coaches, swift beyond compare." XXIX. Philosophizing thus, he pull'd the check, And bade the Coachman wheel to such a street, Who, turning much his body, more his neck, Louted full low, and hoarsely did him greet: "Certes, Monsieur were best take to his feet, Seeing his servant can no further drive For press of coaches, that to-night here meet, Many as bees about a straw-capp'd hive, When first for April honey into faint flowers they dive." XXX. Eban then paid his fare, and tiptoe went To Hum's hotel; and, as he on did pass With head inclin'd, each dusky lineament Show'd in the pearl-pav'd street, as in a glass; His purple vest, that ever peeping was Rich from the fluttering crimson of his cloak, His silvery trowsers, and his silken sash Tied in a burnish'd knot, their semblance took Upon the mirror'd walls, wherever he might look. XXXI. He smil'd at self, and, smiling, show'd his teeth, And seeing his white teeth, he smil'd the more; Lifted his eye-brows, spurn'd the path beneath, Show'd teeth again, and smil'd as heretofore, Until he knock'd at the magician's door; Where, till the porter answer'd, might be seen, In the clear panel more he could adore,-- His turban wreath'd of gold, and white, and green, Mustachios, ear-ring, nose-ring, and his sabre keen. XXXII. "Does not your master give a rout to-night?" Quoth the dark page. "Oh, no!" return'd the Swiss, "Next door but one to us, upon the right, The Magazin des Modes now open is Against the Emperor's wedding;--and, sir, this My master finds a monstrous horrid bore; As he retir'd, an hour ago I wis, With his best beard and brimstone, to explore And cast a quiet figure in his second floor. XXXIII. "Gad! he's oblig'd to stick to business! For chalk, I hear, stands at a pretty price; And as for aqua vitae -- there's a mess! The dentes sapientiae of mice, Our barber tells me too, are on the rise,-- Tinder's a lighter article, -- nitre pure Goes off like lightning, -- grains of Paradise At an enormous figure! -- stars not sure! -- Zodiac will not move without a slight douceur! XXXIV. "Venus won't stir a peg without a fee, And master is too partial, entre nous, To" -- "Hush -- hush!" cried Eban, "sure that is he Coming down stairs, -- by St. Bartholomew! As backwards as he can, -- is't something new? Or is't his custom, in the name of fun?" "He always comes down backward, with one shoe"-- Return'd the porter -- "off, and one shoe on, Like, saving shoe for sock or stocking, my man John!" XXXV. It was indeed the great Magician, Feeling, with careful toe, for every stair, And retrograding careful as he can, Backwards and downwards from his own two pair: "Salpietro!" exclaim'd Hum, "is the dog there? He's always in my way upon the mat!" "He's in the kitchen, or the Lord knows where,"-- Reply'd the Swiss, -- "the nasty, yelping brat!" "Don't beat him!" return'd Hum, and on the floor came pat. XXXVI. Then facing right about, he saw the Page, And said: "Don't tell me what you want, Eban; The Emperor is now in a huge rage,-- 'Tis nine to one he'll give you the rattan! Let us away!" Away together ran The plain-dress'd sage and spangled blackamoor, Nor rested till they stood to cool, and fan, And breathe themselves at th' Emperor's chamber door, When Eban thought he heard a soft imperial snore. XXXVII. "I thought you guess'd, foretold, or prophesy'd, That's Majesty was in a raving fit?" "He dreams," said Hum, "or I have ever lied, That he is tearing you, sir, bit by bit." "He's not asleep, and you have little wit," Reply'd the page; "that little buzzing noise, Whate'er your palmistry may make of it, Comes from a play-thing of the Emperor's choice, From a Man-Tiger-Organ, prettiest of his toys." XXXVIII. Eban then usher'd in the learned Seer: Elfinan's back was turn'd, but, ne'ertheless, Both, prostrate on the carpet, ear by ear, Crept silently, and waited in distress, Knowing the Emperor's moody bitterness; Eban especially, who on the floor 'gan Tremble and quake to death,-- he feared less A dose of senna-tea or nightmare Gorgon Than the Emperor when he play'd on his Man-Tiger-Organ. XXXIX. They kiss'd nine times the carpet's velvet face Of glossy silk, soft, smooth, and meadow-green, Where the close eye in deep rich fur might trace A silver tissue, scantly to be seen, As daisies lurk'd in June-grass, buds in green; Sudden the music ceased, sudden the hand Of majesty, by dint of passion keen, Doubled into a common fist, went grand, And knock'd down three cut glasses, and his best ink-stand. XL. Then turning round, he saw those trembling two: "Eban," said he, "as slaves should taste the fruits Of diligence, I shall remember you To-morrow, or next day, as time suits, In a finger conversation with my mutes,-- Begone! -- for you, Chaldean! here remain! Fear not, quake not, and as good wine recruits A conjurer's spirits, what cup will you drain? Sherry in silver, hock in gold, or glass'd champagne?" XLI. "Commander of the faithful!" answer'd Hum, "In preference to these, I'll merely taste A thimble-full of old Jamaica rum." "A simple boon!" said Elfinan; "thou may'st Have Nantz, with which my morning-coffee's lac'd." "I'll have a glass of Nantz, then," -- said the Seer,-- "Made racy -- (sure my boldness is misplac'd!)-- With the third part -- (yet that is drinking dear!)-- Of the least drop of crme de citron, crystal clear." XLII. "I pledge you, Hum! and pledge my dearest love, My Bertha!" "Bertha! Bertha!" cry'd the sage, "I know a many Berthas!" "Mine's above All Berthas!" sighed the Emperor. "I engage," Said Hum, "in duty, and in vassalage, To mention all the Berthas in the earth;-- There's Bertha Watson, -- and Miss Bertha Page,-- This fam'd for languid eyes, and that for mirth,-- There's Bertha Blount of York, -- and Bertha Knox of Perth." XLIII. "You seem to know" -- "I do know," answer'd Hum, "Your Majesty's in love with some fine girl Named Bertha; but her surname will not come, Without a little conjuring." "'Tis Pearl, 'Tis Bertha Pearl! What makes my brain so whirl? And she is softer, fairer than her name!" "Where does she live?" ask'd Hum. "Her fair locks curl So brightly, they put all our fays to shame!-- Live? -- O! at Canterbury, with her old grand-dame." XLIV. "Good! good!" cried Hum, "I've known her from a child! She is a changeling of my management; She was born at midnight in an Indian wild; Her mother's screams with the striped tiger's blent, While the torch-bearing slaves a halloo sent Into the jungles; and her palanquin, Rested amid the desert's dreariment, Shook with her agony, till fair were seen The little Bertha's eyes ope on the stars serene." XLV. "I can't say," said the monarch; "that may be Just as it happen'd, true or else a bam! Drink up your brandy, and sit down by me, Feel, feel my pulse, how much in love I am; And if your science is not all a sham. Tell me some means to get the lady here." "Upon my honour!" said the son of Cham, "She is my dainty changeling, near and dear, Although her story sounds at first a little queer." XLVI. "Convey her to me, Hum, or by my crown, My sceptre, and my cross-surmounted globe, I'll knock you" -- "Does your majesty mean -- down? No, no, you never could my feelings probe To such a depth!" The Emperor took his robe, And wept upon its purple palatine, While Hum continued, shamming half a sob,-- "In Canterbury doth your lady shine? But let me cool your brandy with a little wine." XLVII. Whereat a narrow Flemish glass he took, That since belong'd to Admiral De Witt, Admir'd it with a connoisseuring look, And with the ripest claret crowned it, And, ere the lively bead could burst and flit, He turn'd it quickly, nimbly upside down, His mouth being held conveniently fit To catch the treasure: "Best in all the town!" He said, smack'd his moist lips, and gave a pleasant frown. XLVIII. "Ah! good my Prince, weep not!" And then again He filled a bumper. "Great Sire, do not weep! Your pulse is shocking, but I'll ease your pain." "Fetch me that Ottoman, and prithee keep Your voice low," said the Emperor; "and steep Some lady's-fingers nice in Candy wine; And prithee, Hum, behind the screen do peep For the rose-water vase, magician mine! And sponge my forehead, -- so my love doth make me pine. XLIX. "Ah, cursed Bellanaine!" "Don't think of her," Rejoin'd the Mago, "but on Bertha muse; For, by my choicest best barometer, You shall not throttled be in marriage noose; I've said it, Sire; you only have to choose Bertha or Bellanaine." So saying, he drew From the left pocket of his threadbare hose, A sampler hoarded slyly, good as new, Holding it by his thumb and finger full in view. L. "Sire, this is Bertha Pearl's neat handy-work, Her name, see here, Midsummer, ninety-one." Elfinan snatch'd it with a sudden jerk, And wept as if he never would have done, Honouring with royal tears the poor homespun; Whereon were broider'd tigers with black eyes, And long-tail'd pheasants, and a rising sun, Plenty of posies, great stags, butterflies Bigger than stags,-- a moon,-- with other mysteries. LI. The monarch handled o'er and o'er again Those day-school hieroglyphics with a sigh; Somewhat in sadness, but pleas'd in the main, Till this oracular couplet met his eye Astounded -- Cupid, I do thee defy! It was too much. He shrunk back in his chair, Grew pale as death, and fainted -- very nigh! "Pho! nonsense!" exclaim'd Hum, "now don't despair; She does not mean it really. Cheer up, hearty -- there! LII. "And listen to my words. You say you won't, On any terms, marry Miss Bellanaine; It goes against your conscience -- good! Well, don't. You say you love a mortal. I would fain Persuade your honour's highness to refrain From peccadilloes. But, Sire, as I say, What good would that do? And, to be more plain, You would do me a mischief some odd day, Cut off my ears and limbs, or head too, by my fay! LIII. "Besides, manners forbid that I should pass any Vile strictures on the conduct of a prince Who should indulge his genius, if he has any, Not, like a subject, foolish matters mince. Now I think on't, perhaps I could convince Your Majesty there is no crime at all In loving pretty little Bertha, since She's very delicate,-- not over tall, -- A fairy's hand, and in the waist why -- very small." LIV. "Ring the repeater, gentle Hum!" "'Tis five," Said the gentle Hum; "the nights draw in apace; The little birds I hear are all alive; I see the dawning touch'd upon your face; Shall I put out the candles, please your Grace?" "Do put them out, and, without more ado, Tell me how I may that sweet girl embrace,-- How you can bring her to me." "That's for you, Great Emperor! to adventure, like a lover true." LV. "I fetch her!" -- "Yes, an't like your Majesty; And as she would be frighten'd wide awake To travel such a distance through the sky, Use of some soft manoeuvre you must make, For your convenience, and her dear nerves' sake; Nice way would be to bring her in a swoon, Anon, I'll tell what course were best to take; You must away this morning." "Hum! so soon?" "Sire, you must be in Kent by twelve o'clock at noon." LVI. At this great Caesar started on his feet, Lifted his wings, and stood attentive-wise. "Those wings to Canterbury you must beat, If you hold Bertha as a worthy prize. Look in the Almanack -- Moore never lies -- April the twenty- fourth, -- this coming day, Now breathing its new bloom upon the skies, Will end in St. Mark's Eve; -- you must away, For on that eve alone can you the maid convey." LVII. Then the magician solemnly 'gan to frown, So that his frost-white eyebrows, beetling low, Shaded his deep green eyes, and wrinkles brown Plaited upon his furnace-scorched brow: Forth from his hood that hung his neck below, He lifted a bright casket of pure gold, Touch'd a spring-lock, and there in wool or snow, Charm'd into ever freezing, lay an old And legend-leaved book, mysterious to behold. LVIII. "Take this same book,-- it will not bite you, Sire; There, put it underneath your royal arm; Though it's a pretty weight it will not tire, But rather on your journey keep you warm: This is the magic, this the potent charm, That shall drive Bertha to a fainting fit! When the time comes, don't feel the least alarm, But lift her from the ground, and swiftly flit Back to your palace. * * * * * * * * * * LIX. "What shall I do with that same book?" "Why merely Lay it on Bertha's table, close beside Her work-box, and 'twill help your purpose dearly; I say no more." "Or good or ill betide, Through the wide air to Kent this morn I glide!" Exclaim'd the Emperor. "When I return, Ask what you will, -- I'll give you my new bride! And take some more wine, Hum; -- O Heavens! I burn To be upon the wing! Now, now, that minx I spurn!" LX. "Leave her to me," rejoin'd the magian: "But how shall I account, illustrious fay! For thine imperial absence? Pho! I can Say you are very sick, and bar the way To your so loving courtiers for one day; If either of their two archbishops' graces Should talk of extreme unction, I shall say You do not like cold pig with Latin phrases, Which never should be used but in alarming cases." LXI. "Open the window, Hum; I'm ready now!" Zooks!" exclaim'd Hum, as up the sash he drew. "Behold, your Majesty, upon the brow Of yonder hill, what crowds of people!" "Whew! The monster's always after something new," Return'd his Highness, "they are piping hot To see my pigsney Bellanaine. Hum! do Tighten my belt a little, -- so, so, -- not Too tight, -- the book! -- my wand! -- so, nothing is forgot." LXII. "Wounds! how they shout!" said Hum, "and there, -- see, see! Th' ambassador's return'd from Pigmio! The morning's very fine, -- uncommonly! See, past the skirts of yon white cloud they go, Tinging it with soft crimsons! Now below The sable-pointed heads of firs and pines They dip, move on, and with them moves a glow Along the forest side! Now amber lines Reach the hill top, and now throughout the valley shines." LXIII. "Why, Hum, you're getting quite poetical! Those 'nows' you managed in a special style." "If ever you have leisure, Sire, you shall See scraps of mine will make it worth your while, Tid-bits for Phoebus! -- yes, you well may smile. Hark! hark! the bells!" "A little further yet, Good Hum, and let me view this mighty coil." Then the great Emperor full graceful set His elbow for a prop, and snuff'd his mignonnette. LXIV. The morn is full of holiday; loud bells With rival clamours ring from every spire; Cunningly-station'd music dies and swells In echoing places; when the winds respire, Light flags stream out like gauzy tongues of fire; A metropolitan murmur, lifeful, warm, Comes from the northern suburbs; rich attire Freckles with red and gold the moving swarm; While here and there clear trumpets blow a keen alarm. LXV. And now the fairy escort was seen clear, Like the old pageant of Aurora's train, Above a pearl-built minister, hovering near; First wily Crafticant, the chamberlain, Balanc'd upon his grey-grown pinions twain, His slender wand officially reveal'd; Then black gnomes scattering sixpences like rain; Then pages three and three; and next, slave-held, The Imaian 'scutcheon bright, -- one mouse in argent field. LXVI. Gentlemen pensioners next; and after them, A troop of winged Janizaries flew; Then slaves, as presents bearing many a gem; Then twelve physicians fluttering two and two; And next a chaplain in a cassock new; Then Lords in waiting; then (what head not reels For pleasure?) -- the fair Princess in full view, Borne upon wings, -- and very pleas'd she feels To have such splendour dance attendance at her heels. LXVII. For there was more magnificence behind: She wav'd her handkerchief. "Ah, very grand!" Cry'd Elfinan, and clos'd the window-blind; "And, Hum, we must not shilly-shally stand,-- Adieu! adieu! I'm off for Angle-land! I say, old Hocus, have you such a thing About you, -- feel your pockets, I command,-- I want, this instant, an invisible ring,-- Thank you, old mummy! -- now securely I take wing." LXVIII. Then Elfinan swift vaulted from the floor, And lighted graceful on the window-sill; Under one arm the magic book he bore, The other he could wave about at will; Pale was his face, he still look'd very ill; He bow'd at Bellanaine, and said -- "Poor Bell! Farewell! farewell! and if for ever! still For ever fare thee well!" -- and then he fell A laughing! -- snapp'd his fingers! -- shame it is to tell! LXIX. "By'r Lady! he is gone!" cries Hum, "and I -- (I own it) -- have made too free with his wine; Old Crafticant will smoke me. By-the-bye! This room is full of jewels as a mine,-- Dear valuable creatures, how ye shine! Sometime to-day I must contrive a minute, If Mercury propitiously incline, To examine his scutoire, and see what's in i, For of superfluous diamonds I as well may thin it. LXX. "The Emperor's horrid bad; yes, that's my cue!" Some histories say that this was Hum's last speech; That, being fuddled, he went reeling through The corridor, and scarce upright could reach The stair-head; that being glutted as a leech, And us'd, as we ourselves have just now said, To manage stairs reversely, like a peach Too ripe, he fell, being puzzled in his head With liquor and the staircase: verdict -- found stone dead. LXXI. This as a falsehood Crafticanto treats; And as his style is of strange elegance, Gentle and tender, full of soft conceits, (Much like our Boswell's,) we will take a glance At his sweet prose, and, if we can, make dance His woven periods into careless rhyme; O, little faery Pegasus! rear -- prance -- Trot round the quarto -- ordinary time! March, little Pegasus, with pawing hoof sublime! LXXII. Well, let us see, -- tenth book and chapter nine,-- Thus Crafticant pursues his diary:-- "'Twas twelve o'clock at night, the weather fine, Latitude thirty-six; our scouts descry A flight of starlings making rapidly Towards Thibet. Mem.: -- birds fly in the night; From twelve to half-past -- wings not fit to fly For a thick fog -- the Princess sulky quite; Call'd for an extra shawl, and gave her nurse a bite. LXXIII. "Five minutes before one -- brought down a moth With my new double-barrel -- stew'd the thighs And made a very tolerable broth -- Princess turn'd dainty, to our great surprise, Alter'd her mind, and thought it very nice; Seeing her pleasant, try'd her with a pun, She frown'd; a monstrous owl across us flies About this time, -- a sad old figure of fun; Bad omen -- this new match can't be a happy one. LXXIV. "From two to half-past, dusky way we made, Above the plains of Gobi, -- desert, bleak; Beheld afar off, in the hooded shade Of darkness, a great mountain (strange to speak), Spitting, from forth its sulphur-baken peak, A fan-shap'd burst of blood-red, arrowy fire, Turban'd with smoke, which still away did reek, Solid and black from that eternal pyre, Upon the laden winds that scantly could respire. LXXV. "Just upon three o'clock a falling star Created an alarm among our troop, Kill'd a man-cook, a page, and broke a jar, A tureen, and three dishes, at one swoop, Then passing by the princess, singed her hoop: Could not conceive what Coralline was at, She clapp'd her hands three times and cry'd out 'Whoop!' Some strange Imaian custom. A large bat Came sudden 'fore my face, and brush'd against my hat. LXXVI. "Five minutes thirteen seconds after three, Far in the west a mighty fire broke out, Conjectur'd, on the instant, it might be, The city of Balk -- 'twas Balk beyond all doubt: A griffin, wheeling here and there about, Kept reconnoitring us -- doubled our guard -- Lighted our torches, and kept up a shout, Till he sheer'd off -- the Princess very scar'd -- And many on their marrow-bones for death prepar'd. LXXVII. "At half-past three arose the cheerful moon-- Bivouack'd for four minutes on a cloud -- Where from the earth we heard a lively tune Of tambourines and pipes, serene and loud, While on a flowery lawn a brilliant crowd Cinque-parted danc'd, some half asleep reposed Beneath the green-fan'd cedars, some did shroud In silken tents, and 'mid light fragrance dozed, Or on the opera turf their soothed eyelids closed. LXXVIII. "Dropp'd my gold watch, and kill'd a kettledrum-- It went for apoplexy -- foolish folks! -- Left it to pay the piper -- a good sum -- (I've got a conscience, maugre people's jokes,) To scrape a little favour; 'gan to coax Her Highness' pug-dog -- got a sharp rebuff -- She wish'd a game at whist -- made three revokes -- Turn'd from myself, her partner, in a huff; His majesty will know her temper time enough. LXXIX. "She cry'd for chess -- I play'd a game with her -- Castled her king with such a vixen look, It bodes ill to his Majesty -- (refer To the second chapter of my fortieth book, And see what hoity-toity airs she took). At half-past four the morn essay'd to beam -- Saluted, as we pass'd, an early rook -- The Princess fell asleep, and, in her dream, Talk'd of one Master Hubert, deep in her esteem. LXXX. "About this time, -- making delightful way,-- Shed a quill-feather from my larboard wing -- Wish'd, trusted, hop'd 'twas no sign of decay -- Thank heaven, I'm hearty yet! -- 'twas no such thing:-- At five the golden light began to spring, With fiery shudder through the bloomed east; At six we heard Panthea's churches ring -- The city wall his unhiv'd swarms had cast, To watch our grand approach, and hail us as we pass'd. LXXXI. "As flowers turn their faces to the sun, So on our flight with hungry eyes they gaze, And, as we shap'd our course, this, that way run, With mad-cap pleasure, or hand-clasp'd amaze; Sweet in the air a mild-ton'd music plays, And progresses through its own labyrinth; Buds gather'd from the green spring's middle-days, They scatter'd, -- daisy, primrose, hyacinth,-- Or round white columns wreath'd from capital to plinth. LXXXII. "Onward we floated o'er the panting streets, That seem'd throughout with upheld faces paved; Look where we will, our bird's-eye vision meets Legions of holiday; bright standards waved, And fluttering ensigns emulously craved Our minute's glance; a busy thunderous roar, From square to square, among the buildings raved, As when the sea, at flow, gluts up once more The craggy hollowness of a wild reefed shore. LXXXIII. "And 'Bellanaine for ever!' shouted they, While that fair Princess, from her winged chair, Bow'd low with high demeanour, and, to pay Their new-blown loyalty with guerdon fair, Still emptied at meet distance, here and there, A plenty horn of jewels. And here I (Who wish to give the devil her due) declare Against that ugly piece of calumny, Which calls them Highland pebble-stones not worth a fly. LXXXIV. "Still 'Bellanaine!' they shouted, while we glide 'Slant to a light Ionic portico, The city's delicacy, and the pride Of our Imperial Basilic; a row Of lords and ladies, on each hand, make show Submissive of knee-bent obeisance, All down the steps; and, as we enter'd, lo! The strangest sight -- the most unlook'd for chance -- All things turn'd topsy-turvy in a devil's dance. LXXXV. "'Stead of his anxious Majesty and court At the open doors, with wide saluting eyes, Conges and scrape-graces of every sort, And all the smooth routine of gallantries, Was seen, to our immoderate surprise, A motley crowd thick gather'd in the hall, Lords, scullions, deputy-scullions, with wild cries Stunning the vestibule from wall to wall, Where the Chief Justice on his knees and hands doth crawl. LXXXVI. "Counts of the palace, and the state purveyor Of moth's-down, to make soft the royal beds, The Common Council and my fool Lord Mayor Marching a-row, each other slipshod treads; Powder'd bag-wigs and ruffy-tuffy heads Of cinder wenches meet and soil each other; Toe crush'd with heel ill-natur'd fighting breeds, Frill-rumpling elbows brew up many a bother, And fists in the short ribs keep up the yell and pother. LXXXVII. "A Poet, mounted on the Court-Clown's back, Rode to the Princess swift with spurring heels, And close into her face, with rhyming clack, Began a Prothalamion; -- she reels, She falls, she faints! while laughter peels Over her woman's weakness. 'Where!' cry'd I, 'Where is his Majesty?' No person feels Inclin'd to answer; wherefore instantly I plung'd into the crowd to find him or die. LXXXVIII. "Jostling my way I gain'd the stairs, and ran To the first landing, where, incredible! I met, far gone in liquor, that old man, That vile impostor Hum. ----" So far so well,-- For we have prov'd the Mago never fell Down stairs on Crafticanto's evidence; And therefore duly shall proceed to tell, Plain in our own original mood and tense, The sequel of this day, though labour 'tis immense! * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * 'Lord Houghton first gave this composition in the Life, Letters &c. (1848), and in Volume II, page 51, refers to it as "the last of Keats's literary labours." The poet says in a letter to Brown, written after the first attack of blood-spitting, "I shall soon begin upon 'Lucy Vaughan Lloyd.' I do not begin composition yet, being willing, in case of a relapse, to have nothing to reproach myself with." I presume, therefore, that the composition may be assigned to the Spring or Summer of 1820. In August of that year, Leigh Hunt seems to have had the manuscript in his hands, for, in the first part of his article on Coaches, which fills The Indicator for the 23rd of August 1820, he quotes four stanzas and four lines from the poem, as by "a very good poetess, of the name of Lucy V---- L----, who has favoured us with a sight of a manuscript poem," &c. The stanzas quoted are XXV to XXIX. Lord Houghton gives, in the Aldine Edition of 1876, the following note by Brown: -- "This Poem was written subject to future amendments and omissions: it was begun without a plan, and without any prescribed laws for the supernatural machinery." His Lordship adds an interesting passage from a letter written to him by Lord Jeffrey: -- "There are beautiful passages and lines of ineffable sweetness in these minor pieces, and strange outbursts of individual fancy and felicitous expressions in the 'Cap and Bells,' though the general extravagance of the poetry is more suited to an Italian than to an English taste." The late Dante Gabriel Rossetti wrote to me of this poem as "the only unworthy stuff Keats ever wrote except an early trifle or two," and again as "the to me hateful Cap and Bells." I confess that it seems to me entirely unworthy of Keats, though certainly a proof, if proof were needed, of his versatility. It has the character of a mere intellectual and mechanical exercise, performed at a time when those higher forces constituting the mainspring of poetry were exhausted; but even so I find it difficult to figure Keats as doing anything so aimless as this appears when regarded solely as an effort of the fancy. He probably had a satirical under-current of meaning; and it needs no great stretch of the imagination to see the illicit passion of Emperor Elfinan, and his detestation for his authorized bride-elect, an oblique glance at the martial relations of George IV. It is not difficult to suggest prototypes for many of the faery-land statesmen against whom Elfinan vows vengeance; and there are many particulars in which earthly incidents are too thickly strewn to leave one in the settled belief that the poet's programme was wholly unearthly.--- H. B. F.' ~ Poetical Works of John Keats, ed. H. Buxton Forman, Crowell publ. 1895. by owner. provided at no charge for educational purposes ~ John Keats, The Cap And Bells; Or, The Jealousies - A Faery Tale .. Unfinished ,

127:The Unknown Eros. Book I. Saint Valentine’s Day Well dost thou, Love, thy solemn Feast to hold In vestal February; Not rather choosing out some rosy day From the rich coronet of the coming May, When all things meet to marry! O, quick, prævernal Power That signall'st punctual through the sleepy mould The Snowdrop's time to flower, Fair as the rash oath of virginity Which is first-love's first cry; O, Baby Spring, That flutter'st sudden 'neath the breast of Earth A month before the birth; Whence is the peaceful poignancy, The joy contrite, Sadder than sorrow, sweeter than delight, That burthens now the breath of everything, Though each one sighs as if to each alone The cherish'd pang were known? At dusk of dawn, on his dark spray apart, With it the Blackbird breaks the young Day's heart; In evening's hush About it talks the heavenly-minded Thrush; The hill with like remorse Smiles to the Sun's smile in his westering course; The fisher's drooping skiff In yonder sheltering bay; The choughs that call about the shining cliff; The children, noisy in the setting ray; Own the sweet season, each thing as it may; Thoughts of strange kindness and forgotten peace In me increase; And tears arise Within my happy, happy Mistress' eyes, And, lo, her lips, averted from my kiss, 210 Ask from Love's bounty, ah, much more than bliss! Is't the sequester'd and exceeding sweet Of dear Desire electing his defeat? Is't the waked Earth now to yon purpling cope Uttering first-love's first cry, Vainly renouncing, with a Seraph's sigh, Love's natural hope? Fair-meaning Earth, foredoom'd to perjury! Behold, all amorous May, With roses heap'd upon her laughing brows, Avoids thee of thy vows! Were it for thee, with her warm bosom near, To abide the sharpness of the Seraph's sphere? Forget thy foolish words; Go to her summons gay, Thy heart with dead, wing'd Innocencies fill'd, Ev'n as a nest with birds After the old ones by the hawk are kill'd. Well dost thou, Love, to celebrate The noon of thy soft ecstasy, Or e'er it be too late, Or e'er the Snowdrop die! II Wind And Wave The wedded light and heat, Winnowing the witless space, Without a let, What are they till they beat Against the sleepy sod, and there beget Perchance the violet! Is the One found, Amongst a wilderness of as happy grace, To make Heaven's bound; So that in Her All which it hath of sensitively good Is sought and understood After the narrow mode the mighty Heavens prefer? 211 She, as a little breeze Following still Night, Ripples the spirit's cold, deep seas Into delight; But, in a while, The immeasurable smile Is broke by fresher airs to flashes blent With darkling discontent; And all the subtle zephyr hurries gay, And all the heaving ocean heaves one way, T'ward the void sky-line and an unguess'd weal; Until the vanward billows feel The agitating shallows, and divine the goal, And to foam roll, And spread and stray And traverse wildly, like delighted hands, The fair and fleckless sands; And so the whole Unfathomable and immense Triumphing tide comes at the last to reach And burst in wind-kiss'd splendours on the deaf'ning beach, Where forms of children in first innocence Laugh and fling pebbles on the rainbow'd crest Of its untired unrest. III Winter I, singularly moved To love the lovely that are not beloved, Of all the Seasons, most Love Winter, and to trace The sense of the Trophonian pallor on her face. It is not death, but plenitude of peace; And the dim cloud that does the world enfold Hath less the characters of dark and cold Than warmth and light asleep, And correspondent breathing seems to keep With the infant harvest, breathing soft below Its eider coverlet of snow. Nor is in field or garden anything 212 But, duly look'd into, contains serene The substance of things hoped for, in the Spring, And evidence of Summer not yet seen. On every chance-mild day That visits the moist shaw, The honeysuckle, 'sdaining to be crost In urgence of sweet life by sleet or frost, 'Voids the time's law With still increase Of leaflet new, and little, wandering spray; Often, in sheltering brakes, As one from rest disturb'd in the first hour, Primrose or violet bewilder'd wakes, And deems 'tis time to flower; Though not a whisper of her voice he hear, The buried bulb does know The signals of the year, And hails far Summer with his lifted spear. The gorse-field dark, by sudden, gold caprice, Turns, here and there, into a Jason's fleece; Lilies, that soon in Autumn slipp'd their gowns of green, And vanish'd into earth, And came again, ere Autumn died, to birth, Stand full-array'd, amidst the wavering shower, And perfect for the Summer, less the flower; In nook of pale or crevice of crude bark, Thou canst not miss, If close thou spy, to mark The ghostly chrysalis, That, if thou touch it, stirs in its dream dark; And the flush'd Robin, in the evenings hoar, Does of Love's Day, as if he saw it, sing; But sweeter yet than dream or song of Summer or Spring Are Winter's sometime smiles, that seem to well From infancy ineffable; Her wandering, languorous gaze, So unfamiliar, so without amaze, On the elemental, chill adversity, The uncomprehended rudeness; and her sigh And solemn, gathering tear, And look of exile from some great repose, the sphere Of ether, moved by ether only, or 213 By something still more tranquil. IV Beta Of infinite Heaven the rays, Piercing some eyelet in our cavern black, Ended their viewless track On thee to smite Solely, as on a diamond stalactite, And in mid-darkness lit a rainbow's blaze, Wherein the absolute Reason, Power, and Love, That erst could move Mainly in me but toil and weariness, Renounced their deadening might, Renounced their undistinguishable stress Of withering white, And did with gladdest hues my spirit caress, Nothing of Heaven in thee showing infinite, Save the delight. The Day After To-Morrow Perchance she droops within the hollow gulf Which the great wave of coming pleasure draws, Not guessing the glad cause! Ye Clouds that on your endless journey go, Ye Winds that westward flow, Thou heaving Sea That heav'st 'twixt her and me, Tell her I come; Then only sigh your pleasure, and be dumb; For the sweet secret of our either self We know. Tell her I come, And let her heart be still'd. One day's controlled hope, and then one more, And on the third our lives shall be fulfill'd! Yet all has been before: 214 Palm placed in palm, twin smiles, and words astray. What other should we say? But shall I not, with ne'er a sign, perceive, Whilst her sweet hands I hold, The myriad threads and meshes manifold Which Love shall round her weave: The pulse in that vein making alien pause And varying beats from this; Down each long finger felt, a differing strand Of silvery welcome bland; And in her breezy palm And silken wrist, Beneath the touch of my like numerous bliss Complexly kiss'd, A diverse and distinguishable calm? What should we say! It all has been before; And yet our lives shall now be first fulfill'd, And into their summ'd sweetness fall distill'd One sweet drop more; One sweet drop more, in absolute increase Of unrelapsing peace. O, heaving Sea, That heav'st as if for bliss of her and me, And separatest not dear heart from heart, Though each 'gainst other beats too far apart, For yet awhile Let it not seem that I behold her smile. O, weary Love, O, folded to her breast, Love in each moment years and years of rest, Be calm, as being not. Ye oceans of intolerable delight, The blazing photosphere of central Night, Be ye forgot. Terror, thou swarthy Groom of Bride-bliss coy, Let me not see thee toy. O, Death, too tardy with thy hope intense Of kisses close beyond conceit of sense; O, Life, too liberal, while to take her hand Is more of hope than heart can understand; Perturb my golden patience not with joy, 215 Nor, through a wish, profane The peace that should pertain To him who does by her attraction move. Has all not been before? One day's controlled hope, and one again, And then the third, and ye shall have the rein, O Life, Death, Terror, Love! But soon let your unrestful rapture cease, Ye flaming Ethers thin, Condensing till the abiding sweetness win One sweet drop more; One sweet drop more in the measureless increase Of honied peace. VI Tristitia Darling, with hearts conjoin'd in such a peace That Hope, so not to cease, Must still gaze back, And count, along our love's most happy track, The landmarks of like inconceiv'd increase, Promise me this: If thou alone should'st win God's perfect bliss, And I, beguiled by gracious-seeming sin, Say, loving too much thee, Love's last goal miss, And any vows may then have memory, Never, by grief for what I bear or lack, To mar thy joyance of heav'n's jubilee. Promise me this; For else I should be hurl'd, Beyond just doom And by thy deed, to Death's interior gloom, From the mild borders of the banish'd world Wherein they dwell Who builded not unalterable fate On pride, fraud, envy, cruel lust, or hate; Yet loved too laxly sweetness and heart's ease, And strove the creature more than God to please. 216 For such as these Loss without measure, sadness without end! Yet not for this do thou disheaven'd be With thinking upon me. Though black, when scann'd from heaven's surpassing bright, This might mean light, Foil'd with the dim days of mortality. For God is everywhere. Go down to deepest Hell, and He is there, And, as a true but quite estranged Friend, He works, 'gainst gnashing teeth of devilish ire, With love deep hidden lest it be blasphemed, If possible, to blend Ease with the pangs of its inveterate fire; Yea, in the worst And from His Face most wilfully accurst Of souls in vain redeem'd, He does with potions of oblivion kill Remorse of the lost Love that helps them still. Apart from these, Near the sky-borders of that banish'd world, Wander pale spirits among willow'd leas, Lost beyond measure, sadden'd without end, But since, while erring most, retaining yet Some ineffectual fervour of regret, Retaining still such weal As spurned Lovers feel, Preferring far to all the world's delight Their loss so infinite, Or Poets, when they mark In the clouds dun A loitering flush of the long sunken sun, And turn away with tears into the dark. Know, Dear, these are not mine But Wisdom's words, confirmed by divine Doctors and Saints, though fitly seldom heard Save in their own prepense-occulted word, Lest fools be fool'd the further by false hope, And wrest sweet knowledge to their own decline; 217 And (to approve I speak within my scope) The Mistress of that dateless exile gray Is named in surpliced Schools Tristitia. But, O, my Darling, look in thy heart and see How unto me, Secured of my prime care, thy happy state, In the most unclean cell Of sordid Hell, And worried by the most ingenious hate, It never could be anything but well, Nor from my soul, full of thy sanctity, Such pleasure die As the poor harlot's, in whose body stirs The innocent life that is and is not hers: Unless, alas, this fount of my relief By thy unheavenly grief Were closed. So, with a consecrating kiss And hearts made one in past all previous peace, And on one hope reposed, Promise me this! VII The Azalea There, where the sun shines first Against our room, She train'd the gold Azalea, whose perfume She, Spring-like, from her breathing grace dispersed. Last night the delicate crests of saffron bloom, For this their dainty likeness watch'd and nurst, Were just at point to burst. At dawn I dream'd, O God, that she was dead, And groan'd aloud upon my wretched bed, And waked, ah, God, and did not waken her, But lay, with eyes still closed, Perfectly bless'd in the delicious sphere By which I knew so well that she was near, My heart to speechless thankfulness composed. Till 'gan to stir 218 A dizzy somewhat in my troubled head— It was the azalea's breath, and she was dead! The warm night had the lingering buds disclosed, And I had fall'n asleep with to my breast A chance-found letter press'd In which she said, ‘So, till to-morrow eve, my Own, adieu! Parting's well-paid with soon again to meet, Soon in your arms to feel so small and sweet, Sweet to myself that am so sweet to you!’ VIII Departure It was not like your great and gracious ways! Do you, that have nought other to lament, Never, my Love, repent Of how, that July afternoon, You went, With sudden, unintelligible phrase, And frighten'd eye, Upon your journey of so many days, Without a single kiss, or a good-bye? I knew, indeed, that you were parting soon; And so we sate, within the low sun's rays, You whispering to me, for your voice was weak, Your harrowing praise. Well, it was well, To hear you such things speak, And I could tell What made your eyes a growing gloom of love, As a warm South-wind sombres a March grove. And it was like your great and gracious ways To turn your talk on daily things, my Dear, Lifting the luminous, pathetic lash To let the laughter flash, Whilst I drew near, Because you spoke so low that I could scarcely hear. But all at once to leave me at the last, More at the wonder than the loss aghast, With huddled, unintelligible phrase, 219 And frighten'd eye, And go your journey of all days With not one kiss, or a good-bye, And the only loveless look the look with which you pass'd: 'Twas all unlike your great and gracious ways. IX Eurydice Is this the portent of the day nigh past, And of a restless grave O'er which the eternal sadness gathers fast; Or but the heaped wave Of some chance, wandering tide, Such as that world of awe Whose circuit, listening to a foreign law, Conjunctures ours at unguess'd dates and wide, Does in the Spirit's tremulous ocean draw, To pass unfateful on, and so subside? Thee, whom ev'n more than Heaven loved I have, And yet have not been true Even to thee, I, dreaming, night by night, seek now to see, And, in a mortal sorrow, still pursue Thro' sordid streets and lanes And houses brown and bare And many a haggard stair Ochrous with ancient stains, And infamous doors, opening on hapless rooms, In whose unhaunted glooms Dead pauper generations, witless of the sun, Their course have run; And ofttimes my pursuit Is check'd of its dear fruit By things brimful of hate, my kith and kin, Furious that I should keep Their forfeit power to weep, And mock, with living fear, their mournful malice thin. But ever, at the last, my way I win To where, with perfectly sad patience, nurst By sorry comfort of assured worst, 220 Ingrain'd in fretted cheek and lips that pine, On pallet poor Thou lyest, stricken sick, Beyond love's cure, By all the world's neglect, but chiefly mine. Then sweetness, sweeter than my tongue can tell, Does in my bosom well, And tears come free and quick And more and more abound For piteous passion keen at having found, After exceeding ill, a little good; A little good Which, for the while, Fleets with the current sorrow of the blood, Though no good here has heart enough to smile. The Toys My little Son, who look'd from thoughtful eyes And moved and spoke in quiet grown-up wise, Having my law the seventh time disobey'd, I struck him, and dismiss'd With hard words and unkiss'd, His Mother, who was patient, being dead. Then, fearing lest his grief should hinder sleep, I visited his bed, But found him slumbering deep, With darken'd eyelids, and their lashes yet From his late sobbing wet. And I, with moan, Kissing away his tears, left others of my own; For, on a table drawn beside his head, He had put, within his reach, A box of counters and a red-vein'd stone, A piece of glass abraded by the beach And six or seven shells, A bottle with bluebells And two French copper coins, ranged there with careful art, To comfort his sad heart. So when that night I pray'd 221 To God, I wept, and said: Ah, when at last we lie with tranced breath, Not vexing Thee in death, And Thou rememberest of what toys We made our joys, How weakly understood, Thy great commanded good, Then, fatherly not less Than I whom Thou hast moulded from the clay, Thou'lt leave Thy wrath, and say, ‘I will be sorry for their childishness.’ XI Tired Memory The stony rock of death's insensibility Well'd yet awhile with honey of thy love And then was dry; Nor could thy picture, nor thine empty glove, Nor all thy kind, long letters, nor the band Which really spann'd Thy body chaste and warm, Thenceforward move Upon the stony rock their wearied charm. At last, then, thou wast dead. Yet would I not despair, But wrought my daily task, and daily said Many and many a fond, unfeeling prayer, To keep my vows of faith to thee from harm. In vain. ‘For 'tis,’ I said, ‘all one, The wilful faith, which has no joy or pain, As if 'twere none.’ Then look'd I miserably round If aught of duteous love were left undone, And nothing found. But, kneeling in a Church, one Easter-Day, It came to me to say: ‘Though there is no intelligible rest, In Earth or Heaven, For me, but on her breast, 222 I yield her up, again to have her given, Or not, as, Lord, Thou wilt, and that for aye.’ And the same night, in slumber lying, I, who had dream'd of thee as sad and sick and dying, And only so, nightly for all one year, Did thee, my own most Dear, Possess, In gay, celestial beauty nothing coy, And felt thy soft caress With heretofore unknown reality of joy. But, in our mortal air, None thrives for long upon the happiest dream, And fresh despair Bade me seek round afresh for some extreme Of unconceiv'd, interior sacrifice Whereof the smoke might rise To God, and 'mind Him that one pray'd below. And so, In agony, I cried: ‘My Lord, if Thy strange will be this, That I should crucify my heart, Because my love has also been my pride, I do submit, if I saw how, to bliss Wherein She has no part.’ And I was heard, And taken at my own remorseless word. O, my most Dear, Was't treason, as I fear? 'Twere that, and worse, to plead thy veiled mind, Kissing thy babes, and murmuring in mine ear, ‘Thou canst not be Faithful to God, and faithless unto me!’ Ah, prophet kind! I heard, all dumb and blind With tears of protest; and I cannot see But faith was broken. Yet, as I have said, My heart was dead, Dead of devotion and tired memory, When a strange grace of thee In a fair stranger, as I take it, bred To her some tender heed, Most innocent 223 Of purpose therewith blent, And pure of faith, I think, to thee; yet such That the pale reflex of an alien love, So vaguely, sadly shown, Did her heart touch Above All that, till then, had woo'd her for its own. And so the fear, which is love's chilly dawn, Flush'd faintly upon lids that droop'd like thine, And made me weak, By thy delusive likeness doubly drawn, And Nature's long suspended breath of flame Persuading soft, and whispering Duty's name, Awhile to smile and speak With this thy Sister sweet, and therefore mine; Thy Sister sweet, Who bade the wheels to stir Of sensitive delight in the poor brain, Dead of devotion and tired memory, So that I lived again, And, strange to aver, With no relapse into the void inane, For thee; But (treason was't?) for thee and also her. XII Magna Est Veritas Here, in this little Bay, Full of tumultuous life and great repose, Where, twice a day, The purposeless, glad ocean comes and goes, Under high cliffs, and far from the huge town, I sit me down. For want of me the world's course will not fail: When all its work is done, the lie shall rot; The truth is great, and shall prevail, When none cares whether it prevail or not. XIII 224 1867 In the year of the great crime, When the false English Nobles and their Jew, By God demented, slew The Trust they stood twice pledged to keep from wrong, One said, Take up thy Song, That breathes the mild and almost mythic time Of England's prime! But I, Ah, me, The freedom of the few That, in our free Land, were indeed the free, Can song renew? Ill singing 'tis with blotting prison-bars, How high soe'er, betwixt us and the stars; Ill singing 'tis when there are none to hear; And days are near When England shall forget The fading glow which, for a little while, Illumes her yet, The lovely smile That grows so faint and wan, Her people shouting in her dying ear, Are not two daws worth two of any swan! Ye outlaw'd Best, who yet are bright With the sunken light, Whose common style Is Virtue at her gracious ease, The flower of olden sanctities, Ye haply trust, by love's benignant guile, To lure the dark and selfish brood To their own hated good; Ye haply dream Your lives shall still their charmful sway sustain, Unstifled by the fever'd steam That rises from the plain. Know, 'twas the force of function high, In corporate exercise, and public awe Of Nature's, Heaven's, and England's Law That Best, though mix'd with Bad, should reign, Which kept you in your sky! 225 But, when the sordid Trader caught The loose-held sceptre from your hands distraught, And soon, to the Mechanic vain, Sold the proud toy for nought, Your charm was broke, your task was sped, Your beauty, with your honour, dead, And though you still are dreaming sweet Of being even now not less Than Gods and Goddesses, ye shall not long so cheat Your hearts of their due heaviness. Go, get you for your evil watching shriven! Leave to your lawful Master's itching hands Your unking'd lands, But keep, at least, the dignity Of deigning not, for his smooth use, to be, Voteless, the voted delegates Of his strange interests, loves and hates. In sackcloth, or in private strife With private ill, ye may please Heaven, And soothe the coming pangs of sinking life; And prayer perchance may win A term to God's indignant mood And the orgies of the multitude, Which now begin; But do not hope to wave the silken rag Of your unsanction'd flag, And so to guide The great ship, helmless on the swelling tide Of that presumptuous Sea, Unlit by sun or moon, yet inly bright With lights innumerable that give no light, Flames of corrupted will and scorn of right, Rejoicing to be free. And, now, because the dark comes on apace When none can work for fear, And Liberty in every Land lies slain, And the two Tyrannies unchallenged reign, And heavy prophecies, suspended long At supplication of the righteous few, And so discredited, to fulfilment throng, Restrain'd no more by faithful prayer or tear, 226 And the dread baptism of blood seems near That brings to the humbled Earth the Time of Grace, Breathless be song, And let Christ's own look through The darkness, suddenly increased, To the gray secret lingering in the East. XIV ‘If I Were Dead’ ‘If I were dead, you'd sometimes say, Poor Child!’ The dear lips quiver'd as they spake, And the tears brake From eyes which, not to grieve me, brightly smiled. Poor Child, poor Child! I seem to hear your laugh, your talk, your song. It is not true that Love will do no wrong. Poor Child! And did you think, when you so cried and smiled, How I, in lonely nights, should lie awake, And of those words your full avengers make? Poor Child, poor Child! And now, unless it be That sweet amends thrice told are come to thee, O God, have Thou no mercy upon me! Poor Child! XV Peace O England, how hast thou forgot, In dullard care for undisturb'd increase Of gold, which profits not, The gain which once thou knew'st was for thy peace! Honour is peace, the peace which does accord Alone with God's glad word: ‘My peace I send you, and I send a sword.’ O England, how hast thou forgot, How fear'st the things which make for joy, not fear, Confronted near. 227 Hard days? 'Tis what the pamper'd seek to buy With their most willing gold in weary lands. Loss and pain risk'd? What sport but understands These for incitements! Suddenly to die, With conscience a blurr'd scroll? The sunshine dreaming upon Salmon's height Is not so sweet and white As the most heretofore sin-spotted soul That darts to its delight Straight from the absolution of a faithful fight. Myriads of homes unloosen'd of home's bond, And fill'd with helpless babes and harmless women fond? Let those whose pleasant chance Took them, like me, among the German towns, After the war that pluck'd the fangs from France, With me pronounce Whether the frequent black, which then array'd Child, wife, and maid, Did most to magnify the sombreness of grief, Or add the beauty of a staid relief And freshening foil To cheerful-hearted Honour's ready smile! Beneath the heroic sun Is there then none Whose sinewy wings by choice do fly In the fine mountain-air of public obloquy, To tell the sleepy mongers of false ease That war's the ordained way of all alive, And therein with goodwill to dare and thrive Is profit and heart's peace? But in his heart the fool now saith: ‘The thoughts of Heaven were past all finding out, Indeed, if it should rain Intolerable woes upon our Land again, After so long a drought!’ ‘Will a kind Providence our vessel whelm, With such a pious Pilot at the helm?’ ‘Or let the throats be cut of pretty sheep 228 That care for nought but pasture rich and deep?’ ‘Were 't Evangelical of God to deal so foul a blow At people who hate Turks and Papists so?’ ‘What, make or keep A tax for ship and gun, When 'tis full three to one Yon bully but intends To beat our friends?’ ‘Let's put aside Our costly pride. Our appetite's not gone Because we've learn'd to doff Our caps, where we were used to keep them on.’ ‘If times get worse, We've money in our purse, And Patriots that know how, let who will scoff, To buy our perils off. Yea, blessed in our midst Art thou who lately didst, So cheap, The old bargain of the Saxon with the Dane.’ Thus in his heart the fool now saith; And, lo, our trusted leaders trust fool's luck, Which, like the whale's 'mazed chine, When they thereon were mulling of their wine, Will some day duck. Remnant of Honour, brooding in the dark Over your bitter cark, Staring, as Rispah stared, astonied seven days, Upon the corpses of so many sons, Who loved her once, Dead in the dim and lion-haunted ways, Who could have dreamt That times should come like these! Prophets, indeed, taught lies when we were young, And people loved to have it so; For they teach well who teach their scholars' tongue! 229 But that the foolish both should gaze, With feeble, fascinated face, Upon the wan crest of the coming woe, The billow of earthquake underneath the seas, And sit at ease, Or stand agape, Without so much as stepping back to 'scape, Mumbling, ‘Perchance we perish if we stay: 'Tis certain wear of shoes to stir away!’ Who could have dreamt That times should come like these! Remnant of Honour, tongue-tied with contempt, Consider; you are strong yet, if you please. A hundred just men up, and arm'd but with a frown, May hoot a hundred thousand false loons down, Or drive them any way like geese. But to sit silent now is to suborn The common villainy you scorn. In the dark hour When phrases are in power, And nought's to choose between The thing which is not and which is not seen, One fool, with lusty lungs, Does what a hundred wise, who hate and hold their tongues, Shall ne'er undo. In such an hour, When eager hands are fetter'd and too few, And hearts alone have leave to bleed, Speak; for a good word then is a good deed. XVI A Farewell With all my will, but much against my heart, We two now part. My Very Dear, Our solace is, the sad road lies so clear. It needs no art, With faint, averted feet And many a tear, In our opposed paths to persevere. 230 Go thou to East, I West. We will not say There's any hope, it is so far away. But, O, my Best, When the one darling of our widowhead, The nursling Grief, Is dead, And no dews blur our eyes To see the peach-bloom come in evening skies, Perchance we may, Where now this night is day, And even through faith of still averted feet, Making full circle of our banishment, Amazed meet; The bitter journey to the bourne so sweet Seasoning the termless feast of our content With tears of recognition never dry. XVII 1880-85 Stand by, Ye Wise, by whom Heav'n rules! Your kingly hands suit not the hangman's tools. When God has doom'd a glorious Past to die, Are there no knaves and fools? For ages yet to come your kind shall count for nought. Smoke of the strife of other Powers Than ours, And tongues inscrutable with fury fraught 'Wilder the sky, Till the far good which none can guess be wrought. Stand by! Since tears are vain, here let us rest and laugh, But not too loudly; for the brave time's come, When Best may not blaspheme the Bigger Half, And freedom for our sort means freedom to be dumb. Lo, how the dross and draff Jeer up at us, and shout, ‘The Day is ours, the Night is theirs!’ 231 And urge their rout Where the wild dawn of rising Tartarus flares. Yon strives their Leader, lusting to be seen. His leprosy's so perfect that men call him clean! Listen the long, sincere, and liberal bray Of the earnest Puller at another's hay 'Gainst aught that dares to tug the other way, Quite void of fears With all that noise of ruin round his ears! Yonder the people cast their caps o'erhead, And swear the threaten'd doom is ne'er to dread That's come, though not yet past. All front the horror and are none aghast; Brag of their full-blown rights and liberties, Nor once surmise When each man gets his due the Nation dies; Nay, still shout ‘Progress!’ as if seven plagues Should take the laggard who would stretch his legs. Forward! glad rush of Gergesenian swine; You've gain'd the hill-top, but there's yet the brine. Forward! to meet the welcome of the waves That mount to 'whelm the freedom which enslaves. Forward! bad corpses turn into good dung, To feed strange futures beautiful and young. Forward! God speed ye down the damn'd decline, And grant ye the Fool's true good, in abject ruin's gulf As the Wise see him so to see himself! Ah, Land once mine, That seem'd to me too sweetly wise, Too sternly fair for aught that dies, Past is thy proud and pleasant state, That recent date When, strong and single, in thy sovereign heart, The thrones of thinking, hearing, sight, The cunning hand, the knotted thew Of lesser powers that heave and hew, And each the smallest beneficial part, And merest pore of breathing, beat, Full and complete, The great pulse of thy generous might, Equal in inequality, 232 That soul of joy in low and high; When not a churl but felt the Giant's heat, Albeit he simply call'd it his, Flush in his common labour with delight, And not a village-Maiden's kiss But was for this More sweet, And not a sorrow but did lightlier sigh, And for its private self less greet, The whilst that other so majestic self stood by! Integrity so vast could well afford To wear in working many a stain, To pillory the cobbler vain And license madness in a lord. On that were all men well agreed; And, if they did a thing, Their strength was with them in their deed, And from amongst them came the shout of a king! But, once let traitor coward meet, Not Heaven itself can keep its feet. Come knave who said to dastard, ‘Lo, ‘The Deluge!’ which but needed ‘No!’ For all the Atlantic's threatening roar, If men would bravely understand, Is softly check'd for evermore By a firm bar of sand. But, dastard listening knave, who said, ‘'Twere juster were the Giant dead, That so yon bawlers may not miss To vote their own pot-belly'd bliss,’ All that is past! We saw the slaying, and were not aghast. But ne'er a sun, on village Groom and Bride, Albeit they guess not how it is, At Easter or at Whitsuntide, But shines less gay for this! XVIII The Two Deserts 233 Not greatly moved with awe am I To learn that we may spy Five thousand firmaments beyond our own. The best that's known Of the heavenly bodies does them credit small. View'd close, the Moon's fair ball Is of ill objects worst, A corpse in Night's highway, naked, fire-scarr'd, accurst; And now they tell That the Sun is plainly seen to boil and burst Too horribly for hell. So, judging from these two, As we must do, The Universe, outside our living Earth, Was all conceiv'd in the Creator's mirth, Forecasting at the time Man's spirit deep, To make dirt cheap. Put by the Telescope! Better without it man may see, Stretch'd awful in the hush'd midnight, The ghost of his eternity. Give me the nobler glass that swells to the eye The things which near us lie, Till Science rapturously hails, In the minutest water-drop, A torment of innumerable tails. These at the least do live. But rather give A mind not much to pry Beyond our royal-fair estate Betwixt these deserts blank of small and great. Wonder and beauty our own courtiers are, Pressing to catch our gaze, And out of obvious ways Ne'er wandering far. XIX Crest And Gulf Much woe that man befalls 234 Who does not run when sent, nor come when Heaven calls; But whether he serve God, or his own whim, Not matters, in the end, to any one but him; And he as soon Shall map the other side of the Moon, As trace what his own deed, In the next chop of the chance gale, shall breed. This he may know: His good or evil seed Is like to grow, For its first harvest, quite to contraries: The father wise Has still the hare-brain'd brood; 'Gainst evil, ill example better works than good; The poet, fanning his mild flight At a most keen and arduous height, Unveils the tender heavens to horny human eyes Amidst ingenious blasphemies. Wouldst raise the poor, in Capuan luxury sunk? The Nation lives but whilst its Lords are drunk! Or spread Heav'n's partial gifts o'er all, like dew? The Many's weedy growth withers the gracious Few! Strange opposites, from those, again, shall rise. Join, then, if thee it please, the bitter jest Of mankind's progress; all its spectral race Mere impotence of rest, The heaving vain of life which cannot cease from self, Crest altering still to gulf And gulf to crest In endless chace, That leaves the tossing water anchor'd in its place! Ah, well does he who does but stand aside, Sans hope or fear, And marks the crest and gulf in station sink and rear, And prophesies 'gainst trust in such a tide: For he sometimes is prophet, heavenly taught, Whose message is that he sees only nought. Nathless, discern'd may be, By listeners at the doors of destiny, The fly-wheel swift and still Of God's incessant will, 235 Mighty to keep in bound, tho' powerless to quell, The amorous and vehement drift of man's herd to hell. XX ‘Let Be!’ Ah, yes; we tell the good and evil trees By fruits: But how tell these? Who does not know That good and ill Are done in secret still, And that which shews is verily but show! How high of heart is one, and one how sweet of mood: But not all height is holiness, Nor every sweetness good; And grace will sometimes lurk where who could guess? The Critic of his kind, Dealing to each his share, With easy humour, hard to bear, May not impossibly have in him shrined, As in a gossamer globe or thickly padded pod, Some small seed dear to God. Haply yon wretch, so famous for his falls, Got them beneath the Devil-defended walls Of some high Virtue he had vow'd to win; And that which you and I Call his besetting sin Is but the fume of his peculiar fire Of inmost contrary desire, And means wild willingness for her to die, Dash'd with despondence of her favour sweet; He fiercer fighting, in his worst defeat, Than I or you, That only courteous greet Where he does hotly woo, Did ever fight, in our best victory. Another is mistook Through his deceitful likeness to his look! Let be, let be: Why should I clear myself, why answer thou for me? That shaft of slander shot 236 Miss'd only the right blot. I see the shame They cannot see: 'Tis very just they blame The thing that's not. XXI ‘Faint Yet Pursuing’ Heroic Good, target for which the young Dream in their dreams that every bow is strung, And, missing, sigh Unfruitful, or as disbelievers die, Thee having miss'd, I will not so revolt, But lowlier shoot my bolt, And lowlier still, if still I may not reach, And my proud stomach teach That less than highest is good, and may be high. An even walk in life's uneven way, Though to have dreamt of flight and not to fly Be strange and sad, Is not a boon that's given to all who pray. If this I had I'd envy none! Nay, trod I straight for one Year, month or week, Should Heaven withdraw, and Satan me amerce Of power and joy, still would I seek Another victory with a like reverse; Because the good of victory does not die, As dies the failure's curse, And what we have to gain Is, not one battle, but a weary life's campaign. Yet meaner lot being sent Should more than me content; Yea, if I lie Among vile shards, though born for silver wings, In the strong flight and feathers gold Of whatsoever heavenward mounts and sings I must by admiration so comply That there I should my own delight behold. 237 Yea, though I sin each day times seven, And dare not lift the fearfullest eyes to Heaven, Thanks must I give Because that seven times are not eight or nine, And that my darkness is all mine, And that I live Within this oak-shade one more minute even, Hearing the winds their Maker magnify. XXII Victory In Defeat Ah, God, alas, How soon it came to pass The sweetness melted from thy barbed hook Which I so simply took; And I lay bleeding on the bitter land, Afraid to stir against thy least command, But losing all my pleasant life-blood, whence Force should have been heart's frailty to withstand. Life is not life at all without delight, Nor has it any might; And better than the insentient heart and brain Is sharpest pain; And better for the moment seems it to rebel, If the great Master, from his lifted seat, Ne'er whispers to the wearied servant ‘Well!’ Yet what returns of love did I endure, When to be pardon'd seem'd almost more sweet Than aye to have been pure! But day still faded to disastrous night, And thicker darkness changed to feebler light, Until forgiveness, without stint renew'd, Was now no more with loving tears imbued, Vowing no more offence. Not less to thine Unfaithful didst thou cry, ‘Come back, poor Child; be all as 'twas before. But I, ‘No, no; I will not promise any more! Yet, when I feel my hour is come to die, And so I am secured of continence, 238 Then may I say, though haply then in vain, 'My only, only Love, O, take me back again!'’ Thereafter didst thou smite So hard that, for a space, Uplifted seem'd Heav'n's everlasting door, And I indeed the darling of thy grace. But, in some dozen changes of the moon, A bitter mockery seem'd thy bitter boon. The broken pinion was no longer sore. Again, indeed, I woke Under so dread a stroke That all the strength it left within my heart Was just to ache and turn, and then to turn and ache, And some weak sign of war unceasingly to make. And here I lie, With no one near to mark, Thrusting Hell's phantoms feebly in the dark, And still at point more utterly to die. O God, how long! Put forth indeed thy powerful right hand, While time is yet, Or never shall I see the blissful land! Thus I: then God, in pleasant speech and strong, (Which soon I shall forget): ‘The man who, though his fights be all defeats, Still fights, Enters at last The heavenly Jerusalem's rejoicing streets With glory more, and more triumphant rites Than always-conquering Joshua's, when his blast The frighted walls of Jericho down cast; And, lo, the glad surprise Of peace beyond surmise, More than in common Saints, for ever in his eyes. XXIII Remembered Grace Since succour to the feeblest of the wise 239 Is charge of nobler weight Than the security Of many and many a foolish soul's estate, This I affirm, Though fools will fools more confidently be: Whom God does once with heart to heart befriend, He does so till the end: And having planted life's miraculous germ, One sweet pulsation of responsive love, He sets him sheer above, Not sin and bitter shame And wreck of fame, But Hell's insidious and more black attempt, The envy, malice, and pride, Which men who share so easily condone That few ev'n list such ills as these to hide. From these unalterably exempt, Through the remember'd grace Of that divine embrace, Of his sad errors none, Though gross to blame, Shall cast him lower than the cleansing flame, Nor make him quite depart From the small flock named ‘after God's own heart,’ And to themselves unknown. Nor can he quail In faith, nor flush nor pale When all the other idiot people spell How this or that new Prophet's word belies Their last high oracle; But constantly his soul Points to its pole Ev'n as the needle points, and knows not why; And, under the ever-changing clouds of doubt, When others cry, ‘The stars, if stars there were, Are quench'd and out!’ To him, uplooking t'ward the hills for aid, Appear, at need display'd, Gaps in the low-hung gloom, and, bright in air, Orion or the Bear. 240 XXIV Vesica Piscis In strenuous hope I wrought, And hope seem'd still betray'd; Lastly I said, ‘I have labour'd through the Night, nor yet Have taken aught; But at Thy word I will again cast forth the net!’ And, lo, I caught (Oh, quite unlike and quite beyond my thought,) Not the quick, shining harvest of the Sea, For food, my wish, But Thee! Then, hiding even in me, As hid was Simon's coin within the fish, Thou sigh'd'st, with joy, ‘Be dumb, Or speak but of forgotten things to far-off times to come.’ ~ Coventry Patmore,

128:Muse of my native land! loftiest Muse! O first-born on the mountains! by the hues Of heaven on the spiritual air begot: Long didst thou sit alone in northern grot, While yet our England was a wolfish den; Before our forests heard the talk of men; Before the first of Druids was a child;-- Long didst thou sit amid our regions wild Rapt in a deep prophetic solitude. There came an eastern voice of solemn mood:-- Yet wast thou patient. Then sang forth the Nine, Apollo's garland:--yet didst thou divine Such home-bred glory, that they cry'd in vain, "Come hither, Sister of the Island!" Plain Spake fair Ausonia; and once more she spake A higher summons:--still didst thou betake Thee to thy native hopes. O thou hast won A full accomplishment! The thing is done, Which undone, these our latter days had risen On barren souls. Great Muse, thou know'st what prison Of flesh and bone, curbs, and confines, and frets Our spirit's wings: despondency besets Our pillows; and the fresh to-morrow morn Seems to give forth its light in very scorn Of our dull, uninspired, snail-paced lives. Long have I said, how happy he who shrives To thee! But then I thought on poets gone, And could not pray:nor can I now--so on I move to the end in lowliness of heart.-- "Ah, woe is me! that I should fondly part From my dear native land! Ah, foolish maid! Glad was the hour, when, with thee, myriads bade Adieu to Ganges and their pleasant fields! To one so friendless the clear freshet yields A bitter coolness, the ripe grape is sour: Yet I would have, great gods! but one short hour Of native airlet me but die at home." Endymion to heaven's airy dome Was offering up a hecatomb of vows, When these words reach'd him. Whereupon he bows His head through thorny-green entanglement Of underwood, and to the sound is bent, Anxious as hind towards her hidden fawn. "Is no one near to help me? No fair dawn Of life from charitable voice? No sweet saying To set my dull and sadden'd spirit playing? No hand to toy with mine? No lips so sweet That I may worship them? No eyelids meet To twinkle on my bosom? No one dies Before me, till from these enslaving eyes Redemption sparkles!I am sad and lost." Thou, Carian lord, hadst better have been tost Into a whirlpool. Vanish into air, Warm mountaineer! for canst thou only bear A woman's sigh alone and in distress? See not her charms! Is Phoebe passionless? Phoebe is fairer farO gaze no more: Yet if thou wilt behold all beauty's store, Behold her panting in the forest grass! Do not those curls of glossy jet surpass For tenderness the arms so idly lain Amongst them? Feelest not a kindred pain, To see such lovely eyes in swimming search After some warm delight, that seems to perch Dovelike in the dim cell lying beyond Their upper lids?Hist!      "O for Hermes' wand To touch this flower into human shape! That woodland Hyacinthus could escape From his green prison, and here kneeling down Call me his queen, his second life's fair crown! Ah me, how I could love!My soul doth melt For the unhappy youthLove! I have felt So faint a kindness, such a meek surrender To what my own full thoughts had made too tender, That but for tears my life had fled away! Ye deaf and senseless minutes of the day, And thou, old forest, hold ye this for true, There is no lightning, no authentic dew But in the eye of love: there's not a sound, Melodious howsoever, can confound The heavens and earth in one to such a death As doth the voice of love: there's not a breath Will mingle kindly with the meadow air, Till it has panted round, and stolen a share Of passion from the heart!"                Upon a bough He leant, wretched. He surely cannot now Thirst for another love: O impious, That he can even dream upon it thus! Thought he, "Why am I not as are the dead, Since to a woe like this I have been led Through the dark earth, and through the wondrous sea? Goddess! I love thee not the less: from thee By Juno's smile I turn notno, no, no While the great waters are at ebb and flow. I have a triple soul! O fond pretence For both, for both my love is so immense, I feel my heart is cut in twain for them." And so he groan'd, as one by beauty slain. The lady's heart beat quick, and he could see Her gentle bosom heave tumultuously. He sprang from his green covert: there she lay, Sweet as a muskrose upon new-made hay; With all her limbs on tremble, and her eyes Shut softly up alive. To speak he tries. "Fair damsel, pity me! forgive that I Thus violate thy bower's sanctity! O pardon me, for I am full of grief Grief born of thee, young angel! fairest thief! Who stolen hast away the wings wherewith I was to top the heavens. Dear maid, sith Thou art my executioner, and I feel Loving and hatred, misery and weal, Will in a few short hours be nothing to me, And all my story that much passion slew me; Do smile upon the evening of my days: And, for my tortur'd brain begins to craze, Be thou my nurse; and let me understand How dying I shall kiss that lily hand. Dost weep for me? Then should I be content. Scowl on, ye fates! until the firmament Outblackens Erebus, and the full-cavern'd earth Crumbles into itself. By the cloud girth Of Jove, those tears have given me a thirst To meet oblivion."As her heart would burst The maiden sobb'd awhile, and then replied: "Why must such desolation betide As that thou speakest of? Are not these green nooks Empty of all misfortune? Do the brooks Utter a gorgon voice? Does yonder thrush, Schooling its half-fledg'd little ones to brush About the dewy forest, whisper tales? Speak not of grief, young stranger, or cold snails Will slime the rose to night. Though if thou wilt, Methinks 'twould be a guilta very guilt Not to companion thee, and sigh away The lightthe duskthe darktill break of day!" "Dear lady," said Endymion, "'tis past: I love thee! and my days can never last. That I may pass in patience still speak: Let me have music dying, and I seek No more delightI bid adieu to all. Didst thou not after other climates call, And murmur about Indian streams?"Then she, Sitting beneath the midmost forest tree, For pity sang this roundelay      "O Sorrow,      Why dost borrow The natural hue of health, from vermeil lips?      To give maiden blushes      To the white rose bushes? Or is it thy dewy hand the daisy tips?      "O Sorrow,      Why dost borrow The lustrous passion from a falcon-eye?      To give the glow-worm light?      Or, on a moonless night, To tinge, on syren shores, the salt sea-spry?      "O Sorrow,      Why dost borrow The mellow ditties from a mourning tongue?      To give at evening pale      Unto the nightingale, That thou mayst listen the cold dews among?      "O Sorrow,      Why dost borrow Heart's lightness from the merriment of May?      A lover would not tread      A cowslip on the head, Though he should dance from eve till peep of day      Nor any drooping flower      Held sacred for thy bower, Wherever he may sport himself and play.      "To Sorrow      I bade good-morrow, And thought to leave her far away behind;      But cheerly, cheerly,      She loves me dearly; She is so constant to me, and so kind:      I would deceive her      And so leave her, But ah! she is so constant and so kind. "Beneath my palm trees, by the river side, I sat a weeping: in the whole world wide There was no one to ask me why I wept,      And so I kept Brimming the water-lily cups with tears      Cold as my fears. "Beneath my palm trees, by the river side, I sat a weeping: what enamour'd bride, Cheated by shadowy wooer from the clouds,     But hides and shrouds Beneath dark palm trees by a river side? "And as I sat, over the light blue hills There came a noise of revellers: the rills Into the wide stream came of purple hue     'Twas Bacchus and his crew! The earnest trumpet spake, and silver thrills From kissing cymbals made a merry din     'Twas Bacchus and his kin! Like to a moving vintage down they came, Crown'd with green leaves, and faces all on flame; All madly dancing through the pleasant valley,     To scare thee, Melancholy! O then, O then, thou wast a simple name! And I forgot thee, as the berried holly By shepherds is forgotten, when, in June, Tall chesnuts keep away the sun and moon:     I rush'd into the folly! "Within his car, aloft, young Bacchus stood, Trifling his ivy-dart, in dancing mood,     With sidelong laughing; And little rills of crimson wine imbrued His plump white arms, and shoulders, enough white     For Venus' pearly bite; And near him rode Silenus on his ****, Pelted with flowers as he on did pass     Tipsily quaffing. "Whence came ye, merry Damsels! whence came ye! So many, and so many, and such glee? Why have ye left your bowers desolate,     Your lutes, and gentler fate? We follow Bacchus! Bacchus on the wing?     A conquering! Bacchus, young Bacchus! good or ill betide, We dance before him thorough kingdoms wide: Come hither, lady fair, and joined be     To our wild minstrelsy!' "Whence came ye, jolly Satyrs! whence came ye! So many, and so many, and such glee? Why have ye left your forest haunts, why left     Your nuts in oak-tree cleft? For wine, for wine we left our kernel tree; For wine we left our heath, and yellow brooms,     And cold mushrooms; For wine we follow Bacchus through the earth; Great God of breathless cups and chirping mirth! Come hither, lady fair, and joined be To our mad minstrelsy!' "Over wide streams and mountains great we went, And, save when Bacchus kept his ivy tent, Onward the tiger and the leopard pants,     With Asian elephants: Onward these myriadswith song and dance, With zebras striped, and sleek Arabians' prance, Web-footed alligators, crocodiles, Bearing upon their scaly backs, in files, Plump infant laughers mimicking the coil Of seamen, and stout galley-rowers' toil: With toying oars and silken sails they glide,     Nor care for wind and tide. "Mounted on panthers' furs and lions' manes, From rear to van they scour about the plains; A three days' journey in a moment done: And always, at the rising of the sun, About the wilds they hunt with spear and horn,     On spleenful unicorn. "I saw Osirian Egypt kneel adown     Before the vine-wreath crown! I saw parch'd Abyssinia rouse and sing     To the silver cymbals' ring! I saw the whelming vintage hotly pierce     Old Tartary the fierce! The kings of Inde their jewel-sceptres vail, And from their treasures scatter pearled hail; Great Brahma from his mystic heaven groans,     And all his priesthood moans; Before young Bacchus' eye-wink turning pale. Into these regions came I following him, Sick hearted, wearyso I took a whim To stray away into these forests drear     Alone, without a peer: And I have told thee all thou mayest hear.      "Young stranger!      I've been a ranger In search of pleasure throughout every clime:      Alas! 'tis not for me!      Bewitch'd I sure must be, To lose in grieving all my maiden prime.      "Come then, Sorrow!      Sweetest Sorrow! Like an own babe I nurse thee on my breast:      I thought to leave thee      And deceive thee, But now of all the world I love thee best.      "There is not one,      No, no, not one But thee to comfort a poor lonely maid;      Thou art her mother,      And her brother, Her playmate, and her wooer in the shade." O what a sigh she gave in finishing, And look, quite dead to every worldly thing! Endymion could not speak, but gazed on her; And listened to the wind that now did stir About the crisped oaks full drearily, Yet with as sweet a softness as might be Remember'd from its velvet summer song. At last he said: "Poor lady, how thus long Have I been able to endure that voice? Fair Melody! kind Syren! I've no choice; I must be thy sad servant evermore: I cannot choose but kneel here and adore. Alas, I must not thinkby Phoebe, no! Let me not think, soft Angel! shall it be so? Say, beautifullest, shall I never think? O thou could'st foster me beyond the brink Of recollection! make my watchful care Close up its bloodshot eyes, nor see despair! Do gently murder half my soul, and I Shall feel the other half so utterly! I'm giddy at that cheek so fair and smooth; O let it blush so ever! let it soothe My madness! let it mantle rosy-warm With the tinge of love, panting in safe alarm. This cannot be thy hand, and yet it is; And this is sure thine other softlingthis Thine own fair bosom, and I am so near! Wilt fall asleep? O let me sip that tear! And whisper one sweet word that I may know This is this worldsweet dewy blossom!"Woe! Woe! Woe to that Endymion! Where is he? Even these words went echoing dismally Through the wide foresta most fearful tone, Like one repenting in his latest moan; And while it died away a shade pass'd by, As of a thunder cloud. When arrows fly Through the thick branches, poor ring-doves sleek forth Their timid necks and tremble; so these both Leant to each other trembling, and sat so Waiting for some destructionwhen lo, Foot-feather'd Mercury appear'd sublime Beyond the tall tree tops; and in less time Than shoots the slanted hail-storm, down he dropt Towards the ground; but rested not, nor stopt One moment from his home: only the sward He with his wand light touch'd, and heavenward Swifter than sight was goneeven before The teeming earth a sudden witness bore Of his swift magic. Diving swans appear Above the crystal circlings white and clear; And catch the cheated eye in wild surprise, How they can dive in sight and unseen rise So from the turf outsprang two steeds jet-black, Each with large dark blue wings upon his back. The youth of Caria plac'd the lovely dame On one, and felt himself in spleen to tame The other's fierceness. Through the air they flew, High as the eagles. Like two drops of dew Exhal'd to Phoebus' lips, away they are gone, Far from the earth awayunseen, alone, Among cool clouds and winds, but that the free, The buoyant life of song can floating be Above their heads, and follow them untir'd. Muse of my native land, am I inspir'd? This is the giddy air, and I must spread Wide pinions to keep here; nor do I dread Or height, or depth, or width, or any chance Precipitous: I have beneath my glance Those towering horses and their mournful freight. Could I thus sail, and see, and thus await Fearless for power of thought, without thine aid? There is a sleepy dusk, an odorous shade From some approaching wonder, and behold Those winged steeds, with snorting nostrils bold Snuff at its faint extreme, and seem to tire, Dying to embers from their native fire! There curl'd a purple mist around them; soon, It seem'd as when around the pale new moon Sad Zephyr droops the clouds like weeping willow: 'Twas Sleep slow journeying with head on pillow. For the first time, since he came nigh dead born From the old womb of night, his cave forlorn Had he left more forlorn; for the first time, He felt aloof the day and morning's prime Because into his depth Cimmerian There came a dream, shewing how a young man, Ere a lean bat could plump its wintery skin, Would at high Jove's empyreal footstool win An immortality, and how espouse Jove's daughter, and be reckon'd of his house. Now was he slumbering towards heaven's gate, That he might at the threshold one hour wait To hear the marriage melodies, and then Sink downward to his dusky cave again. His litter of smooth semilucent mist, Diversely ting'd with rose and amethyst, Puzzled those eyes that for the centre sought; And scarcely for one moment could be caught His sluggish form reposing motionless. Those two on winged steeds, with all the stress Of vision search'd for him, as one would look Athwart the sallows of a river nook To catch a glance at silver throated eels, Or from old Skiddaw's top, when fog conceals His rugged forehead in a mantle pale, With an eye-guess towards some pleasant vale Descry a favourite hamlet faint and far. These raven horses, though they foster'd are Of earth's splenetic fire, dully drop Their full-veined ears, nostrils blood wide, and stop; Upon the spiritless mist have they outspread Their ample feathers, are in slumber dead, And on those pinions, level in mid air, Endymion sleepeth and the lady fair. Slowly they sail, slowly as icy isle Upon a calm sea drifting: and meanwhile The mournful wanderer dreams. Behold! he walks On heaven's pavement; brotherly he talks To divine powers: from his hand full fain Juno's proud birds are pecking pearly grain: He tries the nerve of Phoebus' golden bow, And asketh where the golden apples grow: Upon his arm he braces Pallas' shield, And strives in vain to unsettle and wield A Jovian thunderbolt: arch Hebe brings A full-brimm'd goblet, dances lightly, sings And tantalizes long; at last he drinks, And lost in pleasure at her feet he sinks, Touching with dazzled lips her starlight hand. He blows a bugle,an ethereal band Are visible above: the Seasons four, Green-kyrtled Spring, flush Summer, golden store In Autumn's sickle, Winter frosty hoar, Join dance with shadowy Hours; while still the blast, In swells unmitigated, still doth last To sway their floating morris. "Whose is this? Whose bugle?" he inquires: they smile"O Dis! Why is this mortal here? Dost thou not know Its mistress' lips? Not thou?'Tis Dian's: lo! She rises crescented!" He looks, 'tis she, His very goddess: good-bye earth, and sea, And air, and pains, and care, and suffering; Good-bye to all but love! Then doth he spring Towards her, and awakesand, strange, o'erhead, Of those same fragrant exhalations bred, Beheld awake his very dream: the gods Stood smiling; merry Hebe laughs and nods; And Phoebe bends towards him crescented. O state perplexing! On the pinion bed, Too well awake, he feels the panting side Of his delicious lady. He who died For soaring too audacious in the sun, Where that same treacherous wax began to run, Felt not more tongue-tied than Endymion. His heart leapt up as to its rightful throne, To that fair shadow'd passion puls'd its way Ah, what perplexity! Ah, well a day! So fond, so beauteous was his bed-fellow, He could not help but kiss her: then he grew Awhile forgetful of all beauty save Young Phoebe's, golden hair'd; and so 'gan crave Forgiveness: yet he turn'd once more to look At the sweet sleeper,all his soul was shook, She press'd his hand in slumber; so once more He could not help but kiss her and adore. At this the shadow wept, melting away. The Latmian started up: "Bright goddess, stay! Search my most hidden breast! By truth's own tongue, I have no ddale heart: why is it wrung To desperation? Is there nought for me, Upon the bourne of bliss, but misery?" These words awoke the stranger of dark tresses: Her dawning love-look rapt Endymion blesses With 'haviour soft. Sleep yawned from underneath. "Thou swan of Ganges, let us no more breathe This murky phantasm! thou contented seem'st Pillow'd in lovely idleness, nor dream'st What horrors may discomfort thee and me. Ah, shouldst thou die from my heart-treachery! Yet did she merely weepher gentle soul Hath no revenge in it: as it is whole In tenderness, would I were whole in love! Can I prize thee, fair maid, all price above, Even when I feel as true as innocence? I do, I do.What is this soul then? Whence Came it? It does not seem my own, and I Have no self-passion or identity. Some fearful end must be: where, where is it? By Nemesis, I see my spirit flit Alone about the darkForgive me, sweet: Shall we away?" He rous'd the steeds: they beat Their wings chivalrous into the clear air, Leaving old Sleep within his vapoury lair. The good-night blush of eve was waning slow, And Vesper, risen star, began to throe In the dusk heavens silvery, when they Thus sprang direct towards the Galaxy. Nor did speed hinder converse soft and strange Eternal oaths and vows they interchange, In such wise, in such temper, so aloof Up in the winds, beneath a starry roof, So witless of their doom, that verily 'Tis well nigh past man's search their hearts to see; Whether they wept, or laugh'd, or griev'd, or toy'd Most like with joy gone mad, with sorrow cloy'd. Full facing their swift flight, from ebon streak, The moon put forth a little diamond peak, No bigger than an unobserved star, Or tiny point of fairy scymetar; Bright signal that she only stoop'd to tie Her silver sandals, ere deliciously She bow'd into the heavens her timid head. Slowly she rose, as though she would have fled, While to his lady meek the Carian turn'd, To mark if her dark eyes had yet discern'd This beauty in its birthDespair! despair! He saw her body fading gaunt and spare In the cold moonshine. Straight he seiz'd her wrist; It melted from his grasp: her hand he kiss'd, And, horror! kiss'd his ownhe was alone. Her steed a little higher soar'd, and then Dropt hawkwise to the earth.    There lies a den, Beyond the seeming confines of the space Made for the soul to wander in and trace Its own existence, of remotest glooms. Dark regions are around it, where the tombs Of buried griefs the spirit sees, but scarce One hour doth linger weeping, for the pierce Of new-born woe it feels more inly smart: And in these regions many a venom'd dart At random flies; they are the proper home Of every ill: the man is yet to come Who hath not journeyed in this native hell. But few have ever felt how calm and well Sleep may be had in that deep den of all. There anguish does not sting; nor pleasure pall: Woe-hurricanes beat ever at the gate, Yet all is still within and desolate. Beset with painful gusts, within ye hear No sound so loud as when on curtain'd bier The death-watch tick is stifled. Enter none Who strive therefore: on the sudden it is won. Just when the sufferer begins to burn, Then it is free to him; and from an urn, Still fed by melting ice, he takes a draught Young Semele such richness never quaft In her maternal longing. Happy gloom! Dark Paradise! where pale becomes the bloom Of health by due; where silence dreariest Is most articulate; where hopes infest; Where those eyes are the brightest far that keep Their lids shut longest in a dreamless sleep. O happy spirit-home! O wondrous soul! Pregnant with such a den to save the whole In thine own depth. Hail, gentle Carian! For, never since thy griefs and woes began, Hast thou felt so content: a grievous feud Hath let thee to this Cave of Quietude. Aye, his lull'd soul was there, although upborne With dangerous speed: and so he did not mourn Because he knew not whither he was going. So happy was he, not the aerial blowing Of trumpets at clear parley from the east Could rouse from that fine relish, that high feast. They stung the feather'd horse: with fierce alarm He flapp'd towards the sound. Alas, no charm Could lift Endymion's head, or he had view'd A skyey mask, a pinion'd multitude, And silvery was its passing: voices sweet Warbling the while as if to lull and greet The wanderer in his path. Thus warbled they, While past the vision went in bright array. "Who, who from Dian's feast would be away? For all the golden bowers of the day Are empty left? Who, who away would be From Cynthia's wedding and festivity? Not Hesperus: lo! upon his silver wings He leans away for highest heaven and sings, Snapping his lucid fingers merrily! Ah, Zephyrus! art here, and Flora too! Ye tender bibbers of the rain and dew, Young playmates of the rose and daffodil, Be careful, ere ye enter in, to fill     Your baskets high With fennel green, and balm, and golden pines, Savory, latter-mint, and columbines, Cool parsley, basil sweet, and sunny thyme; Yea, every flower and leaf of every clime, All gather'd in the dewy morning: hie     Away! fly, fly! Crystalline brother of the belt of heaven, Aquarius! to whom king Jove has given Two liquid pulse streams 'stead of feather'd wings, Two fan-like fountains,thine illuminings     For Dian play: Dissolve the frozen purity of air; Let thy white shoulders silvery and bare Shew cold through watery pinions; make more bright The Star-Queen's crescent on her marriage night:     Haste, haste away! Castor has tamed the planet Lion, see! And of the Bear has Pollux mastery: A third is in the race! who is the third, Speeding away swift as the eagle bird?     The ramping Centaur! The Lion's mane's on end: the Bear how fierce! The Centaur's arrow ready seems to pierce Some enemy: far forth his bow is bent Into the blue of heaven. He'll be shent,     Pale unrelentor, When he shall hear the wedding lutes a playing. Andromeda! sweet woman! why delaying So timidly among the stars: come hither! Join this bright throng, and nimbly follow whither     They all are going. Danae's Son, before Jove newly bow'd, Has wept for thee, calling to Jove aloud. Thee, gentle lady, did he disenthral: Ye shall for ever live and love, for all     Thy tears are flowing. By Daphne's fright, behold Apollo!"                     More Endymion heard not: down his steed him bore, Prone to the green head of a misty hill. His first touch of the earth went nigh to kill. "Alas!" said he, "were I but always borne Through dangerous winds, had but my footsteps worn A path in hell, for ever would I bless Horrors which nourish an uneasiness For my own sullen conquering: to him Who lives beyond earth's boundary, grief is dim, Sorrow is but a shadow: now I see The grass; I feel the solid groundAh, me! It is thy voicedivinest! Where?who? who Left thee so quiet on this bed of dew? Behold upon this happy earth we are; Let us ay love each other; let us fare On forest-fruits, and never, never go Among the abodes of mortals here below, Or be by phantoms duped. O destiny! Into a labyrinth now my soul would fly, But with thy beauty will I deaden it. Where didst thou melt too? By thee will I sit For ever: let our fate stop herea kid I on this spot will offer: Pan will bid Us live in peace, in love and peace among His forest wildernesses. I have clung To nothing, lov'd a nothing, nothing seen Or felt but a great dream! O I have been Presumptuous against love, against the sky, Against all elements, against the tie Of mortals each to each, against the blooms Of flowers, rush of rivers, and the tombs Of heroes gone! Against his proper glory Has my own soul conspired: so my story Will I to children utter, and repent. There never liv'd a mortal man, who bent His appetite beyond his natural sphere, But starv'd and died. My sweetest Indian, here, Here will I kneel, for thou redeemed hast My life from too thin breathing: gone and past Are cloudy phantasms. Caverns lone, farewel! And air of visions, and the monstrous swell Of visionary seas! No, never more Shall airy voices cheat me to the shore Of tangled wonder, breathless and aghast. Adieu, my daintiest Dream! although so vast My love is still for thee. The hour may come When we shall meet in pure elysium. On earth I may not love thee; and therefore Doves will I offer up, and sweetest store All through the teeming year: so thou wilt shine On me, and on this damsel fair of mine, And bless our simple lives. My Indian bliss! My river-lily bud! one human kiss! One sigh of real breathone gentle squeeze, Warm as a dove's nest among summer trees, And warm with dew at ooze from living blood! Whither didst melt? Ah, what of that!all good We'll talk aboutno more of dreaming.Now, Where shall our dwelling be? Under the brow Of some steep mossy hill, where ivy dun Would hide us up, although spring leaves were none; And where dark yew trees, as we rustle through, Will drop their scarlet berry cups of dew? O thou wouldst joy to live in such a place; Dusk for our loves, yet light enough to grace Those gentle limbs on mossy bed reclin'd: For by one step the blue sky shouldst thou find, And by another, in deep dell below, See, through the trees, a little river go All in its mid-day gold and glimmering. Honey from out the gnarled hive I'll bring, And apples, wan with sweetness, gather thee, Cresses that grow where no man may them see, And sorrel untorn by the dew-claw'd stag: Pipes will I fashion of the syrinx flag, That thou mayst always know whither I roam, When it shall please thee in our quiet home To listen and think of love. Still let me speak; Still let me dive into the joy I seek, For yet the past doth prison me. The rill, Thou haply mayst delight in, will I fill With fairy fishes from the mountain tarn, And thou shalt feed them from the squirrel's barn. Its bottom will I strew with amber shells, And pebbles blue from deep enchanted wells. Its sides I'll plant with dew-sweet eglantine, And honeysuckles full of clear bee-wine. I will entice this crystal rill to trace Love's silver name upon the meadow's face. I'll kneel to Vesta, for a flame of fire; And to god Phoebus, for a golden lyre; To Empress Dian, for a hunting spear; To Vesper, for a taper silver-clear, That I may see thy beauty through the night; To Flora, and a nightingale shall light Tame on thy finger; to the River-gods, And they shall bring thee taper fishing-rods Of gold, and lines of Naiads' long bright tress. Heaven shield thee for thine utter loveliness! Thy mossy footstool shall the altar be 'Fore which I'll bend, bending, dear love, to thee: Those lips shall be my Delphos, and shall speak Laws to my footsteps, colour to my cheek, Trembling or stedfastness to this same voice, And of three sweetest pleasurings the choice: And that affectionate light, those diamond things, Those eyes, those passions, those supreme pearl springs, Shall be my grief, or twinkle me to pleasure. Say, is not bliss within our perfect seisure? O that I could not doubt?"                The mountaineer Thus strove by fancies vain and crude to clear His briar'd path to some tranquillity. It gave bright gladness to his lady's eye, And yet the tears she wept were tears of sorrow; Answering thus, just as the golden morrow Beam'd upward from the vallies of the east: "O that the flutter of this heart had ceas'd, Or the sweet name of love had pass'd away. Young feather'd tyrant! by a swift decay Wilt thou devote this body to the earth: And I do think that at my very birth I lisp'd thy blooming titles inwardly; For at the first, first dawn and thought of thee, With uplift hands I blest the stars of heaven. Art thou not cruel? Ever have I striven To think thee kind, but ah, it will not do! When yet a child, I heard that kisses drew Favour from thee, and so I kisses gave To the void air, bidding them find out love: But when I came to feel how far above All fancy, pride, and fickle maidenhood, All earthly pleasure, all imagin'd good, Was the warm tremble of a devout kiss, Even then, that moment, at the thought of this, Fainting I fell into a bed of flowers, And languish'd there three days. Ye milder powers, Am I not cruelly wrong'd? Believe, believe Me, dear Endymion, were I to weave With my own fancies garlands of sweet life, Thou shouldst be one of all. Ah, bitter strife! I may not be thy love: I am forbidden Indeed I amthwarted, affrighted, chidden, By things I trembled at, and gorgon wrath. Twice hast thou ask'd whither I went: henceforth Ask me no more! I may not utter it, Nor may I be thy love. We might commit Ourselves at once to vengeance; we might die; We might embrace and die: voluptuous thought! Enlarge not to my hunger, or I'm caught In trammels of perverse deliciousness. No, no, that shall not be: thee will I bless, And bid a long adieu."              The Carian No word return'd: both lovelorn, silent, wan, Into the vallies green together went. Far wandering, they were perforce content To sit beneath a fair lone beechen tree; Nor at each other gaz'd, but heavily Por'd on its hazle cirque of shedded leaves. Endymion! unhappy! it nigh grieves Me to behold thee thus in last extreme: Ensky'd ere this, but truly that I deem Truth the best music in a first-born song. Thy lute-voic'd brother will I sing ere long, And thou shalt aidhast thou not aided me? Yes, moonlight Emperor! felicity Has been thy meed for many thousand years; Yet often have I, on the brink of tears, Mourn'd as if yet thou wert a forester, Forgetting the old tale.               He did not stir His eyes from the dead leaves, or one small pulse Of joy he might have felt. The spirit culls Unfaded amaranth, when wild it strays Through the old garden-ground of boyish days. A little onward ran the very stream By which he took his first soft poppy dream; And on the very bark 'gainst which he leant A crescent he had carv'd, and round it spent His skill in little stars. The teeming tree Had swollen and green'd the pious charactery, But not ta'en out. Why, there was not a slope Up which he had not fear'd the antelope; And not a tree, beneath whose rooty shade He had not with his tamed leopards play'd. Nor could an arrow light, or javelin, Fly in the air where his had never been And yet he knew it not.              O treachery! Why does his lady smile, pleasing her eye With all his sorrowing? He sees her not. But who so stares on him? His sister sure! Peona of the woods!Can she endure Impossiblehow dearly they embrace! His lady smiles; delight is in her face; It is no treachery.            "Dear brother mine! Endymion, weep not so! Why shouldst thou pine When all great Latmos so exalt wilt be? Thank the great gods, and look not bitterly; And speak not one pale word, and sigh no more. Sure I will not believe thou hast such store Of grief, to last thee to my kiss again. Thou surely canst not bear a mind in pain, Come hand in hand with one so beautiful. Be happy both of you! for I will pull The flowers of autumn for your coronals. Pan's holy priest for young Endymion calls; And when he is restor'd, thou, fairest dame, Shalt be our queen. Now, is it not a shame To see ye thus,not very, very sad? Perhaps ye are too happy to be glad: O feel as if it were a common day; Free-voic'd as one who never was away. No tongue shall ask, whence come ye? but ye shall Be gods of your own rest imperial. Not even I, for one whole month, will pry Into the hours that have pass'd us by, Since in my arbour I did sing to thee. O Hermes! on this very night will be A hymning up to Cynthia, queen of light; For the soothsayers old saw yesternight Good visions in the air,whence will befal, As say these sages, health perpetual To shepherds and their flocks; and furthermore, In Dian's face they read the gentle lore: Therefore for her these vesper-carols are. Our friends will all be there from nigh and far. Many upon thy death have ditties made; And many, even now, their foreheads shade With cypress, on a day of sacrifice. New singing for our maids shalt thou devise, And pluck the sorrow from our huntsmen's brows. Tell me, my lady-queen, how to espouse This wayward brother to his rightful joys! His eyes are on thee bent, as thou didst poise His fate most goddess-like. Help me, I pray, To lureEndymion, dear brother, say What ails thee?" He could bear no more, and so Bent his soul fiercely like a spiritual bow, And twang'd it inwardly, and calmly said: "I would have thee my only friend, sweet maid! My only visitor! not ignorant though, That those deceptions which for pleasure go 'Mong men, are pleasures real as real may be: But there are higher ones I may not see, If impiously an earthly realm I take. Since I saw thee, I have been wide awake Night after night, and day by day, until Of the empyrean I have drunk my fill. Let it content thee, Sister, seeing me More happy than betides mortality. A hermit young, I'll live in mossy cave, Where thou alone shalt come to me, and lave Thy spirit in the wonders I shall tell. Through me the shepherd realm shall prosper well; For to thy tongue will I all health confide. And, for my sake, let this young maid abide With thee as a dear sister. Thou alone, Peona, mayst return to me. I own This may sound strangely: but when, dearest girl, Thou seest it for my happiness, no pearl Will trespass down those cheeks. Companion fair! Wilt be content to dwell with her, to share This sister's love with me?" Like one resign'd And bent by circumstance, and thereby blind In self-commitment, thus that meek unknown: "Aye, but a buzzing by my ears has flown, Of jubilee to Dian:truth I heard! Well then, I see there is no little bird, Tender soever, but is Jove's own care. Long have I sought for rest, and, unaware, Behold I find it! so exalted too! So after my own heart! I knew, I knew There was a place untenanted in it: In that same void white Chastity shall sit, And monitor me nightly to lone slumber. With sanest lips I vow me to the number Of Dian's sisterhood; and, kind lady, With thy good help, this very night shall see My future days to her fane consecrate." As feels a dreamer what doth most create His own particular fright, so these three felt: Or like one who, in after ages, knelt To Lucifer or Baal, when he'd pine After a little sleep: or when in mine Far under-ground, a sleeper meets his friends Who know him not. Each diligently bends Towards common thoughts and things for very fear; Striving their ghastly malady to cheer, By thinking it a thing of yes and no, That housewives talk of. But the spirit-blow Was struck, and all were dreamers. At the last Endymion said: "Are not our fates all cast? Why stand we here? Adieu, ye tender pair! Adieu!" Whereat those maidens, with wild stare, Walk'd dizzily away. Pained and hot His eyes went after them, until they got Near to a cypress grove, whose deadly maw, In one swift moment, would what then he saw Engulph for ever. "Stay!" he cried, "ah, stay! Turn, damsels! hist! one word I have to say. Sweet Indian, I would see thee once again. It is a thing I dote on: so I'd fain, Peona, ye should hand in hand repair Into those holy groves, that silent are Behind great Dian's temple. I'll be yon, At vesper's earliest twinklethey are gone But once, once, once again" At this he press'd His hands against his face, and then did rest His head upon a mossy hillock green, And so remain'd as he a corpse had been All the long day; save when he scantly lifted His eyes abroad, to see how shadows shifted With the slow move of time,sluggish and weary Until the poplar tops, in journey dreary, Had reach'd the river's brim. Then up he rose, And, slowly as that very river flows, Walk'd towards the temple grove with this lament: "Why such a golden eve? The breeze is sent Careful and soft, that not a leaf may fall Before the serene father of them all Bows down his summer head below the west. Now am I of breath, speech, and speed possest, But at the setting I must bid adieu To her for the last time. Night will strew On the damp grass myriads of lingering leaves, And with them shall I die; nor much it grieves To die, when summer dies on the cold sward. Why, I have been a butterfly, a lord Of flowers, garlands, love-knots, silly posies, Groves, meadows, melodies, and arbour roses; My kingdom's at its death, and just it is That I should die with it: so in all this We miscal grief, bale, sorrow, heartbreak, woe, What is there to plain of? By Titan's foe I am but rightly serv'd." So saying, he Tripp'd lightly on, in sort of deathful glee; Laughing at the clear stream and setting sun, As though they jests had been: nor had he done His laugh at nature's holy countenance, Until that grove appear'd, as if perchance, And then his tongue with sober seemlihed Gave utterance as he entered: "Ha!" I said, "King of the butterflies; but by this gloom, And by old Rhadamanthus' tongue of doom, This dusk religion, pomp of solitude, And the Promethean clay by thief endued, By old Saturnus' forelock, by his head Shook with eternal palsy, I did wed Myself to things of light from infancy; And thus to be cast out, thus lorn to die, Is sure enough to make a mortal man Grow impious." So he inwardly began On things for which no wording can be found; Deeper and deeper sinking, until drown'd Beyond the reach of music: for the choir Of Cynthia he heard not, though rough briar Nor muffling thicket interpos'd to dull The vesper hymn, far swollen, soft and full, Through the dark pillars of those sylvan aisles. He saw not the two maidens, nor their smiles, Wan as primroses gather'd at midnight By chilly finger'd spring. "Unhappy wight! Endymion!" said Peona, "we are here! What wouldst thou ere we all are laid on bier?" Then he embrac'd her, and his lady's hand Press'd, saying:" Sister, I would have command, If it were heaven's will, on our sad fate." At which that dark-eyed stranger stood elate And said, in a new voice, but sweet as love, To Endymion's amaze: "By Cupid's dove, And so thou shalt! and by the lily truth Of my own breast thou shalt, beloved youth!" And as she spake, into her face there came Light, as reflected from a silver flame: Her long black hair swell'd ampler, in display Full golden; in her eyes a brighter day Dawn'd blue and full of love. Aye, he beheld Phoebe, his passion! joyous she upheld Her lucid bow, continuing thus; "Drear, drear Has our delaying been; but foolish fear Withheld me first; and then decrees of fate; And then 'twas fit that from this mortal state Thou shouldst, my love, by some unlook'd for change Be spiritualiz'd. Peona, we shall range These forests, and to thee they safe shall be As was thy cradle; hither shalt thou flee To meet us many a time." Next Cynthia bright Peona kiss'd, and bless'd with fair good night: Her brother kiss'd her too, and knelt adown Before his goddess, in a blissful swoon. She gave her fair hands to him, and behold, Before three swiftest kisses he had told, They vanish'd far away!Peona went Home through the gloomy wood in wonderment. (line 2): This line originally began with 'O Mountain-born in the draft, where also 'while' stands cancelled in favour of 'by.' (line 158): Keats has been supposed to have invented the variant 'spry' for 'spray' for convenience of rhyming, just as Shelley has been accused of inventing for like reasons the word 'uprest', for example, in Laon And Cythna, Canto III, Stanza xxi. Sandys, the translator of Ovid, may not be a very good authority; but he is not improbably Keats's authority for 'spry', and will certainly do in default of a better. (line 273): The biblical dissyllabic form 'mayest' is clearly used by deliberate preference, for the line originally stood thus in the draft : And I have told thee all that thou canst hear. (line 298): Remember'd from its velvet summer song : The gentleness of summer wind seems to have been a cherished idea with Keats. Compare with Sleep And Poetry, line 1 -- 'What is more gentle than a wind in summer?' (line 585): This was originally a short line consisting of the words "Thine illuminings" alone. The whole stanza, ... was sent by Keats to his friend Baily for his "vote, pro or con," in a letter dated the 22nd of November 1817. (line 668): An imagination in which Hunt would have found it difficult to discover the reality; but probably Keats had never seen the miserable platform of dry twigs that serves for "a dove's nest among summer trees." (line 672): Endymion's imaginary home and employments as pictured in the next fifty lines may be compared with Shelley's AEgean island described so wonderfully in Epipsychidion. Both passages are thoroughly characteristic; and they show the divergence between the modes of thought and sentiment of the two men in a very marked way. (line 885-86): A curious importation from Hebrew theology into a subject from Greek mythology. Compare St. Matthew, X, 29: "Are not two sparrows sold for a farthing? and one of them shall not fall on the ground without your Father." Or, as made familiar to our childhood by the popular hymn-wright,--- 'A little sparrow cannot fall, Unnoticed, Lord, by Thee.' In the finished manuscript the word "kist" occurs twice instead of "kiss'd" as in the first edition; but "bless'd" is not similarly transformed to "blest." At the end of the draft Keats wrote "Burford Bridge Nov. 28, 1817--". The imprint of Endymion is as follows:-- T. Miller, Printer, Noble Street, Cheapside. by owner. provided at no charge for educational purposes ~ John Keats, Endymion - Book IV ,

129:O Sovereign power of love! O grief! O balm! All records, saving thine, come cool, and calm, And shadowy, through the mist of passed years: For others, good or bad, hatred and tears Have become indolent; but touching thine, One sigh doth echo, one poor sob doth pine, One kiss brings honey-dew from buried days. The woes of Troy, towers smothering o'er their blaze, Stiff-holden shields, far-piercing spears, keen blades, Struggling, and blood, and shrieks--all dimly fades Into some backward corner of the brain; Yet, in our very souls, we feel amain The close of Troilus and Cressid sweet. Hence, pageant history! hence, gilded cheat! Swart planet in the universe of deeds! Wide sea, that one continuous murmur breeds Along the pebbled shore of memory! Many old rotten-timber'd boats there be Upon thy vaporous bosom, magnified To goodly vessels; many a sail of pride, And golden keel'd, is left unlaunch'd and dry. But wherefore this? What care, though owl did fly About the great Athenian admiral's mast? What care, though striding Alexander past The Indus with his Macedonian numbers? Though old Ulysses tortured from his slumbers The glutted Cyclops, what care?--Juliet leaning Amid her window-flowers,--sighing,weaning Tenderly her fancy from its maiden snow, Doth more avail than these: the silver flow Of Hero's tears, the swoon of Imogen, Fair Pastorella in the bandit's den, Are things to brood on with more ardency Than the death-day of empires. Fearfully Must such conviction come upon his head, Who, thus far, discontent, has dared to tread, Without one muse's smile, or kind behest, The path of love and poesy. But rest, In chaffing restlessness, is yet more drear Than to be crush'd, in striving to uprear Love's standard on the battlements of song. So once more days and nights aid me along, Like legion'd soldiers.             Brain-sick shepherd-prince, What promise hast thou faithful guarded since The day of sacrifice? Or, have new sorrows Come with the constant dawn upon thy morrows? Alas! 'tis his old grief. For many days, Has he been wandering in uncertain ways: Through wilderness, and woods of mossed oaks; Counting his woe-worn minutes, by the strokes Of the lone woodcutter; and listening still, Hour after hour, to each lush-leav'd rill. Now he is sitting by a shady spring, And elbow-deep with feverous fingering Stems the upbursting cold: a wild rose tree Pavilions him in bloom, and he doth see A bud which snares his fancy: lo! but now He plucks it, dips its stalk in the water: how! It swells, it buds, it flowers beneath his sight; And, in the middle, there is softly pight A golden butterfly; upon whose wings There must be surely character'd strange things, For with wide eye he wonders, and smiles oft. Lightly this little herald flew aloft, Follow'd by glad Endymion's clasped hands: Onward it flies. From languor's sullen bands His limbs are loos'd, and eager, on he hies Dazzled to trace it in the sunny skies. It seem'd he flew, the way so easy was; And like a new-born spirit did he pass Through the green evening quiet in the sun, O'er many a heath, through many a woodland dun, Through buried paths, where sleepy twilight dreams The summer time away. One track unseams A wooded cleft, and, far away, the blue Of ocean fades upon him; then, anew, He sinks adown a solitary glen, Where there was never sound of mortal men, Saving, perhaps, some snow-light cadences Melting to silence, when upon the breeze Some holy bark let forth an anthem sweet, To cheer itself to Delphi. Still his feet Went swift beneath the merry-winged guide, Until it reached a splashing fountain's side That, near a cavern's mouth, for ever pour'd Unto the temperate air: then high it soar'd, And, downward, suddenly began to dip, As if, athirst with so much toil, 'twould sip The crystal spout-head: so it did, with touch Most delicate, as though afraid to smutch Even with mealy gold the waters clear. But, at that very touch, to disappear So fairy-quick, was strange! Bewildered, Endymion sought around, and shook each bed Of covert flowers in vain; and then he flung Himself along the grass. What gentle tongue, What whisperer disturb'd his gloomy rest? It was a nymph uprisen to the breast In the fountain's pebbly margin, and she stood 'Mong lilies, like the youngest of the brood. To him her dripping hand she softly kist, And anxiously began to plait and twist Her ringlets round her fingers, saying: "Youth! Too long, alas, hast thou starv'd on the ruth, The bitterness of love: too long indeed, Seeing thou art so gentle. Could I weed Thy soul of care, by heavens, I would offer All the bright riches of my crystal coffer To Amphitrite; all my clear-eyed fish, Golden, or rainbow-sided, or purplish, Vermilion-tail'd, or finn'd with silvery gauze; Yea, or my veined pebble-floor, that draws A virgin light to the deep; my grotto-sands Tawny and gold, ooz'd slowly from far lands By my diligent springs; my level lilies, shells, My charming rod, my potent river spells; Yes, every thing, even to the pearly cup Meander gave me,for I bubbled up To fainting creatures in a desert wild. But woe is me, I am but as a child To gladden thee; and all I dare to say, Is, that I pity thee; that on this day I've been thy guide; that thou must wander far In other regions, past the scanty bar To mortal steps, before thou cans't be ta'en From every wasting sigh, from every pain, Into the gentle bosom of thy love. Why it is thus, one knows in heaven above: But, a poor Naiad, I guess not. Farewel! I have a ditty for my hollow cell." Hereat, she vanished from Endymion's gaze, Who brooded o'er the water in amaze: The dashing fount pour'd on, and where its pool Lay, half asleep, in grass and rushes cool, Quick waterflies and gnats were sporting still, And fish were dimpling, as if good nor ill Had fallen out that hour. The wanderer, Holding his forehead, to keep off the burr Of smothering fancies, patiently sat down; And, while beneath the evening's sleepy frown Glow-worms began to trim their starry lamps, Thus breath'd he to himself: "Whoso encamps To take a fancied city of delight, O what a wretch is he! and when 'tis his, After long toil and travelling, to miss The kernel of his hopes, how more than vile: Yet, for him there's refreshment even in toil; Another city doth he set about, Free from the smallest pebble-bead of doubt That he will seize on trickling honey-combs: Alas, he finds them dry; and then he foams, And onward to another city speeds. But this is human life: the war, the deeds, The disappointment, the anxiety, Imagination's struggles, far and nigh, All human; bearing in themselves this good, That they are sill the air, the subtle food, To make us feel existence, and to shew How quiet death is. Where soil is men grow, Whether to weeds or flowers; but for me, There is no depth to strike in: I can see Nought earthly worth my compassing; so stand Upon a misty, jutting head of land Alone? No, no; and by the Orphean lute, When mad Eurydice is listening to 't; I'd rather stand upon this misty peak, With not a thing to sigh for, or to seek, But the soft shadow of my thrice-seen love, Than beI care not what. O meekest dove Of heaven! O Cynthia, ten-times bright and fair! From thy blue throne, now filling all the air, Glance but one little beam of temper'd light Into my bosom, that the dreadful might And tyranny of love be somewhat scar'd! Yet do not so, sweet queen; one torment spar'd, Would give a pang to jealous misery, Worse than the torment's self: but rather tie Large wings upon my shoulders, and point out My love's far dwelling. Though the playful rout Of Cupids shun thee, too divine art thou, Too keen in beauty, for thy silver prow Not to have dipp'd in love's most gentle stream. O be propitious, nor severely deem My madness impious; for, by all the stars That tend thy bidding, I do think the bars That kept my spirit in are burstthat I Am sailing with thee through the dizzy sky! How beautiful thou art! The world how deep! How tremulous-dazzlingly the wheels sweep Around their axle! Then these gleaming reins, How lithe! When this thy chariot attains Is airy goal, haply some bower veils Those twilight eyes? Those eyes!my spirit fails Dear goddess, help! or the wide-gaping air Will gulph mehelp!"At this with madden'd stare, And lifted hands, and trembling lips he stood; Like old Deucalion mountain'd o'er the flood, Or blind Orion hungry for the morn. And, but from the deep cavern there was borne A voice, he had been froze to senseless stone; Nor sigh of his, nor plaint, nor passion'd moan Had more been heard. Thus swell'd it forth: "Descend, Young mountaineer! descend where alleys bend Into the sparry hollows of the world! Oft hast thou seen bolts of the thunder hurl'd As from thy threshold, day by day hast been A little lower than the chilly sheen Of icy pinnacles, and dipp'dst thine arms Into the deadening ether that still charms Their marble being: now, as deep profound As those are high, descend! He ne'er is crown'd With immortality, who fears to follow Where airy voices lead: so through the hollow, The silent mysteries of earth, descend!" He heard but the last words, nor could contend One moment in reflection: for he fled Into the fearful deep, to hide his head From the clear moon, the trees, and coming madness. 'Twas far too strange, and wonderful for sadness; Sharpening, by degrees, his appetite To dive into the deepest. Dark, nor light, The region; nor bright, nor sombre wholly, But mingled up; a gleaming melancholy; A dusky empire and its diadems; One faint eternal eventide of gems. Aye, millions sparkled on a vein of gold, Along whose track the prince quick footsteps told, With all its lines abrupt and angular: Out-shooting sometimes, like a meteor-star, Through a vast antre; then the metal woof, Like Vulcan's rainbow, with some monstrous roof Curves hugely: now, far in the deep abyss, It seems an angry lightning, and doth hiss Fancy into belief: anon it leads Through winding passages, where sameness breeds Vexing conceptions of some sudden change; Whether to silver grots, or giant range Of sapphire columns, or fantastic bridge Athwart a flood of crystal. On a ridge Now fareth he, that o'er the vast beneath Towers like an ocean-cliff, and whence he seeth A hundred waterfalls, whose voices come But as the murmuring surge. Chilly and numb His bosom grew, when first he, far away, Descried an orbed diamond, set to fray Old darkness from his throne: 'twas like the sun Uprisen o'er chaos: and with such a stun Came the amazement, that, absorb'd in it, He saw not fiercer wonderspast the wit Of any spirit to tell, but one of those Who, when this planet's sphering time doth close, Will be its high remembrancers: who they? The mighty ones who have made eternal day For Greece and England. While astonishment With deep-drawn sighs was quieting, he went Into a marble gallery, passing through A mimic temple, so complete and true In sacred custom, that he well nigh fear'd To search it inwards, whence far off appear'd, Through a long pillar'd vista, a fair shrine, And, just beyond, on light tiptoe divine, A quiver'd Dian. Stepping awfully, The youth approach'd; oft turning his veil'd eye Down sidelong aisles, and into niches old. And when, more near against the marble cold He had touch'd his forehead, he began to thread All courts and passages, where silence dead Rous'd by his whispering footsteps murmured faint: And long he travers'd to and fro, to acquaint Himself with every mystery, and awe; Till, weary, he sat down before the maw Of a wide outlet, fathomless and dim To wild uncertainty and shadows grim. There, when new wonders ceas'd to float before, And thoughts of self came on, how crude and sore The journey homeward to habitual self! A mad-pursuing of the fog-born elf, Whose flitting lantern, through rude nettle-briar, Cheats us into a swamp, into a fire, Into the bosom of a hated thing. What misery most drowningly doth sing In lone Endymion's ear, now he has caught The goal of consciousness? Ah, 'tis the thought, The deadly feel of solitude: for lo! He cannot see the heavens, nor the flow Of rivers, nor hill-flowers running wild In pink and purple chequer, nor, up-pil'd, The cloudy rack slow journeying in the west, Like herded elephants; nor felt, nor prest Cool grass, nor tasted the fresh slumberous air; But far from such companionship to wear An unknown time, surcharg'd with grief, away, Was now his lot. And must he patient stay, Tracing fantastic figures with his spear? "No!" exclaimed he, "why should I tarry here?" No! loudly echoed times innumerable. At which he straightway started, and 'gan tell His paces back into the temple's chief; Warming and glowing strong in the belief Of help from Dian: so that when again He caught her airy form, thus did he plain, Moving more near the while. "O Haunter chaste Of river sides, and woods, and heathy waste, Where with thy silver bow and arrows keen Art thou now forested? O woodland Queen, What smoothest air thy smoother forehead woos? Where dost thou listen to the wide halloos Of thy disparted nymphs? Through what dark tree Glimmers thy crescent? Wheresoe'er it be, 'Tis in the breath of heaven: thou dost taste Freedom as none can taste it, nor dost waste Thy loveliness in dismal elements; But, finding in our green earth sweet contents, There livest blissfully. Ah, if to thee It feels Elysian, how rich to me, An exil'd mortal, sounds its pleasant name! Within my breast there lives a choking flame O let me cool it among the zephyr-boughs! A homeward fever parches up my tongue O let me slake it at the running springs! Upon my ear a noisy nothing rings O let me once more hear the linnet's note! Before mine eyes thick films and shadows float O let me 'noint them with the heaven's light! Dost thou now lave thy feet and ankles white? O think how sweet to me the freshening sluice! Dost thou now please thy thirst with berry-juice? O think how this dry palate would rejoice! If in soft slumber thou dost hear my voice, Oh think how I should love a bed of flowers! Young goddess! let me see my native bowers! Deliver me from this rapacious deep!" Thus ending loudly, as he would o'erleap His destiny, alert he stood: but when Obstinate silence came heavily again, Feeling about for its old couch of space And airy cradle, lowly bow'd his face Desponding, o'er the marble floor's cold thrill. But 'twas not long; for, sweeter than the rill To its old channel, or a swollen tide To margin sallows, were the leaves he spied, And flowers, and wreaths, and ready myrtle crowns Up heaping through the slab: refreshment drowns Itself, and strives its own delights to hide Nor in one spot alone; the floral pride In a long whispering birth enchanted grew Before his footsteps; as when heav'd anew Old ocean rolls a lengthened wave to the shore, Down whose green back the short-liv'd foam, all hoar, Bursts gradual, with a wayward indolence. Increasing still in heart, and pleasant sense, Upon his fairy journey on he hastes; So anxious for the end, he scarcely wastes One moment with his hand among the sweets: Onward he goeshe stopshis bosom beats As plainly in his ear, as the faint charm Of which the throbs were born. This still alarm, This sleepy music, forc'd him walk tiptoe: For it came more softly than the east could blow Arion's magic to the Atlantic isles; Or than the west, made jealous by the smiles Of thron'd Apollo, could breathe back the lyre To seas Ionian and Tyrian. O did he ever live, that lonely man, Who lov'dand music slew not? 'Tis the pest Of love, that fairest joys give most unrest; That things of delicate and tenderest worth Are swallow'd all, and made a seared dearth, By one consuming flame: it doth immerse And suffocate true blessings in a curse. Half-happy, by comparison of bliss, Is miserable. 'Twas even so with this Dew-dropping melody, in the Carian's ear; First heaven, then hell, and then forgotten clear, Vanish'd in elemental passion. And down some swart abysm he had gone, Had not a heavenly guide benignant led To where thick myrtle branches, 'gainst his head Brushing, awakened: then the sounds again Went noiseless as a passing noontide rain Over a bower, where little space he stood; For as the sunset peeps into a wood So saw he panting light, and towards it went Through winding alleys; and lo, wonderment! Upon soft verdure saw, one here, one there, Cupids a slumbering on their pinions fair. After a thousand mazes overgone, At last, with sudden step, he came upon A chamber, myrtle wall'd, embowered high, Full of light, incense, tender minstrelsy, And more of beautiful and strange beside: For on a silken couch of rosy pride, In midst of all, there lay a sleeping youth Of fondest beauty; fonder, in fair sooth, Than sighs could fathom, or contentment reach: And coverlids gold-tinted like the peach, Or ripe October's faded marigolds, Fell sleek about him in a thousand folds Not hiding up an Apollonian curve Of neck and shoulder, nor the tenting swerve Of knee from knee, nor ankles pointing light; But rather, giving them to the filled sight Officiously. Sideway his face repos'd On one white arm, and tenderly unclos'd, By tenderest pressure, a faint damask mouth To slumbery pout; just as the morning south Disparts a dew-lipp'd rose. Above his head, Four lily stalks did their white honours wed To make a coronal; and round him grew All tendrils green, of every bloom and hue, Together intertwin'd and trammel'd fresh: The vine of glossy sprout; the ivy mesh, Shading its Ethiop berries; and woodbine, Of velvet leaves and bugle-blooms divine; Convolvulus in streaked vases flush; The creeper, mellowing for an autumn blush; And virgin's bower, trailing airily; With others of the sisterhood. Hard by, Stood serene Cupids watching silently. One, kneeling to a lyre, touch'd the strings, Muffling to death the pathos with his wings; And, ever and anon, uprose to look At the youth's slumber; while another took A willow-bough, distilling odorous dew, And shook it on his hair; another flew In through the woven roof, and fluttering-wise Rain'd violets upon his sleeping eyes. At these enchantments, and yet many more, The breathless Latmian wonder'd o'er and o'er; Until, impatient in embarrassment, He forthright pass'd, and lightly treading went To that same feather'd lyrist, who straightway, Smiling, thus whisper'd: "Though from upper day Thou art a wanderer, and thy presence here Might seem unholy, be of happy cheer! For 'tis the nicest touch of human honour, When some ethereal and high-favouring donor Presents immortal bowers to mortal sense; As now 'tis done to thee, Endymion. Hence Was I in no wise startled. So recline Upon these living flowers. Here is wine, Alive with sparklesnever, I aver, Since Ariadne was a vintager, So cool a purple: taste these juicy pears, Sent me by sad Vertumnus, when his fears Were high about Pomona: here is cream, Deepening to richness from a snowy gleam; Sweeter than that nurse Amalthea skimm'd For the boy Jupiter: and here, undimm'd By any touch, a bunch of blooming plums Ready to melt between an infant's gums: And here is manna pick'd from Syrian trees, In starlight, by the three Hesperides. Feast on, and meanwhile I will let thee know Of all these things around us." He did so, Still brooding o'er the cadence of his lyre; And thus: "I need not any hearing tire By telling how the sea-born goddess pin'd For a mortal youth, and how she strove to bind Him all in all unto her doting self. Who would not be so prison'd? but, fond elf, He was content to let her amorous plea Faint through his careless arms; content to see An unseiz'd heaven dying at his feet; Content, O fool! to make a cold retreat, When on the pleasant grass such love, lovelorn, Lay sorrowing; when every tear was born Of diverse passion; when her lips and eyes Were clos'd in sullen moisture, and quick sighs Came vex'd and pettish through her nostrils small. Hush! no exclaimyet, justly mightst thou call Curses upon his head.I was half glad, But my poor mistress went distract and mad, When the boar tusk'd him: so away she flew To Jove's high throne, and by her plainings drew Immortal tear-drops down the thunderer's beard; Whereon, it was decreed he should be rear'd Each summer time to life. Lo! this is he, That same Adonis, safe in the privacy Of this still region all his winter-sleep. Aye, sleep; for when our love-sick queen did weep Over his waned corse, the tremulous shower Heal'd up the wound, and, with a balmy power, Medicined death to a lengthened drowsiness: The which she fills with visions, and doth dress In all this quiet luxury; and hath set Us young immortals, without any let, To watch his slumber through. 'Tis well nigh pass'd, Even to a moment's filling up, and fast She scuds with summer breezes, to pant through The first long kiss, warm firstling, to renew Embower'd sports in Cytherea's isle. Look! how those winged listeners all this while Stand anxious: see! behold!"This clamant word Broke through the careful silence; for they heard A rustling noise of leaves, and out there flutter'd Pigeons and doves: Adonis something mutter'd, The while one hand, that erst upon his thigh Lay dormant, mov'd convuls'd and gradually Up to his forehead. Then there was a hum Of sudden voices, echoing, "Come! come! Arise! awake! Clear summer has forth walk'd Unto the clover-sward, and she has talk'd Full soothingly to every nested finch: Rise, Cupids! or we'll give the blue-bell pinch To your dimpled arms. Once more sweet life begin!" At this, from every side they hurried in, Rubbing their sleepy eyes with lazy wrists, And doubling overhead their little fists In backward yawns. But all were soon alive: For as delicious wine doth, sparkling, dive In nectar'd clouds and curls through water fair, So from the arbour roof down swell'd an air Odorous and enlivening; making all To laugh, and play, and sing, and loudly call For their sweet queen: when lo! the wreathed green Disparted, and far upward could be seen Blue heaven, and a silver car, air-borne, Whose silent wheels, fresh wet from clouds of morn, Spun off a drizzling dew,which falling chill On soft Adonis' shoulders, made him still Nestle and turn uneasily about. Soon were the white doves plain, with necks stretch'd out, And silken traces lighten'd in descent; And soon, returning from love's banishment, Queen Venus leaning downward open arm'd: Her shadow fell upon his breast, and charm'd A tumult to his heart, and a new life Into his eyes. Ah, miserable strife, But for her comforting! unhappy sight, But meeting her blue orbs! Who, who can write Of these first minutes? The unchariest muse To embracements warm as theirs makes coy excuse. O it has ruffled every spirit there, Saving love's self, who stands superb to share The general gladness: awfully he stands; A sovereign quell is in his waving hands; No sight can bear the lightning of his bow; His quiver is mysterious, none can know What themselves think of it; from forth his eyes There darts strange light of varied hues and dyes: A scowl is sometimes on his brow, but who Look full upon it feel anon the blue Of his fair eyes run liquid through their souls. Endymion feels it, and no more controls The burning prayer within him; so, bent low, He had begun a plaining of his woe. But Venus, bending forward, said: "My child, Favour this gentle youth; his days are wild With lovehebut alas! too well I see Thou know'st the deepness of his misery. Ah, smile not so, my son: I tell thee true, That when through heavy hours I used to rue The endless sleep of this new-born Adon', This stranger ay I pitied. For upon A dreary morning once I fled away Into the breezy clouds, to weep and pray For this my love: for vexing Mars had teaz'd Me even to tears: thence, when a little eas'd, Down-looking, vacant, through a hazy wood, I saw this youth as he despairing stood: Those same dark curls blown vagrant in the wind: Those same full fringed lids a constant blind Over his sullen eyes: I saw him throw Himself on wither'd leaves, even as though Death had come sudden; for no jot he mov'd, Yet mutter'd wildly. I could hear he lov'd Some fair immortal, and that his embrace Had zoned her through the night. There is no trace Of this in heaven: I have mark'd each cheek, And find it is the vainest thing to seek; And that of all things 'tis kept secretest. Endymion! one day thou wilt be blest: So still obey the guiding hand that fends Thee safely through these wonders for sweet ends. 'Tis a concealment needful in extreme; And if I guess'd not so, the sunny beam Thou shouldst mount up to with me. Now adieu! Here must we leave thee."At these words up flew The impatient doves, up rose the floating car, Up went the hum celestial. High afar The Latmian saw them minish into nought; And, when all were clear vanish'd, still he caught A vivid lightning from that dreadful bow. When all was darkened, with Etnean throe The earth clos'dgave a solitary moan And left him once again in twilight lone. He did not rave, he did not stare aghast, For all those visions were o'ergone, and past, And he in loneliness: he felt assur'd Of happy times, when all he had endur'd Would seem a feather to the mighty prize. So, with unusual gladness, on he hies Through caves, and palaces of mottled ore, Gold dome, and crystal wall, and turquois floor, Black polish'd porticos of awful shade, And, at the last, a diamond balustrade, Leading afar past wild magnificence, Spiral through ruggedest loopholes, and thence Stretching across a void, then guiding o'er Enormous chasms, where, all foam and roar, Streams subterranean tease their granite beds; Then heighten'd just above the silvery heads Of a thousand fountains, so that he could dash The waters with his spear; but at the splash, Done heedlessly, those spouting columns rose Sudden a poplar's height, and 'gan to enclose His diamond path with fretwork, streaming round Alive, and dazzling cool, and with a sound, Haply, like dolphin tumults, when sweet shells Welcome the float of Thetis. Long he dwells On this delight; for, every minute's space, The streams with changed magic interlace: Sometimes like delicatest lattices, Cover'd with crystal vines; then weeping trees, Moving about as in a gentle wind, Which, in a wink, to watery gauze refin'd, Pour'd into shapes of curtain'd canopies, Spangled, and rich with liquid broideries Of flowers, peacocks, swans, and naiads fair. Swifter than lightning went these wonders rare; And then the water, into stubborn streams Collecting, mimick'd the wrought oaken beams, Pillars, and frieze, and high fantastic roof, Of those dusk places in times far aloof Cathedrals call'd. He bade a loth farewel To these founts Protean, passing gulph, and dell, And torrent, and ten thousand jutting shapes, Half seen through deepest gloom, and griesly gapes, Blackening on every side, and overhead A vaulted dome like Heaven's, far bespread With starlight gems: aye, all so huge and strange, The solitary felt a hurried change Working within him into something dreary, Vex'd like a morning eagle, lost, and weary, And purblind amid foggy, midnight wolds. But he revives at once: for who beholds New sudden things, nor casts his mental slough? Forth from a rugged arch, in the dusk below, Came mother Cybele! alonealone In sombre chariot; dark foldings thrown About her majesty, and front death-pale, With turrets crown'd. Four maned lions hale The sluggish wheels; solemn their toothed maws, Their surly eyes brow-hidden, heavy paws Uplifted drowsily, and nervy tails Cowering their tawny brushes. Silent sails This shadowy queen athwart, and faints away In another gloomy arch.              Wherefore delay, Young traveller, in such a mournful place? Art thou wayworn, or canst not further trace The diamond path? And does it indeed end Abrupt in middle air? Yet earthward bend Thy forehead, and to Jupiter cloud-borne Call ardently! He was indeed wayworn; Abrupt, in middle air, his way was lost; To cloud-borne Jove he bowed, and there crost Towards him a large eagle, 'twixt whose wings, Without one impious word, himself he flings, Committed to the darkness and the gloom: Down, down, uncertain to what pleasant doom, Swift as a fathoming plummet down he fell Through unknown things; till exhaled asphodel, And rose, with spicy fannings interbreath'd, Came swelling forth where little caves were wreath'd So thick with leaves and mosses, that they seem'd Large honey-combs of green, and freshly teem'd With airs delicious. In the greenest nook The eagle landed him, and farewel took. It was a jasmine bower, all bestrown With golden moss. His every sense had grown Ethereal for pleasure; 'bove his head Flew a delight half-graspable; his tread Was Hesperan; to his capable ears Silence was music from the holy spheres; A dewy luxury was in his eyes; The little flowers felt his pleasant sighs And stirr'd them faintly. Verdant cave and cell He wander'd through, oft wondering at such swell Of sudden exaltation: but, "Alas! Said he, "will all this gush of feeling pass Away in solitude? And must they wane, Like melodies upon a sandy plain, Without an echo? Then shall I be left So sad, so melancholy, so bereft! Yet still I feel immortal! O my love, My breath of life, where art thou? High above, Dancing before the morning gates of heaven? Or keeping watch among those starry seven, Old Atlas' children? Art a maid of the waters, One of shell-winding Triton's bright-hair'd daughters? Or art, impossible! a nymph of Dian's, Weaving a coronal of tender scions For very idleness? Where'er thou art, Methinks it now is at my will to start Into thine arms; to scare Aurora's train, And snatch thee from the morning; o'er the main To scud like a wild bird, and take thee off From thy sea-foamy cradle; or to doff Thy shepherd vest, and woo thee mid fresh leaves. No, no, too eagerly my soul deceives Its powerless self: I know this cannot be. O let me then by some sweet dreaming flee To her entrancements: hither sleep awhile! Hither most gentle sleep! and soothing foil For some few hours the coming solitude." Thus spake he, and that moment felt endued With power to dream deliciously; so wound Through a dim passage, searching till he found The smoothest mossy bed and deepest, where He threw himself, and just into the air Stretching his indolent arms, he took, O bliss! A naked waist: "Fair Cupid, whence is this?" A well-known voice sigh'd, "Sweetest, here am I!" At which soft ravishment, with doating cry They trembled to each other.Helicon! O fountain'd hill! Old Homer's Helicon! That thou wouldst spout a little streamlet o'er These sorry pages; then the verse would soar And sing above this gentle pair, like lark Over his nested young: but all is dark Around thine aged top, and thy clear fount Exhales in mists to heaven. Aye, the count Of mighty Poets is made up; the scroll Is folded by the Muses; the bright roll Is in Apollo's hand: our dazed eyes Have seen a new tinge in the western skies: The world has done its duty. Yet, oh yet, Although the sun of poesy is set, These lovers did embrace, and we must weep That there is no old power left to steep A quill immortal in their joyous tears. Long time in silence did their anxious fears Question that thus it was; long time they lay Fondling and kissing every doubt away; Long time ere soft caressing sobs began To mellow into words, and then there ran Two bubbling springs of talk from their sweet lips. "O known Unknown! from whom my being sips Such darling essence, wherefore may I not Be ever in these arms? in this sweet spot Pillow my chin for ever? ever press These toying hands and kiss their smooth excess? Why not for ever and for ever feel That breath about my eyes? Ah, thou wilt steal Away from me again, indeed, indeed Thou wilt be gone away, and wilt not heed My lonely madness. Speak, my kindest fair! Isis it to be so? No! Who will dare To pluck thee from me? And, of thine own will, Full well I feel thou wouldst not leave me. Still Let me entwine thee surer, surernow How can we part? Elysium! who art thou? Who, that thou canst not be for ever here, Or lift me with thee to some starry sphere? Enchantress! tell me by this soft embrace, By the most soft completion of thy face, Those lips, O slippery blisses, twinkling eyes, And by these tenderest, milky sovereignties These tenderest, and by the nectar-wine, The passion""O lov'd Ida the divine! Endymion! dearest! Ah, unhappy me! His soul will 'scape usO felicity! How he does love me! His poor temples beat To the very tune of lovehow sweet, sweet, sweet. Revive, dear youth, or I shall faint and die; Revive, or these soft hours will hurry by In tranced dulness; speak, and let that spell Affright this lethargy! I cannot quell Its heavy pressure, and will press at least My lips to thine, that they may richly feast Until we taste the life of love again. What! dost thou move? dost kiss? O bliss! O pain! I love thee, youth, more than I can conceive; And so long absence from thee doth bereave My soul of any rest: yet must I hence: Yet, can I not to starry eminence Uplift thee; nor for very shame can own Myself to thee. Ah, dearest, do not groan Or thou wilt force me from this secrecy, And I must blush in heaven. O that I Had done it already; that the dreadful smiles At my lost brightness, my impassion'd wiles, Had waned from Olympus' solemn height, And from all serious Gods; that our delight Was quite forgotten, save of us alone! And wherefore so ashamed? 'Tis but to atone For endless pleasure, by some coward blushes: Yet must I be a coward!Horror rushes Too palpable before methe sad look Of JoveMinerva's startno bosom shook With awe of purityno Cupid pinion In reverence veiledmy crystaline dominion Half lost, and all old hymns made nullity! But what is this to love? O I could fly With thee into the ken of heavenly powers, So thou wouldst thus, for many sequent hours, Press me so sweetly. Now I swear at once That I am wise, that Pallas is a dunce Perhaps her love like mine is but unknown O I do think that I have been alone In chastity: yes, Pallas has been sighing, While every eve saw me my hair uptying With fingers cool as aspen leaves. Sweet love, I was as vague as solitary dove, Nor knew that nests were built. Now a soft kiss Aye, by that kiss, I vow an endless bliss, An immortality of passion's thine: Ere long I will exalt thee to the shine Of heaven ambrosial; and we will shade Ourselves whole summers by a river glade; And I will tell thee stories of the sky, And breathe thee whispers of its minstrelsy. My happy love will overwing all bounds! O let me melt into thee; let the sounds Of our close voices marry at their birth; Let us entwine hoveringlyO dearth Of human words! roughness of mortal speech! Lispings empyrean will I sometime teach Thine honied tonguelute-breathings, which I gasp To have thee understand, now while I clasp Thee thus, and weep for fondnessI am pain'd, Endymion: woe! woe! is grief contain'd In the very deeps of pleasure, my sole life?" Hereat, with many sobs, her gentle strife Melted into a languor. He return'd Entranced vows and tears.              Ye who have yearn'd With too much passion, will here stay and pity, For the mere sake of truth; as 'tis a ditty Not of these days, but long ago 'twas told By a cavern wind unto a forest old; And then the forest told it in a dream To a sleeping lake, whose cool and level gleam A poet caught as he was journeying To Phoebus' shrine; and in it he did fling His weary limbs, bathing an hour's space, And after, straight in that inspired place He sang the story up into the air, Giving it universal freedom. There Has it been ever sounding for those ears Whose tips are glowing hot. The legend cheers Yon centinel stars; and he who listens to it Must surely be self-doomed or he will rue it: For quenchless burnings come upon the heart, Made fiercer by a fear lest any part Should be engulphed in the eddying wind. As much as here is penn'd doth always find A resting place, thus much comes clear and plain; Anon the strange voice is upon the wane And 'tis but echo'd from departing sound, That the fair visitant at last unwound Her gentle limbs, and left the youth asleep. Thus the tradition of the gusty deep. Now turn we to our former chroniclers. Endymion awoke, that grief of hers Sweet paining on his ear: he sickly guess'd How lone he was once more, and sadly press'd His empty arms together, hung his head, And most forlorn upon that widow'd bed Sat silently. Love's madness he had known: Often with more than tortured lion's groan Moanings had burst from him; but now that rage Had pass'd away: no longer did he wage A rough-voic'd war against the dooming stars. No, he had felt too much for such harsh jars: The lyre of his soul Eolian tun'd Forgot all violence, and but commun'd With melancholy thought: O he had swoon'd Drunken from pleasure's nipple; and his love Henceforth was dove-like.Loth was he to move From the imprinted couch, and when he did, 'Twas with slow, languid paces, and face hid In muffling hands. So temper'd, out he stray'd Half seeing visions that might have dismay'd Alecto's serpents; ravishments more keen Than Hermes' pipe, when anxious he did lean Over eclipsing eyes: and at the last It was a sounding grotto, vaulted, vast, O'er studded with a thousand, thousand pearls, And crimson mouthed shells with stubborn curls, Of every shape and size, even to the bulk In which whales arbour close, to brood and sulk Against an endless storm. Moreover too, Fish-semblances, of green and azure hue, Ready to snort their streams. In this cool wonder Endymion sat down, and 'gan to ponder On all his life: his youth, up to the day When 'mid acclaim, and feasts, and garlands gay, He stept upon his shepherd throne: the look Of his white palace in wild forest nook, And all the revels he had lorded there: Each tender maiden whom he once thought fair, With every friend and fellow-woodlander Pass'd like a dream before him. Then the spur Of the old bards to mighty deeds: his plans To nurse the golden age 'mong shepherd clans: That wondrous night: the great Pan-festival: His sister's sorrow; and his wanderings all, Until into the earth's deep maw he rush'd: Then all its buried magic, till it flush'd High with excessive love. "And now," thought he, "How long must I remain in jeopardy Of blank amazements that amaze no more? Now I have tasted her sweet soul to the core All other depths are shallow: essences, Once spiritual, are like muddy lees, Meant but to fertilize my earthly root, And make my branches lift a golden fruit Into the bloom of heaven: other light, Though it be quick and sharp enough to blight The Olympian eagle's vision, is dark, Dark as the parentage of chaos. Hark! My silent thoughts are echoing from these shells; Or they are but the ghosts, the dying swells Of noises far away?list!"Hereupon He kept an anxious ear. The humming tone Came louder, and behold, there as he lay, On either side outgush'd, with misty spray, A copious spring; and both together dash'd Swift, mad, fantastic round the rocks, and lash'd Among the conchs and shells of the lofty grot, Leaving a trickling dew. At last they shot Down from the ceiling's height, pouring a noise As of some breathless racers whose hopes poize Upon the last few steps, and with spent force Along the ground they took a winding course. Endymion follow'dfor it seem'd that one Ever pursued, the other strove to shun Follow'd their languid mazes, till well nigh He had left thinking of the mystery, And was now rapt in tender hoverings Over the vanish'd bliss. Ah! what is it sings His dream away? What melodies are these? They sound as through the whispering of trees, Not native in such barren vaults. Give ear! "O Arethusa, peerless nymph! why fear Such tenderness as mine? Great Dian, why, Why didst thou hear her prayer? O that I Were rippling round her dainty fairness now, Circling about her waist, and striving how To entice her to a dive! then stealing in Between her luscious lips and eyelids thin. O that her shining hair was in the sun, And I distilling from it thence to run In amorous rillets down her shrinking form! To linger on her lily shoulders, warm Between her kissing breasts, and every charm Touch raptur'd!See how painfully I flow: Fair maid, be pitiful to my great woe. Stay, stay thy weary course, and let me lead, A happy wooer, to the flowery mead Where all that beauty snar'd me.""Cruel god, Desist! or my offended mistress' nod Will stagnate all thy fountains:tease me not With syren wordsAh, have I really got Such power to madden thee? And is it true Away, away, or I shall dearly rue My very thoughts: in mercy then away, Kindest Alpheus for should I obey My own dear will, 'twould be a deadly bane." "O, Oread-Queen! would that thou hadst a pain Like this of mine, then would I fearless turn And be a criminal.""Alas, I burn, I shuddergentle river, get thee hence. Alpheus! thou enchanter! every sense Of mine was once made perfect in these woods. Fresh breezes, bowery lawns, and innocent floods, Ripe fruits, and lonely couch, contentment gave; But ever since I heedlessly did lave In thy deceitful stream, a panting glow Grew strong within me: wherefore serve me so, And call it love? Alas, 'twas cruelty. Not once more did I close my happy eyes Amid the thrush's song. Away! Avaunt! O 'twas a cruel thing.""Now thou dost taunt So softly, Arethusa, that I think If thou wast playing on my shady brink, Thou wouldst bathe once again. Innocent maid! Stifle thine heart no more;nor be afraid Of angry powers: there are deities Will shade us with their wings. Those fitful sighs 'Tis almost death to hear: O let me pour A dewy balm upon them!fear no more, Sweet Arethusa! Dian's self must feel Sometimes these very pangs. Dear maiden, steal Blushing into my soul, and let us fly These dreary caverns for the open sky. I will delight thee all my winding course, From the green sea up to my hidden source About Arcadian forests; and will shew The channels where my coolest waters flow Through mossy rocks; where, 'mid exuberant green, I roam in pleasant darkness, more unseen Than Saturn in his exile; where I brim Round flowery islands, and take thence a skim Of mealy sweets, which myriads of bees Buzz from their honied wings: and thou shouldst please Thyself to choose the richest, where we might Be incense-pillow'd every summer night. Doff all sad fears, thou white deliciousness, And let us be thus comforted; unless Thou couldst rejoice to see my hopeless stream Hurry distracted from Sol's temperate beam, And pour to death along some hungry sands." "What can I do, Alpheus? Dian stands Severe before me: persecuting fate! Unhappy Arethusa! thou wast late A huntress free in"At this, sudden fell Those two sad streams adown a fearful dell. The Latmian listen'd, but he heard no more, Save echo, faint repeating o'er and o'er The name of Arethusa. On the verge Of that dark gulph he wept, and said: "I urge Thee, gentle Goddess of my pilgrimage, By our eternal hopes, to soothe, to assuage, If thou art powerful, these lovers pains; And make them happy in some happy plains. He turn'dthere was a whelming soundhe stept, There was a cooler light; and so he kept Towards it by a sandy path, and lo! More suddenly than doth a moment go, The visions of the earth were gone and fled He saw the giant sea above his head. (line 31): The reference is of course not to the story of Hero and Leander but to the tears of Hero in Much Ado About Nothing, shed when she was falsely accused; and Imogen must, equally of course, be Shakespeare's heroine in Cymbeline, though she is not the only Imogen of fiction who has swooned. For Pastorella see Faerie Queene, Book VI, Canto II, stanza I. et seq. (line 168): For the three occasions which Endymion had seen Diana, refer to the account given to Peona; beginning with line 540, Book I, -- to the passage about the well, line 896, Book I, -- and to the passage in which he hurried into the grotto, line 971, Book I. (line 430): In the draft, Endymion was described as The mortal Latmian. (line 434): It was a peculiarly happy piece of poetic realism to translate Ariadne's relations with Bacchus into her becoming a vintager; and I presume this was Keats's own thought, as well as the idea immediately following, that the God of Orchards conciliated Love with a gift of pears when paying his addresses to Pomona. (line 676) Hesperan, I presume, not Hesprean as invariably accented by Milton. The precise value of 'capable' as used here is of course regulated by past and not by present custom. In this case it simply stands for receptive, able to receive, as in Hamlet (Act III, Scene IV). (lines 689-92) Endymion conjectures whether his unknown love is one of the Hours, or one of the nymph Pleione's daughters by Atlas, transferred to heaven as the Pleiades. ~ 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 II ,

130:The Witch Of Hebron A Rabbinical Legend Part I. From morn until the setting of the sun The rabbi Joseph on his knees had prayed, And, as he rose with spirit meek and strong, An Indian page his presence sought, and bowed Before him, saying that a lady lay Sick unto death, tormented grievously, Who begged the comfort of his holy prayers. The rabbi, ever to the call of grief Open as day, arose; and girding straight His robe about him, with the page went forth; Who swiftly led him deep into the woods That hung, heap over heap, like broken clouds On Hebron’s southern terraces; when lo! Across a glade a stately pile he saw, With gleaming front, and many-pillared porch Fretted with sculptured vinage, flowers and fruit, And carven figures wrought with wondrous art As by some Phidian hand. But interposed For a wide space in front, and belting all The splendid structure with a finer grace, A glowing garden smiled; its breezes bore Airs as from paradise, so rich the scent That breathed from shrubs and flowers; and fair the growths Of higher verdure, gemm’d with silver blooms, Which glassed themselves in fountains gleaming light Each like a shield of pearl. Within the halls Strange splendour met the rabbi’s careless eyes, Halls wonderful in their magnificance, With pictured walls, and columns gleaming white Like Carmel’s snow, or blue-veined as with life; 222 Through corridors he passed with tissues hung Inwrought with threaded gold by Sidon’s art, Or rich as sunset clouds with Tyrian dye; Past lofty chambers, where the gorgeous gleam Of jewels, and the stainèd radiance Of golden lamps, showed many a treasure rare Of Indian and Armenian workmanship Which might have seemed a wonder of the world: And trains of servitors of every clime, Greeks, Persians, Indians, Ethiopians, In richest raiment thronged the spacious halls. The page led on, the rabbi following close, And reached a still and distant chamber, where In more than orient pomp, and dazzling all The else-unrivalled splendour of the rest, A queenly woman lay; so beautiful, That though upon her moon-bright visage, pain And langour like eclipsing shadows gloomed, The rabbi’s aged heart with tremor thrilled; Then o’er her face a hectic colour passed, Only to leave that pallor which portends The nearness of the tomb. From youth to age The rabbi Joseph still had sought in herbs And minerals the virtues they possess, And now of his medicaments he chose What seemed most needful in her sore estate; “Alas, not these,” the dying woman said, “A malady like mine thou canst not cure, ’Tis fatal as the funeral march of Time! But that I might at length discharge my mind Of a dread secret, that hath been to me An ever-haunting and most ghostly fear, Darkening my whole life like an ominous cloud And which must end it ere the morning come, Therefore did I entreat thy presence here.” The rabbi answered, “If indeed it stand Within my power to serve thee, speak at once 223 All that thy heart would say. But if ’tis vain, If this thy sin hath any mortal taint, Forbear, O woman, to acquaint my soul With aught that could thenceforth with horror chase The memory of a man of Israel.” “I am,” she said “the daughter of thy friend Rabbi Ben Bachai—be his memory blest! Once at thy side a laughing child I played; I married with an Arab Prince, a man Of lofty lineage, one of Ishmael’s race; Not great in gear. Behold’st thou this abode? Did ever yet the tent-born Arab build Thus for his pride or pleasure? See’st thou These riches? An no! Such were ne’er amassed By the grey desert’s wild and wandering son; Deadly the game by which I won them all! And with a burning bitterness at best Have I enjoyed them! And how gladly now Would I, too late, forego them all, to mend My broken peace with a repentant heed In abject poverty!” She ceased, and lay Calm in her loveliness, with dreamy looks Roaming, perhaps, in thought the fateful past; Then suddenly her beauteous countenance grew Bedimm’d and drear, then dark with mortal pangs, While fierce convulsions shook her tortured frame, And from her foaming lips such words o’erran, That rabbi Joseph sank upon his knees, And bowed his head a space in horror down While ardent, pitying prayers for her great woe Rose from his soul; when, lo! The woman’s face Was cloudless as a summer heaven! The late Dark brow was bright, the late pale cheek suffused With roseate bloom; and, wondrous more than all, Here weary eyes were changed to splendours now That shot electric influence, and her lips Were full and crimson, curled with stormy pride. The doubting rabbi stood in wild amaze To see the dying woman bold and fierce 224 In bright audacity of passion’s power. “These are the common changes,” then she said, “Of the fell ailment, that with torments strange, Which search my deepest life, is tearing up The dark foundations of my mortal state, And sinking all its structures, hour by hour, Into the dust of death. For nothing now Is left me but to meet my nearing doom As best I may in silent suffering.” Then as he heard her words and saw her face, The rabbi in his wisdom knew some strong Indwelling evil spirit troubled her, And straighway for an unction sent, wherewith The famous ancestor whose name he bore, Herod the Great’s chief hakim, had expelled The daemon haunter of the dying king. With this he touched her forehead and her eyes And all her finger-tips. Forthwith he made Within a consecrated crucible A fire of citron-wood and cinnamon; Then splashed the flames with incense, mingling all With the strong influence of fervent prayer; And, as the smoke arose, he bowed her head Into its coils, that so she might inhale Its salutary odour—till the fiend That dwelt within her should be exorcised. Her face once more grew pale with pain; she writhed In burning torment, uttering many words Of most unhallowed meaning! Yet her eyes Were fixed the while, and motionless her lips! Whereby the rabbi certainly perceived ’Twas not the woman of herself that spake, But the dread spirit that possessed her soul, And thus it cried aloud. -------------------------------------------------------------------------------- 225 Part II. “WHY am I here, in this my last resort, Perturbed with incense and anointings? Why Compelled to listen to the sound of prayers That smite me through as with the fire of God? O pain, pain, pain! Is not this chamber full Of the implacable stern punishers? Full of avenging angels, holding each A scourge of thunder in his potent hand, Ready to lighten forth! And then, thus armed, For ever chase and wound us as we fly! Nor end with this—but, in each wound they make, Pour venom sweltered from that tree As-gard, Whose deadly shadow in its blackness falls Over the lake of everlasting doom! “Five hundred years ago, I, who thus speak, Was an Egyptian of the splendid court Of Ptolemy Philadelphus. To the top Of mountainous power, though roughened with unrest, And girt with dangers as with thunder-clouds, Had I resolved by all resorts to climb; By truth and falsehood, right and wrong alike; And I did climb! Then firmly built in power Second alone to my imperial lord’s, I crowned with its impunity my lust Of beauty, sowing broadcast everywhere Such sensual baits wide round me, as should lure Through pleasure, or through interest entrap, The fairest daughters of the land, and lo! Their lustrous eyes surcharged with passionate light The chambers of my harem! But at length Wearied of these, though sweet, I set my heart On riches, heaped to such a fabulous sum As never one man’s hoard in all the world Might match; and to acquire them, steeped my life In every public, every private wrong, In lies, frauds, secret murders; till at last A favoured minion I had trusted most, And highest raised, unveiled before the king The dark abysmal badness of my life; But dearly did he rue it; nor till then Guessed I how deadly grateful was revenge! 226 I stole into his chamber as he slept, And with a sword, whose double edge for hours I had whetted for the purpose of the deed, There staked him through the midriff to his bed. I fled; but first I sent, as oft before, A present to the household of the man Who had in secret my betrayer bribed. Twas scented wine, and rich Damascus cakes; On these he feasted, and fell sudden down, Rolling and panting in his dying pangs, A poisoned desert dog! “But I had fled. A swift ship bore me, which my forecast long Had kept prepared against such need as this. Over the waves three days she proudly rode; Then came a mighty storm, and trampled all Her masted bravery flat, and still drove on The wave-swept ruin towards a reefy shore! Meanwhile amongst the terror-stricken crew An ominous murmur went from mouth to mouth; They grouped themselves in councils, and, ere long, Grew loud and furious with surmises wild, And maniac menaces, all aimed at me! My fugitive head it was at which so loud The thunder bellowed! The wild-shrieking winds And roaring waters held in vengeful chase Me only! Me! Whose signal crimes alone Had brought on us this anger of the gods! And thus reproaching me with glaring eyes, They would have seized and slain me, but I sprang Back from amongst them, and, outstriking, stabbed With sudden blow their leader to the heart; Then, with my poniard scaring off the rest, Leaped from the deck, and swimming reached the shore, From which, in savage triumph, I beheld The battered ship, with all her howling crew, Heel, and go down, amid the whelming waves. “Inland my course now lay for many days, O’er barren hills and glens, whose herbless scopes Never grew luminous with a water gleam, 227 Or heard the pleasant bubble of a brook, For vast around the Afric desert stretched. Starving and sun-scorched and afire with thirst, I wandered ever on, until I came To where, amid the dun and level waste, In frightful loneliness, a mouldered group Of ancient tombs stood ghostly. Here at last, Utterly spent, in my despair I lay Down on the burning sand, to gasp and die! When from among the stones a withered man, Old-seeming as the desert where he lived, Came and stood by me, saying ‘get thee up! Not much have I to give, but these at least I offer to thy need, water and bread.’ “Then I arose and followed to his cell,— A dismal cell, that seemed itself a tomb, So lightless was it, and so foul with damp, And at its entrance there were skulls and bones. Long and deep drank I of the hermit’s draught, And munched full greedily the hermit’s bread; But with the strength which thence my frame derived, Fierce rage devoured me, and I cursed my fate! Whereat the withered creature laughed in scorn, And mocked me with the malice of his eyes, That sometimes, like a snake’s, shrank small, and then Enlarging blazed as with infernal fire! Then, on a sudden, with an oath that seemed To wake a stir in the grey musty tombs, As if their silence shuddered, he averred That he could life me once more to the height Of all my wishes—nay, even higher, but On one condition only. Dared I swear, By the dread angel of the second death, I would be wholly his, both body and soul, After a hundred years? “Why should I not? I answered, quivering with a stormy haste, A rampart unreluctance! For so great Was still my fury against all mankind, And my desire of pomp and riches yet 228 So monstrous, that I felt I could have drunk Blood, fire, or worse, to wear again the power That fortune, working through my enemies’ hands, Had stript away from me. So, word by word, I swore the oath as he repeated it; Nor much it moved me, in my eagerness, To feel a damp and earthy odour break Out of each tomb, from which there darkling rose At every word a hissing as of snakes; And yet the fell of hair upon my scalp Rose bristling under a cold creeping thrill: But I failed not, I swore the dread oath through, And then the tombs grew silent as their dead. But through my veins a feeling of strong youth Coursed bold along, and summered in my heart, Till there before him in my pride I stood In stately strength, and swift as is the wind, Magnificant as a desert-nurtured steed Of princeliest pedigree, with nostrils wide Dilated, and with eyes effusing flame. ‘Begone,’ he said, ’and live thy hundred years Of splendour, power, pleasure, ease.’ His voice Sighed off into the distance. He was gone: Only a single raven, far aloft, Was beating outwards with its sable wings; The tombs had vanished, and the desert grey Merged its whole circle with the bending sky. -------------------------------------------------------------------------------- Part III. “OUT of these wilds to Egypt I returned: Men thought that I had perished with the ship, And no one knew me now, because my face And form were greatly changed,—from passing fair To fairer yet; from manly, to a pile So nobly built, that in all eyes I seemed Beauteous as Thammuz! And my heart was changed; Ambition wilder than a leopard’s thirst 229 For blood of roe, or flying hart, possessed My spirit, like the madness of a god! But this I yet even in its fiercest strain Could curb and guide with sovereign strength of will. From small beginnings onward still I worked, Stepping as up a stair from rival head To rival head,—from high to higher still, Unto the loftiest post that might be held Under the Ptolemies; and meantime paid Each old unsettled score, defeating those Who erst had worked against me, sweeping them Out of all posts, all places; for though time And change had wide dispersed them through the land, The sleuth-hounds of my vengeance found them out! Which things not being in a corner done, What wonder was it that all Egypt now, From end to end, even like a shaken hive, Buzzed as disturbed with my portentous fame? “And what to me were secret enemies? Had I not also spies, who could pin down A whisper in the dark and keep it there? Could dash a covert frown by the same means An open charge had challenged? Hence my name Became a sound that struck through every heart Ineffable dismay! And yet behold There more I trampled on mankind, the more Did fawning flatterers praise me as I swept Like a magnificant meteor through the land! The more I hurled the mighty from their seats, And triumphed o’er them prostrate in the dust, The human hounds that licked my master hand But multiplied the more! And still I strode From bad to worse, corrupting as I went, Making the lowly ones more abject yet; Awing as with a thunder-bearing hand The high and affluent; while I bound the strong To basest service, even with chains of gold. All hated, cursed and feared me, for in vain Daggers were levelled at my brazen heart— They glanced, and slew some minion at my side Poison was harmless as a heifer’s milk When I had sipped it with my lips of scorn; 230 All that paraded pomp and smiling power Could draw against me from the envious hearts Of men in will as wicked as myself I challenged, I encountered, and o’erthrew! “But, after many years, exhaustion sere Spread through the branches of my tree of life; My forces flagged, my senses more and more Were blunted, and incapable of joy; The splendours of my rank availed me not; A poverty as naked as a slave’s Peered from them mockingly. The pride of power That glowed so strong within me in my youth Was now like something dying at my heart. To cheat or stimulate my jaded taste, Feasts, choice or sumptuous, were devised in vain; there was disfavour, there was fraud within, Like that which filled the fair-appearing rind Of those delusive apples that of old Grew on the Dead Sea shore. “And yet, though thus All that gave pleasure to my younger life Was withering from my path like summer grass, I still had one intense sensation, which Grew ever keener as my years increased— A hatred of mankind; to pamper which I gloated, with a burning in my soul, Over their degradation; and like one Merry with wine, I revelled day by day In scattering baits that should corrupt them more: The covetous I sharpened into thieves, Urged the vindictive, hardened the malign, Whetted the ruffian with self-interest, And flung him then, a burning brand, abroad. And the decadence of the state in which My fortunes had recast me, served me well. Excess reeled shameless in the court itself, Or, staggering thence, was rivalled by the wild Mad looseness of the crowd. Down to its death The old Greek dynasty was sinking fast; Waste and pale want, extortion, meanness, fraud— 231 These, welling outwards from the throne itself, Spread through the land. “But now there seized my soul A new ambition—from his feeble throne To hurl the king, and mount thereon myself! To this end still I lured him into ill, And daily wove around him cunning snares, That reached and trammelled too his fawning court; And all went well, the end at last was near, But in my triumph one thing I forgot— My name was measured. At a banquet held In the king’s chamber, lo! A guest appeared, Chief of a Bactrian tribe, who tendered gold To pay for some great wrong his desert horde Had done our caravans; his age, men said, Was wonderful; his craft more wondrous still; For this his fame had spread through many lands, And the dark seekers of forbidden lore Knew his decrepit wretch to be their lord. “The first glance that I met of his weird eye Had sent into my soul a fearful doubt That I had seen that cramp-shrunk withered form And strange bright eye in some forgotten past. But at the dry croak of his raven voice Remembrance wok; I knew that I beheld The old man of the tombs: I saw, and fell Into the outer darkness of despair. The day that was to close my dread account Was come at last. The long triumphant feast Of life had ended in a funeral treat. I was to die—to suffer with the damned The hideous torments of the second death! The days, weeks, months of a whole hundred years Seemed crushed into a thought, and burning out In that brief period which was left me now. “Stung with fierce horror, shame, and hate I fled; I seized my sword, to plunge its ready point Into my maddened heart, but on my arm I felt a strong forbidding grasp! I turned; 232 The withered visage of the Bactrian met My loathing eyes; I struggled to be free From the shrunk wretch in vain; his spidery hands Were strong as fetters of Ephesian brass, And all my strength, though now with madness strung, Was as a child’s to his. He calmly smiled: ‘Forbear, thou fool! Am I not Sammael? Whom to resist is vain, and from whom yet Has never mercy flowed; for what to me Are feelings which thou knowest even in men Are found the most in fools. But wide around A prince of lies I reign. ’Tis I that fill the Persian palaces with lust and wrong, Till like the darkling heads of sewers they flow With a corruption that in fretting thence Taints all the region round with rankest ill; ’Tis I that clot the Bactrian sand with blood; And now I come to fling the brands of war Through all this people, this most ill-mixed mob, Where Afric’s savage hordes meet treacherous Greeks, And swarming Asia’s luxury-wasted sons. This land throughout shall be a deluge soon Of blood and fire, till ruin stalk alone, A grisly spectre, in its grass-grown marts.’ The fiery eyes within his withered face Glowed like live coals, as he triumphant spake, And his strange voice, erewhile so thin and dry, Came as if bellowed from the vaults of doom. Prone fell I, powerless to move or speak; And now he was about to plunge me down Ten thousand times ten thousand fathoms deep Through the earth’s crust, and through the slimy beds Of nether ocean—down! Still down, below The darkling roots of all this upper world Into the regions of the courts of hell! “To stamp me downward to the convict dead His heel was raised, when suddenly I heard Him heave a groan of superhuman pain, So deep twas drawn! And as he groaned, I saw A mighty downburst of celestial light 233 Enwrap his shrivelled form from head to foot, As with a robe within whose venomous folds He writhed in torment. Then above him stood A shining shape, unspeakably sublime, And gazed upon him! One of the high sons Of Paradise, who still keep watch and ward O’er Israel’s progeny, where’er dispersed; And now they fought for me with arms that filled The air wide round with flashes and swift gleams Of dazzling light; full soon the Evil One Fell conquered. Then forth sprang he from the ground And with dark curses wrapped him in a cloud That moved aloft, low thundering as it went. “And then the shining son of paradise Came where I lay and spoke, his glorious face Severe with wrath, and yet divinely fair— ‘O Child of Guilt! Should vengeance not be wrought On thee as well? On Sammael’s willing slave?’ I clasped his radiant knees—I wept—I groaned— I beat my bosom in my wild distress. At last the sacred Presence, who had held The blow suspended still, spoke thus: ‘Thou’rt spared; From no weak pity, but because thou art Descended from the line of Israel: For that cause spared;—yet must thou at my hand Find some meet punishment.’ And as he spake, He laid his hand with a life-crushing weight Upon my forehead—and I fell, as dead! -------------------------------------------------------------------------------- Part IV. “AWAKING as from sleep, I bounded up, Stung with a feeling of enormous strength, Though yet half wild with horror. Onward then Ramping I went, out through the palace gates, Down the long streets, and into the highways, Forth to the wilds, amazed at my own speed! 234 And now afar, in long-drawn line appeared A caravan upon its outward way Over the desert of Pentapolis. And strange the instinct seemed that urged me then to rush amongst them—and devour: for I Was fierce with hunger, and inflamed with thirst. “Amidst a laggard company I leaped That rested yet beside a cooling spring; One of those clear springs that, like giant pearls, Inlay the burning borders of the grey Enormous desert. All at once they rose! Some fled, some threw themselves amongst the brakes, Some seized their swords and lances; this to see Filled me at once with a mysterious rage And savage joy! The sternness of their looks, Their fearful cries, the gleaming of their spears Seemed to insult me, and I rushed on them. Then sudden spasms of pain searched deep my side, Wherein a fell lance quivered. On I rushed; I roared a roar that startled e’en myself, So loud and hoarse and terrible its tone, Then bounding, irresistible it seemed As some huge fragment from a crag dislodged, Against the puny wretch that sent the lance, Instantly tore him, as he were a kid, All into gory shreds! The others fled At sight of this, nor would I chase them then, All wearied by my flight. Besides, the well Was gleaming in its coolness by me there. “And as I stooped to quench my parching thirst, Behold, reversed within the water clear, The semblance of a monstrous lion stood! I saw his shaggy mane, I saw his red And glaring eyeballs rolling in amaze, His rough and grinning lips, his long sharp fangs All foul with gore and hung with strings of flesh! I shrank away in horrible dismay. But as the sun each moment fiercer grew, I soon returned to stoop and slake my thirst. Again was that tremendous presence there Standing reversed, as erewhile, in the clear 235 And gleaming mirror of the smiling well! The horrid truth smote like a rush of fire Upon my brain! The dreadful thing I saw Was my own shadow! I was a wild beast.” “They did not fable, then, who held that oft The guilty dead are punished in the shapes Of beasts, if brutal were their lives as men.” “Long lapped I the cool lymph, while still my tongue Made drip for drip against the monstrous one, Which, as in ugly mockery, from below Seemed to lap up against it. But though thirst Was quenched at length, what was there might appease The baffled misery of my fated soul? The thought that I no more was human, ran Like scorpion venom through my mighty frame; Fiercely I bounded, tearing up the sands, That, like a drab mist, coursed me as I went Out on my homeless track. I made my fangs Meet in my flesh, trusting to find in pain Some respite from the anguish of regret. From morn to night, from night to morn, I fled, Chased by the memory of my lost estate; Then, worn and bleeding, in the burning sands I lay down, as to die. In vain!—in vain! The savage vigour of my lion-life Might yield alone to the long tract of time. “From hill to valley rushing after prey, With whirlwind speed, was now my daily wont, For all things fled before me—all things shrank In mortal terror at my shaggy front. Sometimes I sought those close-fenced villages, Wherein the desert-dwellers hide their swart And naked bodies from the scorching heats, Hoping that I might perish by their shafts. And often was I wounded—often bore Their poisoned arrows in my burning flesh— But still I lived. “The tenor of my life 236 Was always this—the solitary state Of a wild beast of prey, that hunted down The antelope, the boar, the goat, the gorged Their quivering flesh, and lapped their steaming blood; Then slept till hunger, or the hunter’s cry, Roused him again to battle or to slay, To flight, pursuit, blood, stratagem, and wounds. And to make this rude life more hideous yet, I still retained a consciousness of all The nobler habits of my eariler time, And had a keen sense of what most had moved My nature as a man, and knew besides That this my punishment was fixed by One Too mighty to be questioned, and too just One tittle of its measure to remit. “How long this haggard course of life went on I might not even guess, for I had lost The human faculty that measures time. But still from night to night I found myself Roaming the desert, howling at the moon, Whose cold light always, as she poured it down, Awoke a drear distemper in my brain: But much I shunned the sunblaze, which at once Inflamed me, and revealed my dread approach. “Homelessly roaming thus for evermore, The tempests beat on my unsheltered bulk, In those bleak seasons when the drenching rains Drove into covert all those gentler beasts That were my natural prey. I swinkt beneath The furnace heats of the midsummer sun, When even the palm of the oasis stood All withered, like a weed: and for how long, Yet knew not. “Thus the sun and moon arose Through an interminable tract of time, And yet though sense was dim, the view of all My human life was ever at my beck, Nay, opened out before me of itself Plain as the pictures in a wizard’s glass! 237 I saw again the trains that round my car Streamed countless, saw its pageants and its pomps, Its faces fair and passionate, and felt Lie’s eager pleasures, even its noble pangs! Then in the anguish of my goaded heart Would I roll howling in the burning sand. “At length this life of horror seemed to near Its fated bourn. The slow but sure approach Of old decay was felt in every limb And every function of my lion frame. My massive strength seemed spent, my speed was gone, The antelope escaped me! Wearily I sought a mountain cavern, shut from day By savage draperies of tangled briers, And only dragged my tardy bulk abroad When hunger urged. It chanced on such a day I sprange amid a herd of buffaloes And tore their leader down, who bellowing fell. When, lo! The chief of those that drove them came Against me, and I turned my rage on him: But though the long lapse of so many years Of ever-grinding wretchedness had dulled My memory, I felt that I had seen His withered visage twice before; and straight A shuddering awe subdued me, and I crouched Beneath him in the dust. My lust of blood, My ruthless joy at sight of mortal pain, Within me died, and if in human speech I might have told the wild desire that filled My being, I had prayed him once for all To crush me out of life, and to consign My misery to the pit of final death! But when, all hopeless, I again looked up, The tawney presence of the desert chief Was gone, and I beheld the shining son Of paradise, from whose majestic brow There flashed the lightings of a wrath divine. Yea, twas the angel that with Sammael Had fought for me in Egypt; and once more He laid his crushing had upon my front; And earth and sky, and all that in them is, 238 Became to me a darkness, swimming blank In the Eternal, round that point where now My body lay, stretched dead upon the sand. -------------------------------------------------------------------------------- Part V. “AGAIN I lived—again I felt. But now The winds of heaven seemed under me, and I Was sweeping, like the spirit of a storm That bellowed round me, in its murky glooms, All heaving with a motion wide and swift That seemed yet mightier than the darkling swells Of ocean, wrestling with a midnight gale! The wild winds tossed me; I was drenched throughout With heavy moisture, and at intervals Amid the ragged gaps of moving cloud, Methought I caught dim glimpses of the sun Hanging aloft, as if in drear eclipse; But as my senses cleared, I saw my limbs Were clothed with plumage; and long-taloned claws Were closing eagerly with fierce desire And sudden hunger after blood and prey! An impulse to pursue and to destroy Both on the earth and in the air, ran quick Out from my heart and shivered in my wings; And as a thing more central yet, I felt Pregnant within me, throned o’er all, a lone And sullen, yet majestic, glow of pride. “’Twas plain that I, who had aforetime been Crushed out of human being into that Of a wild beast, had thence again passed on Into the nature of some mighty thing That now swept sailing on wide van-like wings, Amid the whirls of an aërial gloom, That out extending in one mighty cope Hung heaving, like a black tent-roof, o’er all The floor of Africa. 239 “Still on I swept, And still as far as my keen vision went, That now was gifted with a power that seemed To pierce all space, I saw the vapours roll In dreadful continuous of black And shapeless masses, by the winds convulsed; But soon in the remotest distance came A change: the clouds were touched with sunny light, And, as I nearer drew, I saw them dash, Like the wild surges of an uproused sea Of molten gold, against the marble sides Of lofty mountains, which, though far below My flight, yet pierced up through them all, and stood With splintered cones and monster-snouted crags, Immovable as fate. Beneath me, lo! The grandeur of the kingdom of the air Was circling in its magnitude! It was A dread magnificence of which before I might not even dream. I saw its quick And subtle interchange of forms and hues, Saw its black reservoirs of densest rain, Its awful forges of the thunderstorm. “At last, as onward still I swept, above A milky mass of vapour far outspread, Behold, reflected in its quiet gleam, I saw an image that swept on with me, Reversed as was the lion’s in the well, With van-like wings, with eyeballs seething fire, With taloned claws, and cruel down-bent beak,— The mightiest eagle that had ever sailed The seas of space since Adam named the first! “My fated soul had passed into the form Of that huge eagle which swept shadowed there. Cold horror thrilled me! I was once again Imprisoned in the being of a brute, In the base being of a nature yet Inferior by what infinite descent To that poor remnant of intelligence Which still kept with me,—like a put-back soul Burningly conscious of its powers foregone, 240 Its inborn sovreignty of kind, and yet So latent, self-less; once again to live A life of carnage, and to sail abroad A terror to all birds and gentle beasts That heard the stormy rushings of my wings! A royal bird indeed, who lived alone In the great stillness of the mighty hills, Or in the highest heavens. “But in truth Not much for many seasons had I need To search for prey, for countless hosts of men, Forth mustering over all the face of earth, Cast the quick gleam of arms o’er trampled leagues Of golden corn, and as they onward marched They left behind them seas of raging fire, In whose red surges cities thronged with men And happy hamlets, homes of health and peace, That rang erewhile with rural thankfulness, Were whelmed in one wide doom; or in their strength Confronted upon some set field of fight, Their sullen masses charged with dreadful roar That far out-yelled the fiercest yells of beasts, And with brute madness rushed on wounds and death; Or else about fenced cities they would pitch Their crowded camps, and leaguer them for years, Sowing the fields about them with a slime Of carnage, till their growths were plagues alone. What is the ravage made by brutes on brutes To that man makes on man? “With mingled pain And joy I saw the wondrous ways of men, (For ever when I hungered, close at hand, Some fresh slain man lay smoking in his gore) And though the instincts of the eagle’s life Were fierce within me, yet I felt myself Cast in a lot more capable of joy; Safe from pursuit, from famine, and from wounds. Some solaces, though few and far between, Were added to me; and I argued thence, In the dark musings of my eagle heart, 241 That not for ever was my soul condemned To suffer in the body of a brute; For though remembrance of the towering crimes And matchless lusts, that filled my whole career Of human life, worked in me evermore, No longer did they shed about my life So venomous a blight. Nay, I could think How often I had looked with longing eyes Up at the clear Egyptian heavens, and watched The wings that cleft them, envying every bird That, soaring in the sunshine, seemed to be Exempt from all the grovelling cares of men. I thought how once, when with my hunting train I pierced that region round the cataracts, I watched an eagle as it rose aloft Into the lovely blue, and wished to change My being with it as it floated on, So inaccessible to hate or hurt, So peaceful, at a height in heaven so safe; And then it passed away through gorgeous clouds Against the sunset, through the feathered flags Of royal purple edged with burning gold. “These fields of space were my dominion now; Motion alone within a world so rich Was something noble: but to move at will, Upward or forward, or in circles vast, Through boundless spaces with a rushing speed No living thing might rival, and to see The glory of the everlasting hills Beneath me, and the myriad-peopled plains, Broad rivers, and the towery towns that sate Beside their spacious mouths, with out beyond The lonely strength of the resounding seas— This liberty began to move my sense As something godlike; and in moving made A sure impression that kept graining still Into the texture of my brute estate— Yea, graining in through all its fleshy lusts And savage wonts. “Hence ever more and more 242 The temper of a better spirit grew Within me, as from inkling roots, and moved E’en like an embryon in its moist recess: A sensibility to beauteous things As now I saw them in the heavens displayed, And in the bright luxuriance of the earth; Some power of just comparison, some sense Of how a man would rank them, could he see Those earthly grandeurs from the sovreign height Whence I beheld them. And with this a wish To commune even with the human race, And pour the loftier wonders of my life Into their ears, through a rich-worded song Whose golden periods in mellow flow Should witch all ears that heard them—ev’n old men s, Ev’n jaded monarchs; not to speak of theirs, Those spirit-lovely ones—yea, moons of love, That rise at first in the Circassian hills— And they should tingle all like tiny shells Of roseate whiteness to its perfect chords. “One day amid the mountains of the moon, Behold a sudden storm had gatherd up Out of my view, hid by a neighbouring height, But which, thence wheeling with terrific force, Wide tossed me with its gusts—aloft, and then Downward as far; then whirlingly about, Ev’n like a withered leaf. My strength of wing Availed me nought, so mightily it raged; Then suddenly, in the dim distance, lo! I saw, as from the storm’s Plutonian heart, A mass of white-hot light come writing forth, And then the figure of a withered man Seemed dropping headlong through the lurid clouds; While full within the radiant light, again The conquering son of paradise appeared, Upon whose brow divine I yet might trace Some sing of wrath. Onward the vision rushed, Orbed in white light. I felt a stifling heat, One cruel blasting pang, and headlong then Fell earthward—dead; a plumb descending mass. 243 -------------------------------------------------------------------------------- Part VI. “WITHIN a rustic chamber, dark and low, Thronged with wild-looking men and women strange, I seemed to waken. Inwardly I felt No briskness of existence, but a sense Of languor rather, or revival slow: And evermore the men and women came And gazed upon me, shouting in amaze, Then would they whirl about the room in dance, Abandoned to their barbarous delight. “I turned mine eyes about the low-roofed room, Half fearing and half hoping I might see The mighty angel that now ruled my life; They thought I needed air, and I was borne to a low casement. Like a picture lay The world without. On all sides wide around Nothing but mountains, feathered to their tops With a dense growth of pines, and valleys filled With a cold darkness that was lit alone By the broad flashes of the furious streams That leaped in thunder our of marble gaps! Dull vapours, like a canopy of smoke, Did so obscure the sun, that I had thought The scene that now I saw was not of earth, But for a golden flush that now and then Would touch the highest ranges. What I was I knew not, but I felt my former wants, And oft I made vain efforts to expand The wings I had no longer, and sail off, And through those sullen vapours—up, and up— Into the mighty silence of the blue. “The day was fading, and a blare of horns, With many voices and much trampling noise, Heard from without, aroused me; and, ere long, Women rushed in, each bearing some rich robe Or some gay bauble, wherewithal they next 244 Arrayed me to their taste; and then they held A mirror up before me, and I saw My soul had this time passed into the form Of a fair damsel. She, whose form I now Re-animated, was—so learned I soon— The only child of a Circassian chief, Who had been long regarded by her house As its chief treasure, for her beauty rare; Reserved for him, no matter whence he came, Whose hand could dip into the longest purse. But envy lurks in the Circassian hills As elsewhere, and a dose of opium, Administered by one who had been long The rival beauty of a neighbouring tribe, Had served to quash a bargain quite complete Save in the final payment of the gold, Which had been even offered and told down, And only not accepted, through some old Delaying ceremony of the tribe; And in this luckless circumstances, twas plain That both my admirable parents saw The unkindest turn of all. “On all hands forth Had scouts been sent to summon the whole tribe To attend my obsequies, and then forthwith Exterminate our ancient enemies Through all their tents—such was the fierce resolve. But while these things were pending, lo! The light Had broken like a new morn from the eyes Of the dead beauty; on her cheeks had dawned A roseate colour; from her moistening lips Low murmurs, too, had broken; whereupon My parents in exulting hope transformed The funeral to a general tribal feast, And loaded me with all the ancient gauds And ornaments they held. The Persian, too, Had been invited to renew his suit, And carry me at once beyond the reach Of future opium doses. “Soon he came 245 Galloping back to bear me to the arms Of his long-bearded lord. He paid the price; My worthy parents took a fond farewell Of me, with tears declaring me to be The life-light of their eyes, their rose of joy,— Then stretched their palms out for the stranger’s gold, And hurried off to count it o’er again— The dear recovered treasure they so late Had mourned as lost for ever. On that night I was packed neatly on a camel’s back Beside a precious case of porcelain pipes, And carried Persia-ward, by stages safe, From the Circassian mountains. “At the court I soon became the favourite of the king; Lived sumptuously, but in perpetual fear: For all my luxury and gold and gems, I envied the poor slaves who swept the floors. I was the favourite of my Persian lord For one whole month, perhaps a little more, And then I learned my place was to be filled; And though I loathed him, as we loathe some cold And reptile creature, yet I could not bear To see a newer rival take my place, For I was beautiful, and therefore vain: So, that I might regain his favour past, I now arrayed myself in airy robes, While scarfs of purple like an orient queen’s Barred them with brilliant tints, and gold and pearls Confined the wavelets of my sunny hair. “The harem all applauded, and there seemed Even in his own dull eyes almost a flash As of extorted joy, but this became At the next moment a malignant scowl, Which had its dark cause in such thoughts as these: ‘What! Did so soft and ignorant a thing Hope to enchant again a man so wise As he was—he! The paragon of kings! By floating in before him like a swan, A little better feathered than before?’ 246 And then he waved the harem ladies forth, And with him kept only a Nubian girl, Whom he thought dull, and altogether his: A conclave of those strange demoniac dwarfs Who from their secret dens and crypts would come On given signals forth, was summoned in: Wizard-like beings, with enormous heads, Splay-feet, and monstrous spider-fingered hands. Nor was the council long; I on that night Was to be poisoned with a pomegranate. Then stole the Nubian girl away, and brought Me word of all; yet her news moved me not, So sure I felt that this was not my doom; Or moved me only to prepare for flight With the poor Nubian girl. Unseen I came To my own chamber, where I packed my goods; And whence, unseen by all, we swiftly fled. ’Twas plain and patent to my inmost self That in this last change I had always been Regenerating more and more; for though I had a love of mischief in my head, At heart I was not bad, and they who knew Me closely, or at least the woman sort, Loved me,—nay, served me, as the Nubian did. And now, as no one else might sell me,—lo! I sold myself, and found myself installed Queen of a rude baboon-like Afric king. “Then I was captive to a Bedouin sheik, Was sold in the slave-mart of Astrachan, And carried thence to India, to be crowned A rajahpoot’s sultana; from which state Flying at length, I fell into a worse, Being pounced on by a Turkoman horse-stealer. At Alexandra I became the slave Of a harsh Roman matron, who was wont To flog and famish me to make me good, And when I owned myself converted, then She flogged and famished me the more, to make My goodness lasting; and I finally Fell stabbed in Cairo—slaughtered by a slave. 247 -------------------------------------------------------------------------------- Part VII. “AFTER some short and intermediate terms Of transmigration, all in female forms, In which, through kindly offices performed, It seemed the temper of my spirit much Had humanized, and in the last of which Twas mine to die for once a natural death, Again I had some deep-down hold on being, Dim as an oyster’s in its ocean-bed; Then came a sense of light and air, of space, Of hunger, comfort, warmth, of sight and sound I caught at length the drift of speech, and knew That all who came to see me and admire Called me Ben Bachai’s daughter. “Dark indeed, But lovely as a starry night I grew, A maid, the glory of her father’s house, Her mother’s dovelet, filling all her wonts With tenderness and joy. Still as I grew, By strange degrees the memory of all That I had been came back upon my mind To fill it with wild sorrow and dismay; To know I was a cheat, nor wholly what I seemed to my fond parents—that I was But half their daughter, and the rest a fiend, With a fiend’s destiny,—ah! This, I say, Would smite me even in dreams with icy pangs Or wordless woe, yea, even while I slept So innocently as it seemed, and so Securely happy in the arms of love!” As this was said, the Rabbi looked, and saw That now again the woman seemed to speak As of herself, and not as heretofore With moveless lips, and prisoned voice, that came As from some dark duality within. 248 Her looks had changed, too, with the voice, and now Again she lay, a queen-like creature, racked With mortal sufferings, who, when these grew less, Or for a time remitted, even thus Took up her tale again. “At length upgrown To womanhood, by some mysterious pact Existing twixt my father’s house and that Of an Arabian prince time out of mind, I was now wedded ere I wished, and he, My husband, finally had come to claim And bear me from my home, that happiest home Which I should know no more: a man most fair To look upon, but void of force, in truth The weakling of a worn-out line, who yet (What merit in a prince!) Was not depraved, Not wicked, not the mendicant of lust, But mild, and even affectionate and just. My dowry was immense, and flushed with this The prince had summoned from his vassal tribe Five hundred horse, all spearmen, to escort And guard us desert-ward. And as we went These ever and anon, at signal given, Would whirl around us like a thunder-cloud Wind-torn, and shooting instant shafts of fire! And thus we roamed about the Arabian wastes, Pitching our camp amid the fairest spots. Beneath an awning oft I lay, and gazed Out at the cloudless ether, where it wrapt The silent hills, like to a conscious power Big with the soul of an eternal past. “But long this life might last not, for the prince Sickened and died;—died poor, his wealth and mine Having been squandered on the hungry horde That wont to prance about us; who ere long, Divining my extremity, grew loud And urgent for rewards, till on a day, By concert as it seemed, the tribe entire Came fiercely round me, all demanding gifts, Gifts that I had not; as they nearer pressed, 249 Wearing his way among them, lo! I saw The old man of the tombs! The Bactrian sage! With signs of awe they made him room to pass; He fixed me with his shrunk and serpent eyes, Waved off the abject Arabs, and then asked ‘Why art thou poor? With needs so great upon thee? I offer thee long life and wealth and power.’ “I turned to him and said: ‘Should I not know, By all the past, the nature of thy gifts? Shows and delusions, evil, sin-stained all, And terminating in eternal loss.’ ‘Well, take it as thou wilt,’ he said; ‘my gifts Are not so weighed by all.’ And saying this He went his way, while I retired within My lonely tent to weep. “Next day the tribes Again assembled, and with threats and cries, And insults loud, they raised a passion in me. My blood arose: I chid them angrily, Called them all things but men, till they, alarmed, Fell back in sullen silence for a while, Crouching like tigers ready for a spring. Humbled, perplexed, and frightened, I returned Into my tent, and there within its folds Stood the weird Bactrian with his snaky eyes, And wiry voice that questioned as before: ‘Why art thou poor? Why dost thou suffer wrong, With all this petty baseness brattling round? Am I not here to help thee? I, thy one Sole friend—not empty, but with ample means. Behold the secrets of the inner earth! There, down among the rock-roots of the hills, What seest thou there? Look, as I point, even those Strange miscreations, as they seem to thee, Are demoniac moilers that obey Such arts as I possess; the gnomish brood Of Demogorgon. See them how they moil Amid those diamonds shafts and reefs of gold Embedded in the oldest drifts of time, And in the mire that was the first crude floor 250 And blind extension of the infant earth: Why art thou poor, then, when such slaves as they Might work for thee, and glut thy need with all The matchless values which are there enwombed, Serving thee always as they now serve me? Nor these alone: turn thou thy looks aloft, And watch the stars as they go swimming past. Behold their vastness, each a world,’ he said; ‘The secrets of all these, too, thou shalt know, The spirits of all these shall be thy slaves, If thou wilt swear as erst amid the tombs.’ “The woe of desolation wrapped me round, The joy to know all mysteries tempted me, And with a shudder that shook me to the soul I swore, as erst I swore amid the tombs. “As on my hand he placed a signet-ring, Suddenly loud the desert winds arose, And blew with mighty stress among the tents; And instantly aloft the thunder ran, A mighty issue of miraculous light Burst shaft-like forward, smiting him in twain, Or so it seemed, down through the solid earth. In vain I shrunk into a dim recess; Before me stood the son of paradise. Then leapt the soul to life within my heart— Leapt into life with fear, and pain, and woe— Anger and sadness both were on his brow. “‘Could’st thou no trial bear—all but redeemed; Could’st thou not rest content? A rabbi’s child! Enjoy as best thou may this ill-won power Over the darker agencies of time, And bide the end, which end is punishment But the more terrible, the more delayed; Yet know this also, thou shalt thus no more Be punished in a body built of clay.’ He vanished, leaving me to sharp remorse, And harrowed with the thought of his grieved look. ‘And yet no power in heaven or hell,’ I said, ‘May now annul my deed.’ 251 “And not one day Of joy has brought to me my ‘ill-won power.’ I built vast palaces in quiet view Of ancient cities, or by famous streams; I filled my halls with men and women fair, And with these pages of a beauty rare Like striplings kidnapped from some skirt of heaven; Yet sorrowful of countenance withal, As knowing that their mortal doom is joined With mine irrevocably, that with me ’Tis theirs to own these shows of time, with me To live—with me to die. And as, ’tis said, A hunted roe will evermore beat round Towards whence he started first, I felt at length An ardent longing for my native place; That spot in all the earth where only I, In tasting of it, had divined the worth And Sabbath quality of household peace. Then coming hither, thus constrained, I pitched My dwelling here, even this thou seest; built fair, And filled with splendours such as never yet Under one roof-tree on this earth were stored. See yon surpassing lustres! Could this orb Show such? From Mars came that; from Venus this; And yonder mass of sun-bright glory, that From Mercury came, whence came these viols, too, Instinct with fervent music such as ne’er From earthly instruments might thrill abroad.” Then seizing one of them, even as she spake, Over its chords she moved her ivory hand, And instantly the palace domes throughout Rang resonant, as every hall and crypt Were pulsing music from a thousand shells That still ran confluent with a mellow slide And intercourse of cadence: sweet, and yet Most mournful and most weird, and oft intoned With a wild wilfulness of power that worked For madness more than joy. “Even such, ” she said “Are the delights with which I most converse In the dark loneness of my fated soul, 252 For all is show, not substance. All I hold But darkens more the certainty I have Of wrath to come, from which no change of place, No earthly power, no power of heaven nor hell, May shield me now. I see it shadowing forth Even like a coming night, in whose dark folds My soul would ask to hide itself in vain. And now I go to meet the angel’s face; I will not claim my hundred years of pride, I trample underneath my feet the gift For which I sold my soul; I will not touch The ring of Sammael, nor use his power To stay the torments that devour my life; Misery, shame, remorse, and dread are mine; Yet shall the angel see repentent eyes, And know at last I could one trial bear; Too late, too late.” As thus the woman spake, Her brow grew dark, and suddenly she shrieked In her great agony. “Oh pray for me! Pray, rabbi! For the daughter of thy friend! The hour is coming, nay, the hour is come!” There was a rustle as of wings aloft, A sudden flicker in the lights below, And she, who until now seemed speaking, sank Back on her pillow and in silence lay Beautiful in the marble calm of death. The rabbi gazed on her, and thought the while Of those far times, when, as a child, her grace Had filled with pleasantness her father’s house. Then to her servants gave in charge the corpse, And forth he paced, much musing as he went. At length he turned to gaze once more upon The silent house of death. Can such things be? All had evanished like a morning mist! Only the woods that hung like clouds about The steeps of Hebron, in the whitening dawn Lay dark against the sky! Only a pool Gleamed flat before him, where it seemed erewhile The splendid palace had adorned the view! 253 Perplexed in mind, the rabbi turned again And hurried homeward, muttering as he went: Was it a vision? Can such marvels be? But what in truth are all things, even those That seem most solid—dust and air at last ~ Charles Harpur,

131: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,