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1:A man does not always choose what his guardian angel intends. ~ Saint Thomas Aquinas,

2:So valuable to heaven is the dignity of the human soul that every member of the human race has a guardian angel from the moment the person begins to be. ~ Saint Jerome,

3:Invoke your Guardian Angel who will enlighten you. God gave you your Guardian Angel for this reason. So make use of your Angel's service. ~ Saint Padre Pio of Pietrelcina,

4:The Serpent of the threshold hissing rose, A fatal guardian hood with monstrous coils, ~ Sri Aurobindo, Savitri, The Entry into the Inner Countries,

5:There is a guardian power, there are Hands that save, Calm eyes divine regard the human scene. ~ Sri Aurobindo, Savitri, The Parable of the Search for the Soul,

6:When tempted, invoke your Angel. He is more eager to help you than you are to be helped! Ignore the devil and do not be afraid of him: He trembles and flees at the sight of your Guardian Angel. ~ Saint John Bosco,

7:But there is a guardian power, there are Hands that save,    Calm eyes divine regard the human scene.    ~ Sri Aurobindo, Savitri, The Parable of the Search for the Soul, [T5],

8:The angel who guards the mother guards the child while in the womb. But at its birth, when it becomes separate from the mother, an angel guardian is appointed to it ~ Saint Thomas Aquinas, (ST 1.113.5ad3).,

9:The angel who guards the mother guards the child while in the womb. But at its birth, when it becomes separate from the mother, an angel guardian is appointed to the child ~ Saint Thomas Aquinas, (ST 1.113.5ad3).,

10:Lion, give me your caresses— My husband and guardian, my spirit magician, My Shu-Sin who gladdens the Wind-God's heart Give me your caresses because you love me." ~ One stanza of love poem, (c. 1980 BC).For poem see, (diff. trans.): http://bit.ly/2qZHBef,

11:You alone can give us these gifts and confer these favors on us. We put our trust in you through Jesus Christ, our high priest, the guardian of our souls. Through him be glory and majesty to you now and through all generations until the end of time. Amen. ~ Clement I,

12:A border sovereign is the occult Force. A threshold guardian of the earth-scene's Beyond, She has canalised the outbreaks of the Gods ~ Sri Aurobindo, Savitri, The Yoga of the King, The Yoga of the Spirit's Freedom and Greatness,

13:The magicians most important invocation is that of his Genius, Daemon, True Will, or Augoeides. This operation is traditionally known as attaining the Knowledge and Conversation of the Holy Guardian Angel. It is sometimes known as the Magnum Opus or Great Work.    ~ Peter J Carroll, Liber Null,

14:The upbringing of a human child clearly requires, not only the mother's care for his nourishment, but much more the care of his father as guide and guardian, and under whom he progresses in both internal and external goods ~ Saint Thomas Aquinas, (ST 2-2.154.2).,

15:There is a single main definition of the object of all magical Ritual. It is the uniting of the Microcosm with the Macrocosm. The Supreme and Complete Ritual is therefore the Invocation of the Holy Guardian Angel; or, in the language of Mysticism, Union with God. ~ Aleister Crowley,

16:Augoeides is an obscure term meaning luminous body and thought to refer to the planets. Aleister Crowley considered the term to refer to the Holy Guardian Angel of Abramelin; the Atman of Hinduism the Daemon of the ancient Greeks. Robert Lomas associates the term with the Higher Self or soul of the individual    ~ Wikipedia,

17:God said unto Jesus, "O Jesus! When I see in My servants' hearts pure love for Myself unmixed with any selfish desire concerning this world or the next, I act as guardian over that love." Again, when people asked Jesus "What is the highest work of all?" he answered, "To love God and to be resigned to His will. ~ Abu Hamid al-Ghazali,

18:If thou shalt perfectly observe these rules, all the following Symbols and an infinitude of others will be granted unto thee by thy Holy Guardian Angel; thou thus living for the Honour and Glory of the True and only God, for thine own good, and that of thy neighbour. Let the Fear of God be ever before the eyes and the heart of him who shall possess this Divine Wisdom and Sacred Magic. ~ MacGregor Mathers, The Book of the Sacred Magic of Abramelin the Mage,

19:It is impossible to lay down precise rules by which a man may attain to the knowledge and conversation of His Holy Guardian Angel; for that is the particular secret of each one of us; a secret not to be told or even divined by any other, whatever his grade. It is the Holy of Holies, whereof each man is his own High Priest, and none knoweth the Name of his brother's God, or the Rite that invokes Him. ~ Aleister Crowley, Liber ABA,

20:It should never be forgotten for a single moment that the central and essential work of the Magician is the attainment of the Knowledge and Conversation of the Holy Guardian Angel. Once he has achieved this he must of course be left entirely in the hands of that Angel, who can be invariably and inevitably relied upon to lead him to the further great step-crossing of the Abyss and the attainment of the grade of Master of the Temple. ~ Aleister Crowley, Magick Without Tears,

21:This Magical Will is the wand in your hand by which the Great Work is accomplished, by which the Daughter is not merely set upon the throne of the Mother, but assumed into the Highest. : In one, the best, system of Magick, the Absolute is called the Crown, God is called the Father, the Pure Soul is called the Mother, the Holy Guardian Angel is called the Son, and the Natural Soul is called the Daughter. The Son purifies the Daughter by wedding her; she thus becomes the Mother, the uniting of whom with the Father absorbs all into the Crown. ~ Aleister Crowley, Book 4,

22:13. The Magic Flight:If the hero in his triumph wins the blessing of the goddess or the god and is then explicitly commissioned to return to the world with some elixir for the restoration of society, the final stage of his adventure is supported by all the powers of his supernatural patron. On the other hand, if the trophy has been attained against the opposition of its guardian, or if the hero's wish to return to the world has been resented by the gods or demons, then the last stage of the mythological round becomes a lively, often comical, pursuit. This flight may be complicated by marvels of magical obstruction and evasion. ~ Joseph Campbell,

23:To know and not to know, to be conscious of complete truthfulness while telling carefully constructed lies, to hold simultaneously two opinions which cancelled out, knowing them to be contradictory and believing in both of them, to use logic against logic, to repudiate morality while laying claim to it, to believe that democracy was impossible and that the Party was the guardian of democracy, to forget whatever it was necessary to forget, then to draw it back into memory again at the moment when it was needed, and then promptly to forget it again: and above all, to apply the same process to the process itself -- that was the ultimate subtlety: consciously to induce unconsciousness, and then, once again, to become unconscious of the act of hypnosis you had just performed. Even to understand the word 'doublethink' involved the use of doublethink. ~ George Orwell, 1984,

24:4. Crossing the First Threshold:With the personifications of his destiny to guide and aid him, the hero goes forward in his adventure until he comes to the 'threshold guardian' at the entrance to the zone of magnified power. Such custodians bound the world in four directions-also up and down-standing for the limits of the hero's present sphere, or life horizon. Beyond them is darkness, the unknown and danger; just as beyond the parental watch is danger to the infant and beyond the protection of his society danger to the members of the tribe. The usual person is more than content, he is even proud, to remain within the indicated bounds, and popular belief gives him every reason to fear so much as the first step into the unexplored. The adventure is always and everywhere a passage beyond the veil of the known into the unknown; the powers that watch at the boundary are dangerous; to deal with them is risky; yet for anyone with competence and courage the danger fades. ~ Joseph Campbell,

25:Now, on the other hand, there is an entirely different type of angel; and here we must be especially careful to remember that we include gods and devils, for there are such beings who are not by any means dependent on one particular element for their existence. They are microcosms in exactly the same sense as men and women are. They are individuals who have picked up the elements of their composition as possibility and convenience dictates, exactly as we do ourselves... I believe that the Holy Guardian Angel is a Being of this order. He is something more than a man, possibly a being who has already passed through the stage of humanity, and his peculiarly intimate relationship with his client is that of friendship, of community, of brotherhood, or Fatherhood. He is not, let me say with emphasis, a mere abstraction from yourself; and that is why I have insisted rather heavily that the term 'Higher Self' implies a damnable heresy and a dangerous delusion. ~ Aleister Crowley, Magick Without Tears,

26:Abrahadabra is a word that first publicly appeared in The Book of the Law, the central sacred text of Thelema . Its author, Aleister Crowley, described it as the Word of the Aeon, which signifieth The Great Work accomplished. This is in reference to his belief that the writing of Liber Legis (another name for The Book of the Law) heralded a new Aeon for mankind that was ruled by the godRa-Hoor-Khuit (a form of Horus). Abrahadabra is, therefore, the magical formula of this new age. It is not to be confused with the Word of the Law of the Aeon, which is Thelema, meaning Will. ... Abrahadabra is also referred to as the Word of Double Power. More specifically, it represents the uniting of the Microcosm with the Macrocosm    represented by the pentagram and the hexagram, the rose and the cross, the circle and the square, the 5 and the 6 (etc.), as also called the attainment of the Knowledge and Conversation of ones Holy Guardian Angel. In Commentaries (1996), Crowley says that the word is a symbol of the establishment of the pillar or phallus of the Macrocosm...in the void of the Microcosm.    ~ Wikipedia,

27:Directly on awakening, preferably at dawn, the initiate goes to the place of invocation. Figuring to himself as he goes that being born anew each day brings with it the chance of greater rebirth, first he banishes the temple of his mind by ritual or by some magical trance. Then he unveils some token or symbol or sigil which represents to him the Holy Guardian Angel. This symbol he will likely have to change during the great work as the inspiration begins to move him. Next he invokes an image of the Angel into his minds eye. It may be considered as a luminous duplicate of ones own form standing in front of or behind one, or simply as a ball of brilliant light above ones head. Then he formulates his aspirations in what manner he will, humbling himself in prayer or exalting himself in loud proclamation as his need be. The best form of this invocation is spoken spontaneously from the heart, and if halting at first, will prove itself in time. He is aiming to establish a set of ideas and images which correspond to the nature of his genius, and at the same time receive inspiration from that source. As the magician begins to manifest more of his true will, the Augoeides will reveal images, names, and spiritual principles by which it can be drawn into greater manifestation.    ~ Peter J Carroll, Liber Null,

28:So then let the Adept set this sigil upon all the Words he hath writ in the book of the Works of his Will. And let him then end all, saying: Such are the Words!2 For by this he maketh proclamation before all them that be about his Circle that these Words are true and puissant, binding what he would bind, and loosing what he would loose. Let the Adept perform this ritual right, perfect in every part thereof, once daily for one moon, then twice, at dawn and dusk, for two moons; next thrice, noon added, for three moons; afterwards, midnight making up his course, for four moons four times every day. Then let the Eleventh Moon be consecrated wholly to this Work; let him be instant in constant ardour, dismissing all but his sheer needs to eat and sleep.3 For know that the true Formula4 whose virtue sufficed the Beast in this Attainment, was thus: INVOKE OFTEN So may all men come at last to the Knowledge and Conversation of the Holy Guardian Angel: thus sayeth The Beast, and prayeth his own Angel that this Book be as a burning Lamp, and as a living Spring, for Light and Life to them that read therein. 1. There is an alternative spelling, TzBA-F, where the Root, "an Host," has the value of 93. The Practicus should revise this Ritual throughout in the Light of his personal researches in the Qabalah, and make it his own peculiar property. The spelling here suggested implies that he who utters the Word affirms his allegiance to the symbols 93 and 6; that he is a warrior in the army of Will, and of the Sun. 93 is also the number of AIWAZ and 6 of The Beast. 2. The consonants of LOGOS, "Word," add (Hebrew values) to 93 [reading the Sigma as Samekh = 60; reading it as Shin = 300 gives 333], and ΕΠΗ, "Words" (whence "Epic") has also that value; ΕΙ∆Ε ΤΑ ΕΠΗ might be the phrase here intended; its number is 418. This would then assert the accomplishment of the Great Work; this is the natural conclusion of the Ritual. Cf. CCXX, III, 75. 3. These needs are modified during the process of Initiation both as to quantity and quality. One should not become anxious about one's phyiscal or mental health on à priori grounds, but pay attention only to indubitable symptoms of distress should such arise. ~ Aleister Crowley, Liber Samekh,

29:The general characteristics and attributions of these Grades are indicated by their correspondences on the Tree of Life, as may be studied in detail in the Book 777.    Student. -- His business is to acquire a general intellectual knowledge of all systems of attainment, as declared in the prescribed books. (See curriculum in Appendix I.) {231}    Probationer. -- His principal business is to begin such practices as he my prefer, and to write a careful record of the same for one year.    Neophyte. -- Has to acquire perfect control of the Astral Plane.    Zelator. -- His main work is to achieve complete success in Asana and Pranayama. He also begins to study the formula of the Rosy Cross.    Practicus. -- Is expected to complete his intellectual training, and in particular to study the Qabalah.    Philosophus. -- Is expected to complete his moral training. He is tested in Devotion to the Order.    Dominus Liminis. -- Is expected to show mastery of Pratyahara and Dharana.    Adeptus (without). -- is expected to perform the Great Work and to attain the Knowledge and Conversation of the Holy Guardian Angel.    Adeptus (within). -- Is admitted to the practice of the formula of the Rosy Cross on entering the College of the Holy Ghost.    Adeptus (Major). -- Obtains a general mastery of practical Magick, though without comprehension.    Adeptus (Exemptus). -- Completes in perfection all these matters. He then either ("a") becomes a Brother of the Left Hand Path or, ("b") is stripped of all his attainments and of himself as well, even of his Holy Guardian Angel, and becomes a babe of the Abyss, who, having transcended the Reason, does nothing but grow in the womb of its mother. It then finds itself a    Magister Templi. -- (Master of the Temple): whose functions are fully described in Liber 418, as is this whole initiation from Adeptus Exemptus. See also "Aha!". His principal business is to tend his "garden" of disciples, and to obtain a perfect understanding of the Universe. He is a Master of Samadhi. {232}    Magus. -- Attains to wisdom, declares his law (See Liber I, vel Magi) and is a Master of all Magick in its greatest and highest sense.    Ipsissimus. -- Is beyond all this and beyond all comprehension of those of lower degrees. ~ Aleister Crowley, Liber ABA,

30:Ekajaṭī or Ekajaṭā, (Sanskrit: "One Plait Woman"; Wylie: ral gcig ma: one who has one knot of hair),[1] also known as Māhacīnatārā,[2] is one of the 21 Taras. Ekajati is, along with Palden Lhamo deity, one of the most powerful and fierce goddesses of Vajrayana Buddhist mythology.[1][3] According to Tibetan legends, her right eye was pierced by the tantric master Padmasambhava so that she could much more effectively help him subjugate Tibetan demons. Ekajati is also known as "Blue Tara", Vajra Tara or "Ugra Tara".[1][3] She is generally considered one of the three principal protectors of the Nyingma school along with Rāhula and Vajrasādhu (Wylie: rdo rje legs pa). Often Ekajati appears as liberator in the mandala of the Green Tara. Along with that, her ascribed powers are removing the fear of enemies, spreading joy, and removing personal hindrances on the path to enlightenment. Ekajati is the protector of secret mantras and "as the mother of the mothers of all the Buddhas" represents the ultimate unity. As such, her own mantra is also secret. She is the most important protector of the Vajrayana teachings, especially the Inner Tantras and termas. As the protector of mantra, she supports the practitioner in deciphering symbolic dakini codes and properly determines appropriate times and circumstances for revealing tantric teachings. Because she completely realizes the texts and mantras under her care, she reminds the practitioner of their preciousness and secrecy.[4] Düsum Khyenpa, 1st Karmapa Lama meditated upon her in early childhood. According to Namkhai Norbu, Ekajati is the principal guardian of the Dzogchen teachings and is "a personification of the essentially non-dual nature of primordial energy."[5] Dzogchen is the most closely guarded teaching in Tibetan Buddhism, of which Ekajati is a main guardian as mentioned above. It is said that Sri Singha (Sanskrit: Śrī Siṃha) himself entrusted the "Heart Essence" (Wylie: snying thig) teachings to her care. To the great master Longchenpa, who initiated the dissemination of certain Dzogchen teachings, Ekajati offered uncharacteristically personal guidance. In his thirty-second year, Ekajati appeared to Longchenpa, supervising every ritual detail of the Heart Essence of the Dakinis empowerment, insisting on the use of a peacock feather and removing unnecessary basin. When Longchenpa performed the ritual, she nodded her head in approval but corrected his pronunciation. When he recited the mantra, Ekajati admonished him, saying, "Imitate me," and sang it in a strange, harmonious melody in the dakini's language. Later she appeared at the gathering and joyously danced, proclaiming the approval of Padmasambhava and the dakinis.[6] ~ Wikipedia,

31:The supreme Form is then made visible. It is that of the infinite Godhead whose faces are everywhere and in whom are all the wonders of existence, who multiplies unendingly all the many marvellous revelations of his being, a world-wide Divinity seeing with innumerable eyes, speaking from innumerable mouths, armed for battle with numberless divine uplifted weapons, glorious with divine ornaments of beauty, robed in heavenly raiment of deity, lovely with garlands of divine flowers, fragrant with divine perfumes. Such is the light of this body of God as if a thousand suns had risen at once in heaven. The whole world multitudinously divided and yet unified is visible in the body of the God of Gods. Arjuna sees him, God magnificent and beautiful and terrible, the Lord of souls who has manifested in the glory and greatness of his spirit this wild and monstrous and orderly and wonderful and sweet and terrible world, and overcome with marvel and joy and fear he bows down and adores with words of awe and with clasped hands the tremendous vision. "I see" he cries "all the gods in thy body, O God, and different companies of beings, Brahma the creating lord seated in the Lotus, and the Rishis and the race of the divine Serpents. I see numberless arms and bellies and eyes and faces, I see thy infinite forms on every side, but I see not thy end nor thy middle nor thy beginning, O Lord of the universe, O Form universal. I see thee crowned and with thy mace and thy discus, hard to discern because thou art a luminous mass of energy on all sides of me, an encompassing blaze, a sun-bright fire-bright Immeasurable. Thou art the supreme Immutable whom we have to know, thou art the high foundation and abode of the universe, thou art the imperishable guardian of the eternal laws, thou art the sempiternal soul of existence." But in the greatness of this vision there is too the terrific image of the Destroyer. This Immeasurable without end or middle or beginning is he in whom all things begin and exist and end. This Godhead who embraces the worlds with his numberless arms and destroys with his million hands, whose eyes are suns and moons, has a face of blazing fire and is ever burning up the whole universe with the flame of his energy. The form of him is fierce and marvellous and alone it fills all the regions and occupies the whole space between earth and heaven. The companies of the gods enter it, afraid, adoring; the Rishis and the Siddhas crying "May there be peace and weal" praise it with many praises; the eyes of Gods and Titans and Giants are fixed on it in amazement. It has enormous burning eyes; it has mouths that gape to devour, terrible with many tusks of destruction; it has faces like the fires of Death and Time. The kings and the captains and the heroes on both sides of the world-battle are hastening into its tusked and terrible jaws and some are seen with crushed and bleeding heads caught between its teeth of power; the nations are rushing to destruction with helpless speed into its mouths of flame like many rivers hurrying in their course towards the ocean or like moths that cast themselves on a kindled fire. With those burning mouths the Form of Dread is licking all the regions around; the whole world is full of his burning energies and baked in the fierceness of his lustres. The world and its nations are shaken and in anguish with the terror of destruction and Arjuna shares in the trouble and panic around him; troubled and in pain is the soul within him and he finds no peace or gladness. He cries to the dreadful Godhead, "Declare to me who thou art that wearest this form of fierceness. Salutation to thee, O thou great Godhead, turn thy heart to grace. I would know who thou art who wast from the beginning, for I know not the will of thy workings." ~ Sri Aurobindo, Essays On The Gita, 2.10_-_The_Vision_of_the_World-Spirit_-_Time_the_Destroyer,

32:AUGOEIDES:    The magicians most important invocation is that of his Genius, Daemon, True Will, or Augoeides. This operation is traditionally known as attaining the Knowledge and Conversation of the Holy Guardian Angel. It is sometimes known as the Magnum Opus or Great Work.    The Augoeides may be defined as the most perfect vehicle of Kia on the plane of duality. As the avatar of Kia on earth, the Augoeides represents the true will, the raison detre of the magician, his purpose in existing. The discovery of ones true will or real nature may be difficult and fraught with danger, since a false identification leads to obsession and madness. The operation of obtaining the knowledge and conversation is usually a lengthy one. The magician is attempting a progressive metamorphosis, a complete overhaul of his entire existence. Yet he has to seek the blueprint for his reborn self as he goes along. Life is less the meaningless accident it seems. Kia has incarnated in these particular conditions of duality for some purpose. The inertia of previous existences propels Kia into new forms of manifestation. Each incarnation represents a task, or a puzzle to be solved, on the way to some greater form of completion.    The key to this puzzle is in the phenomena of the plane of duality in which we find ourselves. We are, as it were, trapped in a labyrinth or maze. The only thing to do is move about and keep a close watch on the way the walls turn. In a completely chaotic universe such as this one, there are no accidents. Everything is signifcant. Move a single grain of sand on a distant shore and the entire future history of the world will eventually be changed. A person doing his true will is assisted by the momentum of the universe and seems possessed of amazing good luck. In beginning the great work of obtaining the knowledge and conversation, the magician vows to interpret every manifestation of existence as a direct message from the infinite Chaos to himself personally.    To do this is to enter the magical world view in its totality. He takes complete responsibility for his present incarnation and must consider every experience, thing, or piece of information which assails him from any source, as a reflection of the way he is conducting his existence. The idea that things happen to one that may or may not be related to the way one acts is an illusion created by our shallow awareness.    Keeping a close eye on the walls of the labyrinth, the conditions of his existence, the magician may then begin his invocation. The genius is not something added to oneself. Rather it is a stripping away of excess to reveal the god within.    Directly on awakening, preferably at dawn, the initiate goes to the place of invocation. Figuring to himself as he goes that being born anew each day brings with it the chance of greater rebirth, first he banishes the temple of his mind by ritual or by some magical trance. Then he unveils some token or symbol or sigil which represents to him the Holy Guardian Angel. This symbol he will likely have to change during the great work as the inspiration begins to move him. Next he invokes an image of the Angel into his minds eye. It may be considered as a luminous duplicate of ones own form standing in front of or behind one, or simply as a ball of brilliant light above ones head. Then he formulates his aspirations in what manner he will, humbling himself in prayer or exalting himself in loud proclamation as his need be. The best form of this invocation is spoken spontaneously from the heart, and if halting at first, will prove itself in time. He is aiming to establish a set of ideas and images which correspond to the nature of his genius, and at the same time receive inspiration from that source. As the magician begins to manifest more of his true will, the Augoeides will reveal images, names, and spiritual principles by which it can be drawn into greater manifestation. Having communicated with the invoked form, the magician should draw it into himself and go forth to live in the way he hath willed.    The ritual may be concluded with an aspiration to the wisdom of silence by a brief concentration on the sigil of the Augoeides, but never by banishing. Periodically more elaborate forms of ritual, using more powerful forms of gnosis, may be employed. At the end of the day, there should be an accounting and fresh resolution made. Though every day be a catalog of failure, there should be no sense of sin or guilt. Magic is the raising of the whole individual in perfect balance to the power of Infinity, and such feelings are symptomatic of imbalance. If any unnecessary or imbalanced scraps of ego become identified with the genius by mistake, then disaster awaits. The life force flows directly into these complexes and bloats them into grotesque monsters variously known as the demon Choronzon. Some magicians attempting to go too fast with this invocation have failed to banish this demon, and have gone spectacularly insane as a result.    ~ Peter J Carroll, Liber Null,

33:Chapter LXXXII: Epistola Penultima: The Two Ways to Reality Cara Soror, Do what thou wilt shall be the whole of the Law. How very sensible of you, though I admit somewhat exacting! You write-Will you tell me exactly why I should devote so much of my valuable time to subjects like Magick and Yoga. That is all very well. But you ask me to put it in syllogistic form. I have no doubt this can be done, though the task seems somewhat complicated. I think I will leave it to you to construct your series of syllogisms yourself from the arguments of this letter. In your main question the operative word is "valuable. Why, I ask, in my turn, should you consider your time valuable? It certainly is not valuable unless the universe has a meaning, and what is more, unless you know what that meaning is-at least roughly-it is millions to one that you will find yourself barking up the wrong tree. First of all let us consider this question of the meaning of the universe. It is its own evidence to design, and that design intelligent design. There is no question of any moral significance-"one man's meat is another man's poison" and so on. But there can be no possible doubt about the existence of some kind of intelligence, and that kind is far superior to anything of which we know as human. How then are we to explore, and finally to interpret this intelligence? It seems to me that there are two ways and only two. Imagine for a moment that you are an orphan in charge of a guardian, inconceivably learned from your point of view. Suppose therefore that you are puzzled by some problem suitable to your childish nature, your obvious and most simple way is to approach your guardian and ask him to enlighten you. It is clearly part of his function as guardian to do his best to help you. Very good, that is the first method, and close parallel with what we understand by the word Magick. We are bothered by some difficulty about one of the elements-say Fire-it is therefore natural to evoke a Salamander to instruct you on the difficult point. But you must remember that your Holy Guardian Angel is not only far more fully instructed than yourself on every point that you can conceive, but you may go so far as to say that it is definitely his work, or part of his work; remembering always that he inhabits a sphere or plane which is entirely different from anything of which you are normally aware. To attain to the Knowledge and Conversation of the Holy Guardian Angel is consequently without doubt by far the simplest way by which you can yourself approach that higher order of being. That, then, is a clearly intelligible method of procedure. We call it Magick. It is of course possible to strengthen the link between him and yourself so that in course of time you became capable of moving and, generally speaking, operating on that plane which is his natural habitat. There is however one other way, and one only, as far as I can see, of reaching this state. It is at least theoretically possible to exalt the whole of your own consciousness until it becomes as free to move on that exalted plane as it is for him. You should note, by the way, that in this case the postulation of another being is not necessary. There is no way of refuting the solipsism if you feel like that. Personally I cannot accede to its axiom. The evidence for an external universe appears to me perfectly adequate. Still there is no extra charge for thinking on those lines if you so wish. I have paid a great deal of attention in the course of my life to the method of exalting the human consciousness in this way; and it is really quite legitimate to identify my teaching with that of the Yogis. I must however point out that in the course of my instruction I have given continual warnings as to the dangers of this line of research. For one thing there is no means of checking your results in the ordinary scientific sense. It is always perfectly easy to find a subjective explanation of any phenomenon; and when one considers that the greatest of all the dangers in any line of research arise from egocentric vanity, I do not think I have exceeded my duty in anything that I have said to deter students from undertaking so dangerous a course as Yoga. It is, of course, much safer if you are in a position to pursue in the Indian Jungles, provided that your health will stand the climate and also, I must say, unless you have a really sound teacher on whom you can safely rely. But then, if we once introduce a teacher, why not go to the Fountain-head and press towards the Knowledge and conversation of the Holy Guardian Angel? In any case your Indian teacher will ultimately direct you to seek guidance from that source, so it seems to me that you have gone to a great deal of extra trouble and incurred a great deal of unnecessary danger by not leaving yourself in the first place in the hands of the Holy Guardian Angel. In any case there are the two methods which stand as alternatives. I do not know of any third one which can be of any use whatever. Logically, since you have asked me to be logical, there is certainly no third way; there is the external way of Magick, and the internal way of Yoga: there you have your alternatives, and there they cease. Love is the law, love under will. Fraternally, 666 ~ Aleister Crowley, Magick Without Tears,

*** WISDOM TROVE ***

1:A man's character is his guardian divinity. ~ heraclitus, @wisdomtrove

2:Reason is nothing less than the guardian of love ~ sam-harris, @wisdomtrove

3:Never travel faster than your guardian angel can fly. ~ mother-teresa, @wisdomtrove

4:A man does not always choose what his guardian angel intends. ~ denis-diderot, @wisdomtrove

5:A man does not always choose what his guardian angel intends. ~ thomas-aquinas, @wisdomtrove

6:There is a time when fear is good and ought to remain seated as a guardian of the heart. ~ aeschylus, @wisdomtrove

7:A good marriage is that in which each appoints the other guardian of his solitude ~ rainer-maria-rilke, @wisdomtrove

8:A good marriage is that in which each appoints the other guardian of his solitude. ~ rainer-maria-rilke, @wisdomtrove

9:Eternal blessings crown my earliest friend, And round his dwelling guardian saints attend. ~ oliver-goldsmith, @wisdomtrove

10:Chronicles of Earthsea. The Guardian Online Interview, www.theguardian.com. February 9, 2004. ~ ursula-k-le-guin, @wisdomtrove

11:Some believe strongly that each Christian may have his own guardian angel assigned to watch over him or her. ~ billy-graham, @wisdomtrove

12:Conscience is the guardian in the individual of the rules which the community has evolved for its own preservation. ~ william-somerset-maugham, @wisdomtrove

13:The problem of human suffering is never too much rational thinking, or too high a demand for evidence. But the solutions are. ... Reason is nothing less than the guardian of love. ~ sam-harris, @wisdomtrove

14:There are some men's souls that are so thin, so almost destitute of what is the true idea of soul, that were not the guardian angels so keen-sighted, they would altogether overlook them. ~ henry-ward-beecher, @wisdomtrove

15:I wonder what becomes of lost opportunities? Perhaps our guardian angel gathers them up as we drop them, and will give them back to us in the beautiful sometime when we have grown wiser, and learned how to use them rightly. ~ hellen-keller, @wisdomtrove

16:The point of marriage is not to create a quick commonality by tearing down all boundaries on the contrary, a good marriage is one in which each partner appoints the other to be the guardian of his solitude, and thus they show each other the greatest possible trust. ~ rainer-maria-rilke, @wisdomtrove

17:Something you want badly enough can always be gained. No matter how fierce the enemy, how remote the beautiful lady, or how carefully guarded the treasure, there is always a means to the goal for the earnest seeker. The unseen help of the guardian gods of heaven and earth assure fulfillment. ~ dogen, @wisdomtrove

18:The necessity of reciprocal checks in the exercise of political power, by dividing and distributing it into different depositories, and constituting each the guardian of the public weal against invasions by the others, has been evinced by experiments ancient and modern, some of them in our country and under our own eyes. ~ george-washington, @wisdomtrove

19:How can we encourage other human beings to extend their moral sympathies beyond a narrow locus? How can we learn to become mere human beings, shorn of any more compelling national, ethnic, or religious identity? We can be reasonable. It is in the very nature of reason to fuse cognitive and moral horizons. Reason is nothing less than the guardian of love. ~ sam-harris, @wisdomtrove

20:To know and not to know, to be conscious of complete truthfulne­ss while telling carefully constructe­d lies, to hold simultaneo­usly two opinions which cancelled out, knowing them to be contradict­ory and believing in both of them, to use logic against logic, to repudiate morality while laying claim to it, to believe that democracy was impossible and that the Party was the guardian of democracy. ~ george-orwell, @wisdomtrove

21:The only freedom which deserves the name is that of pursuing our own good in our own way, so long as we do not attempt to deprive others of theirs, or impede their efforts to obtain it. Each is the proper guardian of his own health, whether bodily, or mental or spiritual. Mankind are greater gainers by suffering each other to live as seems good to themselves, than by compelling each to live as seems good to the rest. ~ john-stuart-mill, @wisdomtrove

22:What is a totem? It is as a rule an animal (whether edible and harmless or dangerous and feared) and more rarely a plant or a natural phenomenon (such as rain or water), which stands in a peculiar relation to the whole clan. In the first place, the totem is the common ancestor of the clan; at the same time it is their guardian spirit and helper, which sends them oracles and, if dangerous to others, recognizes and spares its own children. ~ sigmund-freud, @wisdomtrove

23:If this nation is to be wise as well as strong, if we are to achieve our destiny, then we need more new ideas for more wise men reading more good books in more public libraries. These libraries should be open to all except the censor. We must know all the facts and hear all the alternatives and listen to all the criticisms. Let us welcome controversial books and controversial authors. For the Bill of Rights is the guardian of our security as well as our liberty. ~ john-f-kennedy, @wisdomtrove

24:If this nation is to be wise as well as strong, if we are to achieve our destiny, then we need more new ideas for more wise men reading more good books in more public libraries. These libraries should be open to all—except the censor. We must know all the facts and hear all the alternatives and listen to all the criticisms. Let us welcome controversial books and controversial authors. For the Bill of Rights is the guardian of our security as well as our liberty. ~ john-f-kennedy, @wisdomtrove

*** NEWFULLDB 2.4M ***

1:Rebus lifted a Guardian ~ Ian Rankin,

2:Maybe you have a guardian angel. ~ Anonymous,

3:If the guardian or the mother ~ Samuel Johnson,

4:Fairies are animals’ guardian angels. ~ Doreen Virtue,

5:I don’t need a guardian angel, not anymore ~ Ker Dukey,

6:Necessity is a guardian in Nature. ~ Leonardo da Vinci,

7:I am the guardian of power, not its owner. ~ Vicente Fox,

8:I'm your guardian angel, not your monkey. ~ Erica Ridley,

9:Guardian angels guide the steps of idiots. ~ Nancy Farmer,

10:I am the guardian, the shepherd of sins ~ Dante Alighieri,

11:Dammit, Jim. I'm a Guardian, not a doctor. ~ Katie MacAlister,

12:Reason is nothing less than the guardian of love ~ Sam Harris,

13:I think I'm more of a guardian angel girl. ~ Becca Fitzpatrick,

14:The artist has to be a guardian of the culture. ~ Robert Longo,

15:I feel like every single person has guardian angels. ~ Doreen Virtue,

16:No human could withstand a Guardian’s warning glare. ~ Andrea Cremer,

17:Never travel faster than your guardian angel can fly. ~ Mother Teresa,

18:Cultivated mind is the guardian genius of democracy. ~ Mirabeau B Lamar,

19:Because playing moral guardian is so inefficient, ~ Christopher G Nuttall,

20:It's my duty as a guardian to protect Cross Academy, day and night. ~ Yuki,

21:Memory is the treasury and guardian of all things. ~ Marcus Tullius Cicero,

22:We have a guardian angel, and who cares if he's a fallen one? ~ Anne Stuart,

23:My mother has become my daughter and I've become her guardian. ~ Phillip Lim,

24:Your guardian angel never, ever stops communicating with you. ~ Lorna Byrne,

25:I wished that I had some other guardian of minor abilities. ~ Charles Dickens,

26:Long live impudence. It was my guardian angel in this world. ~ Albert Einstein,

27:It's better to be quotable than to be honest. ~ Tom Stoppard, The Guardian 1973.,

28:He seemed to believe that indignation was a sufficient guardian. ~ Stephen L Carter,

29:I've always felt like I had a guardian angel in some of those ways. ~ Larry Wilmore,

30:Long live impudence! It is my guardian angel in this world.” That ~ Walter Isaacson,

31:Poetry has been the guardian angel of humanity in all ages. ~ Alphonse de Lamartine,

32:A man does not always choose what his guardian angel intends. ~ Saint Thomas Aquinas,

33:How happy is that guardian angel who accompanies a soul to Holy Mass! ~ John Vianney,

34:A man does not always choose what his guardian angel intends. ~ Saint Thomas Aquinas,

35:A wholesome fear would be a fit guardian for the citizens. ~ Saint Augustine of Hippo,

36:He had appointed her not only guardian angel, but a member of his ideals. ~ Ana s Nin,

37:In listening mood she seemed to stand, The guardian Naiad of the strand. ~ Walter Scott,

38:I wanted to get an angel wings tatooed on my back, as a guardian thing. ~ Kirsten Dunst,

39:Memory is the treasury and guardian of all things.” — Cicero ~ Marcus Tullius Cicero,

40:reading the Guardian makes you morose compared with the Telegraph. Maybe ~ Marina Lewycka,

41:The Holy Guardian Angel is the spiritual Sun of the Soul of the Adept. ~ Aleister Crowley,

42:Was her guardian angel taking the day off? Had he quit the job completely? ~ Theresa Weir,

43:wealth however limited, if it is entrusted to a good guardian, increases by use, ~ Seneca,

44:Someone needs to be their guardian on the that trail. I'm taking that job. ~ Mary Connealy,

45:You are my Guardian Angel, Maddy,” a voice said, but it was far away from her. ~ Scott Speer,

46:I like to be loved by my children, and I quite like the Guardian hating me. ~ Jeremy Clarkson,

47:Stay present, stay conscious. Be the ever-alert guardian of your inner space. ~ Eckhart Tolle,

48:Where loved ones failed you, guardian angels stand ready to catch your fall. ~ Shannon L Alder,

49:The advancement and diffusion of knowledge is the only guardian of true liberty. ~ James Madison,

50:shoddily constructed sexual fantasies" The Guardian... a newspaper in England. ~ Rocky Flintstone,

51:That a guardian should require another guardian to take care of him is ridiculous indeed. ~ Plato,

52:The Hudson's Bay Company has always been the guardian angel of the north. ~ Ernest Thompson Seton,

53:Like Tracy Chevalier, Burton is skilled at evoking place . . . Wonderful’ Guardian ~ Jessie Burton,

54:For the guardian of the realms, you're really a bit of an idiot, aren't you? - Kit ~ Liz de Jager,

55:There is a time when fear is good and ought to remain seated as a guardian of the heart. ~ Aeschylus,

56:I never wanted a Guardian Angel. I didn't ask for one. One was assigned to me. ~ Mercedes McCambridge,

57:The Guardian,[is] one of the most consistently anti-Catholic newspapers in the world. ~ George Weigel,

58:a good marriage is that in which each appoints the other guardian of his solitude ~ Rainer Maria Rilke,

59:A good marriage is that in which each appoints the other guardian of his solitude. ~ Rainer Maria Rilke,

60:We cannot pass our guardian angel's bounds, resigned or sullen, he will hear our sighs. ~ Saint Augustine,

61:If only we could see the joy of our guardian angel when he sees us fighting our temptations! ~ John Vianney,

62:Your two guardian angels are always with you. The other angels come and go as we need them. ~ Doreen Virtue,

63:Mychael Eiliesor. Guardian paladin, sacred protector, master spellsinger, fashion consultant. ~ Lisa Shearin,

64:When I look back on my life, I wonder how I survived - my mother said I had a guardian angel. ~ Micky Dolenz,

65:The sort of guardian you can hire is worth about as much as the sort of wife you can buy. ~ Robert A Heinlein,

66:You can have more than two guardian angels—in fact, most people I meet have many more than two. ~ Doreen Virtue,

67:If you truly loved someone you won't become their enemy. You will become their guardian angel. ~ Shannon L Alder,

68:Nancy's got a guardian angel. Seven feet plus of muscle and mayhem that goes by the name of Marv. ~ Frank Miller,

69:One function of the angels is illumination, and the other function is that of being a guardian. ~ Fulton J Sheen,

70:Find the Seventh Sister, And the girl shall be, Your spiritual guardian, For eternity. ~ Andrew J Peters,

71:The Spirit Tower has its guardian, but unless it understands who its guardian is, it cannot be guarded. ~ Zhuangzi,

72:I like to believe that I've got a lot of guardian warriors sittin' on my shoulder including my dad. ~ Patrick Swayze,

73:He'd become The Guardian, when all he really was, was a half-rabid food driven by vengeance and hate. ~ Mary Connealy,

74:I was sad Jon Ronson, who wrote in the Guardian and has made a TV show for Channel 4, took against me. ~ Jonathan King,

75:The Advancement and diffusion of knowledge is the only true guardian of liberty. “—James Madison. ~ William H Keith Jr,

76:You don't want me. You're all hard work and deadlines! I'm... snowballs and fun times. I'm not a Guardian. ~ Jack Frost,

77:You are the only human I’ve never been able to feel coming. I’m the only Guardian who can’t sense lycans. ~ Mandy M Roth,

78:Someday, you will make an excellent guardian ba.” “Thanks,” I muttered. “Can’t wait to be poultry forever. ~ Rick Riordan,

79:Borrow the strength from the companion who believes in you more that you believe in yourself. Guardian to Maeve ~ P C Cast,

80:If I am to truly become an autonomous woman, then I must take over that role of being my own guardian. ~ Elizabeth Gilbert,

81:I think it's time to learn how to be a guardian to myself, and my feelings. Gentle, and strong - like Mom. ~ Katie O Neill,

82:But I was saved by someone. I wouldn’t call him a guardian angel exactly. More like a devil with good timing. ~ T M Frazier,

83:Religion is poison. ~ Mao Zedong, as quoted by John N. Gray (2008) in "The atheist delusion," The Guardian, (15 March 2008),

84:Some believe strongly that each Christian may have his own guardian angel assigned to watch over him or her. ~ Billy Graham,

85:My Guardian is the Planet of Silence. Soldier Of Death and Rebirth Sailor Saturn! - Hotaru as Sailor Saturn ~ Naoko Takeuchi,

86:Someday, you will make an excellent guardian ba.” “Thanks,” I muttered. “Can’t wait to be poultry forever. ~ Rick Riordan,

87:The great guardian principle of all conduct in the church of God is personal responsibility to the Lord. ~ John Nelson Darby,

88:Although you appear in earthly form Your essence is pure Consciousness. You are the fearless guardian of Divine Light. ~ Rumi,

89:Anyhow we never know where we must go, nor what guides we are to get - -people,storms, guardian angels, or sheep. ~ John Muir,

90:Be the best Guardian you can be. Save lots of people. And every time you save someone, think of me.” -Maddy ~ Scott Speer,

91:From the mouths of babes. XXXXXXX But are you her Guardian? We've been waiting for him to find her. ~ Lisa Kessler,

92:Dogma is the guardian of mystery. The doctrines are spiritually significant in ways that we cannot fathom. ~ Flannery O Connor,

93:Every human being is the natural guardian of his own importance. ~ Alfred North Whitehead, Science and the Modern World (1925),

94:My guardian angel must have sold her wings in hell, and pawned her halo to death, just to save me from myself. ~ Zachary Koukol,

95:The Guardian Wolf comes to the aid of the heroes of the world when the balance of our existence is in jeopardy. ~ Shannon Mayer,

96:I am totally convinced my guardian angel is an addict because I can't find my Adderall and she is not talking. ~ Shannon L Alder,

97:Joe, my guardian and a man of few words, once said about Lizzie, “That girl could talk the ears off a cornfield. ~ Sharon Creech,

98:Nothing will befall us except what Allah has ordained. He is our guardian. In Allah, my son, put your trust. ~ A P J Abdul Kalam,

99:When I was a child, I sometimes wondered if you were my guardian angel. Now that I’m older I know that you are. ~ Tammara Webber,

100:You are a guardian ... arent you?" He nailed me with his eyes. "Yes." "So .... why are you with me? ~ Georgia Kakalopoulou,

101:We are all writing God's poem. ~ Anne Sexton, as quoted by Erica Jong, in "Into the lion's den" in The Guardian (26 October 2000),

102:The guardian angels of life sometimes fly so high as to be beyond our sight, but they are always looking down upon us. ~ Jean Paul,

103:Your guardian angel loves you. You are precious to it. You are the most important person in the world to this angel. ~ Lorna Byrne,

104:The Guardian loved her. There was no other reason for it. None. He’d given his own freedom, his life, for Lydia. ~ Sherrilyn Kenyon,

105:Lucy Fry and I became very good friends on the set…I called her ‘Royal Higness’ & she answered, ‘Yes, my Guardian. ~ Danila Kozlovsky,

106:Nasty habit, hurling half-digested food around like that. So unsanitary. And this was a guardian of public safety, too. ~ Jeff Lindsay,

107:May his prayer still help your Church to be an equally faithful guardian of your mysteries and a sign of Christ to mankind. ~ Anonymous,

108:... my body ... faithful guardian of a past which my mind should never have forgotten, brought back before my eyes .... ~ Marcel Proust,

109:So the nature required to make a really noble Guardian of our commonwealth will be swift and strong, spirited, and philosophic. ~ Plato,

110:A nightmare is a failed dream, a dream that, by not “handling” anxiety, has failed in its role as the guardian of sleep. ~ Irvin D Yalom,

111:Conscience is the guardian in the individual of the rules which the community has evolved for its own preservation. ~ W Somerset Maugham,

112:He let his eyes drift shut and decided in that instant that for the rest of Emily's life, he would be her guardian angel. ~ Jodi Picoult,

113:Don't regard yourself as a guardian of freedom unless you respect and preserve the rights of people you disagree with. ~ Gerard K O Neill,

114:The nutcracker sits under the holiday tree, a guardian of childhood stories. Feed him walnuts and he will crack open a tale... ~ Vera Nazarian,

115:I don't really need a job or extra money. After Rose and I get married, the kids and I'll just live off of her guardian paycheck. ~ Richelle Mead,

116:In my hand I hold a small guardian angel figurine set in a smooth, clear stone. It’s beautiful, a promise of love. Of forever. ~ Suzanne Young,

117:I would be more than her guardian and her champion and the jester who made her laugh. I would be her everything, if I could. -Puck ~ Julie Kagawa,

118:He shook out a copy of The Manchester Guardian. He had noticed that conservative newspapers sometimes inspired confidence in the shy. ~ John Cheever,

119:What if he wakes up?” the guardian asked. “Kill him quickly or run like hell.” “That’s not even slightly helpful,” the third man said. ~ Steve McHugh,

120:You have the gift of a brilliant internal guardian that stands ready to warn you of hazards and guide you through risky situations. ~ Gavin de Becker,

121:And I am your guardian, your bodyguard, sworn to protect and defend you. And you are making my job excruciatingly difficult. ~ Courtney Allison Moulton,

122:So, tell me, Guardian,” she said, lowering her voice to a purr. “Is that where you carry your sword, or are you just happy to see me? ~ Jennifer Ashley,

123:The Serpent of the threshold hissing rose, A fatal guardian hood with monstrous coils, ~ Sri Aurobindo, Savitri, The Entry into the Inner Countries,

124:To teach feels like you are a guardian of time itself, protecting the future happiness of the world via the minds that are yet to shape it. ~ Matt Haig,

125:In every loving woman there is a priestess of the past - a pious guardian of some affection, of which the object has disappeared. ~ Henri Frederic Amiel,

126:A guardian is broad-minded and understanding. A guard, on the other hand, is a vigilante, narrow-minded and most of the time despotic. ~ Carlos Castaneda,

127:What the hell was that supposed to mean anyway? I'm yours. My what? My slave, my guardian angel, my own personal pain in the ass? ~ Amanda Bonilla,

128:So, you’re a guardian angel now?” “Can’t hurt. Leave the world a better place than how you found it.” “That sounds like a Boy Scout motto. ~ Deborah Cooke,

129:While we are guarding the country, we must accept being the guardian of the finest ethics. The country needs it and we must do it. ~ Creighton W Abrams Jr,

130:I think we all do have a guardian angel. I believe they work through us all the time, when we are thoughtful and good and kind to each other. ~ Roma Downey,

131:I call on the Guardian of the South to bless her with the fire of life, to keep her passion alive even as she enters the autumn of her days. ~ Nathan Lowell,

132:The Devil writes down our sins - our Guardian Angel all our merits. Labor that the Guardian Angel's book may be full, and the Devil's empty. ~ John Vianney,

133:Evelyn’s New Age daughter will discover that a good shag beats hugging a guru any day.” — Helen Falconer, book reviewer for The Guardian ~ Deborah Moggach,

134:I'm referred to, I see, as 'the biggest banker in modern publishing'. Now there's a line that needed the celebrated Guardian proof-reading. ~ Terry Pratchett,

135:In the darkness, I had been afraid that he was evil. At dawn, I realized he had been my friend and guardian, watching over me all night long. ~ Andrew Klavan,

136:she was leaving the world as a woman who had loved and been loved back. She was leaving it as a friend, a companion, a guardian. A mother. ~ Khaled Hosseini,

137:A guardian angel comes when you are very young, and gives you special dispensation. From what? From the world. Yours might be luck. Mine is money. ~ Jane Bowles,

138:One has to consider what effect it would have on one to have to accept the fact that God was not the friendly guardian of kindergarten! ~ Marie Louise von Franz,

139:Our Guardian Angels are our most faithful friends, because they are with us day and night, always and everywhere. We ought often to invoke them. ~ John Vianney,

140:Sometimes I think I must have a Guardian Idiot. A little invisible spirit just behind my shoulder, looking out for me...only he's an imbecile. ~ Spider Robinson,

141:Whatever his private beliefs and religious practice, a president must be the guardian of the laws which ensure America's religious diversity. ~ Walter F Mondale,

142:Strive at first to meditate Upon the sameness of yourself and others. In joy and sorrow all are equal. Thus be guardian of all, as of yourself. We ~ Pema Ch dr n,

143:This may shock you: Hillary Clinton is fundamentally honest. —former New York Times editor Jill Abramson in the Guardian, March 28, 2016 ~ Hillary Rodham Clinton,

144:You cannot attain everlasting peace of mind unless you stop seeing your mind as yourself and start seeing yourself as your mind’s guardian. ~ Mokokoma Mokhonoana,

145:Guardian Belikov is the princess's guardian now," said Kirova, "Her sanctioned guardian." "You got cheap foreign labour to protect Lissa? ~ Richelle Mead,

146:There is a guardian power, there are Hands that save, Calm eyes divine regard the human scene. ~ Sri Aurobindo, Savitri, The Parable of the Search for the Soul,

147:Aw, that’s sweet, but, really, you’d never get that chance. Caelan, you’re not my protector, you’re not my guardian angel and you’re not my boyfriend. ~ Derek Landy,

148:I get up, go and get a coffee, and go do the crossword - I'm loyal to one particular paper, the 'Guardian' - and that's my idea of a perfect morning. ~ Laura Marling,

149:I like quoting Einstein. Know why? Because nobody dares contradict you. ~ Studs Terkel, as quoted by Oliver Burkeman, "Voice of America", The Guardian, 1 March 2002.,

150:So valuable to heaven is the dignity of the human soul that every member of the human race has a guardian angel from the moment the person begins to be. ~ Saint Jerome,

151:Assuming, as you grow older, that you're the guardian of the world's wisdom, even if you haven't necessarily lived enough to know what's right and wrong. ~ Paulo Coelho,

152:When they know what makes you cry, they know what hurts you most. Don't give your enemies that." Solin, character in The Guardian by Sherrilyn Kenyon ~ Sherrilyn Kenyon,

153:Yog-Sothoth knows the gate. Yog-Sothoth is the gate. Yog-Sothoth is the key and guardian of the gate. Past, present, future, all are one in Yog-Sothoth. ~ H P Lovecraft,

154:I don't regard that as a Guardian Angle. I really do think, in a sense, that we are our own Guardian Angles. But we don't listen to ourselves. ~ Dolores Ashcroft Nowicki,

155:You are guardian of a treasure, Oh, just like a sleeping serpent And you shall see, I shall make you Spin around like that sleepy snake. Listen to me. ~ Rumi,

156:St. Joseph was a just man, a tireless worker, the upright guardian of those entrusted to his care. May he always guard, protect and enlighten families. ~ Pope John Paul II,

157:She was always thinking about creatures smaller than her, taking care of them. Both of you are gentle, and strong. She was a guardian, and so are you, Lana. ~ Katie O Neill,

158:Third years are permitted to visit the village of Hogsmeade on certain weekends. Please give the enclosed permission form to your parent or guardian to sign. A ~ J K Rowling,

159:Truly disappointment is the guardian deity of human life; she sits at the threshold of unborn time, and marshals the events as they come forth. ~ Mary Wollstonecraft Shelley,

160:The cultivated mind is the guardian genius of democracy. It is the only dictator that free man acknowledges. It is the only security that free man desires. ~ Mirabeau B Lamar,

161:But there is a guardian power, there are Hands that save,    Calm eyes divine regard the human scene.    ~ Sri Aurobindo, Savitri, The Parable of the Search for the Soul, [T5],

162:Ricky tasted something he hadn't experienced since childhood: the panic of losing the hand of a guardian. In this case the lost parent was his sanity. Somewhere ~ Clive Barker,

163:The girl who reveals herself heart and soul to her friend reveals the secrets of the entire sex; for every girl is the guardian of the feminine mysteries. ~ Georg C Lichtenberg,

164:When the Guardian asked a hospice nurse for the Top 5 Regrets of the Dying, one of the most common answers was that people regretted not being true to their dreams: ~ Anonymous,

165:The State must act as the guardian of a millennial future in the face of which the wishes and the selfishness of the individual must appear as nothing and submit. ~ Adolf Hitler,

166:The spectacle is the nightmare of imprisoned modern society which ultimately expresses nothing more than its desire to sleep. The spectacle is the guardian of sleep. ~ Guy Debord,

167:I say making movies is like eating a sandwich of shit. Sometimes you get more bread, sometimes less bread, but you always get shit." (Guardian interview 2006) ~ Guillermo del Toro,

168:Your guardian angel loves you and you are precious to them - you are the most important person in the world to them and, they have to do everything they can for you. ~ Lorna Byrne,

169:I stare at him in indignation. This changes what? I was his guardian angel till three minutes ago. You can't just switch guardian angels because you feel like it. ~ Sophie Kinsella,

170:Was that Guardian Belikov?” she asked, switching subjects abruptly. “Yeah.” I swore I thought she might faint then and there. “Really? He’s even cuter than I heard. ~ Richelle Mead,

171:The spectacle is the bad dream of a modern society in chains and ultimately expresses nothing more than its wish for sleep. The spectacle is the guardian of that sleep. ~ Guy Debord,

172:Lissa's guardians- she had a fleet now- walked with her. I was among them, wearing my finest black and white, including the red collar marking me as a royal guardian. ~ Richelle Mead,

173:Although you appear in earthly form Your essence is pure Consciousness. You are the fearless guardian of Divine Light. So come, return to the root of the root of your own soul. ~ Rumi,

174:Well, when it works correctly, it conjures up a Patronus,” said Lupin, “which is a kind of anti-dementor — a guardian that acts as a shield between you and the dementor. ~ J K Rowling,

175:For the loss of Chung-Cha. And she was scared. “Hey, guys, come on in,” said Julie warmly. Her guardian, Jerome Cassidy, had recovered from his injuries at the hands of ~ David Baldacci,

176:There is a difference between being witty – quick with the repartee and the insight – and having an aptitude for aphorism. ~ James Fenton. The Guardian (UK) newspaper, 17th February 2007,

177:I saw a charity appeal in the Guardian the other day, and it read "Little Zuki has to walk 13 miles a day just to fetch water". And I couldn't help thinking, she should move. ~ Jimmy Carr,

178:To those who believe the dead do not visit them, I say you have cataracts in your soul. I am a man of science, yet I believe in guardian angels and the haunting by ghosts. ~ Alyson Richman,

179:As the guardian of our rights, the Supreme Court makes decisions every year which either protect the individual or leave him at the mercy of more powerful forces in our society. ~ Herb Kohl,

180:He was seated alone on a lounge chair in the sitting room, his face veiled with a copy of his favourite newspaper, the Guardian, half reading and half listening to Mother. ~ Chigozie Obioma,

181:It’s not like you or any of your family ever had a choice. You are the family of Drake—this is what you do—guard and protect the portals. You were created to be a Guardian… ~ Mychal Daniels,

182:Librarians were like guardian angels, with graying hair and beady eyes, magnified through reading glasses, and always read to recommend new literary windows to gaze through. ~ Ellen Hopkins,

183:If I seem unduly clear to you, you must have misunderstood what I said. -- Speaking to a Senate Committee in 1987, as quoted in the Guardian Weekly, November 4, 2005. ~ Alan Greenspan,

184:Only in time of fear is government thrown back to its primitive and sole function of self-defense and the many interests of which it is the guardian become subordinate to that. ~ Jane Addams,

185:You've destroyed my guardian's carriage, knocked my footmen unconscious, and...hurt a man I consider a friend. Now you assume I should have some goodwill toward you remaining. ~ Bec McMaster,

186:With eye upraised his master's look to scan, The joy, the solace, and the aid of man: The rich man's guardian and the poor man's friend, The only creature faithful to the end. ~ George Crabbe,

187:He was convinced he would keep his word. Not because he feared for his health, but because one cannot break a promise made to one's guardian angel. And he resumed the climb. ~ Andrea Camilleri,

188:The problem of human suffering is never too much rational thinking, or too high a demand for evidence. But the solutions are. ... Reason is nothing less than the guardian of love. ~ Sam Harris,

189:Ending a novel is almost like putting a child to sleep – it can't be done abruptly." [Colm Tóibín, Novelist – Portrait of the Artist, The Guardian, 19 February 2013] ~ Colm T ib n,

190:I believe every person has a guardian spirit or angel. They assist us in the transition between life and death and they also help us pick our parents before we are born. ~ Elisabeth Kubler Ross,

191:Be good. This will make your angel happy. When sorrows and misfortunes, physical or spiritual, afflict you, turn to your guardian angel with strong trust and he will help you. ~ Saint John Bosco,

192:It's man's most basic and sacred stewardship-to serve as the guardian of his own behavior. And it's man's blackest and most fundamental evil to try and overthrow that stewardship ~ Gerald N Lund,

193:and yet she was leaving the world as a woman who had love and been loved back. she was leaving it as a friend, a companion, a guardian. a mother. a person of consequence at last. ~ Khaled Hosseini,

194:And yet she was leaving the world as a woman who had loved and been loved back. She was leaving it as a friend, a companion, a guardian. A mother. A person of consequence at last. ~ Khaled Hosseini,

195:(“The French have wine, the Germans have cars, we have Colin Firth,” wrote Stuart Jeffries in an article about the film in The Guardian that asked, “Why must British spies be so posh?”) ~ Anonymous,

196:This then is injustice; and on the other hand when the trader, the auxiliary, and the guardian each do their own business, that is justice, and will make the city just. I agree with you. We ~ Plato,

197:I used to think to myself that I was the last kind of person who should have a guardian angel, but then I realized that maybe my type of person is the kind who angels come to first. ~ Rebecca McNutt,

198:What makes me angry'is that it wasn't me who revealed that I had been with Osama Bin Laden. I originally denied being involved with Osama when the London Guardian threatened to 'out' me. ~ Kola Boof,

199:You must see yourself as guardian, somebody who will preserve what is true and pass it on. Be a guardian. We don't need militants or revolutionaries. We need guardians. We need leaders. ~ Glenn Beck,

200:I could tell that I had an effect on the angel’s spiritual well-being because I’m pretty sure I have the only guardian angel in history that mutters, grumbles and bitches this much. ~ John G Hartness,

201:I wish that Google would realize its own power in the cause of free speech. Google lives and profits by free speech and must use its considerable power to become a better guardian of it. ~ Jeff Jarvis,

202:My work will be finished if I succeed in carrying conviction to the human family that every man or woman, however weak in body, is the guardian of his or her self-respect and liberty. ~ Mahatma Gandhi,

203:The BBC is another part of the destruction of Great Britain. The truth is that the BBC doesn't know that it is biased. It thinks that Guardian reading champagne socialists are the norm. ~ Norman Tebbit,

204:You seem to forget that I'm Evie's legal guardian." "And you seem to forget that there's absolutely nothing legal about your guardianship, considering all the documents were forged. ~ Kiersten White,

205:Helen and Buster got down and started praying with Mom, but I just stood there looking at them. The way I saw it, I was the one who'd saved us all, not Mom and not some guardian angel. ~ Jeannette Walls,

206:If I am truly to become an autonomous woman, then I must take over that role of being my own guardian...I not only have to become my own husband, but I need to be my own father, too. ~ Elizabeth Gilbert,

207:You're a guardian angel now." I was still too much in awe to wrap my mind around it, but at the same time I felt amazement, curiosity...happiness. "I'm your guardian angel," he said. ~ Becca Fitzpatrick,

208:Angels and demons were identical--interchangeable archetypes--all a matter of polarity. The guardian angel who conquered your enemy in battle was perceived by your enemy as a demon destroyer. ~ Dan Brown,

209:Maggie reached the door well before Scott, and saw another door ahead. The intruder and another man were waiting beyond it. Ten thousand generations filled her with a guardian’s rage. Scott ~ Robert Crais,

210:What kind of guardian are you? Shouldn't you have gone to the bathroom with him?" Isabelle demanded. Jordan looked horrified. "Dudes," he said, "do not follow other dudes to the bathroom. ~ Cassandra Clare,

211:Thrice rung the bell, the slipper knock'd the ground,   And the press'd watch return'd a silver sound.   Belinda still her downy pillow prest,   Her guardian SYLPH prolong'd the balmy rest: ~ Alexander Pope,

212:There are some men's souls that are so thin, so almost destitute of what is the true idea of soul, that were not the guardian angels so keen-sighted, they would altogether overlook them. ~ Henry Ward Beecher,

213:The sport [football] is simply more and more identified with violence, both in its inherent nature and in its savage personnel... [The National Football League] now needs a guardian, not a CEO. ~ Frank Deford,

214:MARTIN KREUTZMER LIKED TO read the Guardian, because it kept him in touch with that strain of self-lacerating smugness which hoped to inherit the earth, but would have no clue what to do with it. ~ Mick Herron,

215:My mother was an angel,” I blurted. “A guardian angel.” Kaidan began to chuckle. “What's so funny?” I asked. “You. You're a walking contradiction. Horns and a halo. I don't believe it. ~ Wendy Higgins,

216:What kind of guardian are you? Shouldn't you have gone to the bathroom with him?" Isabelle demanded. Jordan looked horrified. "Dudes," he said, "do not follow other dudes to the bathroom. ~ Cassandra Clare,

217:Your guardian angel never, ever stops communicating with you. I feel that at times they should be frustrated with us but they seem to have endless patience and they never ever give up on us. ~ Lorna Byrne,

218:In a sense, the mentally deranged and feebleminded were my guardian angels, and when I hadn’t seen any of them in a long time, the sight of an idiot gave me a sudden burst of health and strength. ~ Peter Handke,

219:If a guardian angel had told me this would happen. If they'd come to me the night before you stole me and explained the atrocities I would live through, I would still have come with you." - Nila ~ Pepper Winters,

220:What I don't want is to be called an octogenarian. I saw 'Octogenarian Jane Gardam' and I thought 'Blow me!' I mean, I am, but that's not the point." (Inteview, The Guardian, 8 January 2011) ~ Jane Gardam,

221:Dimitri: "Were you really going to attack all of us? Doing that...protecting her like that—it was very brave. Stupid, but still brave. Why did you even try it?” Rose: "Because I'm her guardian. ~ Richelle Mead,

222:Dimitri: "Were you really going to attack all of us? Doing that...protecting her like that - it was very brave. Stupid, but still brave. Why did you even try it?" Rose: "Because I'm her guardian." ~ Richelle Mead,

223:The right of freely examining public characters and measures, and of free communication among the people thereon . . . has ever been justly deemed the only effectual guardian of every other right. ~ James Madison,

224:Gracious goodness! Your guardian seems to me to be a thorough scoundrel.” “Then you know—” “What?” “Oh! don’t ask me to tell you that! — but I would rather die than find myself alone with him again. ~ Anatole France,

225:The guardian and arbiter of superlative eating, with every meal an unforgettable experience in pleasure, starting with the soup, which he said, 'must be the agent provocateur of a good dinner.' ~ Marie Antoine Careme,

226:My mind wanders back to the dream, to Christian, the way he's always looking out for me, catching me, keeping me on my feet. He's becoming my guardian, maybe. Someone who is there to keep me on my path. ~ Cynthia Hand,

227:Hey, Carlos," the Professor says when he walks in. "How was REACH?" "It sucked." "Can you be more specific?" my guardian asks. "It really sucked," I elaborate, sarcasm dripping from every word. ~ Simone Elkeles,

228:And you, being a good man, can pass it as such, and forgive and pity the dreamer, and be lenient and encouraging when he wakes?" --Rick "Indeed I can. What am I but another dreamer, Rick?" --Guardian ~ Charles Dickens,

229:She rose on her tiptoes and brushed a slow kiss to his lips. "This doesn't have to be a relationship, okay? Just let me be your muse." He bent to taste her again and smiled. "And I'll be your Guardian. ~ Lisa Kessler,

230:When you see sparkling lights with no physical origin and no medical eye issues, it means that you are seeing Angel Lights, which are the energies of your Guardian Angels and Archangels moving around you. ~ Doreen Virtue,

231:All my books are accidental books - they come from reacting to things and thinking about things and engaging in a real way. They are not about, 'Oh, did it get a good review in the Guardian?' I don't care. ~ Arundhati Roy,

232:It's okay," said Adrian breezily. He rested his arm casually on the table. "I don't really need a job or extra money. After Rose and I get married, the kids and I'll just live off of her guardian paycheck. ~ Richelle Mead,

233:I’ve been so busy I haven’t managed to contact her since this morning, but she’s been hovering at the edge of my consciousness all day, like a guardian angel. My guardian angel. Ever present but not intrusive. ~ E L James,

234:PS: I was assigned a guardian poodle. You did not misread. I said POODLE. If you want to be insulted on my behalf, feel free. I turned her down - of course.' 'PS: I was assigned a grizzy bear. Suck it. ~ Gena Showalter,

235:Because he's the hero Gotham deserves, but not the one it needs right now. So we'll hunt him. Because he can take it. Because he's not our hero. He's a silent guardian, a watchful protector. A dark knight. ~ Jonathan Nolan,

236:To have the last word, to be beyond contradiction, to inhabit a world of assertion and paradox – it may not be every aphorist’s ambition, but it seems to come with the turf. ~ James Fenton. The Guardian, 17th February 2007,

237:Fuck you! Someone has tortured and killed one of your girls and you couldn’t give a damn? I thought you were supposed to protect them, to be their guardian. Isn’t that what pimps do?’ Garcia’s face flared red. ~ Chris Carter,

238:Some of the fathers were of opinion that every believer has his guardian angel. This subject needs no hot debate. It may suffice us to know the whole hierarchy of angels is employed for the good of the saints. ~ Thomas Watson,

239:Miranda: You say you were my guardian angel. Does that mean you watched me all the time? Like when I got my period or doctored a zit or took a shower or- Zachary: I'm an angel, not a Peeping Tom. ~ Cynthia Leitich Smith,

240:The “Warrior Ethos” emphasizes placing the mission first, not accepting defeat, and being disciplined physically and mentally. Why? Because an American Soldier is a “guardian of freedom and the American way of life. ~ Dan Smee,

241:I think,” said my guardian, thoughtfully regarding her, “I think it must be somewhere written that the virtues of the mothers shall occasionally be visited on the children, as well as the sins of the father. Good ~ Charles Dickens,

242:He’s a senior in high school Bernardo. Jean-Claude is his legal guardian and had to enroll him in school. He comes home with homework and shit and then he wants to cuddle and have sex. It weirds me the fuck out. ~ Laurell K Hamilton,

243:(The word “genius” comes from the Latin, and originally referred to a guardian spirit that watched over the birth of each person; it later came to refer to the innate qualities that make each person uniquely gifted.) ~ Robert Greene,

244:After his own presidency, Adams observed, “The people…ought to consider the President’s office as the indispensable guardian of their rights,” adding: “The people cannot be too careful in the choice of their Presidents. ~ Jon Meacham,

245:A New York banker toasted the Supreme Court in 1895: “I give you, gentlemen, the Supreme Court of the United States—guardian of the dollar, defender of private property, enemy of spoliation, sheet anchor of the Republic. ~ Howard Zinn,

246:The Management of money is, in much, the management of self. If heaven allotted to each man seven guardian angels, five of them, at least, would be found night and day hovering over his pockets. ~ Edward Bulwer Lytton 1st Baron Lytton,

247:The state isn’t just the guardian of rights; it is also a nexus of rites that are bent on shaping what is most fundamental: my loves. The state doesn’t just ask me to make a decision; it asks me to pledge allegiance. ~ James K A Smith,

248:A border sovereign is the occult Force. A threshold guardian of the earth-scene’s Beyond, She has canalised the outbreaks of the Gods ~ Sri Aurobindo, Savitri, The Yoga of the King, The Yoga of the Spirit’s Freedom and Greatness,

249:It has provided not only physical but also psychological sanctuary. It has been a guardian of identity. Over the years, its owners have returned from periods away and, on looking around them, remembered who they were. ~ Alain de Botton,

250:It has provided not only physical but also psychological sanctuary. It has been a guardian of identity. Over the years, its owners have returned prom periods away and, on looking around them, remembered who they were. ~ Alain de Botton,

251:Still as a scarecrow, the Guardian stood between the stone angel and a stately crypt, oblivious to the crowd gaping at him with open-mouthed horror. The sinuous fog intermingled with his long hair, both white as a shroud. ~ Grace Draven,

252:Justice [Sandra Day] O'Connor has been a guardian of the protections the Constitution provides the American people. She's come to provide balance and a check on government intrusion into our personal privacy and freedoms. ~ Patrick Leahy,

253:My guardian angel," he said, the words beginning to slur. "I don't think I ever had one until now." "If you did," she said, "you probably ran too fast for her to keep up with you." He made a quiet sound of amusement. ~ Lisa Kleypas,

254:I wonder what becomes of lost opportunities? Perhaps our guardian angel gathers them up as we drop them, and will give them back to us in the beautiful sometime when we have grown wiser, and learned how to use them rightly. ~ Helen Keller,

255:If anything happened to you, I'd be so destroyed they'd have to strap me to a bed and feed me through a tube. After five or six years, I might be capable of taking care of Rex. In the interim, you should assign a guardian. ~ Janet Evanovich,

256:I hurled my fear and my loneliness, my love and my respect, my rage and my pain. I made of my thoughts a hammer, infused with the fires of creation and tempered in the icy power of the darkest guardian the earth had ever known. ~ Jim Butcher,

257:I like this job. I can’t right now think of a better purpose in life than to be a teacher. To teach feels like you are a guardian of time itself, protecting the future happiness of the world via the minds that are yet to shape it. ~ Matt Haig,

258:The ‘ideology of Pakistan’ has created a nexus between the ‘custodians of Islam’ and the country’s military, civil bureaucracy and intelligence apparatus, which collectively sees itself as the guardian of the Pakistani state. ~ Husain Haqqani,

259:You’re going back?” asked Bod. Things that had been immutable were changing. “You’re really leaving? But. You’re my guardian.” “I was you’re guardian. But you are old enough to guard yourself. I have other things to protect. ~ Neil Gaiman,

260:Q: What's the biggest myth about writing? A: That there's any wildness attached to it. Writing tends to be very deliberate." [Colm Tóibín, novelist – portrait of the artist (The Guardian, 19 February 2013) ~ Colm T ib n,

261:True budo is a work of love. It is a work of giving life to all beings, and not killing or struggling with each other. Love is the guardian deity of everything. Nothing can exist without it. Aikido is the realization of love. ~ Morihei Ueshiba,

262:The New York Times and The Guardian came out and said, "Hey, clemency for Snowden." But for me, the key - and I've said this from the beginning: it's not about me. I don't care if I get clemency. I don't care what happens to me. ~ Edward Snowden,

263:When I was a child I thought I saw an angel. It had wings and kinda looked like my sister. I opened the door so some light could come into the room, and it sort of faded away. My mother said it was probably my Guardian Angel. ~ Denzel Washington,

264:But the time has come; the revelation has already occurred, and the guardian seers have seen the lightning strike the darkness we call reality. And now we sleep in the brief interval between the lightning and the thunder. ~ William Irwin Thompson,

265:He has sometimes likened his style of writing to that of a medic performing a post-mortem on a raped child—whose job is to analyse the injuries, not to give vent to the rage that is felt.” —SUSIE MACKENZIE ON J. G. BALLARD, GUARDIAN, ~ Roxane Gay,

266:To the sick man the physician when he enters seems to have three faces, those of a man, a devil, a god. When the physician first comes and announces the safety of the patient, then the sick man says: "Behold a God or a guardian angel! ~ John Owen,

267:You’re my redemption, Nassun. You are all the children I should have loved and protected, even from myself. And if it will bring you peace…” He kisses her forehead. “Then I shall be your Guardian till the world burns, my little one. ~ N K Jemisin,

268:Maggie reached the door well before Scott, and saw another door ahead. The intruder and another man were waiting beyond it. Ten thousand generations filled her with a guardian’s rage. Scott was hers to care for, and hers to keep. She ~ Robert Crais,

269:Cinder felt her heart tug in sympathy—she could relate to being a slave for her “guardian,” but she couldn’t recall ever being afraid that Adri might actually kill her. Well, other than that time she sold her off for plague research. ~ Marissa Meyer,

270:"Religions" of the Roman world varied. Most of it was ritual practices. There were periodic occasions when cities honored their guardian deities with sacrifices and ceremonies, to ensure that they stayed happy and kept the city safe. ~ Larry Hurtado,

271:He's waiting for yu, young queen.' Shocked, I stared at Seoras. 'Heath?' The Warrior's look was wise and understanding - his voice gentle. 'Aye, yur Heath probably does await you somewhere in the future, but it is of your Guardian I speak. ~ P C Cast,

272:There were always plenty of newspapers in the house. The Times, Guardian, Daily Telegraph and Daily Mail were all regular fixtures on the coffee table. I used to enjoy reading The Times editorial pages and the Daily Mail sports pages. ~ Lionel Barber,

273:Mooner was walking around laying his hands on the cars, divining karma. "this is it", he said, standing by a small khaki-colored jeep."this car has protective qualities" You mean like a guardian angel?" I mean, like, it has seatbelts ~ Janet Evanovich,

274:Follow your dreams, transform your life, take the path that leads to God. Perform your miracles. Cure. Make prophecies. Listen to your guardian angel. Transform yourself. Be a warrior, and be happy as you wage the good fight. Take risks. ~ Paulo Coelho,

275:I’m Raine Benares, seeker and…” I looked up at Vegard. “What else are people calling me now?” The big Guardian chuckled and shook his head. “A lot of things, ma’am. Some you’ve heard, most you haven’t, but I’m sure you could guess. ~ Lisa Shearin,

276:Once in a stately passion I cried with desperate grief 'Oh Lord, my heart is black with guile, of sinners I am chief' Then stooped my guardian angel and whispered from behind 'Vanity my little man, you're nothing of the kind' ~ James Thomson,

277:We created man—We know the promptings of his soul, and are closer to him than his jugular vein—17 and the two recording angels are recording, sitting on the right and the left: 18 each word he utters shall be noted down by a vigilant guardian.b ~ Anonymous,

278:Just as great and princely wealth is scattered in a moment when it comes into the hands of a bad owner, while wealth however limited, if it is entrusted to a good guardian, increases by use, so our life is amply long for him who orders it properly. ~ Seneca,

279:It's curious that throughout our history together, with no apparent effort, people have been able to think of the cat simultaneously as the guardian spirit of the hearth and home, and as the emblem of freedom, independence, and rootlessness. ~ Barbara Holland,

280:Mooner was walking around laying his hands on the cars, divining karma. "this is it", he said, standing by a small khaki-colored jeep."this car has protective qualities" You mean like a guardian angel?" I mean, like, it has seatbelts ~ Janet Evanovich,

281:School can become a temple of learning only when the student, the guardian, and the society, in harmony, endeavor to make it a place of pursuit for education, a sadhana; where the spring of punctuality, sanctity and thirst for knowledge flows. ~ Narendra Modi,

282:Doubt has also been cast on the value of McKeith’s certified membership of the American Association of Nutritional Consultants, especially since Guardian journalist Ben Goldacre managed to buy the same membership online for his dead cat for $60. ~ Ben Goldacre,

283:My guardian angel," he said, the words beginning to slur. "I don't think I ever had one until now." "If you did," she said, "you probably ran too fast for her to keep up with you." He made a quiet sound of amusement. - Leo & Catherine ~ Lisa Kleypas,

284:What concerns me is that the Independent is going, and there are job cuts at the Guardian, but the wretched Daily Mail is still rampant, making lots of money by millions of people clicking on pictures of cellulited women. I think that's sad. ~ Alastair Campbell,

285:No. How dare you . You were the guardian of throne and country. And now I, having cast aside my life for you, find the Dora Milaje and their capatain turned jambazi! What has come of you, Aneka? What of your oath to the nation? To me ? ~ Ta Nehisi Coates,

286:Memory is fiction . . . All memory is a way of reconstructing the past. . . The act of narrating a memory is the act of creating fiction. [Armitstead, Claire. “Damon Galgut talks about his novel In a Strange Room.” The Guardian. 10 September 2010.] ~ Damon Galgut,

287:There’s barely any aspect of our modern lives that hasn’t had a mathematical contribution at some point and yet, if you asked the average person, they might think that maths is just difficult, irrelevant and uninteresting. ~ Hannah Fry, Guardian Interview (2016).,

288:As long as necessity is socially dreamed, dreaming will remain a social necessity. The spectacle is the bad dream of a modern society in chains and ultimately expresses nothing more than its wish for sleep. The spectacle is the guardian of that sleep. ~ Guy Debord,

289:He's waiting for yu, young queen.' Shocked, I stared at Seoras. 'Heath?' The Warrior's look was wise and understanding - his voice gentle. 'Aye, yur Heath probably does await you somewhere in the future, but it is of your Guardian I speak. ~ P C Cast,

290:If I was to be their real teacher and guardian, I must touch their hearts, I must share their joys and sorrows, I must help them to solve the problems that faced them, and I must take along the right channel the surging aspirations of their youth. ~ Mahatma Gandhi,

291:Listen to what you have written. A dud rhythm in a passage of dialogue may show that you don't yet understand the characters well enough to write in their voices." [Ten rules for writing fiction (The Guardian, 20 February 2010)] ~ Helen Dunmore,

292:In marriage, the point is not to achieve a rapid union by tearing down and toppling all boundaries. Rather, in a good marriage, each person appoints the other to be the guardian of his solitude and thus shows him the greatest faith he can bestow. ~ Rainer Maria Rilke,

293:You’re lucky, spontaneous, and your guardian angel is overworked and way underpaid.” “I know, right? My angel walks into a bar and the other angels are like, ‘Oh shit, that’s the poor sap that’s got Jory Harcourt. Look at him, he started drinking again. ~ Mary Calmes,

294:For many people this is an uncomfortable topic. To believe in heaven you also have to accept the concept of hell and to believe in guardian angels, you have to accept the notion of nefarious demons as well. You really can’t believe in one without the other. ~ Zak Bagans,

295:My dog and 'right hand man,' who recently passed, taught me that guardian angels and cycles tend to come in every form in the universe. He was 8 years old and saw me through 8 independent projects, from an unsure place to a confident one. And now I'm ready to fly. ~ Mya,

296:Yahweh [God] must become man precisely because he has done man a wrong. He, the guardian of justice, knows that every wrong must be expiated, and Wisdom knows that moral law is above even him. Because his creature has surpassed him he must regenerate himself ~ Carl Jung,

297:And if we only have a guardian who has this knowledge our State will be perfectly ordered? Of course, he replied; but I wish that you would tell me whether you conceive this supreme principle of the good to be knowledge or pleasure, or different from either? Aye, ~ Plato,

298:When we have once asked for God’s protection against evil, and have obtained it, then against everything which the devil and the world work against us we stand secure and safe. For what fear is there in this life, to the man whose guardian in this life is God ~ Anonymous,

299:But as she looked at his matted fur, his blood-soaked muzzle and chest, she couldn’t help but think: If this winter god, this walking rug, this one-eyed whining bear is the magical guardian of Russia, then Russia is going to have a very troubled future. ~ Orson Scott Card,

300:Incidentally, no matter how fierce a guardian animal spirit may seem, its possessor is in no danger because the power animal is absolutely harmless. It is only a source of power; it has no aggressive intentions. It only comes to you because you need help. ~ Michael Harner,

301:I never told you this enough- it's a failing between all men, I think, but too often of fathers to their sons- I love you. When you came into the world, you brought me a new purpose and a new drive. Suddenly , I was not just a parent, I was a guardian too. ~ Joseph D Lacey,

302:He wouldn’t move an inch to eat or sleep or even take a piss as he looked out over a road or a valley, the invisible guardian angel to dozens of young troops. Protection was a waiting game, and even some highly skilled marksmen weren’t cut out for it. Beside ~ Laura Griffin,

303:I think that overall, ultimately the impact of advertisers calling the shots is a more cloying, complacent culture. For example, it was just announced that Unilever is branding environmental content at The Guardian. How radical or pointed can that content be? ~ Astra Taylor,

304:Sometimes love needed a lift from its guardian angels, to get its feet off the ground. But once it made its first early beats toward flight, it had to be trusted to take wing on its own and soar past the highest conceivable heights, into the heavens-and beyond. ~ Lauren Kate,

305:Olivia dared not ask, but she had to know. It seemed unlikely her husband could have made a worse choice than Jack Dodger, but if he was her husband’s first who would serve as his second? The devil himself? “Who is appointed as my son’s guardian in that will? ~ Lorraine Heath,

306:First shall be the Guardian, a vessel of light in the darkness. Then the Shaft and the Vanguard, who shall fail and yet not fail if the Guide, the Unseen One, goes forth. And at the last shall be again the Guardian, whose portion is bitter, as bitter as gall. ~ Lynn Flewelling,

307:Your guardian angel’s a man?” She gave me a little wry look, and for the first time in days, I saw a hint of the old Lola coming back to life. “Of course. I like to imagine he’s hopelessly in love with me, but we can never be together because it’s against the rules. ~ L H Cosway,

308:I regret trusting The Guardian. I didn't want to do an interview, but the journalist was persistent. [The writer] was masked as a fan, but was hiding sinister ambitions and angles. Maybe he's actually the boring one looking for something interesting to write about. ~ Lana Del Rey,

309:love is undying,of that I feel certain.I mean deep,abiding,cherishing love.The love that gives protection even as you,my guardian angel,gave me protection long after you had gone-and continue to give this very day... A love beyond Death-a love that makes Life alive! ~ Ruskin Bond,

310:People around me die. They drop like flies. I've gone through life leaving a trail of dead bodies behind me. My mother is dead, my guardian is dead, my aunt is dead—because I killed her, and when my real father finds me, he'll move heaven and earth to make me dead. ~ Ilona Andrews,

311:There is a single main definition of the object of all magical Ritual. It is the uniting of the Microcosm with the Macrocosm. The Supreme and Complete Ritual is therefore the Invocation of the Holy Guardian Angel; or, in the language of Mysticism, Union with God. ~ Aleister Crowley,

312:love is undying,of that I feel certain.I mean deep,abiding,cherishing love.The love that gives protection even as you,my guardian angel,gave me protection long after you had gone-and continue to give this very day... A love beyond Death-a love that makes Life alive! ~ Ruskin Bond,

313:There is a single main definition of the object of all magical Ritual. It is the uniting of the Microcosm with the Macrocosm. The Supreme and Complete Ritual is therefore the Invocation of the Holy Guardian Angel; or, in the language of Mysticism, Union with God. ~ Aleister Crowley,

314:Wesley looked down at her and Nora could barely meet his brown eyes, which bored into her with the fiery love of a guardian angel. God probably had eyes like Wesley's.....anyone who looked into them wanted to immediately apologize for any and all sins ever committed. ~ Tiffany Reisz,

315:The point of marriage is not to create a quick commonality by tearing down all boundaries on the contrary, a good marriage is one in which each partner appoints the other to be the guardian of his solitude, and thus they show each other the greatest possible trust. ~ Rainer Maria Rilke,

316:A degree of culture, and assuredly a very high one, is attained when man rises above superstitions and religious notions and fears, and, for instance, no longer believes in guardian angels or in original sin, and has also ceased to talk of the salvation of his soul. ~ Friedrich Nietzsche,

317:But hatred and rage solve nothing. Like a might fire, they quickly consume whatever is fed them.Yet it can't last. Soon enough, they devour all around them and burn out, leaving nothing but a hollowed shell no longer capable of feeling anything at all. (First Guardian) ~ Sherrilyn Kenyon,

318:His Greatness the King Pteppicymon XXVIII, Lord of the Heavens, Charioteer of the Wagon of the Sun, Steersman of the Barque of the Sun, Guardian of the Secret Knowledge, Lord of the Horizon, Keeper of the Way, the Flail of Mercy, the High Born One, the Never Dying King. ~ Terry Pratchett,

319:I believe we have an obligation to read for pleasure, in private and in public places. If we read for pleasure, if others see us reading, then we learn, we exercise our imaginations. We show others that reading is a good thing." [The Guardian, 15 October 2013] ~ Neil Gaiman,

320:Back when childhoods were often so protracted, it is unsurprising that so many people got into the lifelong habit of believing, even after their parents were gone, that somebody was always watching over them—God or a saint or a guardian angel or the stars or whatever. People ~ Kurt Vonnegut,

321:But in every family there are bad people, and weak people, and some people who can't or won't withstand the trials of life, and who fail spectacularly. Their guardian angels weep; demons beholding them dance for joy. But only The Maker decides what ultimately happens to them. ~ Anne Rice,

322:By divine mandate the interpreter and guardian of the Scriptures, and the depository of Sacred Tradition living within her, the Church alone is the entrance to salvation: She alone, by herself, and under the protection and guidance of the Holy Spirit, is the source of truth. ~ Pope Pius XII,

323:To avoid detection, the Doctor had attached a device called Randomiser to his TARDIS, his plan being to outfox the Black Guardian by popping up randomly all over the place. Neither Romana nor K-9 had the heart to tell the Doctor that that was pretty much what he did anyway. ~ Gareth Roberts,

324:If the transmigration of a soul takes place into a rational being, it simply becomes the soul of that body. But if the soul migrates into a brute beast, it follows the body outside, as a guardian spirit follows a man. For there could never be a rational soul in an irrational being. ~ Sallust,

325:The only freedom which deserves the name, is that of pursuing our own good in our own way, so long as we do not attempt to deprive others of theirs, or impede their efforts to obtain it. Each is the proper guardian of his own health, whether bodily, or mental or spiritual. ~ John Stuart Mill,

326:The magicians most important invocation is that of his Genius, Daemon, True Will, or Augoeides. This operation is traditionally known as attaining the Knowledge and Conversation of the Holy Guardian Angel. It is sometimes known as the Magnum Opus or Great Work.    ~ Peter J Carroll, Liber Null,

327:A so-called news organization called the Denver Guardian - which, by the way, doesn't exist - wrote an article and pushed it on social media that said that the pope had endorsed Donald Trump. That's the perfect definition of fake news. It was intentionally designed to deceive. ~ Vivian Schiller,

328:In 1838, Mirabeau B. Lamar, the Second President of the Republic of Texas and the Father of Texas education, declared: 'The cultivated mind is the guardian genius of democracy. It is the only dictator that free man acknowledges. It is the only security that free man desires.' ~ Lyndon B Johnson,

329:Nick Makoha’s Kingdom of Gravity (Peepal Tree Press) is a bold and brilliant poetry debut that does not avert its gaze from trauma and atrocity (exploring along the way the brutal rule of Idi Amin and the civil war) and yet is light on its feet and fills you with hope. The Guardian ~ Jackie Kay,

330:He is deemed an inappropriate guardian, whereas my parents who neglected us every day of our waking lives were always deemed appropriate guardians on account of the DNA issue. No one wants to separate children from their parents, even when their parents are fucked-up delinquents. ~ Lisa O Donnell,

331:Kairos was young and wing-footed and forever gorgeous, despite having no hair except a single shock over his forehead. Kairos is the god of golden opportunities and guardian of outlaws, and he could work wonders for you if you were quick enough to grab him by the forelock. ~ Christopher McDougall,

332:Difficulty is a severe instructor, set over us by the supreme ordinance of a parental guardian and legislator, who knows us better than we know ourselves, as he loves us better too. He that wrestles with us strengthens our nerves and sharpens our skill. Our antagonist is our helper. ~ Edmund Burke,

333:The original Zal story by Ferdowsi gives a very moving account of an infant who had all odds against him - he was left to die in the wilderness and a giant, benevolent bird rescued him and became his guardian angel. This tale thrilled me; I've always wanted to write about it. ~ Porochista Khakpour,

334:When you are praying alone, and your spirit is dejected, and you are wearied and oppressed by your loneliness, remember then, as always, that God the Trinity looks upon you with eyes brighter than the sun; also all the angels, your own Guardian Angel, and all the Saints of God. ~ John of Kronstadt,

335:Boo seemed to be less a ghost than he was a guardian spirit, always happy and ready to serve, still on the earth not because he had remained behind after death but because he had been sent back. Consequently, perhaps he had the power and permission to move between worlds as he wished. ~ Dean Koontz,

336:Something you want badly enough can always be gained. No matter how fierce the enemy, how remote the beautiful lady, or how carefully guarded the treasure, there is always a means to the goal for the earnest seeker. The unseen help of the guardian gods of heaven and earth assure fulfillment. ~ Dogen,

337:One thing, however, is certain. Although we may never know with complete certainty the identity of the winner of this year's presidential election, the identity of the loser is perfectly clear. It is the nation's confidence in the judge as an impartial guardian of the rule of law. ~ John Paul Stevens,

338:For a moment, I was captivated as I studied them side by side. My mother: the perfect picture of guardian excellence and decorum. My father: always capable of achieving his goals, no matter how twisted the means. Uneasily, I began to understand how I’d inherited my bizarre personality. ~ Richelle Mead,

339:He watched as I slipped one of the shoes on. "You have a guardian angel." "I don't believe in angels," I told him. "I believe in what I can do for myself." Well then, you have an amazing body." I glanced up at him with a questioning look. "For healing, I mean. I heard about the accident. ~ Richelle Mead,

340:Three Little Children Three little children On the wide wide earth, Motherless children Cared for from their birth By tender angels. Three little children On the wide wide sea, Motherless children Safe as safe can be With guardian angels. ~ Christina Georgina Rossetti,

341:I am delighted to be joining 'Guardian U.S.''s team as a weekly columnist, and to have the chance to address American and global current events on its distinguished platform. 'Guardian U.S.' brings the 'Guardian''s hard-hitting investigative brand to a new focus on American news and opinion. ~ Naomi Wolf,

342:None of it lay fallow and neglected, none of it under another’s control; for being an extremely thrifty guardian of his time he never found anything for which it was worth exchanging. So he had enough time; but those into whose lives the public have made great inroads inevitably have too little. ~ Seneca,

343:What's going on?" he asked, looking from face to face. "I was having a good dream." "I need you," said Lissa. "I hear that from women a lot," said Adrian. Christian made a gagging sound, but the faintest glimmer of a smile crossed Eddie's lips, despite his otherwise tough guardian-stance. ~ Richelle Mead,

344:If you call them a sin against nature again, I will end you." Ethan's hand was on his dagger's hilt. "Look who's a born-again Guardian evangelist now." Connor laughed. "What's up with that?" A blush slid up Ethan's neck. "Nothing. They're our allies. That's all." "Sure it is." Conner said. ~ Andrea Cremer,

345:What is it?" she asked. "I'm looking for your wings. You are my guardian angel, aren't you?" "I'm afraid not," she replied, her cheeks dimplingwith a wry smile. "There's too much of the devil in me for that." "Just how much devil," I grinned, "are we talking about here? ~ Gregory David Roberts,

346:Nevertheless, no matter how much they killed themselves with work, no matter how much money they eked out, and no matter how many schemes they thought of, their guardian angels were asleep with fatigue while they put in coins and took them out trying to get just enough to live with. ~ Gabriel Garcia Marquez,

347:And now a chill settled over them where they stood, and Harry heard the rasping breath of the dementors that patrolled the outer trees. They would not affect him now. The fact of his own survival burned inside him, a talisman against them, as though his father's stag kept guardian in his heart. ~ J K Rowling,

348:a guardian ad litem... GAL is appointed by a court to be a child's advocate during legal proceedings that involve a minor. You don't have to be a lawyer to be trained as a GAL, but you have to have a moral compass and a heart. Which, actually probably renders most lawyers unqualified for the job. ~ Jodi Picoult,

349:He watched as I slipped one of the shoes on. "You have a guardian angel." "I don't believe in angels," I told him. "I believe in what I can do for myself." Well then, you have an amazing body." I glanced up at him with a questioning look. "For healing, I mean. I heard about the accident... ~ Richelle Mead,

350:Nevertheless, no matter how much they killed themselves with work, no matter how much money they eked out, and no matter how many schemes they thought of, their guardian angels were asleep with fatigue while they put in coins and took them out trying to get just enough to live with. ~ Gabriel Garc a M rquez,

351:Now, now,” put in Mrs. Wiggins good-naturedly, “one thing at a time. Are we discussing Charles’ shortcomings as a husband, or Jinx’s shortcomings as a guardian? What was this business, Jinx? You’ve got something important to tell us, I know.” “Yes, if you’ll let me tell it,” said Jinx grumpily. ~ Walter R Brooks,

352:What's going on?' he asked, looking from face to face. 'I was having a good dream.' 'I need you,' said Lissa. 'I hear that from women a lot,' said Adrian. Christian made a gagging sound, but the faintest glimmer of a smile crossed Eddie's lips, despite his otherwise tough guardian-stance. ~ Richelle Mead,

353:Dimitri: "She might be wild and disrespectful, but if she has potential—" Rose: "Wild and disrespecful? Who the hell are you anyway? Oursourced help?" Kirova: "Guardian Belikov is the Princess Lissa's guardian now, her sanctioned guardian." Rose: "You got cheap foreign labor to protect Lissa? ~ Richelle Mead,

354:Throughout life you will meet one person who is unlike any other. This person is one you could forever talk to. They understand you in a way that no one else does or even could. This person is your soul mate, your best friend. Don’t ever let them go, for they’re your guardian angel sent from heaven above ~ Pamela Ann,

355:What gets up my nose is being infantilized by governments, by the BBC, by the Guardian that there is no argument, that all scientists who aren’t cranks and charlatans are agreed on all this, that the consequences are uniformly negative, the issues beyond doubt and the steps to be taken beyond dispute. ~ Michael Buerk,

356:If I had used the term "guardian angels" or spoke of our "guides," a lot fewer eyebrows would raise. So it's just a matter of terminology here. The main idea is that we are always recipients of God's help, whether it is through other of God's beloved creatures, or directly from the Divine Itself. ~ Neale Donald Walsch,

357:The Guardian's eyes widened with amazement, and he tightened his grip on me. He had my arms, so the action I was forced to take was entirely his fault. It was as direct as my previous action, but not nearly as polite. In the next instant, the Guardian was on his knees trying to remember how to breath. ~ Lisa Shearin,

358:To free them from this isolation—the feeling of being the sole guardian of a guilty secret—parents would need to summon up the courage to admit their errors to their children. This would change the whole situation. In calm and collected conversation with their children they might say something like this: ~ Alice Miller,

359:But at the time of transition, your guides, your guardian angels, people whom you have loved and who have passed on before you, will be there to help you. We have verified this beyond a shadow of a doubt, and I say this as a scientist. There will always be someone to help you with this transition. ~ Elisabeth K bler Ross,

360:I've buried six Guardian Angels who have been shot and killed in the line of duty. I was stalked myself, had a gunman go pow, pow, pow, pow, pow, pow, five hollow point bullets, God save me. What do you think this is? This isn't Zimmerman. But unfortunately, he's become the face of Block Watch, Crime Watch. ~ Curtis Sliwa,

361:The definition of 'justice', which is the nominal goal of the whole discussion, is reached in Book IV. It consists, we are told, in everybody doing his own work and not being a busybody: the city is just when trader, auxiliary, and guardian, each does his own job without interfering with that of other classes. ~ Anonymous,

362:Thus she says: “I am seated on the seat which is between the individual will of beings and the universal will of the supreme Being. I am the guardian of equilibrium between the individual and the universal. I have the power to re-establish it each time that it is violated. I am order, health, harmony, justice. ~ Anonymous,

363:Did you follow me from the party?" "Yes" "I didn't even know you were there." His dark clothes indicated he must have been on guardian duty at the party. "So you saw the illustrious Janine cause a commotion by dragging me out." "It wasn't a commotion. Hardly anyone noticed. I saw because I was watching you. ~ Richelle Mead,

364:The chattering bloody classes, or what I call the liberal Guardian readers, they're all buying SUVs to drive around London. I smile at these loons who drive their SUVs down to Sainsbury's and buy kiwi fruit, flown in from New Zealand for Christ sakes. They're the equivalent of environmental nuclear bombs! ~ Michael O Leary,

365:Augoeides is an obscure term meaning luminous body and thought to refer to the planets. Aleister Crowley considered the term to refer to the Holy Guardian Angel of Abramelin; the Atman of Hinduism the Daemon of the ancient Greeks. Robert Lomas associates the term with the Higher Self or soul of the individual    ~ Wikipedia,

366:He continued to build speed, shifting up: third, fourth, fifth. The car rumbled and whined. “Are you sure you should be—” “Don’t worry,” he yelled. “I’ve done it before.” My mother sometimes said, There are guardian angels just for teenagers. Oh, help me, God of Teenagers, I thought. Oh God of Teenagers. ~ Lisa Brennan Jobs,

367:You’re a guardian angel now.”.... I’m your guardian angel,” he said. “I get my very own guardian angel? What, exactly, is your job description?” “Guard your body.” His smile tipped higher. “I take my job seriously, which means I’m going to need to get acquainted with the subject matter on a personal level. ~ Becca Fitzpatrick,

368:Here on the head of an empty barrel stood on end were an ink-bottle, some old stumps of pens, and some dirty playbills; and against the wall were pasted several large printed alphabets in several plain hands. "What are you doing here?" asked my guardian. "Trying to learn myself to read and write," said Krook. ~ Charles Dickens,

369:He shrugged. "She might be wild and disrespectful, but if she has potential—” "Wild and disrespectful?" I interrupted. "Who the hell are you anyway? Outsourced help?” "Guardian Belikov is the princess's guardian now," said Kirova. "Her sanctioned guardian.” "You got cheap foreign labor to protect Lissa? ~ Richelle Mead,

370:He wanted to embrace his guardian, to hold him and tell him that he would never desert him, but the action was unthinkable. He could no more hug Silas than he could hold a moonbeam, not because his guardian was insubstantial, but because it would be wrong. There were people you could hug, and then there was Silas. ~ Neil Gaiman,

371:I will not dishonor my soul with hatred, but offer myself humbly as a guardian of nature, as a healer of misery, as a messenger of wonder, as an architect of peace. I will honor all life —wherever and in whatever form it may dwell—on Earth my home, and in the mansions of the stars. ~ Diane Ackerman,

372:[n regard to Jesus believing himself inspired] This belief carried no more personal imputation than the belief of Socrates that he was under the care and admonition of a guardian demon. And how many of our wisest men still believe in the reality of these inspirations while perfectly sane on all other subjects ~ Thomas Jefferson,

373:An Oath Guardian," Mack told them, "is a soldier, a cop, or any other security officer who refuses to enforce unconstitutional laws. They took an oath to defend the Constitution of the United States and they aren't about to let scumbag politicians use them as pawns in their power games. Not against their own people. ~ Rivera Sun,

374:The computers were index-linked to the Galactic stock-market prices, you see, so that we’d all be revived when everybody else had rebuilt the economy enough to afford our rather expensive services.” Arthur, a regular Guardian reader, was deeply shocked at this. “That’s a pretty unpleasant way to behave, isn’t it? ~ Douglas Adams,

375:Everyone in Iran is perceived to be a child with a paternal authority vested in the Guardian Council and the Sufi elders. They're supposed to be grateful. They can never for a moment not be afforded this wonderful protection. The father who will never go away. The father who will never quit caring for them. ~ Christopher Hitchens,

376:There is a growing threat to the environment, to the vegetation, animals, water and air. Sacred Scripture hands us the image of Cain who rejects his responsibility: 'Am I my brother's keeper?' The Bible shows the human person as his brother's keeper and the guardian of creation which has been entrusted to him. ~ Pope John Paul II,

377:You are so fierce," she whispered. Yet for her. hebled. He, who'd sworn he wouldn't cross Noir, had done so. Not just because Noir had threatened him. She didn't believe that. From the very beginning, he'd protected her in a way few people had. Jericho hated the world, yet he'd been her self-appointed guardian. ~ Sherrilyn Kenyon,

378:Read widely and with discrimination. Bad writing is contagious." [Ten rules for writing fiction, The Guardian, 20 February 2010 (with Diana Athill, Margaret Atwood, Roddy Doyle, Helen Dunmore, Geoff Dyer, Anne Enright, Richard Ford, Jonathan Franzen, Esther Freud, Neil Gaiman, David Hare, and AL Kennedy)] ~ P D James,

379:Education is 'the guardian genius of our democracy.' Nothing really means more to our future, not our military defenses, not our missiles or our bombers, not our production economy, not even our democratic system of government. For all of these are worthless if we lack the brain power to support and sustain them. ~ Lyndon B Johnson,

380:God said unto Jesus, "O Jesus! When I see in My servants' hearts pure love for Myself unmixed with any selfish desire concerning this world or the next, I act as guardian over that love." Again, when people asked Jesus "What is the highest work of all?" he answered, "To love God and to be resigned to His will. ~ Abu Hamid al-Ghazali,

381:God said unto Jesus, "O Jesus! When I see in My servants' hearts pure love for Myself unmixed with any selfish desire concerning this world or the next, I act as guardian over that love." Again, when people asked Jesus "What is the highest work of all?" he answered, "To love God and to be resigned to His will. ~ Abu Hamid al-Ghazali,

382:Be ever more convinced that your guardian angel is really present, that he is ever at your side. St. Frances of Rome always saw him standing before her, his arms clasped at his breast, his eyes uplifted to Heaven; but at the slightest failing, he would cover his face as if in shame, and at times, turn his back to her. ~ Saint John Bosco,

383:And yet she was leaving the world as a woman who had loved and been loved back. She was leaving it as a friend, a companion, a guardian. A mother. A person of consequence at last. No. It was not so bad, Mariam thought, that she would die this way. Now so bad. This was a legitimate end to a life of legitimate beginnings. ~ Khaled Hosseini,

384:She thought of her entry into this world, the harami child of a lowly villager, an unintended thing, a pitiable, regrettable accident. A weed. And yet she was leaving the world as a woman who had loved and been loved back. She was leaving it as a friend, a companion, a guardian. A mother. A person of consequence at last. ~ Khaled Hosseini,

385:Yes, I said; and there cannot be any worse fault in a guardian of the State and of the laws. True. The guardian then, I said, must be required to take the longer circuit, and toil at learning as well as at gymnastics, or he will never reach the highest knowledge of all which, as we were just now saying, is his proper calling. What, ~ Plato,

386:The necessity of reciprocal checks in the exercise of political power, by dividing and distributing it into different depositories, and constituting each the guardian of the public weal against invasions by the others, has been evinced by experiments ancient and modern, some of them in our country and under our own eyes. ~ George Washington,

387:There is something which is going to be one of the main challenges in the Muslim world today, in the Muslim-majority countries in the Arab world, is the religious credibility. How are you going to react to what is said about Islam? So, by touching the prophet of Islam, the reaction should be, who is going to be the guardian? ~ Tariq Ramadan,

388:What we do best is we target the young men and women who are on the fringe. They could go either way. Maybe they have been in trouble before, but not serious trouble. ... We cherry-pick them and circumvent them away from the gang members and drug dealers ... (and encourage) them to hang out with us and become a Guardian Angel. ~ Curtis Sliwa,

389:Did you follow me from the party?" "Yes" "I didn't even know you were there." His dark clothes indicated he must have been on guardian duty at the party. "So you saw the illustrious Janine cause a commotion by dragging me out." "It wasn't a commotion. Hardly anyone noticed. I saw because I was watching you. ~ Richelle Mead,

390:I resolved to tell my guardian that I doubted Orlick being the right sort of man to fill a post of trust at Miss Havisham’s. ‘Why of course he is not the right sort of man, Pip,’ said my guardian, comfortably satisfied beforehand on the general head, ‘because the man who fills the post of trust never is the right sort of man. ~ Charles Dickens,

391:She then thought the land enchanted into everlasting brightness and happiness; she fancied, then, that into a region so lovely no bale or woe could enter, but would be charmed away and disappear before the sight of the glorious guardian mountains. Now she knew the truth, that earth has no barrier which avails against agony. ~ Elizabeth Gaskell,

392:Each deity has a corresponding Catholic syncretism. Eleggua: Saint Anthony of Padua, the Holy Guardian Angel, or the Christ Child; Obatalla: Our Lady of Las Mercedes, the Holy Eucharist, Christ Resurrected; Chango: Saint Barbara; Oshun: Our Lady of Charity; Yemaya: Our Lady of Regla; Babalu Aye: Saint Lazarus; Oggun: Saint Peter. ~ Kathy Reichs,

393:I’ll try to refrain from abject stupidity for at least the next ten minutes,” I said, turning to go through a secret entrance between the restrooms at a dive bar to have a chat with a demon about a Catholic church that my personal guardian angel was afraid to talk about. I apparently need a new barometer for “abject stupidity. ~ John G Hartness,

394:The Executive is charged officially in the Departments under it with the disbursement of the public money, and is responsible for the faithful application of it to the purposes for which it is raised. The Legislature is the watchful guardian over the public purse. It is its duty to see that the disbursement has been honestly made. ~ James Monroe,

395:Remember Killer Moth, the most ingenuous rogue ever to defy the dynamic duo, Batman and Robin ?Perhaps you recall how the weird beam from the Moth Signal summoned the Gangland Guardian to the aid of desperate criminals ?And who can forget the eerie Moth Cave where new and startling implements of crime were produced by this evil genius ! ~ Bob Kane,

396:When you are the Guardian of the Truth, you’ve got nothing useful to contribute to the Truth but your guardianship of it. When you’re trying to win the Nobel Prize in chemistry by discovering the next benzene or buckyball, someone who challenges the atomic theory isn’t so much a threat to your worldview as a waste of your time. ~ Eliezer Yudkowsky,

397:You’re a guardian angel now.”.... "I’m your guardian angel,” he said. “I get my very own guardian angel? What, exactly, is your job description?” “Guard your body.” His smile tipped higher. “I take my job seriously, which means I’m going to need to get acquainted with the subject matter on a personal level. ~ Becca Fitzpatrick,

398:Kind 'Guardian' readers have been forwarding me round robin Christmas newsletters for years now: lengthy missives full of perfect children, exotic holidays, talented pets and endless, tedious detail. The notes that accompanied them revealed they had inspired in the original recipients everything from mild irritation to absolute rage. ~ Simon Hoggart,

399:He's the best of us. The best of our best, the best that each of us will ever build or ever love. So pray for this Guardian of our growth and choose him well, for if he be not truly blest, then our designs are surely frivolous and our future but a tragic waste of hope. Bless our best and adore for he doth bear our measure to the Cosmos. ~ John Steakley,

400:No matter how much shit was piled on top of why I couldn’t have her, there was no way I could ever forget her touch. Her smile and her laugh and the way she made me feel like I was a damn king. Her guardian and shield. I doubted there’d ever be a time when I looked at her and didn’t think she was the best damned thing I’d ever seen. ~ A L Jackson,

401:I’ll tell you what that was, Journal. That was divine intervention. Angel Alvarez was a solid buck fifty of Valtrex-and-crystal-meth-fueled trailer-park scrapper. I wouldn’t have stood a chance. I would have been liquefied on impact had I not been blessed with a guardian angel who wasn’t above tripping a bitch, not even a bitch named Angel. ~ B B Easton,

402:The book is one of the springs of creative individualism, that individualism which, in these uncertain times, remains the guardian angel of human society. For five hundred years the book has been, for the solitary mind, an incomparable instrument of uplift and liberation. ~ Georges Duhamel, In Defense of Letters (1937), E. Bozman, trans. (1939), p. vii.,

403:Hi. Come on in.” Call looked nervous, too. “After I told you about the binoculars, I wasn’t sure I’d still be welcome.” She smiled. “I remembered what happened that morning with the bear and decided to think of it as having a guardian angel.” A corner of his mouth curved. “Now I’m an angel. I think I like that better than evil genie. ~ Kat Martin,

404:Ramiel cocked an eyebrow.''We hope you will guide Kara and help her embrace her duties as a guardian angel-without the loss of her soul or rule breaking.'' David flashed his perfect teeth and put on an innocent look:''Me? Rule breaking? Never,your blessedness!I am a true believer in playing by the rules-you remember that.'', he beamed. ~ Kim Richardson,

405:[n regard to Jesus believing himself inspired] This belief carried no more personal imputation than the belief of Socrates that he was under the care and admonition of a guardian demon. And how many of our wisest men still believe in the reality of these inspirations while perfectly sane on all other subjects (Works, Vol. iv, p. 327). ~ Thomas Jefferson,

406:Poor, poor dear. Waiting must be so hard for you. I’ve heard Renier is an exquisite lover. All the Keepers gossip about him—the young Guardian who haunts their dreams.” The smile on her glossy red lips was teasing and cruel. “But rules are rules. He’s an alpha male, so his . . . eagerness can be excused. Yours, however, is a disappointment. ~ Andrea Cremer,

407:The guardians," Joshua begins. "We want you to join us." I laugh quietly, not understanding. "I, um, didn't think that was possible as long as I was living." "Not as a Guardian Guardian. As a Helper of Guardians. It's a new position. Just for you. I've been sent to talk to you since Seth refused." Joshua throws Seth a nasty look. ~ Katie Klein,

408:A news junkie, I read, daily, the 'Times/Sunday Times,' the 'Guardian/Observer,' 'Mail,' and the 'Argus' - both to keep up with crime in Brighton, where I set my novels, and because I think it is vital to support local papers - they provide a unique accountability for councils, emergency services and so much else, and are dangerously undervalued. ~ Peter James,

409:Janine Hathaway offered to be my guardian, " said Lissa suddenly. "Janine Hathaway?" Tatiana's eyebrows rose nearly to her hairline. "I'm sure she has other commitments. No, we've got much better choices." A better choice than Janine Hathaway? Not likely. Before Dimitri, my mother had been the gold standard by which I measured all badassedness. ~ Richelle Mead,

410:Up there in the sky. Don’t you see him? No, not the moon. The Man in the Moon. He wasn’t always a man. Nor was he always on the moon. He was once a child. Like you. Until a battle, a shooting star, and a lost balloon led him on a quest. Meet the very first Guardian of Childhood. MiM, the Man in the Moon. ~ William Joyce,

411:Charlotte Mason considered herself not only a patron to black writers and artists, but also a guardian of black folklore. She believed it her duty to protect it from those whites who, having “no more interesting things to investigate among themselves,” were grabbing “in every direction material that by right belongs entirely to another race. ~ Zora Neale Hurston,

412:It was near curfew time, and I was dropping him off for the night. He shook his head. "Rose, I don't know if you're crazy or not, but I'm actually starting to think you might be the best guardian- or soon-to-be guardian- out there." "Did you just give me a serious compliment?" I asked. He turned his back on me and headed inside his dorm. "Good night. ~ Richelle Mead,

413:How can we encourage other human beings to extend their moral sympathies beyond a narrow locus? How can we learn to become mere human beings, shorn of any more compelling national, ethnic, or religious identity? We can be reasonable. It is in the very nature of reason to fuse cognitive and moral horizons. Reason is nothing less than the guardian of love. ~ Sam Harris,

414:I’m not sorry for intervening,” she said. “In fact, I’d do it again. But it seems like in choosing to do so, I surrendered my pacifist principles. Am I a hypocrite?” He laid a hand on her knee. “No, Eden. Not a hypocrite. You are a brave, beautiful woman, a guardian of pea . . . of life. You fought only when you had no other option. Truly honorable. ~ Karen Witemeyer,

415:Janine Hathaway offered to be my guardian, " said Lissa suddenly. "Janine Hathaway?" Tatiana's eyebrows rose nearly to her hairline. "I'm sure she has other commitments. No, we've got much better choices." A better choice than Janine Hathaway? Not likely. Before Dimitri, my mother had been the gold standard by which I measured all badassedness. ~ Richelle Mead,

416:Trial by jury is a privilege of the highest and most beneficial nature [and] our most important guardian both of public and private liberty. The liberties of England cannot but subsist so long as this palladium remains sacred and inviolate, not only from all open attacks, ... but also from all secret machinations, which may sap and undermine it. ~ William Blackstone,

417:Many animals, I replied, furnish examples of them; our friend the dog is a very good one: you know that well-bred dogs are perfectly gentle to their familiars and acquaintances, and the reverse to strangers. Yes, I know. Then there is nothing impossible or out of the order of nature in our finding a guardian who has a similar combination of qualities? Certainly ~ Plato,

418:There are moments when Nature reveals the passion hidden beneath the careless calm of her ordinary moods-violent spring flashing white on almond-blossom through the purple clouds; a snowy, moonlit peak, with its single star, soaring up to the passionate blue; or against the flames of sunset, an old yew-tree standing dark guardian of some fiery secret. ~ John Galsworthy,

419:If what you dig up is painful or ugly, throw it away. That means to process it, mourn it, heal it, grieve it, repent of it, or whatever it takes to work it out of your system. You are growing a garden in your heart; some things you wish to increase, and others you need to weed out. Either way requires caretaking. That is your job as guardian of your heart. ~ Henry Cloud,

420:When you resolve to become pious, the devil in your nature cries out at you, "Tread not those paths, O confused one; distress and poverty will overcome you. You will be despised, let down by friends, you will regret it." Dread of the devil has bound their souls; the cries of the devil are the drover of the damned; the call of the Lord is a guardian of the saints. ~ Rumi,

421:I don't know. This college would probably have the same problem the last one did." I frowned. "What's that?" "Homework." "Adrian," growled his father. "It's okay," said Adrian breezily. He rested his arm casually on the table. "I don't really need a job or extra money. After Rose and I get married, the kids and I'll just live off of her guardian paycheck. ~ Richelle Mead,

422:Our own God Soul, our Holy Guardian Angel, whispers to us, “Be not afraid.” Can we breathe in some courage and breathe out some compassion, and take up the task at hand? Can we live fully, despite our fears? Can we use the energy of fear to propel us forward instead of using it as an excuse to keep us in place? Can we move ever toward the Work of This God? ~ T Thorn Coyle,

423:What's so funny?' asked Dimitri, looking down at me with amusement. 'I'm just thinking about what Lissa would say if we still had the bond.' In a very bad breach of guardian protocol, he caught a hold of my hand and pulled me toward him. 'And?' he asked, wrapping me in an embrace. 'I think she'd ask, ‘What have we gotten ourselves into? ~ Richelle Mead,

424:It was near curfew time, and I was dropping him off for the night. He shook his head. "Rose, I don't know if you're crazy or not, but I'm actually starting to think you might be the best guardian- or soon-to-be guardian- out there." "Did you just give me a serious compliment?" I asked. He turned his back on me and headed inside his dorm. "Good night. ~ Richelle Mead,

425:By the time I was seventeen, I was on my way to Hollywood and didn't look back. My family is supportive now, but like any adult guardian of a seventeen-year-old daughter, they were not thrilled with my plan to run off to the LA to make it as an actress. Even a somewhat functioning parent would think that was a bad, bad idea. Lucky for me, I didn't listen to them. ~ Amber Heard,

426:He's the best of us," said Felix, reciting. "The best of our best, the best that each of us will ever build or ever love. So pray for this Guardian of our growth and choose him well, for if he be not truly blessed, then our designs are surely frivolous and our future but a tragic waste of hope. Bless our best and adore for he doth bear our measure to the Cosmos. ~ John Steakley,

427:In Jotunheim, the home of the giants, is Mimir’s well. It bubbles up from deep in the ground, and it feeds Yggdrasil, the world-tree. Mimir, the wise one, the guardian of memory, knows many things. His well is wisdom, and when the world was young he would drink every morning from the well, by dipping the horn known as the Gjallerhorn into the water and draining it. ~ Neil Gaiman,

428:Keep in mind that no matter how successful you were in dancing your animal, that in itself is not proof that you still have its power. You may only be dancing a memory. A successful experience does suggest, however, that you may have at least had such a guardian spirit in the past, if not now. The dancing itself, however, is no proof in itself, one way or another. ~ Michael Harner,

429:lifelong. ‘Jesse Bishop was a lifelong drug addict who had spent 20 of his 46 years in prison’ (Guardian). You might be a lifelong resident of New York or a lifelong church-goer or, at a stretch, a lifelong lover of music. But unless the unfortunate Mr Bishop had turned to drugs at a remarkably early age, lifelong is much too literal a word to describe his addiction. ~ Bill Bryson,

430:Don't look back until you've written an entire draft, just begin each day from the last sentence you wrote the preceding day. This prevents those cringing feelings, and means that you have a substantial body of work before you get down to the real work which is all in ... the edit." [Ten rules for writing fiction (part two), The Guardian, 20 February 2010] ~ Will Self,

431:Marcus Aurelius is persuaded that God gives every man a special daemon as his guide—a belief which reappears in the Christian guardian angel. He finds comfort in the thought of the universe as a closely-knit whole; it is, he says, one living being, having one substance and one soul. One of his maxims is: 'Frequently consider the connection of all things in the universe. ~ Anonymous,

432:I'll be glad to be rid of you. When a man sinks to reading fashion journals - no, it's worse than that. When a man finds himself plumbing their depths, seeking arcane knowledge of no use to him whatsoever ... Oh, it's your corrupting influence. I shall be glad to see the back of you, Noirot, and return to my life.' 'It annoys you to be a guardian angel,' she said. ~ Loretta Chase,

433:Literature is dead, my boy' the uncle replied. 'Look at these empty rooms, and these books buried in their dust; no one reads anymore; I am the guardian of a cemetery here, and exhumation is forbidden.' . . . 'My boy, never speak of literature, never speak of art! Accept the situation as it is! You are Monsieur Boutardins ward before being your Uncle Huguenin's nephew! ~ Jules Verne,

434:Yog-Sothoth knows the gate. Yog-Sothoth is the gate. Yog-Sothoth is the key and guardian of the gate. Past, present, future, all are one in Yog-Sothoth. He knows where the Old Ones broke through of old, and where They shall break through again. He knows where They have trod earth's fields, and where They still tread them, and why no one can behold Them as They tread. ~ H P Lovecraft,

435:You know, my name .... comes from the word shomer, guardian, watcher. My ancestors were guardians of the ghetto wall in Chortkov. And I believe Hashem [Orthodox for God] actually gave me that name. One of my roles, very important in the United States senate, is to be a shomer - to be a or the shomer Yisrael. And I will continue to be that with every bone in my body. ~ Charles Schumer,

436:Every man, in proportion to his virtue, considers himself, with respect to the great community of mankind, as the steward and guardian of their interests in the property which he chances to possess. Every man, in proportion to his wisdom, sees the manner in which it is his duty to employ the resources which the consent of mankind has intrusted to his discretion. ~ Percy Bysshe Shelley,

437:Thus, if the low grade of intelligence, virtue, and civilization of the African in America, disqualified him for being his own guardian, and if his own true welfare, and that of the community, would be plainly marred by this freedom; then the law decided correctly that the African here has no natural right to his self-control, as to his own labour and locomotion. ~ Robert Lewis Dabney,

438:I saw the 'Popstars' programme and to me it looked more like 'Opportunity Knocks' than the kind of cutting-edge postmoderism that The Guardian would like to have us believe it was. I think what it's more about is the public and the music industry's bloodlust. It's just like someone itching to say 'Oh, confound it all, let's bring back hanging, that was good entertainment'. ~ Luke Haines,

439:My mother: the perfect picture of guardian excellence and decorum. My father: always capable of achieving his goals, no matter how twisted the means. Uneasily, I began to understand how I'd inherited my bizarre personality. Mead, Richelle (2010-12-07). Last Sacrifice: A Vampire Academy Novel (Kindle Locations 2836-2838). Penguin Young Readers Group. Kindle Edition. ~ Richelle Mead,

440:We, in the New York Times, have not yet figured out how to grow our international readership. We started a website in China, which the Chinese government has blocked, but it has a pretty healthy readership. The Guardian, for instance, has gotten tremendous growth through its website in the US. We have to figure out how to go after readership in different parts of the world. ~ Dean Baquet,

441:Jory, most people, when hit men come after them, they get killed. You‘re lucky, spontaneous, and your guardian angel is overworked and way underpaid" "I know, right? My angel walks into a bar and the other angels are like, Oh shit, that‘s the poor sap that‘s got Jory Harcourt. Look at him, he started drinking again.‘" Sam was smiling. "Look at the twitch he‘s got, poor bastard. ~ Mary Calmes,

442:I had always been a great talker and teller of tales. 'You should put a lock on that tongue of yours. It's long enough and sharp enough to slit your own throat,' our guardian warned me, the night before I left home to go to the royal court at Versailles ... I just laughed. 'Don't you know a woman's tongue is her sword? You wouldn't want me to let my only weapon rust, would you? ~ Kate Forsyth,

443:More than ten million women march to work every morning side by side with the men. Steadily the importance of women is gaining notonly in the routine tasks of industry but in executive responsibility. I include also the woman who stays at home as the guardian of the welfare of the family. She is a partner in the job and wages. Women constitute a part of our industrial achievement. ~ Herbert Hoover,

444:Sod the Office for bloody Statistics and sod the Guardian. It’s indulgent Guardian-reading parents like us who’ve mollycoddled our kids since they were born who are responsible for all this. We’ve infantilized them, turned them into these delicate flowers who are too scared to go out into the world and get their hands dirty. Ben needs to find a job. Any job. That’s all there is to it. ~ Sue Margolis,

445:…A MAN WHO HAS GIVEN HIS HEART TO LEARNING AND TRUE WISDOM AND EXERCISED THAT PART OF HIMSELF IS SURELY BOUND, IF HE ATTAINS TO TRUTH, TO HAVE IMMORTAL AND DIVINE THOUGHTS, AND CANNOT FAIL TO ACHIEVE IMMORTALITY AS FULL AS IS PERMITTED TO HUMAN NATURE; AND BECAUSE HE HAS ALWAYS LOOKED AFTER THE DIVINE ELEMENT IN HIMSELF AND KEPT HIS GUARDIAN SPIRIT IN GOOD ORDER HE MUST BE HAPPY ABOVE ALL MEN ~ Plato,

446:Here is my advice as we begin the century that will lead to 2081. First, guard the freedom of ideas at all costs. Be alert that dictators have always played on the natural human tendency to blame others and to oversimplify. And don't regard yourself as a guardian of freedom unless you respect and preserve the rights of people you disagree with to free, public, unhampered expression. ~ Gerard K O Neill,

447:I don't know. This college would probably have the same problem the last one did." I frowned. "What's that?" "Homework." "Adrian," growled his father. "It's okay," said Adrian breezily. He rested his arm casually on the table. "I don't really need a job or extra money. After Rose and I get married, the kids and I'll just live off of her guardian paycheck. ~ Richelle Mead,

448:If possible, I loved her even more. She didn’t even think of herself. Defend my brother? The thought was near laughable that a five-foot human girl would want to defend the honor of the mighty Guardian angel Alexander. But I knew just how she felt. I, too, wanted to defend his honor. He had given Abby a beautiful gift, and he would rather rip his own heart out than put her through this. ~ Ashlan Thomas,

449:A Guardian investigation concluded that between 10,000 and 20,000 people died as an 'indirect' result of the US bombing, that is, through hunger, cold and disease as people were forced to flee the massive aerial assault. An estimate by Professor Marc Herold of the University of New Hampshire, suggests that between 3,125 and 3,620 Afghan civilians were killed by US bombing up to July 2002.3 ~ Mark Curtis,

450:There is a lot of room for a meaning inside a "no" spoken in the tremendous logic of a refused order of the world. Poetry's no can protect a potential yes--or more precisely, poetry's no is the one that can protect the hell yeah, or every hell yeah's variations. In this way, every poem against the police is also and always a guardian of love for the world. ~ Anne Boyer,

451:It's now very common to hear people say, 'I'm rather offended by that.' As if that gives them certain rights. It's actually nothing more... than a whine. 'I find that offensive.' It has no meaning; it has no purpose; it has no reason to be respected as a phrase. 'I am offended by that.' Well, so fucking what." [I saw hate in a graveyard -- Stephen Fry, The Guardian, 5 June 2005] ~ Stephen Fry,

452:On the Today show, there was a story about a new poll that had been conducted regarding religious beliefs. A majority of Americans reported that they believed in angels, and a significant number thought they were personally protected by a guardian angel.  He changed the channel to CNN, where they were covering a shooting at a North Carolina high school, a subject more comfortingly normal.  ~ Bentley Little,

453:To know and not to know, to be conscious of complete truthfulne­ss while telling carefully constructe­d lies, to hold simultaneo­usly two opinions which cancelled out, knowing them to be contradict­ory and believing in both of them, to use logic against logic, to repudiate morality while laying claim to it, to believe that democracy was impossible and that the Party was the guardian of democracy. ~ George Orwell,

454:Have I thanked you yet,” he asked, “for hauling me out of the ruins?” “No thanks are necessary.” “All the same … thank you.” Lifting one of her hands, he cradled her palm against his cheek while his eyes remained closed. “My guardian angel,” he said, the words beginning to slur. “I don’t think I ever had one until now.” “If you did,” she said, “you probably ran too fast for her to keep up with you. ~ Lisa Kleypas,

455:She’s not just any Moroi. She’s royal. A princess. And you’ve seen how she is! Smart and strong and beautiful. She’s destined for great things, and one of them isn’t being involved with a controversial guardian like me. Her bloodline’s regal.Hell, I don’t even know who my dad is. Dating her is not even possible. My job is to protect her. To keep her safe. That’s where all my attention needs to be. ~ Richelle Mead,

456:All is artifice in my world, Constantine. Even me. Especially me. He taught me to be a duchess, to be an impregnable fortress, to be the guardian of my own heart, But he admitted that he could not teach me how or when to allow the fortress to be breached or my heart to be unlocked. It would simply happen, he said. he promised it would, in fact. But how is love to find me, even assuming it is looking? ~ Mary Balogh,

457:You are beautiful and humble and sensitive and the keeper of my heart. I know it will take some time, growing up with a beast of a guardian as you did, but there will come a day when you no longer criticize yourself, no longer believe less of yourself, and you will come to love yourself just as much as I love you. Well, almost as much, I imagine. -Gabriel Devine, Duke of Wolverest- ~ Olivia Parker,

458:contract. To get around this problem, the manager of the Orioles, Jack Dunn, adopted George and became his legal guardian. Young George’s relationship with Dunn led to him being given his famous name. One day Dunn brought George to the ballpark to show him the ropes. When the other players saw the new player, one remarked, “Well, here’s Jack’s newest babe.” Soon, all his teammates were calling him Babe. ~ Tony Castro,

459:The light beyond my eyes flashflashflashes with a hundred futures for me. Doctor. Ship's captain. Forest ranger. Librarian. Beloved of that man or that women or those children or those people who voted for me or who painted my picture. Poet. Acrobat. Engineer. Friend. Guardian. Avenging whirlwind. A million futures--not all pretty, not all long, but all of them mine. I do have a choice" - p. 271 ~ Laurie Halse Anderson,

460:We would like otherworldly visitations to come as distinct voices with clear instructions, but they may only give small signs in dreams, or as sudden hunches and insights that cannot be denied. They feel more as if they emerge from inside and steer you from within like an inner guardian angel. . . . And, most amazing, it has never forgotten you, although you may have spent most of your life ignoring it. ~ James Hillman,

461:Change is when new selves come into the foreground while others recede into forgotten landscapes. Maybe definition of having lived a full life is when every citizen in the hall of selves gets to take you for a spin, the commander the lover the coward the misanthrope the fighter the priest the moral guardian the immoral guardian the lover of life the hater of life the fool the judge the jury the executioner.. ~ Steve Toltz,

462:Guardian spirits of mankind, have we thought about the powers that passion creates in human beings? Have we considered why a man could run through a field of fire to get to a woman he loves? Have we thought about the impact of love on the body of lovers? Have we considered the symmetry of its power? Have we considered what poetry incites in their souls, and the impress of endearments on a softened heart? ~ Chigozie Obioma,

463:Thus strangely are our souls constructed, and by such slight ligaments are we bound to prosperity or ruin. When I look back, it seems to me as if this almost miraculous change of inclination and will was the immediate suggestion of the guardian angel of my life—the last effort made by the spirit of preservation to avert the storm that was even then hanging in the stars and ready to envelop me. ~ Mary Wollstonecraft Shelley,

464:You came." His gaze held hers. "And I knew that you are not useful to me, Ash. Not anymore. Except as a reason to get up in the morning --" "You don't sleep anymore," she reminded him, smiling. "Except as a reason to keep breathing --" "You don't need air." He narrowed his eyes at her. "I'm still new at this Guardian thing. So just shut up, and let me tell you that I love you. ~ Meljean Brook,

465:You’re all alone. No one wants you anymore. How long did you think we would all stay? You’ve killed each and every person who ever loved you. Even your children won’t want you. They will see what you have done. You must be the first ward in history to treat your guardian so badly that he left you. Do you think your mistress will stay? No. Elizabeth will take what she wanted and then she will leave you too. ~ S K N Hammerstone,

466:Do not be surprised if you fall every day and do not surrender. Stand your ground bravely and you may be sure that your guardian angel will respect your endurance. A fresh, warm wound is easier to heal than those that are old, neglected, and festering, and that need extensive treatment, surgery, bandaging and cauterization. Long neglect can render many of them incurable. However, all things are possible with God ~ John Climacus,

467:On November 20, 1815, Ludwig van Beethoven’s brother Carl Casper died of tuberculosis, appointing his brother Ludwig as guardian of his son Karl in his will. Not yet ten years old, the little nephew was the only child of the three van Beethoven brothers. And as his father had done before him, Ludwig van Beethoven viewed the boy as a potential vessel for carrying the van Beethoven musical genius into the future. ~ Hourly History,

468:Las palabras, pronunciadas o tipiadas ya no luchan por consignar el viaje de descubrimiento espiritual. Tal como lo expresó admirablemente Chris Moss (en el Guardian Weekend),[11] por medio de “el chat por Internet, los teléfonos móviles, los mensajes de texto”, “la introspección es reemplazada por una interacción frenética y frívola que expone nuestros secretos más profundos al lado de nuestra lista de compras. ~ Zygmunt Bauman,

469:It is impossible to lay down precise rules by which a man may attain to the knowledge and conversation of His Holy Guardian Angel; for that is the particular secret of each one of us; a secret not to be told or even divined by any other, whatever his grade. It is the Holy of Holies, whereof each man is his own High Priest, and none knoweth the Name of his brother's God, or the Rite that invokes Him. ~ Aleister Crowley, Liber ABA,

470:On Earth, we really only deal with two types of angels: the angels, or guardian angels, who are closest to us, and the archangels, who are the managers of the guardian angels. Archangel Michael is a well-known example of an archangel. Guardian angels are assigned to each and every one of us at or before conception. As a soul getting ready to incarnate, you actually talk with your angels and set up a lot of your life. ~ Doreen Virtue,

471:I have more dumb luck thank anybody I know. There must be a convey of guardian angels working twenty-four hours a day looking after me[...] Like the night I first got to Nashville that I laid down in the middle of Broadway, waiting to get run over. It didn't happen [...] I could swear they were keeping me alive just to see what I'd get next, I'm glad they feel that way. I'm trying to help them a little more this days. ~ Willie Nelson,

472:They’ve [aphorisms] got a real form to them. They’re not very popular or fashionable in Anglophone culture – they are assertions, so they can sound hubristic: you sometimes find yourself thinking, “Who the hell am I to say this?” But then, why not? You expect people to disagree. The point is to stir things up. ~ Don Paterson (b, 1963), Scottish poet and musician. From his interview with Mark Seaton for The Guardian, 21st January 2004,

473:The only freedom which deserves the name is that of pursuing our own good in our own way, so long as we do not attempt to deprive others of theirs, or impede their efforts to obtain it. Each is the proper guardian of his own health, whether bodily, or mental or spiritual. Mankind are greater gainers by suffering each other to live as seems good to themselves, than by compelling each to live as seems good to the rest. ~ John Stuart Mill,

474:The only freedom which deserves the name, is that of pursuing our own good in our own way, so long as we do not attempt to deprive others of theirs, or impede their efforts to obtain it. Each is the proper guardian of his own health, whether bodily, or mental and spiritual. Mankind are greater gainers by suffering each other to live as seems good to themselves, than by compelling each to live as seems good to the rest. ~ John Stuart Mill,

475:If you get stuck, get away from your desk. Take a walk, take a bath, go to sleep, make a pie, draw, listen to ­music, meditate, exercise; whatever you do, don't just stick there scowling at the problem. But don't make telephone calls or go to a party; if you do, other people's words will pour in where your lost words should be. Open a gap for them, create a space. Be patient." [The Guardian, 25 February 2010] ~ Hilary Mantel,

476:This can’t be happening. It’s just not possible. (Cassandra) Oh, well, let’s not have reality intrude now, shall we? I mean, hey, you’re a mythological being descended from mythological beings and you’re in the house of an immortal guardian no human can remember five minutes after they leave his presence. Who’s to say that you can’t get pregnant in a dream by him? What? We’re jumping into the realm of reality now? (Katra) ~ Sherrilyn Kenyon,

477:Everywhere the Salafi are pushing by saying, "We are the guardian, and we are resisting any kind of relationship to the West or provocation coming from the West." And internally, it's unsettling the whole situation. Now in Tunisian, in Libya, in Syria, in Egypt, the clash between the literalists and - the Islamists or the reformists is something which is going to be part of what we have to deal with as to the future of America. ~ Tariq Ramadan,

478:This can’t be happening. It’s just not possible. (Cassandra) Oh, well, let’s not have reality intrude now, shall we? I mean, hey, you’re a mythological being descended from mythological beings and you’re in the house of an immortal guardian no human can remember five minutes after they leave his presence. Who’s to say that you can’t get pregnant in a dream by him? What? We’re jumping into the realm of reality now? (Katra) ~ Sherrilyn Kenyon,

479:Why put them through the danger of the fire? And then, I heard, as though it spoke, the voice of the guardian-head: "Each piece must go through the fire. The cowl, the wings, the pneuma, the source, the flow. All must go the way that I have gone. Each may crack in the process, as I have cracked. But look, the crack has healed. I did not break. Without the fire, the piece is untested, unlived, raw. Each must go through the fire. ~ Marion Woodman,

480:Mind you, I have had in my sojourn on earth as good a time of it as any man, so I can speak with some knowledge. A writer in the Manchester Guardian who is unknown to me lately described me as "the richest man in the world." That sounds a pretty big order, but when I come to think it out I believe he is not far wrong. A rich man is not necessarily a man with a whole pot of money but a man who is really happy. And I am that. ~ Robert Baden Powell,

481:This was the virtue of Israel, to have “contended with Elokim and with men” and to have prevailed over their respective concealments of G-d. They are no longer barriers to him; indeed they assent to his blessings. He not only won his struggle with the angel (the guardian angel of Esau) but the angel himself blessed him. This is the achievement of which the Proverbs speak: “He makes even his enemies be at peace with him.”14 ~ Menachem M Schneerson,

482:Yes, having to abandon a novel is painful. It causes an immense anger, usually aimed towards the author, and then at oneself for failing to appreciate a book probably called ‘dazzlingly inventive’ by some fucker in the Guardian. Keep away from social media. The urge to pan a novel and publicly humiliate the author for wasting your time is immense, but in the long run, the best revenge is to say nothing and read superior works. ~ M J Nicholls,

483:What is a totem? It is as a rule an animal (whether edible and harmless or dangerous and feared) and more rarely a plant or a natural phenomenon (such as rain or water), which stands in a peculiar relation to the whole clan. In the first place, the totem is the common ancestor of the clan; at the same time it is their guardian spirit and helper, which sends them oracles and, if dangerous to others, recognizes and spares its own children. ~ Sigmund Freud,

484:Dear Mr. Potter, Please note that the new school year will begin on September the first. The Hogwarts Express will leave from King’s Cross station, platform nine and three-quarters, at eleven o’clock. Third years are permitted to visit the village of Hogsmeade on certain weekends. Please give the enclosed permission form to your parent or guardian to sign. A list of books for next year is enclosed. Yours sincerely, Deputy Headmistress Harry ~ J K Rowling,

485:When Ali Agca, a Turk, shot Pope John Paul II in 1981, both the target and the would-be killer were well within Vatican territory,” wrote George Armstrong, the respected Rome correspondent for London’s Guardian. “The Vatican was happy to have him arrested, tried and sentenced in Italy, and under Italian law, and his life sentence will be at the expense of the Italian taxpayer. The Vatican becomes another country only when it chooses to be. ~ Gerald Posner,

486:If thou shalt perfectly observe these rules, all the following Symbols and an infinitude of others will be granted unto thee by thy Holy Guardian Angel; thou thus living for the Honour and Glory of the True and only God, for thine own good, and that of thy neighbour. Let the Fear of God be ever before the eyes and the heart of him who shall possess this Divine Wisdom and Sacred Magic. ~ MacGregor Mathers, The Book of the Sacred Magic of Abramelin the Mage,

487:Well-meaning adults can easily destroy a child's love of reading: stop them reading what they enjoy, or give them worthy-but-dull books that you like, the 21st-century equivalents of Victorian "improving" literature. You'll wind up with a generation convinced that reading is uncool and worse, unpleasant. ~ Neil Gaiman (October 15, 2013). Neil Gaiman: Why our future depends on libraries, reading and daydreaming. the guardian.com. Retrieved on April 8, 2014.,

488:in the first place, Majesty, a pyramid is power. It is repression,force,and wealth. But it is just as much: domination of the rabble; the narrowing of its mind; the weakening of its will; monotony; and waste. O my Pharaoh, it is your most reliable guardian. Your secret police. Your army. Your fleet. Your harem. The higher it is, the tinier your subjects will seem. And the smaller your subjects, the more you rise, o Majesty, to your full height. ~ Ismail Kadare,

489:The legislator is an indispensable guardian of our freedom. It is true that great executives have played a powerful role in the development of civilization, but such leaders appear sporadically, by chance. They do not always appear when they are most needed. The great executives have given inspiration and push to the advancement of human society, but it is the legislator who has given stability and continuity to that slow and painful progress. ~ J William Fulbright,

490:You're a guardian angel now." I was still too much in awe to wrap my mind around it, but at the same time I felt amazement, curiosity...happiness. "I'm your guardian angel," he said. "I get my very own guardian angel? What, exactly, is your job description?" "Guard your body." His smile tipped higher. "I take my job seriously, which means I'm going to need to get acquainted with the subject matter on a personal level. ~ Becca Fitzpatrick,

491:Some think we each have a guardian angel while others think we don't have an assigned guardian angel, while yet others think God at times - but not always and not by assignment to each of us - sends an angel on a mission of guarding. The Bible's evidence that each of us has a specific, assigned guardian angel is not as solid as some think, so I'm with those who think sometimes God sends guardian angels but that we don't have a specific guardian angel. ~ Scot McKnight,

492:Oddly, the scars were just as beautiful as the wings. They revealed history, told a story. I opened my eyes and trailed my fingers along the feathers as I reached for the lilac pinafore. Everything in the background faded away. The store, the humans in their stupor, the cowering gate guardian — it all vanished from my awareness. All I knew was the feel of his wings. I wanted to rub my face against them, breathe in their sweet scent, wrap them around me… ~ Debra Dunbar,

493:And may we not say confidently of man also, that he who is likely to be gentle to his friends and acquaintances, must by nature be a lover of wisdom and knowledge? That we may safely affirm. Then he who is to be a really good and noble guardian of the State will require to unite in himself philosophy and spirit and swiftness and strength? Undoubtedly. Then we have found the desired natures; and now that we have found them, how are they to be reared and educated? ~ Plato,

494:It should never be forgotten for a single moment that the central and essential work of the Magician is the attainment of the Knowledge and Conversation of the Holy Guardian Angel. Once he has achieved this he must of course be left entirely in the hands of that Angel, who can be invariably and inevitably relied upon to lead him to the further great step-crossing of the Abyss and the attainment of the grade of Master of the Temple. ~ Aleister Crowley, Magick Without Tears,

495:Because human beings do not have the capacity to attain knowledge of God on their own, the Imam becomes a continuous necessity for all societies and in every era. So in addition to the “fixed” number of Imams who succeeded Muhammad’s earthly authority, there must also exist an “ever-present” or “pre-existent” Imam who, as the eternal guardian of the Revelation, functions as “the Proof of God on Earth.” Thus, the first Imam was neither Muhammad nor Ali but Adam. ~ Reza Aslan,

496:There's a saying that we use in golf: "I'd rather be lucky than good." Of course, to be lucky and good is the ideal. If you study hard, you can get good. And if you get lucky and get the proper parts for people to be able to appreciate what you're doing ... I'm sure there are many actors that are quite talented who have never been a success because they've never had the right opportunity and the right material. My mother used to think I had a guardian angel. ~ Clint Eastwood,

497:Back home, it is said that each tree has a spirit who lives inside. Very often those who die pick a tree near their family’s home and stay there as a guardian. I truly believe this, Lesya. My own Baba picked a tree near my house, and I felt her whenever I was there. On full-moon nights I could see a shape shimmering inside the tree, like something dancing. And I would hear her voice on the wind when it rushed through the leaves. Praising. Guiding. Warning. ~ Valya Dudycz Lupescu,

498:If this nation is to be wise as well as strong, if we are to achieve our destiny, then we need more new ideas for more wise men reading more good books in more public libraries. These libraries should be open to all — except the censor. We must know all the facts and hear all the alternatives and listen to all the criticisms. Let us welcome controversial books and controversial authors. For the Bill of Rights is the guardian of our security as well as our liberty. ~ John F Kennedy,

499:It is not human nature to dominate, but to create. Yes, humankind falters every now and then, but you know how to learn from your past mistakes. You've done it before, and you can do it again. I believe that ultimately, you will create a civilization that preserves and protects even as it grows. Do you understand? The spirits will always have a place in this world, as long as you -- and humans like you -- create a place for us. - Lady Tienhai, Guardian Spirit/Queen ~ Gene Luen Yang,

500:The Guardian Angel WHEN my good-nights and prayers are said And I am safe tucked up in bed, I know my guardian angel stands And holds my soul between his hands. I cannot see his wings of light Because I keep my eyes shut tight, For, if I open them, I know My pretty angel has to go. But through the darkness I can hear His white wings rustling very near; I know it is his darling wings, Not Mother folding up my things! ~ Edith Nesbit,

501:Hang on a second." I looked back at the car. Reuel was sitting like a statue in his seat, probably hoping to be forgotten. "You coming?" He shook his head furiously. I narrowed my eyes. "You're sworn to protect me, remember? What kind of guardian angel waits in the car?" His chest heaved with heavy reluctance, and he pushed the door open. Under his breath, he swore in Katavukai. I put my free hand on my hip. "I heard that." The hulking angel stuck his tongue out at me. ~ Elicia Hyder,

502:poetry rose in Noah’s heart: The pillars of heaven tremble and are astounded at his rebuke. By his power he stilled the sea; by his understanding he shattered Leviathan. By his wind the heavens were made fair; his hand pierced the fleeing serpent. Behold, these are but the outskirts of his ways, and how small a whisper do we hear of him! But the thunder of his power who can understand? And Noah knew that Elohim was his guardian who controlled even the sea dragon of chaos. ~ Brian Godawa,

503:Even though Helen Vendler wasn't on the Harvard faculty when I came first in 1979, she was a guardian spirit; Robert Fitzgerald gave me the use of his study in Pusey Library. Monroe and Brenda Engel kept open house, Bob and Jana Kiely made me at home in Adams House. Then, too, in 1979, Frank Bidart, whom Id met in Dublin after the death of Robert Lowell he was over seeing Caroline Blackwood Frank brought me into his circle of friends, including Robert Pinsky and Alan Williamson. ~ Seamus Heaney,

504:I am Darkness. I am Shadow. I am the Ruler of the Night. I, alone, stand between mankind and those who would see mankind destroyed. I am the Guardian. The Soulless Keeper. Neither Human, nor Apollite, I exist beyond the realm of the Living, beyond the realm of the Dead. I am the Dark-Hunter. And I am Eternal…unless I find that one pure heart who will never betray me. The one whose faith and courage can return my soul to me and bring me back into the light. (Dark-Hunter Creed) ~ Sherrilyn Kenyon,

505:In ancient times when Pandora's box was opened-" "Pandora?" Kendra interrupted. "Are you talking about the myth?" Catty nodded solemnly. "It isn't a myth," she stated firmly and continued, "The last thing to leave the box was hope. Only Selene, the goddess of the moon, saw the creature that had been sent by the Atrox to devour hope. Selene took pity on the people of earth and gave her Daughters, like guardian angels, to perpetuate hope. I'm one of those Daughters. A goddess. ~ Lynne Ewing,

506:Nick Hopkins, the Guardian’s investigations editor, had liaison with the intelligence agencies as one of his regular tasks. After the TEMPORA disclosures, Hopkins suggested a peace meeting with a GCHQ official to clear the air. He replied: ‘I would rather gouge my eyes out than be seen with you.’ Hopkins responded: ‘If you do that you won’t be able to read our next scoop.’ Another GCHQ staffer suggested – with tongue in cheek – that he should consider emigration to Australia. The ~ Luke Harding,

507:When men evaluate each other as men, they still look for the same virtues that they’d need to keep the perimeter. Men respond to and admire the qualities that would make men useful and dependable in an emergency. Men have always had a role apart, and they still judge one another according to the demands of that role as a guardian in a gang struggling for survival against encroaching doom. Everything that is specifically about being a man—not merely a person—has to do with that role ~ Jack Donovan,

508:A single assembly will never be a steady guardian of the laws, if Machiavel is right, when he says, Men are never good but through necessity: on the contrary, when good and evil are left to their choice, they will not fail to throw every thing into disorder and confusion. Hunger and poverty may make men industrious, but laws only can make them good; for, if men were so of themselves, there would be no occasion for laws; but, as the case is far otherwise, they are absolutely necessary. ~ John Adams,

509:When men evaluate each other as men, they still look for the same virtues that they'd need to keep the perimeter. Men respond to and admire the qualities that would make men useful and dependable in an emergency. Men have always had a role apart, and they still judge one another according to the demands of that role as a guardian in a gang struggling for survival against encroaching doom. Everything that is specifically about being a man-not merely a person-has to do with that role. ~ Jack Donovan,

510:Selene, the goddess of the moon-" "She's real, too?" Tianna knew at once that Selene was the mysterious force who had directed her to run. That also explained why her internal guide was strongest during the full moon and weakest during the dark of the moon. "Selene saw the creature that had been sent by the Atrox to devour hope," Serena said. "She took pity on the people of earth and gave her daughters, like guardian angels, to guard hope. We're those daughters. We're goddesses. ~ Lynne Ewing,

511:Once, BBC television had echoed BBC radio in being a haven for standard English pronunciation. Then regional accents came in: a democratic plus. Then slipshod usage came in: an egalitarian minus. By now slovenly grammar is even more rife on the BBC channels than on ITV. In this regard a decline can be clearly charted... If the BBC, once the guardian of the English language, has now become its most implacable enemy, let us at least be grateful when the massacre is carried out with style. ~ Clive James,

512:Politics are popularly supposed to govern the direction, and statesmen to be the guardian angels, of Civilization. It seems to me that they have little or no power over its growth. They are of it, and move with it. Their concern is rather with the body than with the mind or soul of a nation. One needs not to be an engineer to know that to pull a man up a wall one must be higher than he; that to raise general taste one must have better taste than that of those whose taste he is raising. ~ John Galsworthy,

513:The Washington Post is and has been the greatest historic competitor of the New York Times. Half of me, though, the unselfish part of me that is just a journalist, is thrilled. I want newspapers to succeed. Let's take the Guardian, which is a new competitor in the digital age. Does it make me nervous that they compete with us and in fact beat us on the Snowden story? Yes. The part of me that's a competitive journalist and wants to fight and play says: bring them on! It's more fun that way. ~ Dean Baquet,

514:The ghosts of Manhattan are not the spirits of the propertied classes; these are entombed in their names, their works, their constructions. New York's ghosts are the unresting souls of the poor, the marginal, the dispossessed, the depraved, the defective, the recalcitrant. They are the guardian spirits of the urban wilderness in which they lived and died. Unrecognized by the history that is common knowledge, they push invisibly behind it to erect their memorials in the collective unconscious. ~ Luc Sante,

515:The Guardian’s Jonathan Freedland observes that Britain ‘has a fundamentally different conception of power to, say, the United States’. It doesn’t have a Bill of Rights or a written constitution, or the American idea that ‘we the people’ are sovereign. Rather, the British system still bears the ‘imprint of its origins in monarchy’, with power emanating from the top and flowing downwards. Britons remain subjects rather than citizens. Hence their lack of response towards government intrusion. ~ Luke Harding,

516:MR. KHARIS: 'Does Mr. Celine seriously suggest that the United States Government is in need of a guardian?' MR. CELINE: 'I am merely offering a way out for your client. Any private individual with a record of such incessant murder and robbery would be glad to cop an insanity plea. Do you insist that your client was in full possession of its reason at Wounded Knee? At Hiroshima? At Dresden?' JUSTICE IMMHOTEP: 'You become facetious, Mr. Celine.' MR. CELINE: 'I have never been more serious. ~ Robert Anton Wilson,

517:How does this whole guardian angel business work? Am I the only person who can see you? I mean, are you invisible to everyone else?" Patch stared at me like he hoped I wasn't serious.  "You're not invisible?" I squeaked. "You have to get out of here!" I made a movement to push Patch off the bed but was cut short by a searing jab in my ribs. "She'll kill me if she finds you in here. Can you climb trees? Tell me you can climb a tree!"  Patch grinned. "I can fly."  Oh. Right. Well, okay. ~ Becca Fitzpatrick,

518:This is as good a place as any for you to locate the bastard,” Tam said. “Bastard? I thought you said you never met Rache.” “I haven’t. He hurt you, he’s hunting Chigaru, therefore he’s a bastard. The goblin language has much more accurate terms, but that one will do for now.” “Do you mean jak’aprit?” Vegard asked helpfully. Tam inhaled with intense satisfaction. “The very word. Well done, Vegard.” The big Guardian grinned. “I believe in knowing how to insult a man in every language. ~ Lisa Shearin,

519:When a female character sets herself on fire in an effort to interrupt her culture's violent abuse of disenfranchised people, or physically tortures and punishes her guardian rapist, or picks up a gun and fights back in ways that make her not pretty, or aggressively rejects her role as the object of desire, or even when she waddles off into the woods to squat and have a baby without the safety and expertise of hospitals and doctors, these are the kinds of violences and stories we can learn from. ~ Lidia Yuknavitch,

520:Hey Sydney," she said, giving me a small, crooked smile as she entered the room. Her flashing, dark eyes were friendly, but they were also assessing everything in the room, much as Eddie's gaze was. It was a guardian thing. Rose was about my height and dressed very casually in jeans and a red tank top. But, as always, there was something as exotic and dangerous about her beauty that made her stand out from everyone else. She was like a tropical flower in this dark, stuffy room. One that could kill you. ~ Richelle Mead,

521:Last night I encountered a dream cat with a very long neck and a body like a human fetus, gray and transluscent. I don't know what it needs or how to provide for it. Another dream years ago of a human child with eyes on stalks. It is very small, but can walk and talk "Don't you want me?" Again, I don't know how to care for the child. But I am dedicated to protecting and nurturing him at any cost! It is the function of the Guardian to protect hybrids and mutants in the vulnerable stage of infancy. ~ William S Burroughs,

522:MR. KHARIS: 'Does Mr. Celine seriously suggest that the United States Government is in need of a guardian?' MR. CELINE: 'I am merely offering a way out for your client. Any private individual with a record of such incessant murder and robbery would be glad to cop an insanity plea. Do you insist that your client was in full possession of its reason at Wounded Knee? At Hiroshima? At Dresden?' JUSTICE IMMHOTEP: 'You become facetious, Mr. Celine.' MR. CELINE: 'I have never been more serious. ~ Robert Anton Wilson,

523:Laura described the remnants of snake devotion still found in rural villages of the Black and Adriatic Seas. There, people believed black or green snakes bore guardian spirits who protected their cattle and their homes. In her travels Laura saw ornamental snakes carved to decorate the roofs and windows for protection. Great good fortune came to anyone who met a big white snake wearing a crown,; the crowned snake was the sister of the waterbird goddess, owner and guardian of life water and life milk. ~ Leslie Marmon Silko,

524:How does this whole guardian angel business work? Am I the only person who can see you? I mean, are you invisible to everyone else?" Patch stared at me like he hoped I wasn't serious.    "You're not invisible?" I squeaked. "You have to get out of here!" I made a movement to push Patch off the bed but was cut short by a searing jab in my ribs. "She'll kill me if she finds you in here. Can you climb trees? Tell me you can climb a tree!"    Patch grinned. "I can fly."    Oh. Right. Well, okay. ~ Becca Fitzpatrick,

525:From his soft fur, golden and brown, Goes out so sweet a scent, one night I might have been embalmed in it By giving him one little pet. He is my household's guardian soul; He judges, he presides, inspires All matters in his royal realm; Might he be fairy? or a god? When my eyes, to this cat I love Drawn as by a magnet's force, Turn tamely back upon that appeal, And when I look within myself, I notice with astonishment The fire of his opal eyes, Clear beacons glowing, living jewels, Taking my measure, steadily. ~ Charles Baudelaire,

526:I'm sorry, An," I said, hesitating before I spoke again. "Why did you think I turned Shay? I mean besides smelling the other wolf in the cave." Ansel raised his gray eyes to meet mine, his irises hard as flint. "Because I would have run away with Bryn if anyone told me I couldn't be with her. If she weren't a Guardian, I would've turned her, and I would've run for the rest of my life to keep her by my side." I looked at him for a long moment and then nodded slowly. He loves her. That's what love is. It must be. ~ Andrea Cremer,

527:There is this ferocious digital revolution coming along and we're in the teeth of that at the time of maximum economic disruption. There are huge opportunities there. I made the point in my supplementary statement that the Guardian is now a very considerable global player, but there are huge challenges in terms of making, of finding, the convincing business model, so I want to see Guardian journalism continue and thrive, although whether and to what extent that is in print or in digital is a sort of second order matter. ~ Alan Rusbridger,

528:I have a counteroffer. I'll tell you the job description I really want." Raine's throat tightened in frustration. If he was going to keep it on this level, it was up to her to force them to the next one. As always. Seth looked down at his feet. She saw his Adam's apple bob, once. Twice. He met her eyes, with the look of a man who was facing the firing squad. "Full-time lover," he said hoarsely. "Father of your children. Companion in adventure, champion, guardian, protector, helpmeet, mate. Love of you life. Forever. ~ Shannon McKenna,

529:Apart from instinct, the brute has no other guardian spirit, no other Providence, than its senses or its organs in general. A bird which loses its eyes has lost its guardian angel; … a natural Providence is in the eyes of religion as good as none. Hence Providence has relation essentially to men, and even among men only to the religious. 'God is the saviour of all men, but especially of them that believe.' … [I]t is intended to express the essential distinction of man from the brute, to rescue man from the tyranny of Nature. ~ Ludwig Feuerbach,

530:Do you not think that sometimes when matters are at the worst with us, when we appear to have done all which we ourselves can do, yet all has been unavailing, and we have only shown we cannot, not we will not, help ourselves; that often just then something comes, almost as if supernaturally, to settle for us, as if our guardian angel took pity on our perplexities, and then at last obtained leave to help us? And if it be so, then what might only be a coincidence becomes a call of Providence, a voice from Heaven, a command. ~ James Anthony Froude,

531:Mei reached into her pocket and took out another steamed egg cake, this one topped with a dark red date. "How about a treat for the loyal guardian?" ShiShi's fur bristled, and his tail became stiff and straight. "Absolutely not. I won't be fooled into accepting food from you." "Fine, your loss." Mei took a bite. "Mmm. So delicious. I always thought guardians had a weakness for sweets." "Or spirits." Liwei snickered. "Where do you think all those gourds of rice wine go when you leave them for your ancestors at the altar? ~ Elizabeth Lim,

532:There are Four of Us I have turned aside from everything, from the whole earthly store. The spirit and guardian of this place is an old tree-stump in water. We are brief guests of the earth, as it were, and life is a habit we put on. On paths of air I seem to overhear two friendly voices, talking in turn. Did I say two?...There by the east wall's tangle of raspberry, is a branch of elder, dark and fresh. Why! It's a letter from Marina. November 1962 (in delirium) ~ Anna Akhmatova,

533:There's the trope about an impending "global-warming encyclical." The pope is preparing an encyclical on nature and the environment, including the human environment (which includes the moral imperative of a culturally affirmed and legally recognized right to life from conception until natural death). So what happens? A low-ranking Vatican official for self-promotion gives an interview to the Guardian in which he claims that this is a global-warming encyclical - which he couldn't possibly have known, as the document wasn't drafted yet. ~ George Weigel,

534:When children are demonised by the newspapers, they are often described as feral,’ wrote George Monbiot in the Guardian.6 ‘But feral is what children should be: it means released from captivity or domestication. Those who live in crowded flats, surrounded by concrete, mown grass and other people’s property, cannot escape their captivity without breaking the law. Games and explorations that are seen as healthy in the countryside are criminalised in the cities. Children who have never visited the countryside live under constant restraint. ~ Gary Younge,

535:For the libertarian, the state is a guardian entrusted with a monopoly on the legitimate use of force, and hence a permanent threat to individual liberty. Whereas for the (modern) liberal, the state is a social apparatus for protecting people from destitution, discrimination, and disease. Those who distrust the state, believe the government should provide only those services that individuals or informal groups cannot provide for themselves. Those who trust it, believe the government should provide as many services as people in need require. ~ Thomas Szasz,

536:If this nation is to be wise as well as strong, if we are to achieve our destiny, then we need more new ideas for more wise men reading more good books in more public libraries. These libraries should be open to all—except the censor. We must know all the facts and hear all the alternatives and listen to all the criticisms. Let us welcome controversial books and controversial authors. For the Bill of Rights is the guardian of our security as well as our liberty. [Response to questionnaire in Saturday Review, October 29 1960] ~ John F Kennedy,

537:Computers already have enough power to outperform people in activities we used to think of as distinctively human. In 1997, IBM’s Deep Blue defeated world chess champion Garry Kasparov. Jeopardy!’s best-ever contestant, Ken Jennings, succumbed to IBM’s Watson in 2011. And Google’s self-driving cars are already on California roads today. Dale Earnhardt Jr. needn’t feel threatened by them, but the Guardian worries (on behalf of the millions of chauffeurs and cabbies in the world) that self-driving cars “could drive the next wave of unemployment. ~ Peter Thiel,

538:NO care, but all prayer. No anxiety, but much joyful communion with God. Carry your desires to the Lord of your life, the guardian of your soul. Go to him with two portions of prayer, and one of fragrant praise. Do not pray doubtfully, but thankfully. Consider that you have your petitions, and therefore thank God for his grace. He is giving you grace, give him thanks. Hide nothing. Allow no want to lie rankling in your bosom; “make known your requests.” Run not to man. Go only to your God, the Father of Jesus, who loves you in him. ~ Charles Haddon Spurgeon,

539:There exists a subterranean world where pathological fantasies disguised as ideas are churned out by crooks and half-educated fanatics [notably the lower clergy] for the benefit of the ignorant and superstitious. There are times when this underworld emerges from the depths and suddenly fascinates, captures and dominates multitudes of usually sane and responsible people, who thereupon take leave of sanity and responsibility. And it occasionally happens that this underworld becomes a political power and changes the course of history. Guardian 2009 ~ Martin Amis,

540:Am I my brother’s guardian?” Cain asked after he had killed his brother, Abel. We are now living in such an interconnected world that we are all implicated in one another’s history and one another’s tragedies. As we—quite rightly—condemn those terrorists who kill innocent people, we also have to find a way to acknowledge our relationship with and responsibility for Mamana Bibi, her family, and the hundreds of thousands of civilians who have died or been mutilated in our modern wars simply because they were in the wrong place at the wrong time. ~ Karen Armstrong,

541:I wish that Google would realize its own power in the cause of free speech. The debate has been often held about Google's role in acceding to the Chinese government's demands to censor search results. Google says that it is better to have a hampered internet than no internet at all. I believe that if the Chinese people were threatened with no Google, they might even rise up and demand free speech - free search and links - from their regime. Google lives and profits by free speech and must use its considerable power to become a better guardian of it. ~ Jeff Jarvis,

542:Alecto Sydney Steele, an entity of few words whom society managed to overlook as it rapidly dove into the 21st century. Everything about him, his interests, his friends, his own life, was constantly in danger of becoming an anachronism. And caught up in that mess was Mearth, not exactly evil in nature but just misunderstood. A very long time ago Alecto’s life had been all incandescent sparkles and Kodachrome, but that was before the environmental movement changed Mearth from a perfectly nice and kind guardian, to a deranged and malevolent monster. ~ Rebecca McNutt,

543:I don't normally read reviews of children's books, mostly because I can't be bothered, and because kids - my kids, anyway - are not interested in what the Guardian thinks they might enjoy. One of my two-year-old's favourite pieces of night-time reading, for example, is the promotional flyer advertising the Incredibles that I was sent, a flyer outlining some of the marketing plans for the film. If you end up having to read that out loud every night, you soon give up on the idea of seeking out improving literature sanctioned by the liberal broadsheets. ~ Nick Hornby,

544:What do you think love is- a thing to startle from the heart like a bird at every shout or blow? You can fly from me, high as you choose into your darkness, but you will see me always beneath you, no matter how far away, with my face turned to you. My heart is in your heart. I gave it to you with my name that night and you are its guardian, to treasure it, or let it whither and die. I do not understand you. I am angry with you. I am hurt and helpless, but nothing will fill the ache of the hollowness in me where your name would echo if I lost you. ~ Patricia A McKillip,

545:Oh! what is the gain of restless care, And what is ambitious treasure? And what are the joys that the modish share, In their sickly haunts of pleasure? My husband's repast with delight I spread, What though 'tis but rustic fare, May each guardian angel protect his shed, May contentment and quiet be there. And may I support my husband's years, May I soothe his dying pain, And then may I dry my fast falling tears, And meet him in Heaven again. JULY, 1810. ~ Percy Bysshe Shelley, Song. Translated From The Italian ,

546:She closed her eyes, praying for sleep. Nathaniel’s face rose before her mind’s eye, Colin’s superimposed over it. Their features melded in a strange patchwork amalgamation, two beings attempting to merge as one. Lenore opened her eyes. Moonlight spilled through the room, unblocked by the drapes neither she nor Constance remembered to close. The silvery light illuminated her bedside table and the books she’d left there. Her heart tripped a beat at the sight of her book of verse—Nathaniel’s gift to her. The Guardian had recited Tennyson while he kissed her. ~ Grace Draven,

547:I am a Guardian of Ga’Hoole. From this night on I dedicate my life to the protection of owlkind. I shall not swerve in my duty. I shall support my brother and sister Guardians in times of battle and in times of peace. I am the eyes in the night, the silence within the wind. I am the talons through the fire, the shield that guards the innocent. I shall seek to wear no crown, nor win any glory. And all these things I do swear upon my honor as a Guardian of Ga’Hoole until my days on this earth cease to be. This be my vow. This be my life. By Glaux, I do swear. ~ Kathryn Lasky,

548:Reynaud's visit had made me want to go and see my wood again. I like saying that. My wood. My strawberry clearing. My path. My trees. My fence. My wishing well. Those things are mine now, Reynaud said. Not Roux's, not Maman's, but mine. Mine to do what I like in. Sometimes all I want to do is be alone; to sing, to shout, to run about, to talk to myself in my shadow-voice. And now I can do that whenever I want. The wood, the clearing, and the well- they are all mine to play with. I am no longer a trespasser. I am the guardian of a sacred place. ~ Joanne Harris,

549:This Magical Will is the wand in your hand by which the Great Work is accomplished, by which the Daughter is not merely set upon the throne of the Mother, but assumed into the Highest.<

550:The other problem in my life is Dimitri. He's the one who killed Natalie, and he's a total badass. He's also pretty good-looking. Okay-more than good-looking. He's hot-like, the kind of hot that makes you stop walking on the street and get hit by traffic. But, like I said, he's my instructor. And he's twenty-four. Both of those are reasons why I shouldn't have fallen for him. But, honestly, the most important reason is that he and I will be Lissa's guardian when she graduates. If he and I are checking each other out, then that means we aren't looking out for her. ~ Richelle Mead,

551:Yes, I know, shaming, isn't it? I always say you can take the girl out of the 80s, but you can't take the 80s out of the girl. Before I wrote my first novel, I was reading one of the self-help classics – and it's as cheesy as you like, so feel free to laugh, Guardian readers – called Awaken The Giant Within, by Tony Robbins, and it inspired me to try. I like motivational books, because I like the go-getting American spirit – your destiny is in your own hands, life is what you make it, don't accept your limitations, jump before you're pushed, leap before you look. ~ Louise Mensch,

552:We are Darkness. We are Shadow. We are the Ruler of the Night. We, alone, stand between mankind and those who would see mankind destroyed. We are the Guardian The Soulless Keepers. Our souls were cast out so that we would not forewarn the Daimons we pursue. By the time they see us coming, it's too late. The Daimons and Apollites know us. They fear us. We are death to all those who prey upon the humans. Neither Human, nor Apollite, we exist beyond the realm of the Living, beyond the realm of the Dead We are the Dark-Hunters. And we are Eternal ~ Sherrilyn Kenyon,

553:The angels don't care what words you use. They appreciate the engraved, fancy prayers, but they say, "Just talk to us." You can use ordinary language - the language you use when you talk with your best friend - when you ask for help. If you want to reach out to the angels for something very personal for yourself, you can say, "Dear guardian angels and archangels, I ask that you come to me now and help me resolve this problem or issue." And then you just pour out your heart to the angels. You can do it silently in your mind. You can say it out loud. You can write it. ~ Doreen Virtue,

554:L: You want me just to be your... friend? E: You want the truth? I think you're my guardian angel. L: What? E: Do you know what it's like to have someone crash into your life with no warning? When you landed in my office, I was like, Who the fuck is this? But you shook me up. You brought me back to life at a time when I was in limbo. You were just what I needed... You're just what I need. L: Well I need you too. So we're even. E: No, you don't need me. You're doing just fine. L: Ok. Maybe I don't need you. But... I want you. ~ Sophie Kinsella,

555:The Easter Flower Far from this foreign Easter damp and chilly My soul steals to a pear-shaped plot of ground, Where gleamed the lilac-tinted Easter lily Soft-scented in the air for yards around; Alone, without a hint of guardian leaf! Just like a fragile bell of silver rime, It burst the tomb for freedom sweet and brief In the young pregnant year at Eastertime; And many thought it was a sacred sign, And some called it the resurrection flower; And I, a pagan, worshiped at its shrine, Yielding my heart unto its perfumed power. ~ Claude McKay,

556:Each day I perform complex choreography around people, dogs, garbage bags, cyclists going the wrong way, traffic signs with arrows that say ONLY, creaking as they swing in the wind. Sometimes I walk for blocks, even miles, without paying much attention. But then my gait slows. Something tugs at my arm and whispers, Look! Look. There are limestone angels about the doors of the Parish of the Guardian Angel. There's a Banksy painted on Zabar's. There are toy cardinals tied like red ribbons to tree branches on Bank Street. And just like that, Manhattan has me again. ~ Stephanie Rosenbloom,

557:The fact that Edward Snowden didn't approach the New York Times hurt a lot. It meant two things. Morally, it meant that somebody with a big story to tell didn't think we were the place to go, and that's painful. And then it also meant that we got beaten on what was arguably the biggest national security story in many, many years. Not only beaten by the Guardian, because he went to the Guardian, but beaten by the Post, because he went to a writer from the Post. We tried to catch up and did some really good stories that I feel good about. But it was really, really, really painful. ~ Dean Baquet,

558:I extended my hand to Chase, "Eveline Sophia Fallon, daughter of Brennan and Mina, sister of Gaurdian and supposedly the One." His chuckle was low and sexy and caused a tremor to course through me. I fought to keep my hand steady so he wouldn't see the way he affected me. Liam stiffened beside me but for once said nothing. Chase inclined his head haughtily, playing along. "Chase Andrew Alexander err...Smith, at least for now. Son of Gabriel, elder brother of Guardian and Jennavieve. No relation to the, 'supposed' One. Thank goodness," he grinned wickedly then bowed slightly. ~ Heather Self,

559:O People of the Book (Jews and Christians)! Do not exceed the limits in your religion, and attribute to God nothing except the truth. The Messiah, Jesus, son of Mary, was only a Messenger of God, and His command that He conveyed unto Mary, and a spirit from Him. So believe in God and in His Messengers, and do not say: ‘God is a Trinity.’ Give up this assertion; it would be better for you. For God is indeed (the only) One God. Far be it from His glory that He should have a son. To Him belongs all that is in the heavens and in the earth. And God is sufficient for a guardian.” (Quran 4:171) ~ Anonymous,

560:Actually,” the chief guardian said in a calm voice, “you have no rights at all. But I am going to tell you the decision so that there will be no misunderstanding. “The orphan girl Kira will stay. She will have a new role.” He gestured toward the Singer’s robe, still spread out on the table. “Kira,” he said, looking at her, “you will continue your mother’s work. You will go beyond her work, actually, since your skill is far greater than hers was. First, you will repair the robe, as your mother always did. Next, you will restore it. Then your true work will begin. You will complete the robe. ~ Lois Lowry,

561:From his soft fur, golden and brown, Goes out so sweet a scent, one night I might have been embalmed in it By giving him one little pet. He is my household's guardian soul; He judges, he presides, inspires All matters in his royal realm; Might he be fairy? or a god? When my eyes, to this cat I love Drawn as by a magnet's force, Turn tamely back upon that appeal, And when I look within myself, I notice with astonishment The fire of his opal eyes, Clear beacons glowing, living jewels, Taking my measure, steadily. ~ Charles Baudelaire,

562:Jaenelle peered into the space between the chair arms. “Saetan?” she said in a small, quivery voice. “Saetan, are you all right?” Using Craft, Saetan sent the top chair back to the blackwood desk. “I’m fine, witch-child.” He stuffed his feet into his shoes and gingerly stood up. “That’s the most excitement I’ve had in centuries.” “Really?” He straightened his black tunic-jacket and smoothed back his hair. “Yes, really.” And Guardian or not, a man his age shouldn’t have his heart gallop around his rib cage like this. Saetan looked around the study and stifled a groan. ~ Anne Bishop,

563:The little child who was to have done so much was born before the turf was planted on its father's grave. It was a boy; and I, my husband, and my guardian gave him his father's name. The help that my dear counted on did come to her, though it came, in the eternal wisdom, for another purpose. Though to bless and restore his mother, not his father, was the errand of this baby, its power was mighty to do it. When I saw the strength of the weak little hand and how its touch could heal my darling's heart and raised hope within her, I felt a new sense of the goodness and the tenderness of God. ~ Charles Dickens,

564:Now it turns out that a few broadsheet film critics in Britain do indeed belong to a category of people who would have resisted Hitler when he came to power. So the great shame is, clearly film critics should have been running Austria at the time, because Hitler would have represented no problem to them at all. [The Guardian's] Peter Bradshaw would have known exactly what to do, and he would not have been remotely fallible to any Nazi who threatened his life. No, he would have died in heroic acts of individual resistance. So it's a privilege to live among people who enjoy such moral certainty. ~ David Hare,

565:The boards trembled. A dragon's head reared up off the Fury's starboard bow, streaming water. Its silver plates were scratched and tarnished like an old suit of armour, and atop its brow was a crown of scales from which hung strands of fireweed like tangles of hair. Up, up, it went, so high it put a crick in Amerel's neck just tracking it. Its eyes were so large they could have taken in the world, yet they seemed to be looking straight at the Guardian. Its lips peeled back with a sound like a hundred swords being drawn from their scabbards, and it gave a roar that set the foresails shivering. ~ Marc Turner,

566:The adult world may seem a cold and empty place, with no fairies and no Father Christmas, no Toyland or Narnia, no Happy Hunting Ground where mourned pets go, and no angels - guardian or garden variety. But there are also no devils, no hellfire, no wicked witches, no ghosts, no haunted houses, no daemonic possession, no bogeymen or ogres. Yes, Teddy and Dolly turn out not to be really alive. But there are warm, live, speaking, thinking, adult bedf ellows to hold, and many of us find it a more rewarding kind of love than the childish affection for stuffed toys, however soft and cuddly they may be. ~ Richard Dawkins,

567:A woman enters a department store from the street, looking no doubt very mortal, her hair windblown, her own face visible. To reach the cosmetics counter, she must pass a deliberately disorienting prism of mirrors, lights, and scents that combine to submit her to the “sensory overload” used by hypnotists and cults to encourage suggestibility. On either side of her are ranks of angels—seraphim and cherubim—the “perfect” faces of the models on display. Behind them, across a liminal counter in which is arranged the magic that will permit her to cross over, lit from below, stands the guardian angel. ~ Naomi Wolf,

568:A chubby vole sat as guardian between the two sections, making sure the hoi polloi didn't get any ideas above their station. His name was Harold, and the most important thing he had learned in his life, as far as he was concerned, was that it was entirely possible to sleep with one's eyes open, or at least open enough to deceive passersby, if one was willing to put in a bit of practice. True, it wasn't as good as a full-on nap, but any degree of slumber was better than waking. As far as Harold was concerned, the biter part of existence lay in those little moments of oblivion that preceded the last. ~ Daniel Polansky,

569:Jesus turned back to the cave, took a deep breath, and said, “Get ready for all Hades to break loose.” He led them into the dark, wide cavernous mouth of death.   It was pitch black. But the archangels could see just as well as in the light with their preternatural sight. Being human, Jesus was not so equipped. He stumbled on some rocks. Mikael, his guardian, took his hand and led him gingerly into the blackness.   They had gone some distance in, when they saw torchlight around a large golden image. As they approached it, Jesus could see more clearly whose image it was. “Azazel,” he said with bitterness. ~ Brian Godawa,

570:You’re not done with me entirely, human. I’m the mother of his daughter. (Artemis) You’re right. You are Katra’s mother, poor her. But you’re wrong about one thing. (Tory) And that is? (Artemis) I’m no longer human. I’m the Atlantie Kedemonia Theony – the guardian of the Atlantean gods. And right now there’s only one of them walking about and to save him from one more bad memory created by you, I’d bathe in your entrails, bitch. As for Kat, she’s a big girl – I know, I used to live with her. She’ll survive the death of her mother. Trust me, I have firsthand experience with the subject. (Tory) ~ Sherrilyn Kenyon,

571:Kosson threw me a hurt look, for a moment a child with his enthusiasm dashed. “Yes, but see who we have here!” We edged around the invisible glass surrounding the man. That was how it felt. Slick glass, cold to touch, the edge of time where hours and minutes die to nothing. “See?” Kosson pointed to a white rectangle attached to the man’s chest, to the left. It looked to be a piece of plasteek and bore the legend “CUSTODIAN” in black. “That means he’s the guardian, the protector. The guard archivists have books that tell the meanings of ancient words.” “He looks soft to me.” Weak, white, fear in his eyes. “The ~ Mark Lawrence,

572:... throughout his long life Newton continued to experiment in alchemy; indeed, he was, as Gleick writes, "the peerless alchemist of Europe". These studies in the dark art were conducted in deepest secrecy, and did not come to light until centuries after his death, when a large portion of his papers were reassembled. The economist John Maynard Keynes, the saviour of much of this documentation, was astonished by what he read. "Newton," Keynes told his students at Trinity, "was not the first of the age of reason. He was the last of the magicians." ~ John Banville, (29 August 2003)"Review of Isaac Newton by James Gleick". The Guardian.,

573:Mariam wished for so much in those final moments. Yet as she closed her eyes, it was not regret any longer but a sensation of abundant peace that washed over her. She thought of her entry into this world, the harami child of a lowly villager, an unintended thing, a pitiable, regrettable accident. A weed. And yet she was leaving the world as a woman who had loved and been loved back. She was leaving it as a friend, a companion, a guardian. A mother. A person of consequence at last. No. It was not so bad, Mariam thought, that she should die this way. Not so bad. This was a legitimate end to a life of illegitimate belongings ~ Khaled Hosseini,

574:Miriam wished for so much in those final moments. Yet as she closed her eyes, it was not regret any longer but a sensation of abundant peace that washed over her. She thought of her entry into this world, the harami child of a lowly villager, an unintended thing, a pitiable, regrettable accident. A weed. And yet she was leaving the world as a woman who had loved and been loved back. She was leaving it as a friend, a companion, a guardian. A mother. A person of consequence at last. No. It was not so bad, Miriam thought, that she should die this way. Not so bad. This was a legitimate end to a life of illegitimate belongings. ~ Khaled Hosseini,

575:Moral philosophers say things like, ‘What is actually wrong with cannibalism?’ There are two ways of responding to that: one is to shrink back in horror and say, ‘Cannibalism! Cannibalism! We can’t talk about cannibalism!’ The other is to say, ‘Well, actually, what is wrong with cannibalism?’ Then you work it out and you tease it out and you decide yes, actually, cannibalism is wrong, but for the following reasons. So I’d like to think that my moral values at least partly come from reasoning. Trying to suppress the gut reaction as much as possible. ["Is Richard Dawkins destroying his reputation?", The Guardian, 9 June 2015] ~ Richard Dawkins,

576:When you were in law school you had some noble idea of what a lawyer should be. A champion of individual rights; a defender of the Constitution; a guardian of the oppressed; an advocate for your client’s principles. Then after you practice for six months you realize we’re nothing but hired guns. Mouthpieces for sale to the highest bidder, available to anybody, any crook, any sleazebag with enough money to pay our outrageous fees. Nothing shocks you. It’s supposed to be an honorable profession, but you’ll meet so many crooked lawyers you’ll want to quit and find an honest job. Yeah, Mitch, you’ll get cynical. And it’s sad, really. ~ John Grisham,

577:The reason why we see sphinxes (including that of Queen Hetepheres II from the Fourth Dynasty) instead of lion statues in history is because of the guardian role that had to be played and manifested by the Pharaohs for protecting their theological domains. We also testify to the symbolism of the lion being inverted during the New Kingdom which in turn explains the reclaiming of the Great Sphinx of Giza by Thutmose IV. And in the New Kingdom, Ram heads were introduced on sphinxes signaling the aspiration for receiving the to-be-sacrificed Messiah as in the case with the Aryan Christian theology in contrast to that of the Aryan Jew's. ~ Ibrahim Ibrahim,

578:13. The Magic Flight:If the hero in his triumph wins the blessing of the goddess or the god and is then explicitly commissioned to return to the world with some elixir for the restoration of society, the final stage of his adventure is supported by all the powers of his supernatural patron. On the other hand, if the trophy has been attained against the opposition of its guardian, or if the hero's wish to return to the world has been resented by the gods or demons, then the last stage of the mythological round becomes a lively, often comical, pursuit. This flight may be complicated by marvels of magical obstruction and evasion. ~ Joseph Campbell,

579:The explanation of this perennial quality of Arabic is to be found simply in the conserving role of nomadism. It is in towns that languages decay, by becoming worn out, the things and institutions they designate. Nomads, who live to some extent outside time, conserve their language better; it is, moreover, the only treasure they can carry around with them in their pastoral existence; the nomad is a jealous guardian of his linguistic heritage, his poetry and his rhetorical art. On the other hand, his inheritance in the way of visual art cannot be rich; architecture presupposes stability, and the same is broadly true of sculpture and painting. ~ Titus Burckhardt,

580:Archipelago is the only answer to ruling a population of trillions, who own a million different cultures, mores, and histories.” He shrugged. “It is simple: an artificial intelligence—a mechal brain, if you will—exists and mediates things. It knows each and every citizen personally and orchestrates their meetings with others, communications, and so on in order to avoid irreconcilable conflict. Beyond that, it stays out of sight, for it has no values, no desires of its own. It is as if every person had their own guardian spirit, and these spirits never warred, but acted in concert to improve people’s lives.” “A tyranny of condescension,” said Galas. ~ Karl Schroeder,

581:Sure, I would have enjoyed buying that private fantasy island. Yes, I would have enjoyed legally changing my first name to Gilligan and starting my own perfect civilization on that uncharted desert isle—but Mom and Dad knew better. They had foresight to realize I would handle my money better once I was older. Mom became my manager when it was clear we couldn’t afford the costs related to acting unless she got a full-time job. Someone needed to take me to the studio daily and stay there, because it was required by law that every underage kid have a parent or legal guardian around all day. It seemed silly to pay someone else to do that, so she took the job. ~ Kirk Cameron,

582:characteristic of a very great number of people, some of them very clever ones, not like Fyodor Pavlovitch. Pyotr Alexandrovitch carried the business through vigorously, and was appointed, with Fyodor Pavlovitch, joint guardian of the child, who had a small property, a house and land, left him by his mother. Mitya did, in fact, pass into this cousin's keeping, but as the latter had no family of his own, and after securing the revenues of his estates was in haste to return at once to Paris, he left the boy in charge of one of his cousins, a lady living in Moscow. It came to pass that, settling permanently in Paris he, too, forgot the child, especially ~ Fyodor Dostoyevsky,

583:am an American Soldier. I am a warrior and a member of a team. I serve the people of the United States, and live the Army Values. I will always place the mission first. I will never accept defeat. (This had been underlined.) I will never quit. I will never leave a fallen comrade. I am disciplined, physically and mentally tough, trained and proficient in my warrior task and drills. I always maintain my arms, my equipment and myself. I am an expert and I am a professional. I stand ready to deploy, engage, and destroy the enemies of the United States of America in close combat. I am a guardian of freedom and the American way of life. I am an American Soldier. ~ Kristin Hannah,

584:To John Keats Great master! Boyish, sympathetic man! Whose orbed and ripened genius lightly hung From life's slim, twisted tendril and there swung In crimson-sphered completeness; guardian Of crystal portals through whose openings fan The spiced winds which blew when earth was young, Scattering wreaths of stars, as Jove once flung A golden shower from heights cerulean. Crumbled before thy majesty we bow. Forget thy empurpled state, thy panoply Of greatness, and be merciful and near; A youth who trudged the highroad we tread now Singing the miles behind him; so may we Faint throbbings of thy music overhear. ~ Amy Lowell,

585:The Constitution became even more acceptable to the public at large after the first Congress, responding to criticism, passed a series of amendments known as the Bill of Rights. These amendments seemed to make the new government a guardian of people’s liberties: to speak, to publish, to worship, to petition, to assemble, to be tried fairly, to be secure at home against official intrusion. It was, therefore, perfectly designed to build popular backing for the new government. What was not made clear—it was a time when the language of freedom was new and its reality untested—was the shakiness of anyone’s liberty when entrusted to a government of the rich and powerful. ~ Howard Zinn,

586:Xxxvii Pardon, oh, pardon, that my soul should make, Of all that strong divineness which I know For thine and thee, an image only so Formed of the sand, and fit to shift and break. It is that distant years which did not take Thy sovranty, recoiling with a blow, Have forced my swimming brain to undergo Their doubt and dread, and blindly to forsake Thy purity of likeness and distort Thy worthiest love to a worthless counterfeit: As if a shipwrecked Pagan, safe in port, His guardian sea-god to commemorate, Should set a sculptured porpoise, gills a-snort And vibrant tail, within the temple-gate. ~ Elizabeth Barrett Browning,

587:I also have a world, is it? And I will have whoever I say to share it. Ivor it was, first, because I said Ivor and nobody else. You, it would have been second, if I had said yes. But neither of you if I had said no.” So Bronwen showed me more of the strength of woman, which is stronger than fists and muscles and male shoutings. For now, instead of thinking about her as guardian of a world denied to me, and foreign to me because it belonged to another, I was made to think of her in truth and verity as owner and possessor, with right of denial and sanction over all, as equal sharer, and with right to say who and when, according to her will and none other. ~ Richard Llewellyn,

588:Here I am! Sorry I’m late, but I had a bit of trouble locating your secret clubhouse. Did I miss anything good?” Three of the four male faces in the room turned to me with astonishment. The fourth shook his adorable head resignedly. “We have not yet started. Out of idle curiosity, how did you find this room?” I donned my most haughty look as I perched myself on the arm of his comfy leather chair. “You expect me to reveal my Guardian secrets? Ha! I think not, plebeian!” Drake’s eyes narrowed in thought. “Ah. The ward at the entrance.” “Dead giveaway,” Jim said, plunking itself down in front of a small fireplace that was merrily blazing. ~ Katie MacAlister,

589:Sonnet Xxxvii Pardon, oh, pardon, that my soul should make, Of all that strong divineness which I know For thine and thee, an image only so Formed of the sand, and fit to shift and break. It is that distant years which did not take Thy sovranty, recoiling with a blow, Have forced my swimming brain to undergo Their doubt and dread, and blindly to forsake Thy purity of likeness and distort Thy worthiest love to a worthless counterfeit: As if a shipwrecked Pagan, safe in port, His guardian sea-god to commemorate, Should set a sculptured porpoise, gills a-snort And vibrant tail, within the temple-gate. ~ Elizabeth Barrett Browning,

590:The National Security Agency is currently collecting the telephone records of millions of US customers of Verizon, one of America’s largest telecom providers, under a top secret court order issued in April. The order, a copy of which has been obtained by the Guardian, requires Verizon on an “ongoing, daily basis” to give the NSA information on all telephone calls in its systems, both within the US and between the US and other countries. The document shows for the first time that under the Obama administration the communication records of millions of US citizens are being collected indiscriminately and in bulk—regardless of whether they are suspected of any wrongdoing. ~ Glenn Greenwald,

591:Create a revocable living trust. Transfer all assets into the trust and appoint yourself as the trustee so you retain all control over the trust. Create a pour-over will. Choose a guardian for your children who is truly prepared and ready for the responsibility. Choose an executor for your estate who is ready and able to settle your affairs when you die. Create an advance directive that spells out your health care wishes. Create a durable power of attorney for health care that will allow your appointed agent to speak on your behalf with doctors and family if you become too ill to speak for yourself. Designate beneficiaries for all of your assets held in your will and trust. ~ Suze Orman,

592:Tomorrow Half a century on my home and habitat reduced to dust by blind oppression. My children, my people, enmeshed in dreams and lured by oases, get decimated. All round is a sea of blood, Everyone target of censure, Each lane slaughter house, The world, professed guardian of universal brotherhood, watches unmoved, silent our extermination. Oppressors' shadows are ever-lengthening, earth blood-splattered But as long as flames fled with martyrs' blood keep on burning heart is assured, even in extremes of pain, day follows dark night [Translated by Prakash Chander] ~ Amjad Islam Amjad,

593:Hadrian was fortunate that for much of his reign he had an indispensable and indefatigable supporter in the Rome city prefect, Marcius Turbo. Turbo, who replaced the equally sound Annius Verus in this crucial role, occupied it for over fifteen years. As guardian of Hadrian’s interests in Rome, Turbo impressed all who saw him as a man of the greatest generalship . . . Prefect or commander of the Praetorians. He displayed neither softness nor haughtiness in anything that he did, but lived like one of the multitude; among other things, he spent the entire day near the palace and often he would go there even before midnight, when some of the others were just beginning to sleep. ~ Elizabeth Speller,

594:I mean,’ said Marion happily, ‘it’s a continent in chains, well, isn’t it?’ (Tribune, thought Anna; or possibly the Daily Worker.) ‘And measures ought to be taken immediately to restore the Africans’ faith in justice if it is not already too late.’ (The New Statesman, thought Anna.) ‘Well at least the situation ought to be thoroughly gone into in the interests of everybody.’ (The Manchester Guardian, at a time of acute crisis.) ‘But Anna, I don’t understand your attitude. Surely you’ll admit there’s evidence that something’s gone wrong?’ (The Times, editorializing a week after the news that the white administration has shot twenty Africans and imprisoned fifty more without trial.) ~ Doris Lessing,

595:For the last year and a half this room had been my 'pensive citadel:' here I had read and studied through all the hours of the night: and, though true it was, that for the latter part of this time I, who was framed for love and gentle affections, had lost my gaiety and happiness, during the strife and fever of contention with my guardian; yet, on the other hand, as a boy, so passionately fond of books, and dedicated to intellectual pursuits, I could not fail to have enjoyed many happy hours in the midst of general dejection. I wept as I looked round on the chair, hearth, writing-table, and other familiar objects, knowing too certainly, that I looked upon them for the last time. ~ Thomas de Quincey,

596:The only time I've ever learned anything from a review was when John Lanchester wrote a piece in the Guardian about my second novel, The Heather Blazing. He said that, together with the previous novel, it represented a diptych about the aftermath of Irish independence. I simply hadn't known that – and I loved the grandeur of the word "diptych". I went around quite snooty for a few days, thinking: "I wrote a diptych." [Colm Tóibín, Novelist – Portrait of the Artist, The Guardian, 19 February 2013] ~ Colm T ib n,

597:It was a warm summer night of a kiss at first. Gentle. Romanic. It matched the dreaminess he’d seen in her eyes when she talked about lovers bathed in starlight. She couldn’t know what she did to him when she had peered up at him, a mixture of sweet innocence and curious desire all at once. He had waged a war within himself. He should leave, he’d thought. If nothing else in his life remained true, he was a gentleman. And gentlemen did not ravish young innocents in their guardian’s library. But when her milky skin flushed pink, he’d lost the battle. Even their talk of consequences had done nothing to tamp down the need that consumed him. For just a taste. Just a taste. ~ Brianna Labuskes,

598:Sonnet Xxxvii: Pardon, Oh, Pardon Pardon, oh, pardon, that my soul should make, Of all that strong divineness which I know For thine and thee, an image only so Formed of the sand, and fit to shift and break. It is that distant years which did not take Thy sovranty, recoiling with a blow, Have forced my swimming brain to undergo Their doubt and dread, and blindly to forsake Thy purity of likeness and distort Thy worthiest love to a worthless counterfeit: As if a shipwrecked Pagan, safe in port, His guardian sea-god to commemorate, Should set a sculptured porpoise, gills a-snort And vibrant tail, within the temple gate. ~ Elizabeth Barrett Browning,

599:Do in after life the freshness and light-heartedness, the craving for love and for strength of faith, ever return which we experience in our childhood’s years? What better time is there in our lives than when the two best of virtues — innocent gaiety and a boundless yearning for affection — are our sole objects of pursuit? Where now are our ardent prayers? Where now are our best gifts — the pure tears of emotion which a guardian angel dries with a smile as he sheds upon us lovely dreams of ineffable childish joy? Can it be that life has left such heavy traces upon one’s heart that those tears and ecstasies are for ever vanished? Can it be that there remains to us only the recollection of them? ~ Leo Tolstoy,

600:She's talking about when Dimitri was very young, how he used to always beg her and her friends to let him play with them. He was about six and they were eight and didn't want him around." Viktoria paused again to take in the next part of the story. "Finally, Karolina told him he could if he agreed to be married off to their dolls. So Karolina and her friends dressed him and the dolls up over and over and kept having weddings. Dimitri was married at least ten times." I couldn't help but laugh as I tried to picture tough, sexy Dimitri letting his big sister dress him up. He probably would have treated his wedding ceremony with a doll as seriously and stoically as he did his guardian duties. ~ Richelle Mead,

601:Mystical Alchemy is a personal science, a sublime and effective system of Self-Initiation. Only you, as a single individual, can calculate and follow your way up the Great Mountain of Hermetic Attainment. It is entirely a matter of your own practical application and devotion. All essential guidance is within you, in the inmost center of your heart where your own Holy Guardian Angel, or Inner Self, resides. To depend upon any other thing than your own Holy Guardian Angel to accomplish the Great Work is to insult your Angel who is with you to instruct and guide you. All essential wisdom by which to achieve the Great Work is to be ascertained only within you; nowhere else will you find the Truth. ~ David Cherubim,

602:Study Of Loneliness A guardian of long-distance conduits in the desert? A one-man crew of a fortress in the sand? Whoever he was. At dawn he saw furrowed mountains The color of ashes, above the melting darkness, Saturated with violet, breaking into fluid rouge, Till they stood, immense, in the orange light. Day after day. And, before he noticed, year after year. For whom, he thought, that splendor? For me alone? Yet it will be here long after I perish. What is it in the eye of a lizard? Or when seen by a migrant bird? If I am all mankind, are they themselves without me? And he knew there was no use crying out, for none of them would save him. ~ Czeslaw Milosz,

603:A comprehensive treatment plan for the heart’s diseases is to deny the self of its desires,        Enjoin hunger, keep worship vigilance in the night, be silent, and meditate in private;        Also keep company with good people who possess sincerity, those who are emulated in their states and statements;        And, finally, take refuge in the One unto whom all affairs return. That is the most beneficial treatment for all of the previous diseases.        This must be to the point in which you are like a man drowning or someone lost in a barren desert and see no source of succor        Except from the Guardian, possessor of the greatest power. He is the One who responds to the call of the distressed. ~ Hamza Yusuf,

604:It is not true that the world hates America. It is the world’s Left that hates America. However, because the Left dominates the world’s news media and because nearly everyone, understandably, relies on the news media for their understanding of what happens in the world, many people, including Americans, believe that ‘the world’ hates America. And, of course, the Left-dominated media help to create much of the hatred for America that does exist. If I relied exclusively on the New York Times or Le Monde or the Guardian or CNN International or virtually any of the world’s major television and radio news stations and newspapers for all I knew about America, I would probably hold it in contempt as well. ~ Dennis Prager,

605:Religion regards civil liberty as a noble exercise of man’s faculties, the world of politics being a sphere intended by the Creator for the free play of intelligence. Religion, being free and powerful within its own sphere and content with the position reserved for it, realized that its sway is all the better established because it relies only on its own powers and rules men’s hearts without external support. Freedom sees religion as the companion of its struggles and triumphs, the cradle of its infancy, and the divine source of its rights. Religion is considered as the guardian of mores, and mores are regarded as the guarantee of the laws and pledge for the maintenance of freedom itself. ~ Alexis de Tocqueville,

606:Whether the angel guardian ever forsakes a man?...It would seem that the angel guardian sometimes forsakes the man whom he is appointed to guard... On the contrary, The demons are ever assailing us, according to 1 Peter 5:8: "Your adversary the devil, as a roaring lion, goeth about, seeking whom he may devour." Much more therefore do the good angels ever guard us... the guardianship of the angels is an effect of Divine providence in regard to man. Now it is evident that neither man, nor anything at all, is entirely withdrawn from the providence of God: for in as far as a thing participates being, so far is it subject to the providence that extends over all being. ~ Saint Thomas Aquinas, Summa Theologica (1265–1274),

607:In Memoriam A. H. H.: 44. How Fares It With The Happy Dead? How fares it with the happy dead? For here the man is more and more; But he forgets the days before God shut the doorways of his head. The days have vanish'd, tone and tint, And yet perhaps the hoarding sense Gives out at times (he knows not whence) A little flash, a mystic hint; And in the long harmonious years (If Death so taste Lethean springs), May some dim touch of earthly things Surprise thee ranging with thy peers. If such a dreamy touch should fall, O turn thee round, resolve the doubt; My guardian angel will speak out In that high place, and tell thee all. ~ Alfred Lord Tennyson,

608:[you’ll acquire] A certain amount of cynicism. This business works on you. When you were in law school you had some noble idea what a lawyer should be. A champion of individual rights; a defender of the Constitution; a guardian of the oppressed; an advocate for your client’s principles. Then after you practice for six months you realize you were nothing but hired guns. Mouthpieces for sale to the highest bidder, available to anybody, any crook, any sleazebag with enough money to pay your outrageous fees. Nothing shocks you. It’s supposed to be an honorable profession, but you’ll meet so many crooked lawyers you’ll want to quit and find an honest job. Yeah Mitch, you’ll get cynical. And it’s sad, really. ~ John Grisham,

609:Stored in everyone's memory are past experiences of terror. By reminding you of those feelings, fear is trying to protect you from repeating the traumas of the past. As long as you push down your fear, you will not be able to receive it as an ally. But by the same token you can't just act on the basis of fear. At the soul level you see no need for fear, because you don't need protecting. Living in the now poses no threat, and referring to the past therefore serves no purpose. It is safe to go into your fear and ask it where it came from and what it wants you to know. Having seen the world from its perspective, reassure yourself that the soul needs no guardian. Learn from fear, heal it, and ask it to leave. ~ Deepak Chopra,

610:Sonnet Xi. To Sleep COME, balmy Sleep! tired nature's soft resort! On these sad temples all thy poppies shed; And bid gay dreams, from Morpheus' airy court, Float in light vision round my aching head! Secure of all thy blessings, partial Power! On his hard bed the peasant throws him down; And the poor sea-boy, in the rudest hour, Enjoys thee more than he who wears a crown. Clasp'd in her faithful shepherd's guardian arms, Well may the village girl sweet slumbers prove; And they, O gentle Sleep! still taste thy charms, Who wake to labour, liberty, and love. But still thy opiate aid dost thou deny To calm the anxious breast; to close the streaming eye. ~ Charlotte Smith,

611:18:8 enter life maimed. In many Jewish traditions, one would first be resurrected in the form in which one died before being fully restored (e.g., 2 Baruch 50:2–4). The righteous expected to receive back any limbs lost in God’s service (e.g., 2 Maccabees 7:11; 14:46). Against many Jewish traditions, the resurrection would include the raising of the damned as well as the righteous (Da 12:2). 18:10 their angels. Many Jewish people believed in guardian angels (see note on Heb 1:14; also e.g., Tobit 5:22; Pseudo-Philo’s Biblical Antiquities 11:12; 59:4; in the Tosefta see Shabbat 17:2–3). In Jewish tradition, the angels who saw God’s face were the most powerful angels, who were typically the ones closest to God’s throne. ~ Anonymous,

612:Henceforth we find woman no longer a slave of man and tool of lust, but the pride and joy of her husband, the fond mother training her children to virtue and godliness, the ornament and treasure of the family, the faithful sister, the zealous servant of the congregation in every work of Christian charity, the sister of mercy, the martyr with superhuman courage, the guardian angel of peace, the example of purity, humility, gentleness, patience, love, and fidelity unto death. Such women were unknown before. The heathen Libanius, the enthusiastic eulogist of old Grecian culture, pronounced an involuntary eulogy on Christianity when he exclaimed, as he looked at the mother of Chrysostom: "What women the Christians have! ~ Philip Schaff,

613:Dida was staring thoughtfully at the wall. He ran a hand down one of the rune-inscribed pillars. “Perhaps it was not a guardian. If not dispelled, all wards disintegrate over time, though the most powerful can last for hundreds—thousands—of years. These oldest of wards have been known to slowly dissolve and can . . . leak . . . magic.” Adaira frowned. “I’ve heard of this phenomenon, but how does that account for the creature we fought?” “Given the power in these runes and the time that has passed . . .” Dida shrugged. “I cannot be sure, but I suspect the entity was a residue of old magic. Ignited perhaps by oxygen or even our light spell, forming a half-life, imitating the only forms it knew.” “So magic—spirit—is alive? ~ Layton Green,

614:as he noticed the feeble ticking of his watch, he suddenly realized that he had been escaping all his life, that life had been a constant escape, escape from meaninglessness into music, from music to guilt, from guilt and self-punishment into pure ratiocination, and finally escape from that too, that it was retreat after retreat, as if his guardian angel had, in his own peculiar fashion, been steering him to the antithesis of retreat, to an almost simple-minded acceptance of things as they were, at which point he understood that there was nothing to be understood, that if there was reason in the world it far transcended his own, and that therefore it was enough to notice and observe that which he actually possessed. ~ L szl Krasznahorkai,

615:For Madame Sabatier What will you say tonight, poor soul in solitude, what will you say my heart, withered till now, to the so beautiful, so sweet, so dear one, whose divine gaze recreated the flower? - We will set Pride now to singing her praises: Nothing outdoes her sweet air of authority. Her spiritual flesh has the perfume of angels, and her eye surrounds us in robes of infinity. Whether in the night, and alone, and in solitude, Whether in the street, and among the multitude, her phantom dances in air, like a flame. Sometimes it speaks and it says ‘I am beautiful. You, for the love of me, must love beauty alone: for I am your Madonna, Muse, Guardian Angel. ~ Charles Baudelaire,

616:Although the disappearance of the true wildwood [in the British Isles] occurred in the Neolithic period, before humanity began to record its own history, creation myths in almost all cultures look fabulously back to a forested earth. In the ancient Sumerian epic of Gilgamesh, the quest-story which begins world literature, Gilgamesh sets out on his journey from Uruk to the Cedar Mountains, where he has been charged to slay the Huwawa, the guardian of the forest. The Roman empire also defined itself against the forests in which its capital city was first established, and out of which its founders, the wolf-suckled twins, emerged. It was the Roman Empire which would proceed to destroy the dense forests of the ancient world. ~ Robert Macfarlane,

617:Celia Wird, have you no shame? Standing out there half-naked, flashing those young boys like some kind of streetwalker!" Aric's dark brows shot up to his crown. "What the fu--" "Mind your own business, you goddamn raisin with legs!" Taran screamed from inside the house. Mrs. Mancuso flipped me off, of course. Bren flashed her a panty-dropping grin. "It's okay, Mrs. M. I'll be sure to take Celia to confession later so Father O'Callaghan can slap the sin out of her." "Be sure that you do." Mrs. Mancuso gave Bren an approving nod, and me another stiff one. Aric remained fixed to my front walkway. He may have been a guardian of the earth, but I doubted he'd ever encountered evil the likes of Mrs. Mancuso. ~ Cecy Robson,

618:Sonnet 37 - Pardon, Oh, Pardon, That My Soul Should Make XXXVII Pardon, oh, pardon, that my soul should make, Of all that strong divineness which I know For thine and thee, an image only so Formed of the sand, and fit to shift and break. It is that distant years which did not take Thy sovranty, recoiling with a blow, Have forced my swimming brain to undergo Their doubt and dread, and blindly to forsake Thy purity of likeness and distort Thy worthiest love to a worthless counterfeit: As if a shipwrecked Pagan, safe in port, His guardian sea-god to commemorate, Should set a sculptured porpoise, gills a-snort And vibrant tail, within the temple-gate. ~ Elizabeth Barrett Browning,

619:Just before the light completely vanished, I saw Dimitri's face join Lissa's. I wanted to smile. I decided then that if the two people I loved most were safe, I could leave this world. The dead could finally have me. And I'd fulfilled my purpose, right? To protect? I'd done it. I'd saved Lissa, just like I'd sworn I'd always do. I was dying in battle. No appointment books for me. Lissa's face shown with tears, and I hoped that mine could convey how much I loved her. With the last spark of life that I had left, I tried to speak, tried to let Dimitri know I loved him too and that he had to protect her now. I don't think he understood, but the words of the guardian mantra were my last conscious thought. They come first. ~ Richelle Mead,

620:Someday Rufus would own the plantation. Someday, he would be the slaveholder, responsible in his own right for what happened to the people who lived in those half-hidden cabins. The boy was literally growing up as I watched—growing up because I watched and because I helped to keep him safe. I was the worst possible guardian for him—a black to watch over him in a society that considered blacks subhuman, a woman to watch over him in a society that considered women perennial children. I would have all I could do to look after myself. But I would help him as best I could. And I would try to keep friendship with him, maybe plant a few ideas in his mind that would help both me and the people who would be his slaves in the years to come. ~ Octavia E Butler,

621:In the writings of a recluse one always hears something of the echo of the wilderness, something of the murmuring tones and timid vigilance of solitude; in his strongest words, even in his cry itself, there sounds a new and more dangerous kind of silence, of concealment. He who has sat day and night, from year's end to year's end, alone with his soul in familiar discord and discourse, he who has become a cave-bear, or a treasure-seeker, or a treasure-guardian and dragon in his cave—it may be a labyrinth, but can also be a gold-mine—his ideas themselves eventually acquire a twilight-colour of their own, and an odour, as much of the depth as of the mould, something uncommunicative and repulsive, which blows chilly upon every passer-by. ~ Friedrich Nietzsche,

622:mine.” Kira had stood silently, embarrassed but proud, as the guardian examined the threading she had done. He made no comment, simply nodded and returned the small piece to her. But his eyes had been bright with interest, she could see. Each year following, he had asked to see her work. Kira always stood at her mother’s side, never touching the fragile ancient cloth, marveling each time at the rich hues that told the history of the world. Golds and reds and browns. And here and there, faded pale, almost reduced to white, there had once been blue. Her mother showed her the faded places that remained of it. Her mother did not know how to make blue. Sometimes they talked of it, Kira and Katrina, looking at the huge upturned bowl of sky above their ~ Lois Lowry,

623:Far away from Oshoro in Nara Prefecture on the island of Honshu, there is a sacred mountain called Miwa-Yama. In a pattern with which I was now becoming familiar, this entire pyramid-shaped mountain is considered by Japan's indigenous Shinto religion to be a shrine, possessed by the spirit of a god who 'stayed his soul' within it in ancient times. His correct name is Omononushino-Kami (although he is also popularly known as Daikokusama) and according to the ancient texts he is 'the guardian deity of human life' who taught mankind how to cure disease, manufacture medicines and grow crops. His symbol, very strikingly, is a serpent -- and to this day serpents are still venerated at Mount Miwa, where pilgrims bring them boiled eggs and cups of sake. ~ Graham Hancock,

624:The point of marriage is not to create a quick commonality by tearing down all boundaries; on the contrary, a good marriage is one in which each partner appoints the other to be the guardian of his solitude, and thus they show each other the greatest possible trust. A merging of two people is an impossibility, and where it seems to exist, it is a hemming-in, a mutual consent that robs one party or both parties of their fullest freedom and development. But once the realization is accepted that even between the closest people infinite distances exist, a marvelous living side-by-side can grow up for them, if they succeed in loving the expanse between them, which gives them the possibility of always seeing each other as a whole and before an immense sky. ~ Rainer Maria Rilke,

625:church attendance was compulsory — the service was a remote affair. The whole emphasis was on the mystery of it, the priests like a secret society, the Latin words so awesome in their ancient verity that, although some phrases would have stuck over the years, the whole intention was to impress and to subdue and not to enlighten. There was of course no English Hymnal, and no Book of Common Prayer. You were at the mercy of the priests. Only they were allowed to read the word of God and they did even that silently. A bell was rung to let the congregation know when the priest had reached the important bits. The priest stood not as a guide to the Bible but as its guardian and as a guardian against common believers. They would not be allowed to enter into the Book. ~ Melvyn Bragg,

626:   "The necessity of reciprocal checks in the exercise of political power, by dividing and distributing it into different depositories and constituting each the guardian of the public weal against invasions by the others, has been evinced by experiments ancient and modern, some of them in our country and under our own eyes. To preserve them must be as necessary as to institute them. If, in the opinion of the people, the distribution or modification of the constitutional powers be in any particular wrong, let it be corrected by an amendment in the way which the Constitution designates. But let there be no change by usurpation; for though this, in one instance, may be the instrument of good, it is the customary weapon by which free governments are destroyed. ~ W Cleon Skousen,

627:Sibil is a remarkable achievement, and this museum is the envy of galleries and spaces around the world because you have made your home here with us. Sincerity speaks steadily, taking a breath at each pause: You are being kind, Fernand. It is a great honor for me to work in this beautiful and prestigious building, which so captured my imagination when I was a little girl even before I saw it in mesh. It gives me deep satisfaction that my project will continue to be hosted by the European Museum, and that the museum will be a guardian of its development. Sibil will be the catalyst for a new era in the study of art. Through Sibil, we will rediscover aspects of our culture, and nature, that progress has made us forget. What better place for her to be than here? More ~ Katie Ward,

628:Presentiment WITH saintly grace and reverent tread She walked among the graves with me; Her every footfall seemed to be A benediction on the dead. The guardian spirit of the place She seemed, and I some ghost forlorn, Surprised by the untimely morn She made with her resplendent face. Moved by some waywardness of will, Three paces from the path apart She stepped and stood—my prescient heart Was stricken with a passing chill. My child-lore of the years agone Remembering, I smiled and thought, “Who shudders suddenly at naught, His grave is being trod upon.” But now I know that it was more Than idle fancy. O, my sweet, I did not know such little feet Could make a buried heart so sore! ~ Ambrose Bierce,

629:Vegard and Riston's job today was to guard and protect me. And considering that I was in a tower room in the Guardians' citadel, it looked like a pretty plum assignment. I mean, how much trouble could a girl get into under heavy guard in a tower room? Notice I didn't ask that question out loud. No need to rub Fate's nose in something when I'd been tempting her enough lately. Phaelan had generously his guard services as well, just in case something happened to me that my Guardian bodyguards couldn't handle. Phaelan's guard-on-duty stance resembled his pirate-on-shore-leave stane of leaning back in a chair with his feet up, but instead of a tavern table, his boots were doing a fine job of holding down the windowsill. I don't know how I'd ever felt safe without him. ~ Lisa Shearin,

630:Amongst the grandeur of Hua Shan I climb to the Flower Peak, and fancy I see fairies and immortals carrying lotus in their sacred white hands, robes flowing they fly filling the sky with colour as they rise to the palace of heaven, inviting me to go to the cloud stage and see Wei Shu-ching, guardian angel of Hua Shan; so dreamily I go with them riding to the sky on the back of wild geese which call as they fly, but when we look below at Loyang, not so clear because of the mist, everywhere could be seen looting armies, which took Loyang, creating chaos and madness with blood flowing everywhere; like animals of prey rebel army men made into officials with caps and robes to match. ~ Li Bai, Climbing West of Lotus Flower Peak ,

631:Which road leads to the Wicked Witch of the West?" asked Dorothy. "There is no road," answered the Guardian of the Gates. "No one ever wishes to go that way." "How, then, are we to find her?" inquired the girl. "That will be easy," replied the man, "for when she knows you are in the country of the Winkies she will find you, and make you all her slaves." "Perhaps not," said the Scarecrow, "for we mean to destroy her." "Oh, that is different," said the Guardian of the Gates. "No one has ever destroyed her before, so I naturally thought she would make slaves of you, as she has of the rest. But take care; for she is wicked and fierce, and may not allow you to destroy her. Keep to the West, where the sun sets, and you cannot fail to find her. ~ L Frank Baum,

632:The aim of marriage, as I feel it, is not by means of demolition and overthrowing of all boundaries to create a hasty communion, the good marriage is rather one in which each appoints the other as guardian of his solitude and shews him this greatest trust that he has to confer. A togetherness of two human beings is an impossibility and, where it does seem to exist, a limitation, a mutual compromise which robs one side or both sides of their fullest freedom and development. “But granted the consciousness that even between the closest people there persist infinite distances, a wonderful living side by side can arise for them, if they succeed in loving the expanse between them, which gives them the possibility of seeing one another in whole shape and before a great sky! ~ Rainer Maria Rilke,

633:They had embraced the ideal of a society in which the sole aristocracy would consist of public officials and a single, all-powerful administration would control the state and be the guardian of individuals. Although they wished to be free, they had no intention of abandoning this fundamental idea. They merely attempted to reconcile it with the idea of liberty. Hence, they sought to combine unlimited administrative centralization with a preponderant legislative body: bureaucratic administration and representative government. The nation as a body enjoyed all the rights of sovereignty, but each individual citizen was gripped in the tightest dependency. The experience and virtues of a free people were required of the former, the qualities of a good servant of the latter. ~ Alexis de Tocqueville,

634:Men and women alike possess the qualities which make a guardian; they differ only in their comparative strength or weakness. Obviously. And those women who have such qualities are to be selected as the companions and colleagues of men who have similar qualities and whom they resemble in capacity and in character? Very true. And ought not the same natures to have the same pursuits? They ought. Then, as we were saying before, there is nothing unnatural in assigning music and gymnastic to the wives of the guardians—to that point we come round again. Certainly not. The law which we then enacted was agreeable to nature, and therefore not an impossibility or mere aspiration; and the contrary practice, which prevails at present, is in reality a violation of nature. That appears to be true. We ~ Plato,

635:Ordinary conservatives – and many, possibly most, people fall into this category – are constantly told that their ideas and sentiments are reactionary, prejudiced, sexist or racist. Just by being the thing they are they offend against the new norms of inclusiveness and non-discrimination. Their honest attempts to live by their lights, raising families, enjoying communities, worshipping their gods, and adopting a settled and affirmative culture – these attempts are scorned and ridiculed by the Guardian class. In intellectual circles conservatives therefore move quietly and discreetly, catching each other’s eyes across the room like the homosexuals in Proust, whom that great writer compared to Homer’s gods, known only to each other as they move in disguise around the world of mortals. ~ Roger Scruton,

636:Heimdallr, from Norse Mythology, is present on the ancient Egyptian circular zodiac and is represented by the Ram; as the watcher and the guardian of the bridge between heaven and earth. His head measures the crossroads of the ecliptic and the vernal equinox as also expressed on the zodiac. Heimdallr was born and raised by the blood of a sacrificial boar which is portrayed on the zodiac at the exact position and right before the bridge (i.e., entrance to Asgard). The Marsian stride starts at the front leg of Capricon marking the nine realms of Asgard thereby - which are unified by the world tree: Yggdrasil. He was born by nine goddesses who turn the mill and was identified as Mars, the hopping one. He is Vindler, the turner, who is the personification of fire who twists and turns the mill. ~ Ibrahim Ibrahim,

637:Play beween humans and pets, as well as simply spending time peacebly hanging out together, brings joy to all the participants. Surely that is one important meaning of companion species. Nonetheless, the status of pet puts a dog at special risk in societies like the one I live in - the risk of abandonment when human affection wanes, when people's convenience takes precedence, or when the dog fails to deliver on the fantasy of unconditional love. Many of the serious dog people I have met doing my research emphasize the importance to dogs of jobs that leave them less vulnerable to human consumerist whims. Weisser knows many livestock people whose guardian dogs are respected for the work they do. Some are loved and some are not, but their value does not depend on an economy of affection. ~ Donna J Haraway,

638:The Obama administration warned federal employees that materials released by WikiLeaks remained classified—even though they were being published by some of the world’s leading news organizations including the New York Times and the Guardian. Employees were told that accessing the material, whether on WikiLeaks.org or in the New York Times, would amount to a security violation.21 Government agencies such as the Library of Congress, the Commerce Department and the US military blocked access to WikiLeaks materials over their networks. The ban was not limited to the public sector. Employees from the US government warned academic institutions that students hoping to pursue a career in public service should stay clear of material released by WikiLeaks in their research and in their online activity. ~ Julian Assange,

639:On A Cape May Warbler Who Flew Against My Window She's stopped in her southern tracks Brought haply to this hard knock When she shoots from the tall spruce And snaps her neck on the glass. From the fall grass I gather her And give her to my silent children Who give her a decent burial Under the dogwood in the garden. They lay their gifs in the grave: Matches, a clothes-peg, a coin; Fire paper for her, sprinkle her With water, fold earth over her. She is out of her element forever Who was air's high-spirited daughter; What guardian wings can I conjure Over my own young, their migrations? The children retreat indoors. Shadows flicker in the tall spruce. Small birds flicker like shadows-Ghosts come nest in my branches. ~ Eamon Grennan,

640:Unfortunately, the executive, judicial, and legislative branches of government have become increasingly concerned with their image and their political parties, have drifted away from strict interpretations of the Constitution, and have substituted their own ideologies for the original vision. As a result, our government produces massively complicated taxation schemes, impossibly intricate and uninterpretable health care laws, and other intrusive measures instead of being a watchful guardian of our rights. Instead of providing an environment that allows diligent people to thrive on the basis of their own hard work and entrepreneurship, our government has taken on the role of trying to care for everyone’s needs and redistributing the fruits of everyone’s labors in a way consistent with its own ideology. ~ Ben Carson,

641:It is not that we have a short space of time, but that we waste much of it. Life is long enough, and it has been given in sufficiently generous measure to allow the accomplishment of the very greatest things if the whole of it is well invested. But when it is squandered in luxury and carelessness, when it is devoted to no good end, forced at last by the ultimate necessity we perceive that it has passed away before we were aware that it was passing. So it is—the life we receive is not short, but we make it so, nor do we have any lack of it, but are wasteful of it. Just as great and princely wealth is scattered in a moment when it comes into the hands of a bad owner, while wealth however limited, if it is entrusted to a good guardian, increases by use, so our life is amply long for him who orders it properly. ~ Seneca,

642:Many of us saw religion as harmless nonsense. Beliefs might lack all supporting evidence but, we thought, if people needed a crutch for consolation, where's the harm? September 11th changed all that. Revealed faith is not harmless nonsense, it can be lethally dangerous nonsense. Dangerous because it gives people unshakeable confidence in their own righteousness. Dangerous because it gives them false courage to kill themselves, which automatically removes normal barriers to killing others. Dangerous because it teaches enmity to others labelled only by a difference of inherited tradition. And dangerous because we have all bought into a weird respect, which uniquely protects religion from normal criticism. Let's now stop being so damned respectful! ~ Richard Dawkins Has the world changed?, The Guardian (October 11, 2001),

643:Lilith, the guardian mistress of Mother Earth, had enchanted all her followers with the story that she was the original wife of Adam, spurned by her abusive, controlling husband because of her independence, forced to flee his oppressive domination to protect her two hellions, Lili and Lilitu. That patriarchal dictator Adam then took a second wife, Eve, who was deluded into accepting her subordinate position as barefoot slave and breeder. Freed from her demons, Mary now knew it was all a malicious lie, and inversion of the truth. She had worshipped a self-serving idol, deluded by her own willing lust for power. She thought she had been pursuing equality with man, to be just like them. But she now realized she had merely been defying her Creator. She broke down into tears and fell to her knees in the dirt. ~ Brian Godawa,

644:At the collective level, pride is expressed in the conviction of being superior to others as a nation or a race, of being the guardian of the true values of civilization, and of the need to impose this dominant “model” on “ignorant” peoples by any means available. This attitude often serves as a pretext for “developing” the resources of underdeveloped countries. The conquistadors and their bishops burned the vast Mayan and Aztec libraries of Mexico, of which barely a dozen volumes survive. Chinese textbooks and media continue to describe Tibetans as backward barbarians and the Dalai Lama as a monster. It was pride, above all, that allowed the Chinese to ignore the hundreds of thousands of volumes of philosophy housed in Tibetan monasteries before they demolished six thousand of those centers of learning. ~ Matthieu Ricard,

645:At that moment, Robert saw James Stewart turn to him. A jolt went through him as the steward nodded. Before anyone could begin speaking again, he headed out of the crowd towards Wallace, leaving his men looking on in surprise. ‘We have chosen to elect this man as our guardian.’ Robert’s voice was harsh as he gestured to Wallace. ‘But he is still just the son of a knight.’ ‘You dare to challenge his election?’ demanded Adam. Other shouts of scorn and ire joined his. ‘On the contrary,’ answered Robert, ‘I am suggesting that a man of William Wallace’s achievements, a man who is to be sole guardian of Scotland, bears a title befitting his prowess.’ He faced the crowd. ‘I, Sir Robert Bruce, Earl of Carrick, offer William Wallace the honour of a knighthood.’ He turned to Wallace. ‘If he will bend before me. ~ Robyn Young,

646:Alderic, Knight of the Order of the City and the Assault, hereditary Guardian of the King's Peace of Mind, a man not unremembered among the makers of myth, pondered so long upon the Gibbelins' hoard that by now he deemed it his. Alas that I should say of so perilous a venture, undertaken at dead of night by a valorous man, that its motive was sheer avarice! Yet upon avarice only the Gibbelins relied to keep their larders full, and once in every hundred years sent spies into the cities of men to see how avarice did, and always the spies returned again to the tower saying that all was well. It may be thought that, as the years went on and men came by fearful ends on that tower's wall, fewer and fewer would come to the Gibbelins' table: but the Gibbelins found otherwise. ("The Hoard Of The Gibbelins") ~ Lord Dunsany,

647:There are nations in whom the passion for governing others is so much stronger than the desire of personal independence, that for the mere shadow of the one they are found ready to sacrifice the whole of the other. Each one of their number is willing, like the private soldier in an army, to abdicate his personal freedom of action into the hands of his general, provided the army is triumphant and victorious, and he is able to flatter himself that he is one of a conquering host, though the notion that he has himself any share in the domination exercised over the conquered is an illusion. A government strictly limited in its powers and attributions, required to hold its hands from overmeddling, and to let most things go on without its assuming the part of guardian or director, is not to the taste of such a people. ~ John Stuart Mill,

648:I took ten days off and by 11 o’clock on the first morning I had drunk fourteen cups of coffee, read all the newspapers and the Guardian and then… and then what? By lunchtime I was so bored that I decided to hang a few pictures. So I found a hammer, and later a man came to replaster the bits of wall I had demolished. Then I tried to fix the electric gates, which work only when there’s an omega in the month. So I went down the drive with a spanner, and later another man came to put them back together again. I was just about to start on the Aga, which had broken down on Christmas Eve, as they do, when my wife took me on one side by my earlobe and explained that builders do not, on the whole, spend their spare time writing, so writers should not build on their days off. It’s expensive and it can be dangerous, she said. ~ Jeremy Clarkson,

649:Remember what I told you on the phone, that I found out the truth about the grant that was paying all my expenses?” she asked. Leta nodded. “Well, it wasn’t a grant that was paying for my education and living expenses.” She took a harsh breath. “It was Tate.” Leta scowled. “Are you sure?” “I’m very sure.” She glanced at the older woman. “I found out in the middle of Senator Matt Holden’s political fund-raiser, and I lost my temper. I poured crab bisque all over your son and there were television cameras covering the event.” She turned her wounded eyes toward the dancers. “I was devastated when I found out I’m nothing more than a charity case to him.” “That isn’t true,” Leta said gently, but a little remotely. “You know Tate’s very fond of you.” “Yes. Very fond, the way a guardian is fond of a ward. He owned me. ~ Diana Palmer,

650:I'm dying. But its ok. God's not doing this to me. It's the World. So I'm not upset. He's not even sending an Angel to save me. But that's cool. I'm still not upset. For you see, I took God's workshop- "How to Be an Angel" and then I took man's (the special forces medical sergeant's course). And I studied really hard. I took the lessons seriously. I was a very good student. And so, I'm going to save myself. I didn't take the Cherub classes. I'm not all cute and chubby with rosy cheeks. I don't know how to play the harp. I took the Serafin classes to learn how to be a guardian, a protector, a warrior. I learned how to sneak up on badness, on evil. To get as close as I can to it. Then destroy it. Trust me. This is gonna be good! You darn Skippy, if I'm not going to do just that! ~ Jos N Harris,

651:He's following us at a distance," she said, annoyed. "Like a guardian angel," Helen said. Dr. Gibson snorted. "Did you see the way he felled that thing? His fists were as quick as thought. Like a professional fighter. One has to question how such a man appeared out of nowhere at just the right moment." "I think he did far less damage to his opponent than you did to yours," Helen said admiringly. "The way you took that ruffian down with your cane- I've never seen anything like it." "My aim was a bit off," Dr. Gibson said. "I didn't connect squarely with the ulnar nerve in his wrist. I shall have to consult with my fencing-master about my technique." "It was still very impressive," Helen assured her. "I pity anyone who makes the mistake of underestimating you, Dr. Gibson." "My lady, the sentiment is returned in full. ~ Lisa Kleypas,

652:James’s general position on the difference between the sexes, which was that woman is “by nature inferior to man. She is man’s inferior in passion, his inferior in intellect, and his inferior in physical strength”; she is, very properly, her husband’s “patient and unrepining drudge, his beast of burden, his toilsome ox, his dejected ass, his cook, his tailor, his own cheerful nurse and the sleepless guardian of his children.” But their inferiority, James thought, is precisely what makes women attractive to men, so that any “great development of passion or intellect in woman is sure to prejudice” male attention. “Would any man fancy a woman after the pattern of Daniel Webster?”33 He consequently opposed serious education for women, a doctrine that had disastrous consequences in the case of his youngest child and only daughter, Alice. ~ Louis Menand,

653:Incarnate Devil Incarnate devil in a talking snake, The central plains of Asia in his garden, In shaping-time the circle stung awake, In shapes of sin forked out the bearded apple, And God walked there who was a fiddling warden And played down pardon from the heavens' hill. When we were strangers to the guided seas, A handmade moon half holy in a cloud, The wisemen tell me that the garden gods Twined good and evil on an eastern tree; And when the moon rose windily it was Black as the beast and paler than the cross. We in our Eden knew the secret guardian In sacred waters that no frost could harden, And in the mighty mornings of the earth; Hell in a horn of sulphur and the cloven myth, All heaven in the midnight of the sun, A serpent fiddled in the shaping-time. ~ Dylan Thomas,

654:Amongst the grandeur of Hua Shan I climb to the Flower Peak, and fancy I see fairies and immortals carrying lotus in their sacred white hands, robes flowing they fly filling the sky with colour as they rise to the palace of heaven, inviting me to go to the cloud stage and see Wei Shu-ching, guardian angel of Hua Shan; so dreamily I go with them riding to the sky on the back of wild geese which call as they fly, but when we look below at Loyang, not so clear because of the mist, everywhere could be seen looting armies, which took Loyang, creating chaos and madness with blood flowing everywhere; like animals of prey rebel army men made into officials with caps and robes to match. by owner. provided at no charge for educational purposes ~ Li Bai, Climbing West Of Lotus Flower Peak ,

655:To know and not to know, to be conscious of complete truthfulness while telling carefully constructed lies, to hold simultaneously two opinions which cancelled out, knowing them to be contradictory and believing in both of them, to use logic against logic, to repudiate morality while laying claim to it, to believe that democracy was impossible and that the Party was the guardian of democracy, to forget whatever it was necessary to forget, then to draw it back into memory again at the moment when it was needed, and then promptly to forget it again: and above all, to apply the same process to the process itself -- that was the ultimate subtlety: consciously to induce unconsciousness, and then, once again, to become unconscious of the act of hypnosis you had just performed. Even to understand the word 'doublethink' involved the use of doublethink. ~ George Orwell, 1984,

656:The Cunnin' Little Thing When baby wakes of mornings, Then it's wake, ye people all! For another day Of song and play Has come at our darling's call! And, till she gets her dinner, She makes the welkin ring, And she won't keep still till she's had her fill The cunnin' little thing! When baby goes a-walking, Oh, how her paddies fly! For that's the way The babies say To other folk "by-by"; The trees bend down to kiss her, And the birds in rapture sing, As there she stands and waves her hands The cunnin' little thing! When baby goes a-rocking In her bed at close of day, At hide-and-seek On her dainty cheek The dreams and the dimples play; Then it's sleep in the tender kisses The guardian angels bring From the Far Above to my sweetest love You cunnin' little thing! ~ Eugene Field,

657:When I was a child and heard about angels, I was both frightened and fascinated by the thought of these enormous, invisible presences in our midst. I conceived of them not as white-robed androgynes with yellow locks and thick gold wings, which was how my friend Matty Wilson had described them to me--Matty was the predecessor of all sorts of arcane knowledge--but as big, dark, blundering men, massive in their weightlessness, given to pranks and ponderous play, who might knock you over, or break you in half, without meaning to. When a child from Miss Molyneaux's infant school in Carrickdrum fell under the hoofs of a dray-horse one day and was trampled to death, I, a watchful six year old, knew who was to blame; I pictured his guardian angel standing over the child's crushed form with his big hands helplessly extended, not sure whether to be contrite or to laugh. ~ John Banville,

658:'Yes, Holy Be Thy Resting Place' Yes, holy be thy resting place Wherever thou may'st lie; The sweetest winds breathe on thy face, The softest of the sky. And will not guardian Angles send Kind dreams and thoughts of love, Though I no more may watchful bend Thy longed repose above? And will not heaven itself bestow A beam of glory there That summer's grass more green may grow, And summer's flowers more fair? Farewell, farewell, 'tis hard to part Yet, loved one, it must be: I would not rend another heart Not even by blessing thee. Go! We must break affection's chain, Forget the hopes of years: Nay, grieve not - willest thou remain To waken wilder tears This herald breeze with thee and me, Roved in the dawning day: And thou shouldest be where it shall be Ere evening, far away. ~ Emily Jane Brontë,

659:What are you tittering at, Mr Holles?' asked Captain Aubrey. 'Nothing, sir.' 'Now I come to think of it, I have a letter from your guardian, Mr Holles. He wishes to be assured that your moral welfare is well in hand, and that you do not neglect your Bible. You do not neglect your Bibles, any of you, I dare say?' 'Oh, no, sir.' 'I am glad to hear it. Where the Devil would you be, if you neglected your Bible? Tell me, Mr Holles, who was Abraham?' Jack was particularly well up in this part of sacred history, having checked Admiral Drury's remarks on Sodom: 'Abraham, sir,' said Holles, his pasty, spotted face turning a nasty variegated purple. 'Why, Abraham was . . But no more emerged, other than a murmur of 'bosom'. 'Mr Peters?' Mr Peters expressed his conviction that Abraham was a very good man; perhaps a corn-chandler, since one said 'Abraham and his seed for ever'. ~ Patrick O Brian,

660:The Divine Lullaby I hear Thy voice, dear Lord; I hear it by the stormy sea When winter nights are black and wild, And when, affright, I call to Thee; It calms my fears and whispers me, "Sleep well, my child." I hear Thy voice, dear Lord, In singing winds, in falling snow, The curfew chimes, the midnight bell. "Sleep well, my child," it murmurs low; "The guardian angels come and go,-O child, sleep well!" I hear Thy voice, dear Lord, Ay, though the singing winds be stilled, Though hushed the tumult of the deep, My fainting heart with anguish chilled By Thy assuring tone is thrilled,-"Fear not, and sleep!" Speak on--speak on, dear Lord! And when the last dread night is near, With doubts and fears and terrors wild, Oh, let my soul expiring hear Only these words of heavenly cheer, "Sleep well, my child!" ~ Eugene Field,

661:Taken thus by surprise, it was several moments before she was able to decide whether to make herself known to him, or to await a formal introduction. The strict propriety in which she had been reared urged her to adopt the latter course; then she remembered that she was not a young girl any longer, but a guardian-aunt ... To flinch before what would certainly be an extremely disagreeable interview would be the act, she told herself, of a pudding-heart. Bracing herself resolutely, she got up from the writing-table, and turned, saying, in a cool, pleasant tone: 'Mr Calverleigh?' He had picked up a newspaper from the table in the centre of the room, and was glancing through it, but he lowered it, and looked enquiringly across at her. His eyes, which were deep-set and of a light grey made the more striking by the swarthiness of his complexion, held an expression of faint surprise; he said: 'Yes? ~ Georgette Heyer,

662:[High angel] Carter's fucked-up sense of humor in action.' [The angel] Lucinda flushed deep crimson. 'How can you use such language so carelessly? You sound like you're… like you're in a locker room!" I smoothed down my tank top. 'No way. I'd never wear this in a locker room.' 'Yeah, it isn't even in school colors,' said Peter. I couldn't resist toying with the guardian. 'If i were in a locker room, i'd probably have on a short cheerleader skirt. And no underwear.' Peter continued playing off me. 'And you'd do that one cheer, right? The one with your hands splayed against the shower wall and ass sticking out?' 'That's me,' i agreed. 'Always ready to take one for the team.' Even Cody[, the other vampire] flushed at our crassness. Lucinda was practically purple. 'You–you two have no sense of decency! None at all. ~ Richelle Mead,

663:I don't know about you, but I'm kind of fed up with realism. After all, there's enough reality already; why make more of it? Why not leave realism for the memoirs of drug addicts, the histories of salt, the biographies of porn stars? Why must we continue to read about the travails of divorced people or mildly depressed Canadians when we could be contemplating the shopping habits of zombies, or the difficulties that ensue when living and dead people marry each other? We should be demanding more stories about faery handbags and pyjamas inscribed with the diaries of strange women. We should not rest until someone writes about a television show that features the Free People's World-Tree Library, with its elaborate waterfalls and Forbidden Books and Pirate-Magicians. We should be pining for a house haunted by rabbits. (from the review of Kelly Link's Magic for Beginners in The Guardian) ~ Audrey Niffenegger,

664:On the contrary, an airy and innocent playfulness seemed to flicker like the shadow of summer leaves over her childish face, and around her buoyant figure. She was always in motion, always with a half-smile on her rosy mouth, flying hither and thither, with an undulating and cloud-like tread, singing to herself as she moved, as in a happy dream. Her father and female guardian were incessantly busy in pursuit of her, but, when caught, she melted from them again like a summer cloud; and as no word of chiding or reproof ever fell on her ear for whatever she chose to do, she pursued her own way all over the boat. Always dressed in white, she seemed to move like a shadow through all sorts of places, without contracting spot or stain; and there was not a corner or nook, above or below, where those fairy footsteps had not glided, and that visionary, golden head, with its deep blue eyes, fleeted along. ~ Harriet Beecher Stowe,

665:Though there had been moments of beauty in it Mariam knew that life for most part had been unkind to her. But as she walked the final twenty paces,she could not help but wish for more of it. She wished she could see Laila again , wished to hear the clangor of her laugh,... Mariam wished for so much in those final moments. Yet as she closed her eyes , it was not regret any longer but a sensation of abundant peace that wshed over her. She thought of her entry into this world , the harami child of a lowly villager , an unintended thing , a pitiable , regrettable accident. A weed , And yet she was leaving the wolrd as a woman who had loved and been loved back. She was leaving it as a friend , a companion , a guardian. A mother. A person of consequence at last. No. It was no so bad , Mariam thought , that she should die this way. Not so bad. This was a legitimate end to a life of illegitimate beginnings. ~ Khaled Hosseini,

666:I was so distracted when walking out of the restroom that I hadn't noticed Rose standing nearby with Dimitri Belikov. They stood arm in arm, smiling at my surprise. I hadn't seen Dimitri tonight, and his black and white guardian attire told me why. He was on duty here and had undoubtedly been one of the shadows darting among the trees of the greenhouse, keeping a watch on everyone. He must be on break now because there was no way he'd be standing so casually here, even with Rose, otherwise. And really, "casual" for Dimitri meant he could still leap into battle at any moment. They were a striking couple. His dark-haired, dark-eyed looks matched hers, and they were both dazzlingly attractive. It was no wonder Adrian had fallen for her, and I felt surprised at how uncomfortable that memory made me. Like Sonya and Mikhail, there was a bond of love between Rose and Dimitri and Rose that was almost palpable. ~ Richelle Mead,

667:19 For God is pleased with you when you do what you know is right and patiently endure unfair treatment. 20 Of course, you get no credit for being patient if you are beaten for doing wrong. But if you suffer for doing good and endure it patiently, God is pleased with you. 21 For God called you to do good, even if it means suffering, just as Christ suffered* for you. He is your example, and you must follow in his steps. 22 He never sinned,       nor ever deceived anyone.* 23 He did not retaliate when he was insulted,       nor threaten revenge when he suffered. He left his case in the hands of God,       who always judges fairly. 24 He personally carried our sins       in his body on the cross so that we can be dead to sin       and live for what is right. By his wounds       you are healed. 25 Once you were like sheep       who wandered away. But now you have turned to your Shepherd,       the Guardian of your souls. ~ Anonymous,

668:Though there had been moments of beauty in it, Mariam knew that life for most part had been unkind to her. But as she walked the final twenty paces, she could not help but wish for more of it. She wished she could see Laila again, wished to hear the clangour of her laugh,... Mariam wished for so much in those final moments. Yet as she closed her eyes... It was not regret any longer but a sensation of abundant peace that washed over her. She thought of her entry into this world, the harami child of a lowly villager, an unintended thing, a pitiable ,regrettable accident. A weed! And yet she was leaving the world as a woman who had loved and been loved back. She was leaving it as a friend ,a companion , a guardian, a mother, a person of consequence at last. No. It was no so bad , Mariam thought , that she should die this way. Not so bad. This was a legitimate end to a life of illegitimate beginnings. ~ Khaled Hosseini,

669:Religions played an increasingly dominant role in Toynbee's view as he grew older and advanced with his "Study of History." "The principal cause of war in our world today." he wrote on Apirl 9, 1935, in the Manchester Guardian, "is the idolatrous worship which is paid by human beings to nations and communities of states. This tribe-worship is the oldest religion of mankind, and it has only been overcome in so far as human beings have been genuinely converted to Christianity or one of the other higher religions....The spirit of man abhors a spiritual vacuum....People will sacrifice themselves for the 'Third Reich' ir wgatever tge Ersatz-Gotzen may be, till they learn again to sacrifice themselves for the Kingdom of God." After 1937, Toynbee flirted with Catholicism and he came to believe that the meaning of history would be revealed only in the slow and painful clarification of the relation between God and man. ~ Daniel J Boorstin,

670:My name is Matthew Swift. I’m a sorcerer, the only one in the city who survived Robert Bakker’s purge. I was killed by my teacher’s shadow and my body dissolved into telephone static and all they had left to bury was a bit of blood. Then we came back, and I am we and we are me, and we are the blue electric angels, creatures of the phones and the wires, the gods made from the surplus life you miserable excuse for mortals pour into all things electric. I am the Midnight Mayor, the protector of the city, the guardian of the night, the keeper of the gates, the watcher on the walls. We turned back the death of cities, we were there when Lady Neon died, we drove the creature called Blackout into the shadows at the end of the alleys, we are light, we are life, we are fire and, would you believe it, the word that best describes our condition right now is cranky. Would you like to see what happens when you make us mad? ~ Kate Griffin,

671:Alchemy is neither a premature chemistry nor a psychology in the modem sense, although both of these are to be found in alchemical writings . Alchemy is a symbolic science of natural forms based on the correspondence between different planes of reality and making use of mineral and metal symbolism to expound a spiritual science of the souh For alchemy, nature is sacred, and the alchemist is the guardian of nature considered as a theophany and reflection of spiritual realities . A purely profane chemistry could come into being only when the substances of alchemy became completely emptied of their sacred quality. For this very reason, a re-discovery of the alchemical view of nature, without in any way denying the chemical sciences which deal with substances from another point of view, could reinstate the spiritual and symbolic character of the forms, colours and processes that man encounters throughout his life in the corporeal world. ~ Seyyed Hossein Nasr,

672:Guardian archangels are fond of staying in the background and out of sight in the temporal world, until they are needed to protect their ward. Unlike Uriel’s cocksure flamboyance, Mikael preferred quiet understatement. He was the prince of Israel, a most holy calling. It was all the more reason for him to downplay his presence. He did not want to draw attention where it was unwanted. The Canaanites and their gods were already in perpetual war with the Israelites, seeking to exterminate them all and drive them into the sea. The Philistines were the strongest of these threats. But the most dangerous hazard was the most intimate one. Because the evil spirit of Nimrod had sunk his claws into Saul’s soul, Mikael had been distracted and stretched thin, following David in his months of fleeing from Saul’s pursuit. Mikael’s attention was divided between his watchfulness over the Chosen Seed David, and his chosen people Israel, led by a king trying to kill David. ~ Brian Godawa,

673:I gave him a sideways look and vowed in that moment I would learn—and not only learn, but master—the gladiatorial style of the dimachaerus: the double-sword-wielding warrior who fought with a blade in each hand. Mael had been the Cantii equivalent of a dimachaerus, an absolute genius with two blades. Growing up, he had developed a series of drills for himself. For two years he’d tried to get me to fight two-handed with him, but I’d been happy with my sword and shield and spear. And the other young Cantii warriors soon tired of getting themselves beaten black and blue fighting against him. So, mostly, he fought the weathered stump of an ancient, lightning-blasted oak. Mael used it as a practice post, and the old forest guardian bore the scars of its encounters with his blades graciously. I thought about all the times I’d sat in the grass watching him practice, and wondered if I could reproduce those patterns from memory. There was only one way to find out. ~ Lesley Livingston,

674:Mariam kept her eyes to the ground, on her shadow, on her executioner's shadow trailing her. Though there had been moments of beauty in it, Mariam knew that life for the most part had been unkind to her. But as she walked the final twenty paces, she could not help but wish for more of it. She wished she could she Leila again, wished to hear the clangour of her laugh, ... Mariam wished for so much in those final moments. Yet as she closed her eyes, it was not regret any longer but a sensation of abundant peace that washed over her. She thought of her entry into this world, the harami child of a lowly villager, an unintended thing, a pitiable, regrettable accident. A weed. And yet she was leaving the world as a woman who has loved and been loved back. She was leaving it as a friend, a companion, a guardian. A mother. A person of consequence at last. This was a legitimate end to a life of illegitimate beginnings." --A Thousand Splendid Suns ~ Khaled Hosseini,

675:If somebody comes and scoops up all of my neighbor’s information because they’re on Verizon and just gathers all of that information, it is a violation of my civil rights as well. I’m telling you, America, we are the civil rights leaders of this day. Accept your position. Accept your role. Square your shoulders. Stand up. Link arms. Some of us will not make it to the end, as they used to say because this is a long, long journey to the end of the road. But man will be free as long as people understand the Bill of Rights. It was given to us, yes, by man, and flawed men, but it was inspired by God. Those rights don’t belong to you. You are merely a guardian of those rights for our children and our grandchildren, of all color, of all races, of all theological backgrounds. You are a guardian and a steward. Recognize what time it is. Recognize why you have been born, where you have been born. You have been given much, and believe me, much is required, not just expected. ~ Glenn Beck,

676:After Jericho's illness crippled him and his parents had abandoned him to the state, it was Will who'd stepped in as guardian. He had sheltered Jericho, fed and clothed him, and taught his ward what he could about running the museum and about Diviners. For that, Jericho supposed he owed him a debt. But Will hadn't given Jericho the parts that mattered most. He hadn't given himself. The two of them had never gone fishing in a cold stream early on a summer's day and shared their thoughts on love and life while they watched the sun draw the curling morning mist from the water. They'd never discussed how to find one's place in the world, never talked of fathers and sons, or what makes someone a man. No. He and Will spoke in newspaper articles about ghosts. They conversed through the careful curation of supernatural knickknacks. And Jericho couldn't help but feel cheated at how little he'd gotten when he'd needed so much more. Why was there so much silence between men? ~ Libba Bray,

677:There are all kinds of pedants around with more time to read and imitate Lynne Truss and John Humphrys than to write poems, love-letters, novels and stories it seems. They whip out their Sharpies and take away and add apostrophes from public signs, shake their heads at prepositions which end sentences and mutter at split infinitives and misspellings, but do they bubble and froth and slobber and cream with joy at language? Do they ever let the tripping of the tips of their tongues against the tops of their teeth transport them to giddy euphoric bliss? Do they ever yoke impossible words together for the sound-sex of it? Do they use language to seduce, charm, excite, please, affirm and tickle those they talk to? Do they? I doubt it. They’re too farting busy sneering at a greengrocer’s less than perfect use of the apostrophe. Well sod them to Hades. They think they’re guardians of language. They’re no more guardians of language than the Kennel Club is the guardian of dogkind. ~ Stephen Fry,

678:4. Crossing the First Threshold:With the personifications of his destiny to guide and aid him, the hero goes forward in his adventure until he comes to the 'threshold guardian' at the entrance to the zone of magnified power. Such custodians bound the world in four directions-also up and down-standing for the limits of the hero's present sphere, or life horizon. Beyond them is darkness, the unknown and danger; just as beyond the parental watch is danger to the infant and beyond the protection of his society danger to the members of the tribe. The usual person is more than content, he is even proud, to remain within the indicated bounds, and popular belief gives him every reason to fear so much as the first step into the unexplored. The adventure is always and everywhere a passage beyond the veil of the known into the unknown; the powers that watch at the boundary are dangerous; to deal with them is risky; yet for anyone with competence and courage the danger fades. ~ Joseph Campbell,

679:In Paris the swaying lanterns are lit in the streets; lights shine through water, fuzzy, diffuse. Saint-Just sits by an insufficient fire, in a poor light. He is a Spartan after all, and Spartans don’t need home comforts. He has begun his report, his list of accusations; if Robespierre saw it now, he would tear it up, but in a few days’ time it will be the very thing he needs. Sometimes he stops, half-glances over his shoulder. He feels someone has come into the room behind him; but when he allows himself to look, there is nothing to see. It is my destiny, he feels, forming in the shadows of the room. It is the guardian angel I had, long ago when I was a child. It is Camille Desmoulins, looking over my shoulder, laughing at my grammar. He pauses for a moment. He thinks, there are no living ghosts. He takes hold of himself. Bends his head over his task. His pen scratches. His strange letterforms incise the paper. His handwriting is minute. He gets a lot of words to the page. ~ Hilary Mantel,

680:Mikhail had come striding towards us with guardian efficiency, ready to find out what task I had in mind. He came to a screeching halt when he saw Sonya get out of the car. So did she. They both stood frozen, eyes wider that seemed physically possible. I knew then that the rest of us had ceased to exist, as had all our intrigue, missions, and... well, the world. In that moment, only the two of them existed. Sonya gave a strangled cry and then ran forward. This jolted him awake, in time to wrap her in his arms as she threw herself against him. She started crying, and I could see tears on his face too. He brushed her back and cupped her cheeks, staring down at her and repeating over and over, "It's you... it's you... it's you..." Sonya tried to wipe her eyes, but it didn't do much good. "Mikhail -I'm sorry-I'm sorry-" "It doesn't matter." he kissed her and pulled back only enough to look into her eyes. "It doesn't matter. Nothing matters except that we're together again. ~ Richelle Mead,

681:Now, on the other hand, there is an entirely different type of angel; and here we must be especially careful to remember that we include gods and devils, for there are such beings who are not by any means dependent on one particular element for their existence. They are microcosms in exactly the same sense as men and women are. They are individuals who have picked up the elements of their composition as possibility and convenience dictates, exactly as we do ourselves... I believe that the Holy Guardian Angel is a Being of this order. He is something more than a man, possibly a being who has already passed through the stage of humanity, and his peculiarly intimate relationship with his client is that of friendship, of community, of brotherhood, or Fatherhood. He is not, let me say with emphasis, a mere abstraction from yourself; and that is why I have insisted rather heavily that the term 'Higher Self' implies a damnable heresy and a dangerous delusion. ~ Aleister Crowley, Magick Without Tears,

682:In antiquity, Hekate was loved and revered as the goddess of the dark moon. People looked to her as a guardian against unseen dangers and spiritual foes. All was well until Persephone, the goddess of spring, was kidnapped by Hades and ordered to live in the underworld for three months each year. Persephone was afraid to make the journey down to the land of the dead alone, so year after year Hekate lovingly guided her through the dark passageway and back. Over time Hekate became known as Persephone's attendant. But because Persephone was also the queen of the lower world, who ruled over the dead with her husband, Hades, Hekate's role as a guardian goddess soon became twisted and distorted until she was known as the evil witch goddess who stalked the night, looking for innocent people to bewitch and carry off to the underworld. Today few know the great goddess Hekate. Those who do are blessed with her compassion for a soul lost in the realm of evil. Some are given a key. ~ Lynne Ewing,

683:Maddy could tell that Jacks’s speech was more than just words. Something had happened to Jackson. He had become a real leader. He was no longer just the perfectly gorgeous visage on the cover of magazines and billboards, the most exemplary face of the glamorous Angels. He had become an actual leader. A figure of authority, power, and knowledge that the Angels could turn to. Whom they could follow. Whom they would follow, even if it meant their own deaths. To Maddy it seemed as if entire lifetimes had passed. The boy who had picked her up in his Ferrari, who was a little vain and foolishly angry that he couldn’t make her forgive him by simply smiling at her, had now become something different. Something more. Maddy realized that the things she had loved best about Jackson had come to bloom fully. He had become a true Guardian of the Godspeed class, just as his ancestors had been, and their ancestors before them, all the way back to before the recorded time of the Book of Angels. ~ Scott Speer,

684:[John Clare's] father was a casual farm labourer, his family never more than a few days' wages from the poorhouse. Clare himself, from early childhood, scraped a living in the fields. He was schooled capriciously, and only until the age of 12, but from his first bare contact fell wildly in love with the written word. His early poems are remarkable not only for the way in which everything he sees flares into life, but also for his ability to pour his mingled thoughts and observations on to the page as they occur, allowing you, as perhaps no other poet has done, to watch the world from inside his head. Read The Nightingale's Nest, one of the finest poems in the English language, and you will see what I mean. ("John Clare, poet of the environmental crisis 200 years ago" in The Guardian.) ~ George Monbiot,

685:Maddy could tell that Jacks’s speech was more than just words. Something had happened to Jackson. He had become a real leader. He was no longer just the perfectly gorgeous visage on the cover of magazines and billboards, the most exemplary face of the glamorous Angels. He had become an actual leader. A figure of authority, power, and knowledge that the Angels could turn to. Whom they could follow. Whom they would follow, even if it meant their own deaths. To Maddy it seemed as if entire lifetimes had passed. The boy who had picked her up in his Ferrari, who was a little vain and foolishly angry that he couldn’t make her forgive him by simply smiling at her, had now become something different. Something more. Maddy realized that the things she had loved best about Jackson had come to bloom fully. He had become a true Guardian of the Godspeed class, just as his ancestors had been, and their ancestors before them, all the way back to before the recorded time of the Book of Angels. ~ Scott Speer,

686:1144 Winding The Clock When I was but a little lad, my old Grandfather said That none should wind the clock but he, and so, at time for bed, He'd fumble for the curious key kept high upon the shelf And set aside that little task entirely for himself. In time Grandfather passed away, and so that duty fell Unto my Father, who performed the weekly custom well; He held that clocks were not to be by careless persons wound, And he alone should turn the key or move the hands around. I envied him that little task, and wished that I might be The one to be entrusted with the turning of the key; But year by year the clock was his exclusive bit of care Until the day the angels came and smoothed his silver hair. To-day the task is mine to do, like those who've gone before I am a jealous guardian of that round and glassy door, And 'til at my chamber door God's messenger shall knock To me alone shall be reserved the right to wind the clock. ~ Edgar Albert Guest,

687:If I wanted ultimate honesty for him, I had to be prepared to do the same. It hurt to look deep inside—to give myself no room to hide and to come face to face with a girl I no longer recognised. But I did it. Because I was strong and brave and ready to give in order to receive. “No matter how screwed up and wrong the past few months have been, they’ve been the best thing that’s ever happened to me.” Jethro sucked in a breath. “If a guardian angel had told me this would happen. If they’d come to me the night before you stole me and explained the atrocities I would live through, I would still have come with you.” A groan cut short as Jethro froze in place. “I would’ve waited for you with open arms. I would’ve gladly said goodbye to my life and let you torment me because it made me a better person—a stronger person—a person worthy of what I feel for you.” I stiffened. “So don’t tell me you wish you’d never met me, Jethro Hawk, because I would live a thousand debts just for the gift of having you love me. ~ Pepper Winters,

688:Brought up, as Mahomet was, in the house of the guardian of the Caaba, the ceremonies and devotions connected with the sacred edifice may have given an early bias to his mind, and inclined it to those speculations in matters of religion by which it eventually became engrossed. Though his Moslem biographers would fain persuade us his high destiny was clearly foretold in his childhood by signs and prodigies, yet his education appears to have been as much neglected as that of ordinary Arab children ; for we find that he was not taught either to read or write. He was a thoughtful child, however ; quick to observe, prone to meditate on all that he observed, and possessed of an imagination fertile, daring, and expansive. The yearly influx of pilgrims from distant parts made Mecca a receptacle for all kinds of floating knowledge, which he appears to have imbibed with eagerness and retained in a tenacious memory ; and as he increased in years, a more extended sphere of observation was gradually opened to him. ~ Washington Irving,

689:Maryam kept her eyes to the ground, on her shadow, on her executioner's shadow trailing her. Though there had been moments of beauty in it, Mariam knew that life for most part had been unkind to her. But as she walked the final twenty paces, she could not help but wish for more of it. She wished she could see Laila again, wished to hear the clangour of her laugh,... Mariam wished for so much in those final moments. Yet as she closed her eyes... It was not regret any longer but a sensation of abundant peace that washed over her. She thought of her entry into this world, the harami child of a lowly villager, an unintended thing, a pitiable ,regrettable accident. A weed! And yet she was leaving the world as a woman who had loved and been loved back. She was leaving it as a friend ,a companion , a guardian, a mother, a person of consequence at last. No. It was no so bad , Mariam thought , that she should die this way. Not so bad. This was a legitimate end to a life of illegitimate beginnings. ~ Khaled Hosseini,

690:Mikael, the largest and best groomed of the three, was the guardian prince of Israel, and tended to be protective of his ward. He offered a wineskin to Jesus, who took it and gulped with gratitude. After a moment of silence, Jesus wiped his beard of the wine and said, “You need a better sense of humor, Gabriel.” Gabriel pouted with frustration at being ganged up on. Uriel, his perpetual nemesis was one thing. But being teased by the Master was quite another. Jesus said, “And Uriel, you had better deliver on that bread you promised.” Uriel smiled again and held out a loaf of Mary’s best bread. “Baked two hours ago by your mother.” Jesus grabbed it. Mikael said, “Remember, do not eat too quickly. It is bad for your digestion after fasting.” “Thank you for your ministering spirits,” said Jesus, and took a big hungry bite out of the loaf. Uriel muttered, “Your mother should open a bakery. Can I have a bite?” Mikael was not so lighthearted. He knew that the challenge had been declared. The road to war had begun. ~ Brian Godawa,

691:Dimitri moved closer to me, his eyes sparkling with a secret. "It gets better:you're Lissa's guardian." "What?" I almost pulled away. "That's impossible. They'd never..." "They did. She'll have others, so they probably figured it was okay to let you hang around if someone else could keep you in line," he teased. "You're not..." A lump formed in my stomach, a reminder of a problem that has plagued so long ago. "You're not one of her guardian too, are you?" It had constantly been a concern, that conflict of interest. I wanted him near me. Always. But how could he watch Lissa and put her safely first if we were worried about each other? The past was returning to torment us. "No. I have a different assignment." "Oh." For some reason, that made me a little sad too, even though I knew it was the smarter choice. "I'm Christian's guardian." This time I did sit up, doctor's orders or no. Stitches tugged in my chest, but I ignored the sharp discomfort. "But that's...that's practically the same thing! ~ Richelle Mead,

692:Further, the Law is not given as a means to salvation; to the contrary, part of its purpose is to show people just how desperately incapable they (and we) are of living holy, sinless lives on their own. As stated in Galatians, “The law was our guardian until Christ came, in order that we might be justified by faith” (3:24). It’s meant to show their inability to save themselves and their consequent need for a Savior (Gal. 3:19). “The spirit of the Law condemns us,” maintains Charles Spurgeon. “And this is its useful property. It humbles us, makes us know we are guilty, and so we are led to receive the Savior.”68 Spurgeon adds, “Lower the Law and you dim the light by which man perceives his guilt; this is a very serious loss to the sinner rather than a gain; for it lessens the likelihood of his conviction and conversion. I say you have deprived the gospel of its ablest auxiliary [it’s most powerful weapon] when you have set aside the Law. You have taken away from it the schoolmaster [guardian] that is to bring me to Christ.”69 ~ David Limbaugh,

693:You are holy, Lord, the only God, You do wonders. You are strong, You are great, You are the most high, You are the almighty King. You, Holy Father, the King of heaven and earth. You are Three and One, Lord God of gods; You are good, all good, the highest good, Lord, God, living and true. You are love, charity. You are wisdom; You are humility; You are patience; You are beauty; You are meekness; You are security; You are inner peace; You are joy; You are our hope and joy; You are justice; You are moderation, You are all our riches. You are beauty, You are meekness; You are the protector, You are the guardian and defender; You are strength; You are refreshment. You are our hope, You are our faith, You are our charity, You are all our sweetness, You are our eternal life: Great and wonderful Lord, God almighty, Merciful Savior. [1495.jpg] -- from Francis and Clare: The Complete Works: The Classics of Western Spirituality, Translated by Regis J. Armstrong, OFM CAP / Translated by Ignatius C. Brady, OFM ~ Saint Francis of Assisi, The Praises of God ,

694:Absence NIGHTLY I watch the moon with silvery sheen Flaking the city house-tops, till I feel Thy memory, Rosa, like a presence, steal Down in her light: for ever in her mien Thy soul’s similitude my soul hath seen! And as she seemeth now a guardian seal On Heaven’s far bliss, upon my future weal Even such thy truth is—radiantly serene! But long my fancy may not entertain These bright resemblances—for, lo, a cloud Blots her away, and in my breast the pain Of absent love, recurring, pines aloud! When shall I look in thy sweet eyes again,— Rosa, when cheer thee with like sadness bowed? Wherever in some wildwood bower There blooms a honey-yielding flower, There too dwells a bird to sup Out of its delicious cup, And sing betimes, lest it should be O’erfed into satiety: So wherever Loveliness Dwells retired—dwells to bless, Not dazzle: there some destin’d spirit, Feeding on its luscious merit, Can at peace with Passion be Only through sweet Poesy. ~ Charles Harpur,

695:He closed his eyes. Mazana or Avallon, Avallon or Mazana. The choice seemed no clearer now than it had ever been. The future offered two paths, but what did you do when you wanted to walk both, you wanted to walk neither? The answer seemed obvious suddenly. You made your own path, of course. A new path entirely. He opened his eyes again. In the room behind, Kolloken was whistling. You mean you ain’t done worse in your time? Senar pictured Uriel sitting next to Mazana in Olaire, learning to use water-magic. The Guardian hadn’t known the boy well. In truth, he’d never tried to get to know him, but that didn’t mean he couldn’t feel the sting of his death. Maybe in Kolloken’s place he would have done the same; he didn’t know. What he did know, though, was that he wouldn’t have been whistling about it afterward. He wouldn’t have blamed Mazana for what happened like he was the one who’d been wronged. A coldness settled on him, and he pushed himself away from the wall. Then he turned and went back into Kolloken’s room, closing the door behind. ~ Marc Turner,

696:It was the excitement, the richness of the whole experience, the mixture of pleasure and danger and freedom and the sun. You know, when we came back here, for a long while I still went on living in Euphoria inside my head. Outwardly I returned to my old routine. I got up in the morning, put on a tweed suit, read the Guardian over breakfast, walked into the University, gave the same old tutorials on the same old texts... and all the while I was leading a completely different life inside my head. Inside my head, I had decided not to come back to England, so I was waking up in Plotinus, sitting in the sun in my happi-coat, looking out over the Bay, putting on Levis and a sports shirt, reading the Euphoric Times over breakfast, and wondering what would happen today, would there be a protest, a demonstration, would my class have to fight their way through teargas and picket lines or should we meet off-campus in somebody's apartment, sitting on the floor surrounded by posters and leaflets and paperbacks about encounter groups and avant garde theatre and Viet Nam. ~ David Lodge,

697:On the left side of the balcony, at the rear just outside the open doorway through which I'm looking, I suddenly become aware of the presence of a figure. It is an imposing statue, about six feet high and apparently carved in one piece from some green stone - perhaps jade. The sculptor provided excellent detailing of fine robes, and a belt, and something - possibly a sword? - suspended from the belt. At first this stunning piece of sculpture seems just that - a harmless, inanimate statue. I'm curious to see more of it and move my point of view a little closer to get to look at its face. To my surprise, the statue is half animal, half human. It has the body of a powerful and well-muscled man but the head of a crocodile, like Sobek, the ancient Egyptian crocodile god. And now I suddenly realise it is alive - a living being, a supernatural guardian. At this moment its eyes swivel sideways and it is looking at me, taking note of me. The look is intelligent, appraising somehow sly, but yet not threatening. What is this living statue, this being of jade? The vision fades... ~ Graham Hancock,

698:Abrahadabra is a word that first publicly appeared in The Book of the Law, the central sacred text of Thelema . Its author, Aleister Crowley, described it as the Word of the Aeon, which signifieth The Great Work accomplished. This is in reference to his belief that the writing of Liber Legis (another name for The Book of the Law) heralded a new Aeon for mankind that was ruled by the godRa-Hoor-Khuit (a form of Horus). Abrahadabra is, therefore, the magical formula of this new age. It is not to be confused with the Word of the Law of the Aeon, which is Thelema, meaning Will. ... Abrahadabra is also referred to as the Word of Double Power. More specifically, it represents the uniting of the Microcosm with the Macrocosm    represented by the pentagram and the hexagram, the rose and the cross, the circle and the square, the 5 and the 6 (etc.), as also called the attainment of the Knowledge and Conversation of ones Holy Guardian Angel. In Commentaries (1996), Crowley says that the word is a symbol of the establishment of the pillar or phallus of the Macrocosm...in the void of the Microcosm.    ~ Wikipedia,

699:Lieutenant Jackson, I presume?” “I, uh, how, um, yes.” Impressive elocution there, Taylor. She cleared her throat. “How did you know?” “I saw the news,” Thalia said simply, nonjudgmental. “Lovely.” “I wouldn’t worry about it. No one in their right mind will believe that you killed someone without reason. It’s in your eyes. You’re a guardian, not an avenger.” Oddly pleased, Taylor smiled at the girl. “Some would disagree with you. You’re Thalia Abbott, I presume?” “And you aren’t Catholic, I’d presume.” “You’re right. I was raised Episcopal. My dad was Catholic, though. How did you know?” “You don’t have that guilty look on your face. Though you crossed and blessed yourself, you walked right past the confessional without a second glance. Most nonpracticing Catholics couldn’t do that.” She smiled, and Taylor felt herself smiling back. This was not what she’d expected from her morning. Grace from a seventeen-year-old ex-porn star. “Let’s walk,” Thalia said. She guided Taylor out of the sanctuary, into the sacristy. She held a cloth in her hands, Taylor realized she was dusting as they went. ~ J T Ellison,

700:One of the first shrinks I went to after Cass died told me that the brain has a hardwired need to find correlations, to make sense of nonsensical data by making connections between unrelated things. Humans have evolved a universal tendency to seek patterns in random information, hence the existence of fortune-tellers and dream interpreters and people who see the face of Jesus in a piece of toast. But the cold, hard truth is that there are no connections between anything. Life—all of existence—is totally random. Your lucky lottery numbers aren’t really lucky, because there’s no such thing as luck. The black cat that crosses your path isn’t a bad omen, it’s just a cat out for a walk. An eclipse doesn’t mean that the gods are angry, just as a bus narrowly missing you as you cross the street doesn’t mean there’s a guardian angel looking out for you. There are no gods. There are no angels. Superstitions aren’t real, and no amount of wishing, praying, or rationalizing can change the fact that life is just one long sequence of random events that ultimately have no meaning. I really hated that shrink. ~ J T Geissinger,

701:Forgetfulness is not just a vis inertiae, as superficial people believe, but is rather an active ability to suppress, positive in the strongest sense of the word, to which we owe the fact that what we simply live through, experience, take in, no more enters our consciousness during digestion (one could call it spiritual ingestion) than does the thousand-fold process which takes place with our physical consumption of food, our so-called ingestion. To shut the doors and windows of consciousness for a while; not to be bothered by the noise and battle which our underworld of serviceable organs work with and against each other;a little peace, a little tabula rasa of consciousness to make room for something new, above all for the nobler functions and functionaries, for ruling, predicting, predetermining (our organism runs along oligarchic lines, you see) - that, as I said, is the benefit of active forgetfulness, like a doorkeeper or guardian of mental order, rest and etiquette: from which can immediately see how there could be no happiness, cheerfulness, hope, pride, immediacy, without forgetfulness. ~ Friedrich Nietzsche,

702:Fling Out The Anti Slavery Flag Fling out the Anti-slavery flag On every swelling breeze; And let its folds wave o'er the land, And o'er the raging seas, Till all beneath the standard sheet, With new allegiance bow; And pledge themselves to onward bear The emblem of their vow. Fling out the Anti-Slavery flag, And let it onward wave Till it shall float o'er every clime, And liberate the slave; Till, like a meteor flashing far, It bursts with glorious light, And with its Heaven-born rays dispels The gloom of sorrow's night. Fling out the Anti-Slavery flag, And let it not be furled, Till like a planet of the skies, It sweeps around the world. And when each poor degraded slave, Is gathered near and far; O, fix it on the azure arch, As hope's eternal star. Fling out the Anti-Slavery flag, Forever let it be The emblem to a holy cause, The banner of the free. And never from its guardian height, Let it by man be driven, But let it float forever there, Beneath the smiles of heaven. ~ Anonymous Americas,

703:TRIAD supernal, both super-God and super-good, Guardian of the Theosophy of Christian men, direct us aright to the super-unknown and super-brilliant and highest summit of the mystic Oracles, where the simple and absolute a!nd changeless mysteries of theology lie hidden within the super-luminous gloom of the silence, revealing hidden things, which in its deepest darkness shines above the most super-brilliant, and in the altogether impalpable and invisible, fills to overflowing the eyeless minds with glories of surpassing beauty. This then be my prayer; but thou, O dear Timothy, by thy persistent commerce with the mystic visions, leave behind both sensible perceptions and intellectual efforts, and all objects of sense and intelligence, and all things not being and being, and be raised aloft unknowingly to the union, as far' as attainable, with Him Who is above every essence and knowledge. For by the resistless and absolute ecstasy in all purity, from thyself and all, thou wilt be carried on high, to the superessential ray of the Divine darkness, when thou hast cast away all, and become free from all. ~ Pseudo Dionysius the Areopagite,

704:The Drenching Night Drags On The drenching night drags on: no sleep or snore, no stock, no wealth of sheep, no horned cows. This storm on the waves nearby has harrowed my head - I who ate no winkles or dogfish in my youth! If that guardian King from the bank of the Leamhan lived on, with all who shared his fate (and would pity my plight) to rule that soft, snug region, bayed and harboured, my people would not stay poor in Duibhne country. Great Carthy, fierce and fine, who loathed deceit; with Carthy of the Laoi, in yoke unyielding, faint; and Carthy King of Ceann Toirc with his children, buried; it is bitterness through my heart they have left no trace. My heart has dried in my ribs, my humours soured, that those never-niggardly lords, whose holdings ranged from Caiseal to Cliona's Wave and out to Thomond, are savaged by alien hordes in land and townland. You wave down there, lifting your loudest roar, the wits in my head are worsted by your wails. If help ever came to lovely Ireland again I'd wedge your ugly howling down your throat! ~ Aogán Ó Rathaille,

705:Once upon a time there was a woman, and she was wicked as wicked could be, and she died. And not one good deed was left behind her. The devils took her and threw her into the lake of fire. And her guardian angel stood thinking: what good deed of hers can I remember to tell God? Then he remembered and said to God: once she pulled up an onion and gave it to a beggar woman. And God answered: take now that same onion, hold it out to her in the lake, let her take hold of it and pull, and if you pull her out of the lake, she can go to paradise. The angel ran to the woman and held out the onion to her: here, woman, he said, take hold of it and I’ll pull. And he began pulling carefully, and had almost pulled her all of the way out, when other sinners in the lake saw her being pulled out and all began holding on to her so as to be pulled out with her. But the woman was wicked as wicked could be, and she began to kick them with her feet: ‘It’s me who’s getting pulled out, not you; it’s my onion, not yours.’ No sooner did she say it than the onion broke. And the woman fell back into the lake and is burning there to this day. And the angel wept and went away ~ Fyodor Dostoyevsky,

706:But angels aren’t just around us when we need them; they’re with us all the time. I’ve also never seen angels use wings to fly to a person’s rescue, or for any other reason; this doesn’t mean that it can’t happen, I’ve just never witnessed it myself. I’ve only seen angels drift through a space as energy, like clouds moving across the sky. Archangels, however, have shown themselves with wings. I’m told there are also guardian angels assigned to every soul and they are with you throughout your many lifetimes. Even though I’m told that guides have walked in this world and angels haven’t, I’ve often wondered if guardian angels and guides are the same thing, since not all angels have wings and guardian angels sound like a religious interpretation of the same role that guides play in generally spiritual beliefs. I’m not too sure, to be honest. What I do know is that they love being acknowledged as part of your life. Guardian angels are always trying to help you out and guide you on your spiritual path with great love. They also provide protection by prompting your intuition, creating coincidences, and intervening in your world in times of need or danger. ~ Theresa Caputo,

707:And then, I said, we must try them with enchantments—that is the third sort of test—and see what will be their behaviour: like those who take colts amid noise and tumult to see if they are of a timid nature, so must we take our youth amid terrors of some kind, and again pass them into pleasures, and prove them more thoroughly than gold is proved in the furnace, that we may discover whether they are armed against all enchantments, and of a noble bearing always, good guardians of themselves and of the music which they have learned, and retaining under all circumstances a rhythmical and harmonious nature, such as will be most serviceable to the individual and to the State. And he who at every age, as boy and youth and in mature life, has come out of the trial victorious and pure, shall be appointed a ruler and guardian of the State; he shall be honoured in life and death, and shall receive sepulture and other memorials of honour, the greatest that we have to give. But him who fails, we must reject. I am inclined to think that this is the sort of way in which our rulers and guardians should be chosen and appointed. I speak generally, and not with any pretension to exactness. And, ~ Plato,

708:one morning in my early twenties when feeling quite suicidal I got into my locked car and someone had done a reversal the Hawaiian necklace that hung on the rearview mirror had been turned around backwards in an event so queer in that moment I knew I was not alone in my struggles and that all would be okay if I simply forgot my troubles let it be known that you’ve got watchful guardian angels I’ll tell you of yet another way that they make me so grateful their presence and assistance is often noticed as such: a shot of high frequency energy is felt as they touch receiving a ringing in an ear while my mind goes meditative spiritually put back on track with a reminder of my objective because of the prayers I practice this is how I’m aided your experiences may vary out of not caring to be persuaded how often do you call out for help from on high? it’s their pleasure to assist if you’d just ask them to come by I can tell you straight away, they know your thoughts and exactly how you’re feeling when you’re distraught seeing you scanning this sentence as they’re in your presence do you feel their love or have you taken a rigid stance? ~ Jarett Sabirsh,

709:He called after me, “How old am I, Maya?” I turned. “How the hell should I know? Whatever you’ve told the school, I’m sure it’s a lie anyway.” “I’m sixteen, just like you. Or like you will be tomorrow, from what I heard. My birthday was last month.” “Congratulations.” I started walking again. “I’ll send you a card next year, if you hang around that long, which I doubt.” “You don’t need to doubt it. I’ll be leaving for sure if you tell anyone about Annie.” I wheeled. “Are you threatening to take her--?” “Legally, I can’t take her anywhere. I’m sixteen, Maya. Barely sixteen. She’s nineteen. Who’s the guardian here?” I paused, then said, softly, “Oh.” “Yeah, oh. Annie and I never knew our dad. Our mom died last year when Annie was eighteen. Before the accident. So she got custody of me.” “Accident? It’s brain damage?” The look in Rafe’s eyes, the grief…It hurt just to see it, and he turned away fast, mumbling, “Yeah. It’s brain damage. Point is that if anyone finds out, I’m off to a foster home and she’s off to an institution. Which neither of us wants.” I stepped toward him. “I’m sorry. I just…” Jumped to conclusions. Big surprise. “I’m sorry. ~ Kelley Armstrong,

710:Dad was on the porch, pacing back and forth in that uneven stride he had on account of having a gimp leg. When he saw, he let out a yelp of delight and started hobbling down the steps towards us. Mom came running out of the house. She sank down on her knees, clasped her hands in front of her, and started praying up to the heavens, thanking the Lord for delivering her children from the flood. It was she who had saved us, she declared, by staying up all night praying. "You get down on your knees and thank your guardian angel," she said. "And thank me, too." Helen and Buster got down and started praying with Mom, but I just stood there looking at them. The way I saw it. I was the one who'd saved us all, not Mom and not some guardian angel. No one was up in that cottonwood tree except the three of us. Dad came alongside me and put his arms around my shoulders. "There weren't no guardian angel, Dad," I said. I started explaining how I'd gotten us to the cottonwood tree in time, figuring out how to switch places when our arms got tired and keeping Buster and Helen awake through the long night by quizzing them. Dad squeezed my shoulder. "Well, darling," he said, "maybe the angel was you. ~ Jeannette Walls,

711:You fought in the Great War?” a journalist from The Guardian asked me in a long interview to coincide with the presentation of the prize. “I didn’t think it was all that great.” I pointed out. “In fact, if memory serves, it was bloody awful.” “Yes, of course,” said the journalist, laughing uncomfortably. “Only you’ve never written about it, have you?” “Haven’t I?” “Not explicitly, at least.” He said, his face taking on an expression of panic, as if he had suddenly realized that he might have forgotten some major work along the way. “I suppose it depends on one’s definition of explicit,” I replied. ‘I’m pretty sure I’ve written about it any number of times. On the surface, occasionally. A little buried, at other times. But it’s been there, hasn’t it? Wouldn’t you agree? Or do I delude myself?” “No, of course not. I only meant—“ “Unless I’ve failed utterly in my work, that is. Perhaps I haven’t made my intentions clear at all. Perhaps my entire writing career has been a busted flush.” “No, Mr. Sadler, of course not. I think you misunderstood me. It’s clear that the Great War plays a significant part in your—“ At eighty-one, one has to find one’s fun where one can. ~ John Boyne,

712:Once upon a time there was a peasant woman and a very wicked woman she was. And she died and did not leave a single good deed behind. The devils caught her and plunged her into the lake of fire. So her guardian angel stood and wondered what good deed of hers he could remember to tell to God; 'She once pulled up an onion in her garden,' said he, 'and gave it to a beggar woman.' And God answered: 'You take that onion then, hold it out to her in the lake, and let her take hold and be pulled out. And if you can pull her out of the lake, let her come to Paradise, but if the onion breaks, then the woman must stay where she is.' The angel ran to the woman and held out the onion to her. 'Come,' said he, 'catch hold and I'll pull you out.' he began cautiously pulling her out. He had just pulled her right out, when the other sinners in the lake, seeing how she was being drawn out, began catching hold of her so as to be pulled out with her. But she was a very wicked woman and she began kicking them. 'I'm to be pulled out, not you. It's my onion, not yours.' As soon as she said that, the onion broke. And the woman fell into the lake and she is burning there to this day. So the angel wept and went away. ~ Fyodor Dostoyevsky,

713:Having studied both the possible risks and the likely rewards, the Guardian’s managers decided both to “open in” the website, by bringing in more data and applications from the outside, and to “open out” the site, by enabling partners to create products using Guardian content and services on other digital platforms. To work toward the “open out” goal, the Guardian created a set of APIs that made its content easily available to external parties. These interfaces include three different levels of access. The lowest access tier, which the paper calls Keyless, allows anyone to use Guardian headlines, metadata, and information architecture (that is, the software and design elements that structure Guardian data and make it easier to access, analyze, and use) without requesting permission and without any requirement to share revenues that might be generated. The second access tier, Approved, allows registered developers to reprint entire Guardian articles, with certain time and usage restrictions. Advertising revenues are shared between the newspaper and the developers. The third and highest access tier, Bespoke, is a customized support package that provides unlimited use of Guardian content—for a fee. ~ Geoffrey G Parker,

714:Mariam wished for so much in those final moments. Yet as she closed her eyes, it was not regret any longer but a sensation of abundant peace that washed over her. She thought of her entry into this world, the harami child of a lowly villager, an unintended thing, a pitiable, regrettable accident. A weed. And yet she was leaving the world as a woman who had loved and been loved back. She was leaving it as a friend, a companion, a guardian. A mother. A person of consequence at last. No. It was not so bad, Mariam thought, that she should die this way. Not so bad. This was a legitimate end to a life of illegitimate beginnings. Mariam's final thoughts were a few words from the Koran, which she muttered under her breath. He has created the heavens and the earth with the truth; He makes the night cover the day and makes the day overtake the night, and He has made the sun and the moon subservient; each one runs on to an assigned term; now surely He is the Mighty, the Great Forgiver. "Kneel," the Talib said. O my Lord! Forgive and have mercy, for you are the best of the merciful ones. "Kneel here, hamshira. And look down." One last time, Mariam did as she was told. ~ Khaled Hosseini,

715:But the Greeks and the Romans both believed in the idea of an external daemon of creativity—a sort of house elf, if you will, who lived within the walls of your home and who sometimes aided you in your labors. The Romans had a specific term for that helpful house elf. They called it your genius—your guardian deity, the conduit of your inspiration. Which is to say, the Romans didn’t believe that an exceptionally gifted person was a genius; they believed that an exceptionally gifted person had a genius. It’s a subtle but important distinction (being vs. having) and, I think, it’s a wise psychological construct. The idea of an external genius helps to keep the artist’s ego in check, distancing him somewhat from the burden of taking either full credit or full blame for the outcome of his work. If your work is successful, in other words, you are obliged to thank your external genius for the help, thus holding you back from total narcissism. And if your work fails, it’s not entirely your fault. You can say, “Hey, don’t look at me—my genius didn’t show up today!” Either way, the vulnerable human ego is protected. Protected from the corrupting influence of praise. Protected from the corrosive effects of shame. ~ Elizabeth Gilbert,

716:I know your character. I know you're going to be a great guardian.” His confidence made that warm feeling return. "I'm glad someone does. Everyone else thinks I'm totally irresponsible.” "With the way you worry more about Lissa than yourself…" He shook his head. "No. You understand your responsibilities better than guardians twice your age. You'll do what you have to do to succeed.” I thought about that. "I don't know if I can do everything I have to do.” He did that cool one-eyebrow thing. "I don't want to cut my hair," I explained. He looked puzzled. "You don't have to cut your hair. It's not required.” "All the other guardian women do. They show off their tattoos.” Unexpectedly, he released my hands and leaned forward. Slowly, he reached out and held a lock of my hair, twisting it around one finger thoughtfully. I froze, and for a moment, there was nothing going on in the world except him touching my hair. He let my hair go, looking a little surprised—and embarrassed—at what he'd done. "Don't cut it," he said gruffly. Somehow, I remembered how to talk again. "But no one'll see my tattoos if I don't.” He moved toward the doorway, a small smile playing over his lips. "Wear it up. ~ Richelle Mead,

717:Some of the schemes were beyond depraved. The Indian Rights Association detailed the case of a widow whose guardian had absconded with most of her possessions. Then the guardian falsely informed the woman, who had moved from Osage County, that she had no more money to draw on, leaving her to raise her two young children in poverty. “For her and her two small children, there was not a bed nor a chair nor food in the house,” the investigator said. When the widow’s baby got sick, the guardian still refused to turn over any of her money, though she pleaded for it. “Without proper food and medical care, the baby died,” the investigator said. The Osage were aware of such schemes but had no means to stop them. After the widow lost her baby, evidence of the fraud was brought before a county judge, only to be ignored. “There is no hope of justice so long as these conditions are permitted to remain,” the investigator concluded. “The human cry of this… woman is a call to America.” An Osage, speaking to a reporter about the guardians, stated, “Your money draws ’em and you’re absolutely helpless. They have all the law and all the machinery on their side. Tell everybody, when you write your story, that they’re scalping our souls out here. ~ David Grann,

718:There were some places, and streets, where he did not venture since he had learnt that others had claims there greater than his own - not the gangs of meths drinkers who lived in no place and no time, nor the growing number of the young who moved on restlessly across the face of the city, but vagrants like himself who, despite the name which the world has given them, had ceased to wander and now associated themselves with one territory or 'province' rather than another. All of them led solitary lives, hardly moving from their own warren of streets and buildings: it is not known whether they chose the area, or whether the area itself had callen them and taken them in, but they had become the guardian spirits (as it were) of each place. Ned now knew some of their names: Watercress Joe, who haunted the streets by St Mary Woolnoth, Black Sam who lived and slept beside the Commercial Road between Whitechapel and Limehouse, Harry the Goblin who was seen only by Spitalfields and Artillery Lane, Mad Frank who walked continually through the streets of Bloomsbury, Italian Audrey who was always to be found in the dockside area of Wapping (it was she who had visited Ned in his shelter many years before), and 'Alligator' who never moved from Greenwich. ~ Peter Ackroyd,

719:1. Sovereignty of the human will; in short, despotism. 2. Inequality of wealth and rank. 3. Property — above JUSTICE, always invoked as the guardian angel of sovereigns, nobles, and proprietors; JUSTICE, the general, primitive, categorical law of all society. We must ascertain whether the ideas of despotism, civil inequality and property, are in harmony with the primitive notion of justice, and necessarily follow from it, — assuming various forms according to the condition, position, and relation of persons; or whether they are not rather the illegitimate result of a confusion of different things, a fatal association of ideas. And since justice deals especially with the questions of government, the condition of persons, and the possession of things, we must ascertain under what conditions, judging by universal opinion and the progress of the human mind, government is just, the condition of citizens is just, and the possession of things is just; then, striking out every thing which fails to meet these conditions, the result will at once tell us what legitimate government is, what the legitimate condition of citizens is, and what the legitimate possession of things is; and finally, as the last result of the analysis, what justice is. ~ Pierre Joseph Proudhon,

720:1. Write. 2. Put one word after another. Find the right word, put it down. 3. Finish what you're writing. Whatever you have to do to finish it, finish it. 4. Put it aside. Read it pretending you've never read it before. Show it to friends whose opinion you respect and who like the kind of thing that this is. 5. Remember: when people tell you something's wrong or doesn't work for them, they are almost always right. When they tell you exactly what they think is wrong and how to fix it, they are almost always wrong. 6. Fix it. Remember that, sooner or later, before it ever reaches perfection, you will have to let it go and move on and start to write the next thing. Perfection is like chasing the horizon. Keep moving. 7. Laugh at your own jokes. 8. The main rule of writing is that if you do it with enough assurance and confidence, you're allowed to do whatever you like. (That may be a rule for life as well as for writing. But it's definitely true for writing.) So write your story as it needs to be written. Write it ­honestly, and tell it as best you can. I'm not sure that there are any other rules. Not ones that matter." [Ten rules for writing fiction (The Guardian, 20 February 2010)] ~ Neil Gaiman,

721:1011 The Workman's Dream To-day it's dirt and dust and steam, To-morrow it will be the same, And through it all the soul must dream And try to play a manly game; Dirt, dust and steam and harsh commands, Yet many a soft hand passes by And only thinks he understands The purpose of my task and why. I've seen men shudder just to see Me standing at this lathe of mine, And knew somehow they pitied me, But I have never made a whine; For out of all this dirt and dust And clang and clamor day by day, Beyond toil's everlasting 'must,' I see my little ones at play. The hissing steam would drive me mad If hissing steam was all I heard; But there's a boy who calls me dad Who daily keeps my courage spurred; And there's a little girl who waits Each night for all that I may bring, And I'm the guardian of their fates, Which makes this job a wholesome thing. Beyond the dust and dirt and steam I see a college where he'll go; And when I shall fulfill my dream, More than his father he will know; And she shall be a woman fair, Fit for the world to love and trust— I'll give my land a glorious pair Out of this place of dirt and dust. ~ Edgar Albert Guest,

722:In Old World witchcraft, magic is an energy or force that is attached to all things. The Art of Magic is the means through which this energy is gathered, fashioned, and directed for use in spell casting, ritual, or any work requiring the magical forces. In a more formal expression, some people say that magic is the manifestation of personal will or desire, but this is the end result of applying magic, and is not magic itself (in terms of what it is without human usage). As previously noted, magical outcomes are connected to human consciousness, which is divided into the Guardian Mind and the Way-Shower. Earlier we saw that the conscious mind rejects the idea of magic as something real and effective. The subconscious is depicted as not acknowledging any lasting form (and therefore undermining the idea of manifestation). Each from their unique perspective makes magic a questionable concept. In order to realize the existence of magic, the two forms of consciousness we possess must meet and create a third consciousness. It is this third and “shared” consciousness that allows us to draw material and nonmaterial realities together into harmonious existence. The result is a place “in-between,” in which there is no objection to magic and what it can accomplish. The ~ Raven Grimassi,

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

724:Directly on awakening, preferably at dawn, the initiate goes to the place of invocation. Figuring to himself as he goes that being born anew each day brings with it the chance of greater rebirth, first he banishes the temple of his mind by ritual or by some magical trance. Then he unveils some token or symbol or sigil which represents to him the Holy Guardian Angel. This symbol he will likely have to change during the great work as the inspiration begins to move him. Next he invokes an image of the Angel into his minds eye. It may be considered as a luminous duplicate of ones own form standing in front of or behind one, or simply as a ball of brilliant light above ones head. Then he formulates his aspirations in what manner he will, humbling himself in prayer or exalting himself in loud proclamation as his need be. The best form of this invocation is spoken spontaneously from the heart, and if halting at first, will prove itself in time. He is aiming to establish a set of ideas and images which correspond to the nature of his genius, and at the same time receive inspiration from that source. As the magician begins to manifest more of his true will, the Augoeides will reveal images, names, and spiritual principles by which it can be drawn into greater manifestation.    ~ Peter J Carroll, Liber Null,

725:Though there had been moments of beauty in it Mariam knew that life for most part had been unkind to her. But as she walked the final twenty paces, she could not help but wish for more of it. She wished she could see Laila again, wished to hear the clangor of her laugh, to sit with her once more for a pot of chai and leftover halwa under a starlit sky. She mourned that she would never see Aziza grow up, would not see the beautiful young woman that she would one day become, would not get to paint her hands with henna and toss noqul candy at her wedding. She would never play with Aziza's children. She would have liked that very much , to be old and play with Aziza's children. Mariam wished for so much in those final moments. Yet as she closed her eyes, it was not regret any longer but a sensation of abundant peace that washed over her. She thought of her entry into this world, the harami child of a lowly villager, an unintended thing, a pitiable, regrettable accident. A weed. And yet she was leaving the world as a woman who had loved and been loved back. She was leaving it as a friend, a companion, a guardian. A mother. A person of consequence at last. No. It was not so bad , Mariam thought, that she should die this way. Not so bad. This was a legitimate end to a life of illegitimate beginnings. ~ Khaled Hosseini,

726:Meri, this is Jake, please don’t hang up. I know you don’t want to talk to me. That’s fine, just listen, ’kay?” His voice, all deep and . . . Jake-like, stopped her. She pressed the phone closer to her ear. “I know I only have a minute before this thing cuts me off. Remember when I came to Summer Place that first time? I’d heard about Eva and heard they’d granted custody of the kids to you. I came home to fight you for them, I admit that.” Meridith pressed a fist to her stomach. “I know I should have told you who I was right then, but when you thought I was there for the work, I started thinking how perfect this was, how I could get to see the kids and maybe—okay, I was trying to find reasons why you weren’t the best guardian, but I didn’t know you then. Was just trying to do what was best for the kids and—I was wrong. Meridith? I’m sorry you were caught in the crossfire. I’m sorry I hurt you . . .” There was a long pause. Then a click. The recording followed. “If you’d like to save the message . . .” Meridith returned the phone to the cradle, staring at the extension as if Jake would materialize from it. Part of her wished he would. Part of her wanted to pick up the phone and replay his message—the treacherous, self-sabotaging part that let her feelings and whims whip her around like a leaf in the wind. He’d ~ Denise Hunter,

727:Let kings stack their treasure houses ceiling-high, and merchants burst their vaults with hoarded coin, and fools envy them. I have a treasure that outvalues theirs. A diamond as big as a man’s skull. Twelve rubies each as big as the skull of a cat. Seventeen emeralds each as big as the skull of a mole. And certain rods of crystal and bars of orichalcum. Let Overlords swagger jewel-bedecked and queens load themselves with gems, and fools adore them. I have a treasure that will outlast theirs. A treasure house have I builded for it in the far southern forest, where the two hills hump double, like sleeping camels, a day’s ride beyond the village of Soreev. “A great treasure house with a high tower, fit for a king’s dwelling—yet no king may dwell there.  Immediately below the keystone of the chief dome my treasure lies hid, eternal as the glittering stars. It will outlast me and my name, I, Urgaan of Angarngi. It is my hold on the future. Let fools seek it. They shall win it not. For although my treasure house be empty as air, no deadly creature in rocky lair, no sentinel outside anywhere, no pitfall, poison, trap, or snare, above and below the whole place bare, of demon or devil not a hair, no serpent lethal-fanged yet fair, no skull with mortal eye a-glare, yet have I left a guardian there. Let the wise read this riddle and forbear. ~ Fritz Leiber,

728:The problem is that for several hundred years now, it has simply been assumed that the guardian of that debt we owe for all of this, the legitimate representatives of that amorphous social totality that has allowed us to become individuals, must necessarily be the state. Almost all socialist or socialistic regimes end up appealing to some version of this argument. To take one notorious example, this was how the Soviet Union used to justify forbidding their citizens from emigrating to other countries. The line was always: The USSR created these people, the USSR raised and educated them, made them who they are. What right do they have to take the product of our investment and transfer it to another country, as if they didn’t owe us anything? Neither is this rhetoric restricted to socialist regimes. Nationalists appeal to exactly the same kind of arguments—especially in times of war. And all modern governments are nationalist to some degree. One might even say that what we really have here, in the idea of primordial debt, is the ultimate nationalist myth. Once we owed our lives to the gods that created us, paid interest in the form of animal sacrifice, and ultimately paid back the principal with our lives. Now we owe it to the Nation that formed us, pay interest in the form of taxes, and when it comes time to defend the nation against its enemies, offer to pay it with our lives. ~ David Graeber,

729:Reminded Beneath my window twilight made Familiar mysteries of shade. Faint voices from the darkening down Were calling vaguely to the town. Intent upon a low, far gleam That burned upon the world's extreme, I sat, with short reprieve from grief, And turned the volume, leaf by leaf, Wherein a hand, long dead, had wrought A million miracles of thought. My fingers carelessly unclung The lettered pages, and among Them wandered witless, nor divined The wealth in which, poor fools, they mined. The soul that should have led their quest Was dreaming in the level west, Where a tall tower, stark and still, Uplifted on a distant hill, Stood lone and passionless to claim Its guardian star's returning flame. I know not how my dream was broke, But suddenly my spirit woke Filled with a foolish fear to look Upon the hand that clove the book, Significantly pointing; next I bent attentive to the text, And read-and as I read grew oldThe mindless words: 'Poor Tom's a-cold!' Ah me! to what a subtle touch The brimming cup resigns its clutch Upon the wine. Dear God, is 't writ That hearts their overburden bear Of bitterness though thou permit The pranks of Chance, alurk in nooks, And striking coward blows from books, And dead hands reaching everywhere? 406 ~ Ambrose Bierce,

730:MY BETH. Sitting patient in the shadow Till the blessed light shall come, A serene and saintly presence Sanctifies our troubled home. Earthly joys and hopes and sorrows Break like ripples on the strand Of the deep and solemn river Where her willing feet now stand. O my sister, passing from me, Out of human care and strife, Leave me, as a gift, those virtues Which have beautified your life. Dear, bequeath me that great patience Which has power to sustain A cheerful, uncomplaining spirit In its prison-house of pain. Give me, for I need it sorely, Of that courage, wise and sweet, Which has made the path of duty Green beneath your willing feet. Give me that unselfish nature, That with charity divine Can pardon wrong for love's dear sake— Meek heart, forgive me mine! Thus our parting daily loseth Something of its bitter pain, And while learning this hard lesson, My great loss becomes my gain. For the touch of grief will render My wild nature more serene, Give to life new aspirations, A new trust in the unseen. Henceforth, safe across the river, I shall see for evermore A beloved, household spirit Waiting for me on the shore. Hope and faith, born of my sorrow, Guardian angels shall become, And the sister gone before me By their hands shall lead me home. ~ Louisa May Alcott,

731:tattered dress, or collided with her again. “Watch yerself!” scolded a worker angrily. She retreated from him, lest he take a swing at her. Even so, as soon as she was a good distance from him, her gaze found the zephyr again. It was one of her dreams to steal aboard a sky ship and be taken to one of the floating manors. Though none of them were located directly above the Fells, she’d heard people from the City speak about what it was like to live underneath the upper class’s hulking sky manors. They hovered over the City in an interconnected maze, leaving the area below in shadow come noonday. There was a risk that whatever magic upheld the manors might fail and those living below would be crushed, yet people still swarmed to live in the City, willing to take that risk in the hopes of a better life. Cettie had never set foot outside of the Fells, but she dreamed of leaving. If she proved herself capable and useful and a hard worker, she hoped to one day qualify for the lottery and earn a position at one of the floating manors. The slant of the sun on the street warned her that time was running out. Maybe Joses was already back at Miss Charlotte’s? Could they have missed each other? Cettie hated being away from the younger children for so long. No doubt some of the littlest ones were already crying for want of food, and if their guardian awoke from her drunken stupor, there would be beatings. ~ Jeff Wheeler,

732:You’re a Northumbrian,” he said, “and I don’t know how they did things up there, but this is Alfred’s Wessex. You can do anything in Wessex except piss all over his church, and that’s what you just did. You pissed, son, and now the church is going to piss all over you.” He grimaced as the rain beat harder on the tent. Then he frowned, staring at the puddle spreading just outside the entrance. He was silent a long time, before turning and giving me a strange look. “You think any of this is important?” I did, but I was so astonished by his question that had been asked in a soft, bitter voice, that I had nothing to say. “You think Ubba’s death makes any difference?” he asked, and again I thought I had misheard. “And even if Guthrum makes peace,” he went on, “you think we’ve won?” His heavy face was suddenly savage. “How long will Alfred be king? How long before the Danes rule here?” I still had nothing to say. Æthelwold, I saw, was listening intently. He longed to be king, but he had no following, and Wulfhere had plainly been appointed as his guardian to keep him from making trouble. But Wulfhere’s words suggested the trouble would come anyway. “Just do what Alfred wants,” the ealdorman advised me, “and afterward find a way to keep living. That’s all any of us can do. If Wessex falls we’ll all be looking for a way to stay alive, but in the meantime put on that damned robe and get it over with.” “Both ~ Bernard Cornwell,

733:To a Familiar Genius Flying By Reveal yourself, anonymous enchanter! What heaven hastens you to me? Why draw me to that promised land again That I gave up so long ago? Was it not you who in my youth Enchanted me with such sweet dreams, Did you not whisper, long ago, Dear hopes of a guests ethereal? Was it not you through whom all lived In golden days, in happy lands Of fragrant meadows, waters bright, Where days were merry ?neath clear skies? Was it not you who breathed into my vernal breast Some melancholy mysteries Tormenting it with keen desire Exciting it to anxious joy? Was it not you who bore my soul aloft Upon the inspiration of your sacred verse, Who flamed before me like a holy vision, Initiating me into life's beauty? In hours lost, hours of secret grief, Did you not always murmur to my heart, With happy comfort soothe it And nurture it with quiet hope? Did not my soul forever heed you In all the purest moments of my life When'ere it glimpsed fate's sacred essence With only God to witness it? What news bring you, O, my enchantress? Or will you once more call in dreams Awaken futile thoughts of old, Whisper of joy and then fall silent? O spirit, bide with me awhile; O, faithful friend, haste not away; Stay, please become my earthly life, O, Guardian angel of my soul. ~ Vasily Zhukovsky,

734:The only acceptable hobby, throughout all stages of life, is cookery. As a child: adorable baked items. Twenties: much appreciated spag bol and fry-ups. Thirties and forties: lovely stuff with butternut squash and chorizo from the Guardian food section. Fifties and sixties: beef wellington from the Sunday Telegraph magazine. Seventies and eighties: back to the adorable baked items. Perfect. The only teeny tiny downside of this hobby is that I HATE COOKING. Don't get me wrong; I absolutely adore the eating of the food. It's just the awful boring, frightening putting together of it that makes me want to shove my own fists in my mouth. It's a lovely idea: follow the recipe and you'll end up with something exactly like the pretty picture in the book, only even more delicious. But the reality's rather different. Within fifteen minutes of embarking on a dish I generally find myself in tears in the middle of what appears to be a bombsite, looking like a mentally unstable art teacher in a butter-splattered apron, wondering a) just how I am supposed to get hold of a thimble and a half of FairTrade hazelnut oil (why is there always the one impossible-to-find recipe ingredient? Sesame paste, anyone?) and b) just how I managed to get flour through two closed doors onto the living-room curtains, when I don't recall having used any flour and oh-this-is-terrible-let's-just-go-out-and-get-a-Wagamama's-and-to-hell-with-the-cost, dammit. ~ Miranda Hart,

735:Motorcycle or Trike Instruction Permit and Endorsement –These allow you to operate a motorcycle or a three-wheeled motorcycle-based vehicle on public roadways. For more information, see the Motorcycle Operator Manual or the Sidecar/Trike Operator Manual, available on our website or at any driver licensing office. Commercial Driver Instruction Permit (CDIP) and Commercial Driver License (CDL) –These allow you to operate a commercial vehicle on public roadways. For more information, see the Commercial Driver Guide available on our website or at any driver licensing office. Getting Your License You can get an instruction permit or a driver license at our driver licensing offices. We have more than 60 locations statewide. Some offices don’t offer testing, so before you come in, be sure the one you plan to visit offers the testing you need. Visit our website or check the Government section of the telephone book under “Licensing, Department of” for the office nearest you. To get an instruction permit, you must: • be at least 15-1/2 years old. • pass the knowledge test and the vision and medical screenings. • pay a $20 permit fee. If you are under 18, you must also bring your parent or guardian with you when you apply. He or she must show proof of identity and proof of relationship to you and must also sign a Parental Authorization Affidavit. When last names are different, we require more documents proving relationship. The permit is valid for one year and you can only renew it once3 ~ Anonymous,

736:She heard footsteps thumping from the crew quarters and Jacin appeared in the cargo bay, eyes wide. “What happened? Why is the ship screaming?” “Nothing. Everything’s fine,” Cinder stammered. “No, everything is not fine,” said Iko. “How can they be invited? I’ve never seen a bigger injustice in all my programmed life, and believe me, I have seen some big injustices.” Jacin raised an eyebrow at Cinder. “We just learned that my former guardian received an invitation to the wedding.” She opened the tab beside her stepmother’s name, thinking maybe it was a mistake. But of course not. Linh Adri had been awarded 80,000 univs and an official invitation to the royal wedding as an act of gratitude for her assistance in the ongoing manhunt for her adopted and estranged daughter, Linh Cinder. “Because she sold me out,” she said, sneering. “Figures.” “See? Injustice. Here we are, risking our lives to rescue Kai and this whole planet, and Adri and Pearl get to go to the royal wedding. I’m disgusted. I hope they spill soy sauce on their fancy dresses.” Jacin’s concern turned fast to annoyance. “Your ship has some messed-up priorities, you know that?” “Iko. My name is Iko. If you don’t stop calling me the ‘ship,’ I am going to make sure you never have hot water during your showers again, do you understand me?” “Yeah, hold that thought while I go disable the speaker system.” “What? You can’t mute me. Cinder! ~ Marissa Meyer,

737:Love And Truth Young Love sat in a rosy bower, Towards the close of a summer day; At the evening's dusky hour, Truth bent her blessed steps that way; Over her face Beaming a grace Never bestowed on child of clay. Truth looked on with an ardent joy, Wondering Love could grow so tired; Hovering o'er him she kissed the boy, When, with a sudden impulse fired, Exquisite pains Burning his veins, Wildly he woke, as one inspired. Eagerly Truth embraced the god, Filling his soul with a sense divine; Rightly he knew the paths she trod, Springing from heaven's royal line; Far had he strayed From his guardian maid, Perilling all for his rash design. Still as they went, the tricksy youth Wandered afar from the maiden fair; Many a plot he laid, in sooth, Wherein the maid could have no share Sowing his seeds, Bringing forth weeds, Seldom a rose, and many a tare. Save when the maiden was by his side, Love was erratic, and rarely true; When she smiled on the graceful bride, Over the old world rose the new, Into life's skies Blending her dyes, Fairer than those of the rainbow's hue. 77 Sunny-eyed maidens, whom Love decoys, Mark well the arts of the wayward youth! Sorrows he bringeth, disguised as joys, Rose-hued delights with cores of ruth; Learn to believe Love will deceive, Save when he comes with his guardian, Truth. ~ Charles Sangster,

738:A Poor Christian Looks At The Ghetto Bees build around red liver, Ants build around black bone. It has begun: the tearing, the trampling on silks, It has begun: the breaking of glass, wood, copper, nickel, silver, foam Of gypsum, iron sheets, violin strings, trumpets, leaves, balls, crystals. Poof! Phosphorescent fire from yellow walls Engulfs animal and human hair. Bees build around the honeycomb of lungs, Ants build around white bone. Torn is paper, rubber, linen, leather, flax, Fiber, fabrics, cellulose, snakeskin, wire. The roof and the wall collapse in flame and heat seizes the foundations. Now there is only the earth, sandy, trodden down, With one leafless tree. Slowly, boring a tunnel, a guardian mole makes his way, With a small red lamp fastened to his forehead. He touches buried bodies, counts them, pushes on, He distinguishes human ashes by their luminous vapor, The ashes of each man by a different part of the spectrum. Bees build around a red trace. Ants build around the place left by my body. I am afraid, so afraid of the guardian mole. He has swollen eyelids, like a Patriarch Who has sat much in the light of candles Reading the great book of the species. What will I tell him, I, a Jew of the New Testament, Waiting two thousand years for the second coming of Jesus? My broken body will deliver me to his sight And he will count me among the helpers of death: The uncircumcised. 10 ~ Czeslaw Milosz,

739:Angels are active and involved in our lives on a regular basis and in amazing ways. They “work” directly for God as messengers, protectors, rescuers, and interceders. There are many types of angels, though none have ever lived on earth the way our guides have (more on them later). They’re Spirit, not physical beings, so they don’t have bodies like we do. I’m told they can take on the appearance of animals or people. There’s an order, or ranking, to the population of angels that include archangels, guardian angels, cherubim, seraphim, basic angels, and others (that’s not the ranking, that’s just a list of angels). I know there are high-ranking angels, or archangels, who have various jobs and missions, and they are above other angels that inspire and intercede for us as well. Pat has regular experiences with Archangels Michael, Gabriel, and Raphael. Michael, for example, is a protector and adept at performing acts of justice and power. She calls on him for assistance when she has difficult clients or people with something very dark attached to them, like when she worked with a young woman who played with a Ouija board. Pat also tells clients who are fearful to call on Michael when they’re nervous or anxious about something. Gabriel is connected to kindness. Raphael is in charge of healing, so Pat calls on him for her clients since she’s a healer. Spirit tells me that angels are powerful and seriously busy. They offer protection, guidance, deliver messages, encourage us, strengthen us, and help to answer our prayers. ~ Theresa Caputo,

740:At the end of the forest the guardian angel pointed to the village and said: ‘There you will find your mother. She is sitting outside the house, thinking of you. Go now. From here on, you won’t be able to see me.’ The child went to the village, but it looked strange and unfamiliar to her. In among the houses she knew, there were others she had never seen before; the trees looked different, and there was no trace of damage the enemy had done. All was peaceful, the grain waved in the breeze, the meadows were green, the trees were laden with fruit. But she had no trouble recognizing her mother’s house, and when she came close, she saw an old, old woman with bowed head, sitting on the bench outside the door, enjoying the last rays of the evening sun that hung low over the forest. The old woman looked up, and when she saw the little girl she cried out in joyful amazement. ‘Ah, dear child. God has granted my last wish, to see you once again before I die.’ She kissed her and pressed her to her heart. And then the little girl heard that she had spent thirty years with Saint Joseph in the forest, though to her it had seemed like three days. All the fear and misery her mother had suffered during the great war had passed her by, and her whole life had been just one joyful moment. Her mother had thought wild beasts had torn her to pieces years ago, and yet deep in her heart she had hoped to catch at least a glimpse of her just as she was when she went away. And when she looked up, there stood the dear child, wearing the same little dress. ~ Maurice Sendak,

741:Unarmed Saint Peter sat at the jasper gate, When Stephen M. White arrived in state. 'Admit me.' 'With pleasure,' Peter said, Pleased to observe that the man was dead; 'That's what I'm here for. Kindly show Your ticket, my lord, and in you go.' White stared in blank surprise. Said he 'I _run_ this place-just turn that key.' 'Yes?' said the Saint; and Stephen heard With pain the inflection of that word. But, mastering his emotion, he Remarked: 'My friend, you're too d-- free; 'I'm Stephen M., by thunder, White!' And, 'Yes?' the guardian said, with quite The self-same irritating stress Distinguishing his former yes. And still demurely as a mouse He twirled the key to that Upper House. Then Stephen, seeing his bluster vain Admittance to those halls to gain, Said, neighborly: 'Pray tell me. Pete, Does any one contest my seat?' The Saint replied: 'Nay, nay, not so; But you voted always wrong below: 'Whate'er the question, clear and high You're voice rang: '_I_,' '_I_,' ever '_I_.'' 645 Now indignation fired the heart Of that insulted immortal part. 'Die, wretch!' he cried, with blanching lip, And made a motion to his hip, With purpose murderous and hearty, To draw the Democratic party! He felt his fingers vainly slide Upon his unappareled hide (The dead arise from their 'silent tents' But not their late habiliments) Then wailed-the briefest of his speeches: 'I've left it in my other breeches!' ~ Ambrose Bierce,

742:A Poet's Father Welcker, I'm told, can boast a father great And honored in the service of the State. Public Instruction all his mind employs He guides its methods and its wage enjoys. Prime Pedagogue, imperious and grand, He waves his ferule o'er a studious land Where humming youth, intent upon the page, Thirsting for knowledge with a noble rage, Drink dry the whole Pierian spring and ask To slake their fervor at his private flask. Arrested by the terror of his frown, The vaulting spit-ball drops untimely down; The fly impaled on the tormenting pin Stills in his awful glance its dizzy din; Beneath that stern regard the chewing-gum Which writhed and squeaked between the teeth is dumb; Obedient to his will the dunce-cap flies To perch upon the brows of the unwise; The supple switch forsakes the parent wood To settle where 'twill do the greatest good, Puissant still, as when of old it strove With Solomon for spitting on the stove Learned Professor, variously great, Guide, guardian, instructor of the State Quick to discern and zealous to correct The faults which mar the public intellect From where of Siskiyou the northern bound Is frozen eternal to the sunless ground To where in San Diego's torrid clime The swarthy Greaser swelters in his grime Beneath your stupid nose can you not see The dunce whom once you dandled on your knee? O mighty master of a thousand schools, Stop teaching wisdom, or stop breeding fools. ~ Ambrose Bierce,

743:Jengrai A little before it was dark We fell into the Subansiri And with a tinful of water from the Subansiri We washed the bow of our boat. We are superstitious Only, If our superstitions had been blind without a hole in their blindness! At night on an islet of the Subansiri We moored our boat. (Will the guardian spirit of the islet watch over us?) ... Overhead are the stars The music of the spheres plays in our buffalos' bells And this - is this the terror in the bells Of the buffalos scattering at the scent of that tiger? The smell of eddies bursting, the smell of the stars blossoming The smell of the eddies blossoming, the smell of the rupees bursting! ! ! Lying on the bow of the boat One can see the mud and the stars at the same time The tiger's roar, the buffalo bells, the song that mermaids sing All play together in discordant harmony. At midnight At the last frontier of peering Or, is it in the inner side of my pupils Two fires come and go... unceasingly Fire of the will-o'-the-wisp, sentry at the Death-god's door Otherwise, at the rising of the curtain That perhaps is the fire which will light my funeral pyre. 'Brother fire, be in this my hour merciful' 'Oh! What fire-burnt eyes.' 'If you think over it Lilymaai, in this life there is nothing' When it was morning we unmoored our boat And (To me it is seemed all on a sudden) Two Gangaa Chilanis began circling in the mist. [ Translated by ~ Ajit Barua ] ~ Ajit Barua,

744:The Great Pyramid of Giza served as a temporal anchor onto the Vernal Equinox day and hence it was given the name Khufu (aka, Chnoubos) which literally refers to the word 'beetle' for whatever symbolic reasons the ancient Egyptians found fit. Kheper, is however the direct reference which had been attached with the 'beetle' and yet has per se the literal linguistic meaning of 'tidings'. Therefore I cannot help but validly assert that the Vernal Equinox event was so important to celebrate for the ancient Egyptians -as obviously it was for many other cultures- for the fact that it brings good news along with it. It is important to also identify the Sphinx for what it had been called as Re-horakhty, which literally means 'The Watcher/Guardian of the Movement/Motion'. Although the Sphinx by its location refers to a Parallel Mark on the Giza Plateau, yet it serves exactly that task of administration (i.e., guardianship) -which it had been named after- that transfers the heavenly perpendicular cycle of authority (i.e., mechanics) that is acquired by the Great Pyramid (As I have demonstrated) spatially onto the local Solar System anchoring it thereby (As Graham Hancock and Robert Bauval have demonstrated). This adds up as another proof that the Sphinx had been inherited from an earlier civilization since the Sun itself cannot be looked at as 'Horakhty' after I have just revealed the meaning of this word; most evidence even points to the fact that Heliocentrism was not known in ancient Egypt and therefore ascribing movement to the Sun was a later on introduced heresy. ~ Ibrahim Ibrahim,

745:The Wish WELL then! I now do plainly see This busy world and I shall ne'er agree. The very honey of all earthly joy Does of all meats the soonest cloy; And they, methinks, deserve my pity Who for it can endure the stings, The crowd and buzz and murmurings, Of this great hive, the city. Ah, yet, ere I descend to the grave May I a small house and large garden have; And a few friends, and many books, both true, Both wise, and both delightful too! And since love ne'er will from me flee, A Mistress moderately fair, And good as guardian angels are, Only beloved and loving me. O fountains! when in you shall I Myself eased of unpeaceful thoughts espy? O fields! O woods! when, when shall I be made Thy happy tenant of your shade? Here 's the spring-head of Pleasure's flood: Here 's wealthy Nature's treasury, Where all the riches lie that she Has coin'd and stamp'd for good. Pride and ambition here Only in far-fetch'd metaphors appear; Here nought but winds can hurtful murmurs scatter, And nought but Echo flatter. The gods, when they descended, hither From heaven did always choose their way: And therefore we may boldly say That 'tis the way too thither. Hoe happy here should I And one dear She live, and embracing die! She who is all the world, and can exclude 81 In deserts solitude. I should have then this only fear: Lest men, when they my pleasures see, Should hither throng to live like me, And so make a city here. ~ Abraham Cowley,

746:Dear Child, Sometimes on your travel through hell, you meet people that think they are in heaven because of their cleverness and ability to get away with things. Travel past them because they don't understand who they have become and never will. These type of people feel justified in revenge and will never learn mercy or forgiveness because they live by comparison. They are the people that don't care about anyone, other than who is making them feel confident. They don’t understand that their deity is not rejoicing with them because of their actions, rather he is trying to free them from their insecurities, by softening their heart. They rather put out your light than find their own. They don't have the ability to see beyond the false sense of happiness they get from destroying others. You know what happiness is and it isn’t this. Don’t see their success as their deliverance. It is a mask of vindication which has no audience, other than their own kind. They have joined countless others that call themselves “survivors”. They believe that they are entitled to win because life didn’t go as planned for them. You are not like them. You were not meant to stay in hell and follow their belief system. You were bound for greatness. You were born to help them by leading. Rise up and be the light home. You were given the gift to see the truth. They will have an army of people that are like them and you are going to feel alone. However, your family in heaven stands beside you now. They are your strength and as countless as the stars. It is time to let go! Love, Your Guardian Angel ~ Shannon L Alder,

747:Michael grew silent, his gaze softening as he looked from me to Will, and a dim light of hope flickered in my heart. “You would mourn for him.” “Yes, I said. “I would mourn him forever with a broken heart. This human soul has given me so many blessings and curses. I’m the only one of our kind who has ever felt the most perfect happiness and the truest sorrow - because of this soul. My love for my Guardian is one of those blessings. It’s not a curse.” “You can,” I promised. “Please trust me. I need all the help I can get, and that includes yours. If you kill my Guardian, then I will never forgive you. I can’t be at war with you too. Please, please, Michael, my brother. Don’t kill him. … A tear caught on the edge of my lips. “Do you love me as your sister?” His mouth opened to reply, but nothing came out. “It’s okay,” I whispered. “You’re worried about me, because you love me. Don’t be afraid of feeling anything. our Father made us this way. He wouldn’t make a mistake.” “I…,” Michael said, and emotion spilled over his face. His brow furrowed with exhaustion and he seemed overwhelmed by what he felt. He closed his eyes and took a deep breath before opening them again. “You are my sister, Gabriel.” “Then don’t do this.” I begged him. He was quiet again for several agonising moments, returning to his emotionless state. “Keep him. I have faith in you, Sister. Will and I breathed sighs of relief, but it was a few seconds before Michael withdrew his sword. His expression remained unchanging as he lifted Will’s death warrant. ~ Courtney Allison Moulton,

748:The Guardian’s Paul Vallely has given a decent account of how Cardinal George Pell, appointed by Francis, began a review of the bank’s operations. Pell had successfully overhauled the Church’s finances in Sydney and Melbourne. The Australian son of a former heavyweight boxer, Pell is a political and doctrinal conservative who speaks aggressively and does not believe in man-made climate change. He is a cult hero among conservative Catholics. You can imagine what the Lavender Mafia think of him. Vallely notes grudgingly that, “For all his conservatism, Pell had for years been a vocal critic of the Roman Catholic bureaucracy and its corruption.” Pell moved quickly, and made enemies. A straight dealer to the point of unbearable bluntness, especially in the delicately perfumed and gold-embroidered world of the Holy See, Pell probably didn’t anticipate getting tripped up by dirty tactics: in this case, stories leaked to the media about—you guessed it—clerical abuse. The press reports were coincidentally timed, arriving just as Pell’s reforms of the bank began to take hold. It was alleged that Pell was soft on child abuse, thanks to offhand comments he had made years before, in typically ribald and direct Australian fashion. It was suggested that he may himself have some questions to answer about covering up abuse. Then the allegations widened, to direct accusations of historic sex abuse, at which point Pell had to put his work at the bank on hold. Now Pell is back in Australia, trying to clear his name, and his reforms are stalling, just as the intriguers intended. This is how efforts to clean up the Roman Catholic Church usually end. ~ Milo Yiannopoulos,

749:The Ancient Egyptians postulated seven souls.” Top soul (Vicarious), and the first to leave at the moment of death, is Ren the Secret name. This corresponds to my Director. He directs the film of your life from conception to death. The Secret Name is the title of your film. When you die, that's where Ren came in. Second soul (Jambi), and second one off the sinking ship, is Sekem: Energy, Power. LIGHT. The Director gives the orders, Sekem presses the right buttons. Number three (Wings/Days) is Khu, the Guardian Angel. He, she or it is third man out...depicted as flying away across a full moon, a bird with luminous wings and head of light. The sort of thing you might see on a screen in an Indian restaurant in Panama. The Khu is responsible for the subject and can be injured in his defense - but not permanently, since the first three souls are eternal. They go back to Heaven for another vessel. The four remaining souls must take their chances with the subject in the land of the dead. Number four (The Pot) is Ba, the Heart, often treacherous. This is a hawk's body with your face on it, shrunk down to the size of a fist. Many a hero has been brought down, like Samson, by a perfidious Ba. Number five (L.C., Lost Keys, Rosetta Stoned) is Ka, the double, most closely associated with the subject. The Ka, which usually reaches adolescence at the time of bodily death, is the only reliable guide through the Land of the Dead to the Western Lands. Number six (Instension) is Khaibit, the Shadow, Memory, your whole past conditioning from this and other lives. Number seven (Right in Two) is Sekhu, the Remains ~ William S Burroughs,

750:How Clear She Shines How clear she shines! How quietly I lie beneath her guardian light; While heaven and earth are whispering me, " Tomorrow, wake, but, dream to-night." Yes, Fancy, come, my Fairy love! These throbbing temples softly kiss; And bend my lonely couch above And bring me rest, and bring me bliss. The world is going; dark world, adieu! Grim world, conceal thee till the day; The heart, thou canst not all subdue, Must still resist, if thou delay! Thy love I will not, will not share; Thy hatred only wakes a smile; Thy griefs may wound - thy wrongs may tear, But, oh, thy lies shall ne'er beguile! While gazing on the stars that glow Above me, in that stormless sea, I long to hope that all the woe Creation knows, is held in thee! And, this shall be my dream to-night; I'll think the heaven of glorious spheres Is rolling on its course of light In endless bliss, through endless years; I'll think, there's not one world above, Far as these straining eyes can see, Where Wisdom ever laughed at Love, Or Virtue crouched to Infamy; Where, writhing 'neath the strokes of Fate, The mangled wretch was forced to smile; To match his patience 'gainst her hate, His heart rebellious all the while. Where Pleasure still will lead to wrong, And helpless Reason warn in vain; And Truth is weak, and Treachery strong; 39 And And And And And Joy the surest path to Pain; Peace, the lethargy of Grief; Hope, a phantom of the soul; Life, a labour, void and brief; Death, the despot of the whole! ~ Emily Jane Brontë,

751:taken and I might not be here now. We might still be living in the orphanage, or maybe I would have taken a job and started earning enough to become his official guardian, and for us to move into our own home. Tim might have begun an apprenticeship. Why has this man come to see me? He had entered armed with a crossbow and a shoulder bag. I eyed the bow's loaded tip. Perhaps I had been right about the wardens not wanting to wait until the main labs opened. Perhaps he was going to finish me off sooner: now. I had no idea why a man of such high status would do it personally though, and he didn't move any closer. He strode to a chair near the clock and sat down, his weapon resting casually on his knee. Then he let out a subdued cough, clearing his throat. "I have some news for you, Ms. Bates," he said, his voice nasally and off-puttingly high-pitched. “Ms. Bradbury passed away in the hospital about an hour ago.” My heart stilled. “I also have a proposal for you,” he went on. “A proposal that I suspect you will not refuse." He paused for a moment, scrutinizing me. "A situation has led Her Majesty and the Court to find use for a person with… your type of background. We have been watching the detention facilities, waiting for the right young woman to whom we may offer this opportunity." “Opportunity?" I managed. "You took defense lessons with Ms. Dale up until the age of fourteen, did you not?" he asked, as though I hadn't spoken. I nodded. "The opportunity involves embarking on a mission which, if successfully completed, would suspend your sentence. It would allow you another chance to redeem yourself and reintegrate into society. Your previous crimes would be erased from your record. Forgotten about. ~ Bella Forrest,

752:For certainly your desire for peace, and prosperity, and plenty is not prompted by any purpose of using these blessings honestly, that is to say, with moderation, sobriety, temperance, and piety; for your purpose rather is to run riot in an endless variety of sottish pleasures, and thus to generate from your prosperity a moral pestilence which will prove a thousand-fold more disastrous than the fiercest enemies. It was such a calamity as this that Scipio, your chief pontiff, your best man in the judgment of the whole senate, feared when he refused to agree to the destruction of Carthage, Rome's rival; and opposed Cato, who advised its destruction. He feared security, that enemy of weak minds, and he perceived that a wholesome fear would be a fit guardian for the citizens. And he was not mistaken: the event proved how wisely he had spoken. For when Carthage was destroyed, and the Roman republic delivered from its great cause of anxiety, a crowd of disastrous evils forthwith resulted from the prosperous condition of things. First concord was weakened, and destroyed by fierce and bloody seditions; then followed, by a concatenation of baleful causes, civil wars, which brought in their train such massacres, such bloodshed, such lawless and cruel proscription and plunder, that those Romans who, in the days of their virtue, had expected injury only at the hands of their enemies, now that their virtue was lost, suffered greater cruelties at the hands of their fellow-citizens. The lust of rule, which with other vices existed among the Romans in more unmitigated intensity than among any other people, after it had taken possession of the more powerful few, subdued under its yoke the rest, worn and wearied. ~ Saint Augustine of Hippo,

753:It was through Leonard Montefiore, a member of the Central British Fund set up to help German Jews after 1933, that Churchill received the reply to a query he had made of the Baroness. On 9 December 1935, Montefiore wrote to Churchill: ‘I had a message from the Baroness von Goldschmidt Rothschild that you would like to see a translation of the recent Nuremberg laws affecting the Jews in Germany. I therefore enclose a translation of the laws which appeared in the Manchester Guardian together with a commentary and also one from The Times. I also enclose a translation of the administrative regulations. I also venture to send a small pamphlet of my own, which attempts to give a description of the situation as it was just before the laws were passed.’17 The Manchester Guardian cutting, dated 16 September 1935, set out the text of the Nuremberg Laws, which forbade, among other things, ‘Marriage between Jews and citizens of the nation of German or kindred blood.’ The newspaper noted that ‘Another section of this law forbids Jews to employ female citizens of German or kindred blood in their households. Jews are also forbidden to hoist the Reich or national flag or to display the Reich colours. On the other hand they are permitted to display the Jewish colours. The execution of this right is under State protection.’ The Manchester Guardian noted that ‘The principal burden of the Law was to deprive German Jews (many of whose ancestors had come to Germany more than a thousand years before, and many of whom had fought in the German Army in the First World War) of German citizenship.’18 Churchill absorbed these harsh facts, and recognised yet more clearly how central and how implacable were Nazi anti-Jewish policies, both on paper and in practice. ~ Martin Gilbert,

754:Beatrice She came into the April air, And passed across the silvery lawn; Blithe was her voice, her brow was bare, And rippled from her radiant hair The glow and glory of the dawn. Her footfall scared nor doe nor fawn, No timid songster ceased to sing; But, wheresoe'er she strayed or stood, Her maiden coming seemed to bring A wider wonder to the wood, And more of magic to the Spring. When June is throned, and round her blows The rambling briar and lily tall, I saw her watch the buds unclose, Herself, herself the loveliest rose, And stateliest lily of them all. The blackbirds' fluting, cuckoo's call, She scarcely heard, for trembled near, And thrilled her wheresoe'er she strayed, That note more deep, that voice more dear, That lures to love the listening maid, When half is fondness, half is fear. Among the rows of ripened sheaves, And orchard harvests golden-red, The tapestry that Autumn weaves From fallen fruit and fading leaves, Pensive she paced with matron tread. Low was her voice, but all she said Seemed strangely true, and deeply wise; And mute her offspring gathered round, To gaze into her tranquil eyes, And listen to the sacred sound Of mellow words and meek replies. Now by the wintry hearth she sits, Grey guardian of the household fire, Foretells the Future, as she knits, 191 Then back her loving memory flits To bygone days and dead desire. Anon her fingers seem to tire, And weary sense to droop its wing; But, though her gaze hath feebler grown, Nor knows she what the children sing, She sees the Lamb before the Throne, And hears the Angels canticling. ~ Alfred Austin,

755:This, then, is the appropriate region of human liberty. It comprises, first, the inward domain of consciousness; demanding liberty of conscience, in the most comprehensive sense; liberty of thought and feeling; absolute freedom of opinion and sentiment on all subjects, practical or speculative, scientific, moral, or theological. The liberty of expressing and publishing opinions may seem to fall under a different principle, since it belongs to that part of the conduct of an individual which concerns other people; but, being almost of as much importance as the liberty of thought itself, and resting in great part on the same reasons, is practically inseparable from it. Secondly, the principle requires liberty of tastes and pursuits; of framing the plan of our life to suit our own character; of doing as we like, subject to such consequences as may follow: without impediment from our fellow-creatures, so long as what we do does not harm them, even though they should think our conduct foolish, perverse, or wrong. Thirdly, from this liberty of each individual, follows the liberty, within the same limits, of combination among individuals; freedom to unite, for any purpose not involving harm to others: the persons combining being supposed to be of full age, and not forced or deceived. No society in which these liberties are not, on the whole, respected, is free, whatever may be its form of government; and none is completely free in which they do not exist absolute and unqualified. The only freedom which deserves the name, is that of pursuing our own good in our own way, so long as we do not attempt to deprive others of theirs, or impede their efforts to obtain it. Each is the proper guardian of his own health, whether bodily, or mental and spiritual. Mankind are greater gainers by suffering each other to live as seems good to themselves, than by compelling each to live as seems good to the rest. ~ John Stuart Mill,

756:This, then, is the appropriate region of human liberty. It comprises, first, the inward domain of consciousness; demanding liberty of conscience, in the most comprehensive sense; liberty of thought and feeling; absolute freedom of opinion and sentiment on all subjects, practical or speculative, scientific, moral, or theological. The liberty of expressing and publishing opinions may seem to fall under a different principle, since it belongs to that part of the conduct of an individual which concerns other people; but, being almost of as much importance as the liberty of thought itself, and resting in great part on the same reasons, is practically inseparable from it. Secondly, the principle requires liberty of tastes and pursuits; of framing the plan of our life to suit our own character; of doing as we like, subject to such consequences as may follow: without impediment from our fellow-creatures, so long as what we do does not harm them, even though they should think our conduct foolish, perverse, or wrong. Thirdly, from this liberty of each individual, follows the liberty, within the same limits, of combination among individuals; freedom to unite, for any purpose not involving harm to others: the persons combining being supposed to be of full age, and not forced or deceived. No society in which these liberties are not, on the whole, respected, is free, whatever may be its form of government; and none is completely free in which they do not exist absolute and unqualified. The only freedom which deserves the name, is that of pursuing our own good in our own way, so long as we do not attempt to deprive others of theirs, or impede their efforts to obtain it. Each is the proper guardian of his own health, whether bodily, or mental and spiritual. Mankind are greater gainers by suffering each other to live as seems good to themselves, than by compelling each to live as seems good to the rest. ~ John Stuart Mill,

757:And even in the open air the stench of whiskey was appalling. To this fiendish poison, I am certain, the greater part of the squalor I saw is due. Many of these vermin were obviously not foreigners—I counted at least five American countenances in which a certain vanished decency half showed through the red whiskey bloating. Then I reflected upon the power of wine, and marveled how self-respecting persons can imbibe such stuff, or permit it to be served upon their tables. It is the deadliest enemy with which humanity is faced. Not all the European wars could produce a tenth of the havock occasioned among men by the wretched fluid which responsible governments allow to be sold openly. Looking upon that mob of sodden brutes, my mind’s eye pictured a scene of different kind; a table bedecked with spotless linen and glistening silver, surrounded by gentlemen immaculate in evening attire—and in the reddening faces of those gentlemen I could trace the same lines which appeared in full development of the beasts of the crowd. Truly, the effects of liquor are universal, and the shamelessness of man unbounded. How can reform be wrought in the crowd, when supposedly respectable boards groan beneath the goblets of rare old vintages? Is mankind asleep, that its enemy is thus entertained as a bosom friend? But a week or two ago, at a parade held in honour of the returning Rhode Island National Guard, the Chief Executive of this State, Mr. Robert Livingston Beeckman, prominent in New York, Newport, and Providence society, appeared in such an intoxicated condition that he could scarce guide his mount, or retain his seat in the saddle, and he the guardian of the liberties and interests of that Colony carved by the faith, hope, and labour of Roger Williams from the wilderness of savage New-England! I am perhaps an extremist on the subject of prohibition, but I can see no justification whatsoever for the tolerance of such a degrading demon as drink. ~ H P Lovecraft,

758:Uncle Damian crossed his arms and gave me a stern, unyielding, wholly unsympathetic look. For some odd reason, it made me feel immensely better. “Buck up, woman! You just took a hard left to the gut, but I trained you better than this.” “I’m pregnant,” I said, sniffling as I wiped up the last of my messy tears. “I’m allowed to be emotional.” “You’re not allowed to be an idiot, and that’s the path you’re heading down if you don’t stop right now. I trained you to be a smart, savvy woman who could handle herself in any situation. Now let’s see the last of this pitiful creature, and more of the Aisling I know you can be.” He was right. I straightened my shoulders, lifting my chin as I sniffled my last sniffle. Drake wasn’t excluding me because he wanted to—he’d always been proud of me as his mate, demanding I be at his side for everything. I was just giving in to my hormones, and that wasn’t going to help anyone. If I wanted things to change, I’d have to see to it myself. “You’re absolutely right. Dammit, I am a Guardian. I am a wyvern’s mate—we won’t go into whose right now because that’s all screwed up—but I am still a wyvern’s mate, and that’s important.” Righteous indignation filled me, but it was a cleansing, energizing emotion. “That’s better,” Uncle Damian nodded as I stormed over to the window and flung back the curtain. “And I am a demon lord, one of the seven princes of Abaddon!” I yelled, spinning around to face him, shaking my fist to the ceiling. “As god is my witness, I’ll never go hungry again!” “Eh…” Uncle Damian pursed his lips. “Sorry. Got carried away with the moment. Jim, Traci! I summon thee!” Both demons appeared before me just as Rene cracked open the door and peered in. “Is everything all right? We heard yelling.” “Come in and join the fun,” I said as he slowly came into the room, Nora on his heels. “Everything’s crap right now, but it’s about to get a whole lot better ~ Katie MacAlister,

759:In the center of the room Sarra the demon hung upside down by one leg, its arms bound behind its back, its suit scuffed-looking. Beneath it, crawling around an intricately scribed circle, a woman with short, curly red hair drew binding symbols with a gold stick. She looked up as I fanned away the smoke that was billowing up from the crack in the tile. "You're a Summoner. Hullo. I'm Noelle. Did you know that you have mismatched eyes?" I walked around the demon. It glared at me. "Yes, I know. Why do you have Sarra strung up by one leg?" She drew another symbol. It flared bright green as soon as the stick lifted from the circle. "It was getting a bit stroppy with me. The Hanged Man always teaches them a few manners. It's retaliating with the smoke. Are those spirits I saw yours, then?" "Yes, they are. There are four others as well. I hate to be a bother, but I'm in a bit of a hurry, what with Christian being held by this one's master and all, so if you could possibly just give me the abbreviated version of what's going on here, I'll be on my way to rescue him." She leaned back on her heels and sucked the tip of her gold stick. "Asmodeus, eh?" The demon snarled. A chunk of ceiling fell behind me. We both ignored it. It just never does to give a demon the satisfaction of knowing it's startled you. "It's a nasty bag of tricks, but I heard through the demonic grapevine that it was weakened and searching for a suitable sacrifice to regain its power," she added. "Well, it can't have Christian; he's mine. Back to the demon, if you don't mind…" She looked up at Sarra, still sucking the stick. "It's a pretty specimen, isn't it? I like the hair gel. Nice touch. The mustache is a bit much, though, don't you think? Makes it look so smarmy." "Um…" "I'm destroying it, so I suppose it really doesn't matter." I blinked and avoided two wine bottles as they flew out of a rack when the demon hissed at the Guardian. ~ Katie MacAlister,

760:Where should we be if every one had his rights? Fancy every one's having a hand in the government? Can you imagine a city ruled by its citizens? Why, the citizens are the team, and the team cannot be driver. To put to the vote is to throw to the winds. Would you have states driven like clouds? Disorder cannot build up order. With chaos for an architect, the edifice would be a Babel. And, besides, what tyranny is this pretended liberty! As for me, I wish to enjoy myself; not to govern. It is a bore to have to vote; I want to dance. A prince is a providence, and takes care of us all. Truly the king is generous to take so much trouble for our sakes. Besides, he is to the manner born. He knows what it is. It's his business. Peace, War, Legislation, Finance--what have the people to do with such things? Of course the people have to pay; of course the people have to serve; but that should suffice them. They have a place in policy; from them come two essential things, the army and the budget. To be liable to contribute, and to be liable to serve; is not that enough? What more should they want? They are the military and the financial arm. A magnificent rôle. The king reigns for them, and they must reward him accordingly. Taxation and the civil list are the salaries paid by the peoples and earned by the prince. The people give their blood and their money, in return for which they are led. To wish to lead themselves! what an absurd idea! They require a guide; being ignorant, they are blind. Has not the blind man his dog? Only the people have a lion, the king, who consents to act the dog. How kind of him! But why are the people ignorant? because it is good for them. Ignorance is the guardian of Virtue. Where there is no perspective there is no ambition. The ignorant man is in useful darkness, which, suppressing sight, suppresses covetousness: whence innocence. He who reads, thinks; who thinks, reasons. But not to reason is duty; and happiness as well. These truths are incontestable; society is based on them. ~ Victor Hugo,

761:For ages you have come and gone courting this delusion. For ages you have run from the pain and forfeited the ecstasy. So come, return to the root of the root of your own soul. Although you appear in earthly form Your essence is pure Consciousness. You are the fearless guardian of Divine Light. So come, return to the root of the root of your own soul. When you lose all sense of self the bonds of a thousand chains will vanish. Lose yourself completely, Return to the root of the root of your own soul. You descended from Adam, by the pure Word of God, but you turned your sight to the empty show of this world. Alas, how can you be satisfied with so little? So come, return to the root of the root of your own soul. Why are you so enchanted by this world when a mine of gold lies within you? Open your eyes and come --- Return to the root of the root of your own soul. You were born from the rays of God's Majesty when the stars were in their perfect place. How long will you suffer from the blows of a nonexistent hand? So come, return to the root of the root of your own soul. You are a ruby encased in granite. How long will you decieve Us with this outer show? O friend, We can see the truth in your eyes! So come, return to the root of the root of your own soul. After one moment with that glorious Friend you became loving, radiant, and ecstatic. Your eyes were sweet and full of fire. Come, return to the root of the root of your own soul. Shams-e Tabriz, the King of the Tavern has handed you an eternal cup, And God in all His glory is pouring the wine. So come! Drink! Return to the root of the root of your own soul. Soul of all souls, life of all life - you are That. Seen and unseen, moving and unmoving - you are That. The road that leads to the City is endless; Go without head and feet and you'll already be there. What else could you be? - you are That. ~ Rumi,

762:Though there had been moments of beauty in it, Mariam knew that life for the most part had been unkind to her. But as she walked the final twenty paces, she could not help but wish for more of it. She wished she could see Laila again, wished to hear the clamour of her laugh, to sit with her once more for a pot of chai and left over halwa under a starlit sky. She mourned that she would never see Aziza grow up, would not see the beautiful young woman that she would one day become, would not get to paint her hands with henna and toss noqul candy at her wedding. She would never play with Aziza's children. She would have liked that very much, to be old and play with Aziza's children. Near the goalpost, the man behind her asked her to stop. Mariam did. Through the crisscrossing grid of the burqa, she saw his shadow arms lift his shadow Kalashnikov. Mariam wished for so much in those final moments. Yet as she closed her eyes, it was not regret any longer but a sensation of abundant peace that washed over her. She thought of her entry into this world, the harami child of a lowly villager, an unintended thing, a pitiable, regrettable accident. A weed. And yet she was leaving the world as a woman who had loved and been loved back. She was leaving it as a friend, a companion, a guardian. A mother. A person of consequence at last. No. It was not so bad, Mariam thought, that she should die this way. Not so bad. This was a legitimate end to a life of illegitimate beginnings. Mariam's final thoughts were a few words from the Koran, which she muttered under her breath. He has created the heavens and the earth with the truth; He makes the night cover the day and makes the day overtake the night, and He has made the sun and the moon subservient; each one runs on to an assigned term; now surely He is the Mighty, the Great Forgiver. "Kneel," the Talib said O my Lord! Forgive and have mercy, for you are the best of the merciful ones. "Kneel here, hamshira and look down." One last time, Mariam did as she was told. ~ Khaled Hosseini,

763:216 Bring wine, for I am suffering crop sickness from the vintage; God has seized me, and I am thus held fast. By loves soul, bring me a cup of wine that is the envy of the sun, for I care aught but love. Bring that which if I were to call it soul would be a shame, for the reason that I am pained in the head because of the soul. Bring that whose name is not contained in this mouth, through which the fissures of my speech split asunder. Bring that which, when it is not present, I am stupid and ig- norant, but when I am with it, I am the king of the subtle and crafty ones. Bring that which, the moment it is void of my head, I become black and dark, you might say I am of the infidels. Bring that which delivers out of this bring and do not bring; bring quickly, and repel me not, saying, Whence shall I bring it? Bring, and deliver the roof of the heavens through the long night from my abundant smoke and lamentations. Bring that which after my death, even out of my dust, will restore me to speech and thanksgiving even as Najjar. Bring me wine, for I am guardian of wine like a goblet, for whatever has gone into my stomach I deliver back completely. Najjar said, After my death would that my people might be open-eyed to the ecstasy within me. They would not regard my bones and blood; in spirit I ama mighty king, even though in body I am vile. What a ladder I, the Carpenter, have chiseled! My going has reached the roof of the seventh heaven. I journeyed like the Messiah, my ass remained below; I do no grieve for my ass, nor am I asslike of ears. Do not like Eblis see in Adam only water and clay; see that behind the clay are my hundred thousand rose bowers. Shams-e Tabrizi rose up from this flesh saying, I am the sun. Bring up my head from this mire. Err not, when I enter the mire once more, for I am at rest, and am ashamed of this veil. Every morning I will rise up, despite the blind; for the sake of the blind I will not cease to rise and set. ~ Jalaluddin Rumi, Bring Wine ,

764:Mary The angel of self-discipline, her guardian Since she first knew and had to go away From home that spring to have her child with strangers, Sustained her, till the vanished boy next door And her ordeal seemed fiction, and the true Her mother's firm insistence she was the mother And the neighbors' acquiescence. So she taught school, Walking a mile each way to ride the street car— First books of the Aeneid known by heart, French, and the French Club Wednesday afternoon; Then summer replacement typist in an office, Her sister's family moving in with them, Depression years and she the only earner. Saturday, football game and opera broadcasts, Sunday, staying at home to wash her hair, The Business Women's Circle Monday night, And, for a treat, birthdays and holidays, Nelson Eddy and Jeanette McDonald. The young blond sister long since gone to college, Nephew and nieces gone, her mother dead, Instead of Caesar, having to teach First Aid, The students rowdy, she retired. The rent For the empty rooms she gave to Thornwell Orphanage, Unwed Mothers, Temperance, and Foster Parents And never bought the car she meant to buy; Too blind at last to do much more than sit All day in the antique glider on the porch Listening to cars pass up and down the street. Each summer, on the grass behind the house— Cape jasmine, with its scent of August nights Humid and warm, the soft magnolia bloom Marked lightly by a slow brown stain—she spread, For airing, the same small intense collection, Concert programs, worn trophies, years of yearbooks, Letters from schoolgirl chums, bracelets of hair And the same picture: black hair in a bun, Puzzled eyes in an oval face as young Or old as innocence, skirt to the ground, And, seated on the high school steps, the class, 22 The ones to whom she would have said, "Seigneur, Donnez-nous la force de supporter La peine," as an example easy to remember, Formal imperative, object first person plural. ~ Edgar Bowers,

765:What were you looking for over here?” Jim asked again. “I wonder if you can exorcise hands…hmm? Oh, where on the wall was that place I sent you through before. Do you remember?” Jim shook its head. “Why are you looking for that particular spot? It have fond memories for you or something?” “Hardly. You told me that it was easier to tear the fabric of existence in a spot where it had previously been rent. And I know I sent you through it from this room, but I don’t remember where, exactly.” I glanced at the clock on the mantel, leaping to my feet when I saw the time. “Oh my god. Oh my god! Tell me that clock isn’t right!” “That clock isn’t right.” Relief made me sag a bit as I dug through my purse looking for my cell phone. “Thank god. I was worried there for a minute that I’d missed the wedding.” “You have,” Jim said complacently, snuffling around behind the fainting couch. “What? You just told me the clock was wrong!” “Yuh-uh. And who ordered me to tell her that?” “Gah!” I screamed, punching a speed-dial number into the phone. “Talk about your day from hell…Jim, look around and find the weak spot. I’m not going to let something like a deranged Guardian ruin my day.” “Sooo many things I could say to that,” Jim said, shaking its head. “I’ll confine myself to pointing out that even if I found the spot, it wouldn’t do you any good.” “It wouldn’t? Why not?” Inside my head, a dark, sinuous voice whistled a peppy little tune. I ground my teeth. “Don’t tell me—I’d have to use the dark power in order to push us through.” “Yup.” Smirk. “Bloody he—Drake!” “Aisling?” I held the phone away from my ear at the sound of Drake’s roar. “Hi, sweetie. Um. I guess we’re even on the whole jilting-at-the-altar thing, huh?” “Where are you? Where have you been? Why have you not answered my calls?” Drake growled. “Rene and your uncle said you just disappeared on the street. Have you been harmed?” “I’m fine. Jim’s here with me. I’m in…er…oh, hell.” “Abaddon,” Jim corrected. ~ Katie MacAlister,

766:The world is supposed to make sense. We want and need the things that happen to us and to those around us to adhere to laws of order and justice and reason. We want to believe that if we live wisely and follow the rules, things will work out, more or less, for us and for those we love. Psychologists refer to this as the Just World Hypothesis, a theory first developed by the social psychologist Melvin Lerner. Lerner postulated that people have a powerful intuition that individuals get what they deserve. This intuition influences how we judge those who suffer. When a person is harmed, we instinctually look for a reason or a justification. Unfortunately, this instinct leads to victim-blaming. As Oliver Burkeman writes in The Guardian, “Faced with evidence of injustice, we’ll certainly try to alleviate it if we can—but, if we feel powerless to make things right, we’ll do the next best thing, psychologically speaking: we’ll convince ourselves that the world isn’t so unjust after all.” Burkeman cites as evidence a 2009 study finding that Holocaust memorials can increase anti-Semitism: “Confronted with an atrocity they otherwise can’t explain, people become slightly more likely, on average, to believe that the victims must have brought it on themselves.” So what happens when the victim is a child, a little boy walking to school, a little girl riding her bike, a baby in a car, victims impossible to blame? Whom can we hold accountable when a child is killed or injured or abused or forgotten? How can one take in this information, the horror of it, and keep on believing the world is just? In his history of childhood in America, the historian Steven Mintz defines a “moral panic” as the term used by sociologists to describe “the highly exaggerated and misplaced public fears that periodically arise within a society.” Mintz suggests that “eras of ethical conflict and confusion are especially prone to outbreaks of moral panic as particular incidents crystallize generalized anxieties and provoke moral crusades.” The late 1970s through the early 1990s was a period in American history rife with sources of ethical conflict and confusion. ~ Kim Brooks,

767:See in the babe two loveliest flowers unitedyet in truth, While in the bud they seem the samethe virgin and the youth! But loosened is the gentle bond, no longer side by side From holy shame the fiery strength will soon itself divide. Permit the youth to sport, and still the wild desire to chase, For, but when sated, weary strength returns to seek the grace. Yet in the bud, the double flowers the future strife begin, How precious allyet naught can still the longing heart within. In ripening charms the virgin bloom to woman shape hath grown, But round the ripening charms the pride hath clasped its guardian zone; Shy, as before the hunter's horn the doe all trembling moves, She flies from man as from a foe, and hates before she loves! From lowering brows this struggling world the fearless youth observes, And hardened for the strife betimes, he strains the willing nerves; Far to the armed throng and to the race prepared to start, Inviting glory calls him forth, and grasps the troubled heart: Protect thy work, O Nature now! one from the other flies, Till thou unitest each at last that for the other sighs. There art thou, mighty one! where'er the discord darkest frown, Thou call'st the meek harmonious peace, the god-like soother down. The noisy chase is lulled asleep, day's clamor dies afar, And through the sweet and veiled air in beauty comes the star. Soft-sighing through the crisped reeds, the brooklet glides along, And every wood the nightingale melodious fills with song. O virgin! now what instinct heaves thy bosom with the sigh? O youth! and wherefore steals the tear into thy dreaming eye? Alas! they seek in vain within the charm around bestowed, The tender fruit is ripened now, and bows to earth its load. And restless goes the youth to feed his heart upon its fire, All, where the gentle breath to cool the flame of young desire! And now they meetthe holy love that leads them lights their eyes, And still behind the winged god the winged victory flies. O heavenly love!'tis thy sweet task the human flowers to bind, For ay apart, and yet by thee forever intertwined! ~ Friedrich Schiller, The Sexes ,

768:Apostrophe TO AN OLD TREE. WHERE thy broad branches brave the bitter North, Like rugged, indigent, unheeded, worth, Lo! Vegetation's guardian hands emboss Each giant limb with fronds of studded moss, That clothes the bark in many a fringed fold Begemm'd with scarlet shields, and cups of gold, Which, to the wildest winds their webs oppose, And mock the arrowy sleet, or weltering snows. --But to the warmer West the woodbine fair With tassels that perfumed the summer air, The mantling clematis, whose feathery bowers Waved in festoons with nightshade's purple flowers, The silver weed, whose corded fillets wove Round thy pale rind, even as deceitful love Of mercenary beauty would engage The dotard fondness of decrepit age; All these, that during summer's halcyon days With their green canopies conceal'd thy sprays, Are gone for ever; or disfigured, trail Their sallow relicts in the autumnal gale; Or o'er thy roots, in faded fragments toss'd, But tell of happier hours, and sweetness lost! --Thus in Fate's trying hour, when furious storms Strip social life of Pleasure's fragile forms, And awful Justice , as his rightful prey Tears Luxury's silk, and jewel'd robe, away, While reads Adversity her lesson stern, And Fortune's minions tremble as they learn; The crowds around her gilded car that hung, Bent the lithe knee, and troul'd the honey'd tongue, Desponding fall, or fly in pale despair; And Scorn alone remembers that they were. Not so Integrity ; unchanged he lives In the rude armour conscious Honour gives, And dares with hardy front the troubled sky, In Honesty's uninjured panoply. Ne'er on Prosperity's enfeebling bed 13 Or rosy pillows, he reposed his head, But given to useful arts, his ardent mind Has sought the general welfare of mankind; To mitigate their ills his greatest bliss, While studying them , has taught him what he is ; He , when the human tempest rages worst, And the earth shudders as the thunders burst, Firm, as thy northern branch, is rooted fast, And if he can't avert , endures the blast. ~ Charlotte Smith,

769:If you grow up the type of woman men want to look at, You can let them look at you. But do not mistake eyes for hands, Or windows for mirrors. Let them see what a woman looks like. They may not have ever seen one before. If you grow up the type of woman men want to touch, You can let them touch you. Sometimes it is not you they are reaching for. Sometimes it is a bottle, a door, a sandwich, a Pulitzer, another woman – But their hands found you first. Do not mistake yourself for a guardian, or a muse, or a promise, or a victim or a snack. You are a woman – Skin and bones, veins and nerves, hair and sweat You are not made of metaphors, Not apologies, not excuses. If you grow up the type of woman men want to hold, You can let them hold you. All day they practice keeping their bodies upright. Even after all this evolving it still feels unnatural, Still strains the muscles, holds firm the arms and spine. Only some men will want to learn what it feels like to curl themselves into a question mark around you, Admit they don’t have the answers they thought they would by now. Some men will want to hold you like the answer. You are not the answer. You are not the problem. You are not the poem, or the punchline, or the riddle, or the joke. Woman, if you grow up the type of woman men want to love, You can let them love you. Being loved is not the same thing as loving. When you fall in love, It is discovering the ocean after years of puddle jumping. It is realising you have hands. It is reaching for the tightrope after the crowds have all gone home. Do not spend time wondering if you are the type of woman men will hurt. If he leaves you with a car alarm heart. You learn to sing along. It is hard to stop loving the ocean, Even after it’s left you gasping, salty. So forgive yourself for the decisions you’ve made, The ones you still call mistakes when you tuck them in at night, And know this. Know you are the type of woman who is searching for a place to call yours. Let the statues crumble. You have always been the place. You are a woman who can build it yourself. You are born to build. ~ Sarah Kay,

770:So then let the Adept set this sigil upon all the Words he hath writ in the book of the Works of his Will. And let him then end all, saying: Such are the Words!2 For by this he maketh proclamation before all them that be about his Circle that these Words are true and puissant, binding what he would bind, and loosing what he would loose. Let the Adept perform this ritual right, perfect in every part thereof, once daily for one moon, then twice, at dawn and dusk, for two moons; next thrice, noon added, for three moons; afterwards, midnight making up his course, for four moons four times every day. Then let the Eleventh Moon be consecrated wholly to this Work; let him be instant in constant ardour, dismissing all but his sheer needs to eat and sleep.3 For know that the true Formula4 whose virtue sufficed the Beast in this Attainment, was thus: INVOKE OFTEN So may all men come at last to the Knowledge and Conversation of the Holy Guardian Angel: thus sayeth The Beast, and prayeth his own Angel that this Book be as a burning Lamp, and as a living Spring, for Light and Life to them that read therein. 1. There is an alternative spelling, TzBA-F, where the Root, "an Host," has the value of 93. The Practicus should revise this Ritual throughout in the Light of his personal researches in the Qabalah, and make it his own peculiar property. The spelling here suggested implies that he who utters the Word affirms his allegiance to the symbols 93 and 6; that he is a warrior in the army of Will, and of the Sun. 93 is also the number of AIWAZ and 6 of The Beast. 2. The consonants of LOGOS, "Word," add (Hebrew values) to 93 [reading the Sigma as Samekh = 60; reading it as Shin = 300 gives 333], and ΕΠΗ, "Words" (whence "Epic") has also that value; ΕΙ∆Ε ΤΑ ΕΠΗ might be the phrase here intended; its number is 418. This would then assert the accomplishment of the Great Work; this is the natural conclusion of the Ritual. Cf. CCXX, III, 75. 3. These needs are modified during the process of Initiation both as to quantity and quality. One should not become anxious about one's phyiscal or mental health on à priori grounds, but pay attention only to indubitable symptoms of distress should such arise. ~ Aleister Crowley, Liber Samekh,

771:May I be far removed from contending creeds and dogmas. Ever since my Lords grace entered my mind, My mind has never strayed to seek such distractions. Accustomed long to contemplating love and compassion, I have forgotten all difference between myself and others. Accustomed long to meditating on my Guru as enhaloed over my head, I have forgotten all those who rule by power and prestige. Accustomed long to meditating on my guardian deities as inseparable from myself, I have forgotten the lowly fleshly form. Accustomed long to meditating on the secret whispered truths, I have forgotten all that is said in written or printed books. Accustomed, as I have been, to the study of the eternal Truth, Ive lost all knowledge of ignorance. Accustomed, as Ive been, to contemplating both nirvana and samsara as inherent in myself, I have forgotten to think of hope and fear. Accustomed, as Ive been, to meditating on this life and the next as one, I have forgotten the dread of birth and death. Accustomed long to studying, by myself, my own experiences, I have forgotten the need to seek the opinions of friends and brethren. Accustomed long to applying each new experience to my own spiritual growth, I have forgotten all creeds and dogmas. Accustomed long to meditating on the Unborn, the Indestructible, the Unchanging, I have forgotten all definitions of this or that particular goal. Accustomed long to meditating on all visible phenomena as the Dharmakaya, I have forgotten all meditations on what is produced by the mind. Accustomed long to keeping my mind in the uncreated state of freedom, I have forgotten all conventions and artificialities. Accustomed long to humbleness, of body and mind, I have forgotten the pride and haughty manner of the mighty. Accustomed long to regarding my fleshly body as my hermitage, I have forgotten the ease and comfort of retreats and monasteries. Accustomed long to knowing the meaning of the Wordless, I have forgotten the way to trace the roots of verbs, and the sources of words and phrases. You, 0 learned one, may trace out these things in your books Milarepa ~ Jetsun Milarepa, I Have forgotten ,

772:The rose is a symbol of the inner mysteries of Witchcraft. A red rose symbolizes the mysteries as they reside in Nature, within the living things. The white rose symbolizes the Otherworld and the mysteries hidden in secret places. When a single rose appears with white petals in the center of red petals, this represents the mysteries joined together within one reality. Thorns appearing with the rose represent challenges and the dedication required to fully grasp the enlightenment of the rose. One of the symbolisms associated with the rose reveals the covenant between the Witch and the Faery. In this, we find that both are stewards of the portal that opens to the inner mysteries. The Faery holds the celestial key, and the Witch bears the terrestrial key. When the two are joined together, they form an X—the sign of the crossroads. In this formation, where the keys cross we find a third point, the in-between place at the center. This is where the portal exists, and this is where it opens between the worlds. Look at the shape of the X and you can see four pointed tip markers (the V shapes). The upper half of the X points down, and the lower half points up. On the sides of the X, you can see that the left and right halves point to the center. This shows us that when the celestial and terrestrial realms join, they pull together the left ways and the right ways. These are occult terms for esoteric and exoteric modes of consciousness. In the fusion, everything briefly loses its distinction, its ability to mask the opposite reality, and in doing so, the secret third reality emerges in the center of it all. If this sounds confusing or nonsensical, then the guardian of that portal is doing its job well. The material in this book will connect you with an entity connected to the rose and its mystery. This is the previously mentioned She of the Thorn-Blooded Rose. With her guidance, you can be directed to the portal, and through it you can meet a variety of beings and entities. However, her primary task is to connect you with the Greenwood Realm and the plant spirits within it. In your journey to encounter these spirits, you will pass through the organic memory of the earth. You'll walk upon roads of mystical concepts and be accompanied by the Old Ones of ~ Raven Grimassi,

773:She left me at the silent time When the moon had ceased to climb The azure path of Heavens steep, And like an albatross asleep, Balanced on her wings of light, Hovered in the purple night, Ere she sought her ocean nest In the chambers of the West. She left me, and I stayed alone Thinking over every tone Which, though silent to the ear, The enchanted heart could hear, Like notes which die when born, but still Haunt the echoes of the hill; And feeling ever--oh, too much!-- The soft vibration of her touch, As if her gentle hand, even now, Lightly trembled on my brow; And thus, although she absent were, Memory gave me all of her That even Fancy dares to claim:-- Her presence had made weak and tame All passions, and I lived alone In the time which is our own; The past and future were forgot, As they had been, and would be, not. But soon, the guardian angel gone, The daemon reassumed his throne In my faint heart. I dare not speak My thoughts, but thus disturbed and weak I sat and saw the vessels glide Over the ocean bright and wide, Like spirit-winged chariots sent Oer some serenest element For ministrations strange and far; As if to some Elysian star Sailed for drink to medicine Such sweet and bitter pain as mine. And the wind that winged their flight From the land came fresh and light, And the scent of winged flowers, And the coolness of the hours Of dew, and sweet warmth left by day, Were scattered oer the twinkling bay. And the fisher with his lamp And spear about the low rocks damp Crept, and struck the fish which came To worship the delusive flame. Too happy they, whose pleasure sought Extinguishes all sense and thought Of the regret that pleasure leaves, Destroying life alone, not peace! Written in 1822 and probably addressed to Jane Williams. Edward and Jane Williams became friends of the Shelleys at Pisa and lived with them in Lerici in 1822. Shelley liked to hear Jane sing and presented her with a guitar. A number of his last lyrics (e.g., "To Jane") are addressed to her. First published by Richard Garnett in Macmillan's Magazine (1862). ~ Percy Bysshe Shelley, Lines Written in the Bay of Lerici ,

774:My life is an instant, an hour passing by. My life is but a day escaping and fleeing. You know well, O my god! to love you on this earth I only have today. Oh! I love you, Jesus, to you my soul aspires. If only for one day remain my sweet support. Come and reign in my heart, bestow your smile on me if only for today! Do I care if, O Lord, somber is the future? To pray for tomorrow, oh no this I cannot! But my heart keep unstained, in your shadow drape me If only for today. Thinking of tomorrow, I fear my fickleness. I can feel in my heart sadness and despair bloom. But I welcome, my God, trial and suffering If only for today. I am soon to see you on the eternal shore. O, Divine Pilot! Whose hand is guiding me. On these unruly waves please keep my boat in peace If only for today. Oh! Let me hide, my lord, let me hide in your Face. From there I will not have to bear the world's vain noise. Bestow your love on me, bestow your grace again If only for today. Near to your divine heart, passing things disappear I'm no longer affraid of the fears of the night Oh! Offer me, Jesus, a seating in this Heart If only for today. Living, Heavenly Bread, God-given Eucharist, O sacred Mystery! You the product of Love... Come inhabit my heart, Jesus, my pristine Host, If only for today. Deign to unite to me, sacred and Holy Vine, So that this weakest branch can bear its fruits for you So that I can give you well ripe and golden grapes, My Lord, as of today. This bunch of grapes of love, the seeds it bears are souls I have but, to grow it, this one, this fleeting day The fire of Apostles, I ask of you, Jesus, If only for today. Virgin Immaculate! You are my Guiding Star Giving Jesus to me, uniting me to Him. O Mother! let me rest, secluded in your veil If only for today. Holy Guardian Angel, take me under your wing. May your fires cast light on this path I'm walking. Come and direct my steps... I cry to you, help me If only for today. O Lord, I want your sight, without veils or clouds, But still exiled from you, from afar I languish. That your lovable face stays hidden, I may bear If only for today. Soon I will fly away, I will speak your praises When the sunset-less day will dawn upon my soul. Then on the Angels' lyre I'll be able to sing The Eternal Today!... ~ Saint Therese of Lisieux, My Song for Today ,

775:The heavenly principalities and powers cannot touch you. But the earthly humans over which we rule can.” Though they had no authority to touch Yahweh’s anointed, they might do so through their human vessels. Jesus trembled with the weight of responsibility that now overwhelmed him. But the pain was lessened when he heard the familiar sound of his favorite angel echo in his mind. Jesus, be strong and courageous. “Jesus, be strong and courageous.” It wasn’t in his mind, it was being spoken to him from behind. “Sound familiar?” Jesus turned. He looked up into the smiling face of Uriel the smallest of three angels now standing before him. Uriel finished his thought, “The words you spoke to Joshua at the threshold of the Promised Land. Funny how it all comes full circle.” Gabriel, the second angel, and Uriel’s constant bickering companion, responded, “Uriel, I think your humor is once again in incredibly poor taste considering his suffering. Where is your compassion?” “Nonsense,” said Uriel. “Jesus has done it. Victory is a cause for celebration, not sadness. He made it forty days without food, which is more than I can say for you, chubby.” Uriel patted Gabriel’s stomach. Gabriel moved away annoyed at the jab. Sure, he was heavier than the lightweight Uriel, but he certainly didn’t see himself as “chubby.” Mikael, the largest and best groomed of the three, was the guardian prince of Israel, and tended to be protective of his ward. He offered a wineskin to Jesus, who took it and gulped with gratitude. After a moment of silence, Jesus wiped his beard of the wine and said, “You need a better sense of humor, Gabriel.” Gabriel pouted with frustration at being ganged up on. Uriel, his perpetual nemesis was one thing. But being teased by the Master was quite another. Jesus said, “And Uriel, you had better deliver on that bread you promised.” Uriel smiled again and held out a loaf of Mary’s best bread. “Baked two hours ago by your mother.” Jesus grabbed it. Mikael said, “Remember, do not eat too quickly. It is bad for your digestion after fasting.” “Thank you for your ministering spirits,” said Jesus, and took a big hungry bite out of the loaf. Uriel muttered, “Your mother should open a bakery. Can I have a bite?” Mikael was not so lighthearted. He knew that the challenge had been declared. The road to war had begun. ~ Brian Godawa,

776:The general characteristics and attributions of these Grades are indicated by their correspondences on the Tree of Life, as may be studied in detail in the Book 777.    Student. -- His business is to acquire a general intellectual knowledge of all systems of attainment, as declared in the prescribed books. (See curriculum in Appendix I.) {231}    Probationer. -- His principal business is to begin such practices as he my prefer, and to write a careful record of the same for one year.    Neophyte. -- Has to acquire perfect control of the Astral Plane.    Zelator. -- His main work is to achieve complete success in Asana and Pranayama. He also begins to study the formula of the Rosy Cross.    Practicus. -- Is expected to complete his intellectual training, and in particular to study the Qabalah.    Philosophus. -- Is expected to complete his moral training. He is tested in Devotion to the Order.    Dominus Liminis. -- Is expected to show mastery of Pratyahara and Dharana.    Adeptus (without). -- is expected to perform the Great Work and to attain the Knowledge and Conversation of the Holy Guardian Angel.    Adeptus (within). -- Is admitted to the practice of the formula of the Rosy Cross on entering the College of the Holy Ghost.    Adeptus (Major). -- Obtains a general mastery of practical Magick, though without comprehension.    Adeptus (Exemptus). -- Completes in perfection all these matters. He then either ("a") becomes a Brother of the Left Hand Path or, ("b") is stripped of all his attainments and of himself as well, even of his Holy Guardian Angel, and becomes a babe of the Abyss, who, having transcended the Reason, does nothing but grow in the womb of its mother. It then finds itself a    Magister Templi. -- (Master of the Temple): whose functions are fully described in Liber 418, as is this whole initiation from Adeptus Exemptus. See also "Aha!". His principal business is to tend his "garden" of disciples, and to obtain a perfect understanding of the Universe. He is a Master of Samadhi. {232}    Magus. -- Attains to wisdom, declares his law (See Liber I, vel Magi) and is a Master of all Magick in its greatest and highest sense.    Ipsissimus. -- Is beyond all this and beyond all comprehension of those of lower degrees. ~ Aleister Crowley, Liber ABA,

777:Three Souls Three Souls there were that reached the Heavenly Gate, And gained permission of the Guard to wait. Barred from the bliss of Paradise by sin, They did not ask or hope to enter in. 'We loved one woman (thus their story ran); We lost her, for she chose another man. So great our love, it brought us to this door; We only ask to see her face once more. Then will we go to realms where we belong, And pay our penalty for doing wrong.' 'And wert thou friends on earth?' (The Guard spake thus.) 'Nay, we were foes; but Death made friends of us. The dominating thought within each Soul Brought us together, comrades, to this goal, To see her face, and in its radiance bask For one great moment-that is all we ask. And, having seen her, we must journey back The path we came-a hard and dangerous track.' 'Wait, then,' the Angel said, 'beside me here, But do not strive within God's Gate to peer Nor converse hold with Spirits clothed in light Who pass this way; thou hast not earned the right.' They waited year on year. Then, like a flame, News of the woman's death from earth-land came. The eager lovers scanned with hungry eyes Each Soul that passed the Gates of Paradise. The well-beloved face in vain they sought, Until one day the Guardian Angel brought A message to them. 'She has gone,' he said, 'Down to the lower regions of the dead; Her chosen mate went first; so great her love She has resigned the joys that wait above To dwell with him, until perchance some day, Absolved from sin, he seeks the Better Way.' 748 Silent, the lovers turned. The pitying Guard Said: 'Stay (the while his hand the door unbarred), There waits for thee no darker grief or woe; Enter the Gates, and all God's glories know. But to be ready for so great a bliss, Pause for a moment and take heed of this: The dearest treasure by each mortal lost Lies yonder, when the Threshold has been crossed, And thou shalt find within that Sacred Place The shining wonder of her worshipped face. All that is past is but a troubled dream; Go forward now and claim the Fact Supreme.' Then clothed like Angels, fitting their estate, Three Souls went singing, singing through God's Gate. ~ Ella Wheeler Wilcox,

778:The Type Everyone needs a place. It shouldn't be inside of someone else. -Richard Siken If you grow up the type of woman men want to look at, you can let them look at you. But do not mistake eyes for hands. Or windows. Or mirrors. Let them see what a woman looks like. They may not have ever seen one before. If you grow up the type of woman men want to touch, you can let them touch you. Sometimes it is not you they are reaching for. Sometimes it is a bottle. A door. A sandwich. A Pulitzer. Another woman. But their hands found you first. Do not mistake yourself for a guardian. Or a muse. Or a promise. Or a victim. Or a snack. You are a woman. Skin and bones. Veins and nerves. Hair and sweat. You are not made of metaphors. Not apologies. Not excuses. If you grow up the type of woman men want to hold, you can let them hold you. All day they practice keeping their bodies upright-- even after all this evolving, it still feels unnatural, still strains the muscles, holds firm the arms and spine. Only some men will want to learn what it feels like to curl themselves into a question mark around you, admit they do not have the answers they thought they would have by now; some men will want to hold you like The Answer. You are not The Answer. You are not the problem. You are not the poem or the punchline or the riddle or the joke. Woman. If you grow up the type men want to love, You can let them love you. Being loved is not the same thing as loving. When you fall in love, it is discovering the ocean after years of puddle jumping. It is realizing you have hands. It is reaching for the tightrope when the crowds have all gone home. Do not spend time wondering if you are the type of woman men will hurt. If he leaves you with a car alarm heart, you learn to sing along. It is hard to stop loving the ocean. Even after it has left you gasping, salty. Forgive yourself for the decisions you have made, the ones you still call mistakes when you tuck them in at night. And know this: Know you are the type of woman who is searching for a place to call yours. Let the statues crumble. You have always been the place. You are a woman who can build it yourself. You were born to build. ~ Sarah Kay,

779:Why, exactly, is Marduk handing Hammurabi a one and a zero in this picture?" Hiro asks. "They were emblems of royal power," the Librarian says. "Their origin is obscure." "Enki must have been responsible for that one," Hiro says. "Enki's most important role is as the creator and guardian of the me and the gis-hur, the 'key words' and 'patterns' that rule the universe." "Tell me more about the me." "To quote Kramer and Maier again, '[They believed in] the existence from time primordial of a fundamental, unalterable, comprehensive assortment of powers and duties, norms and standards, rules and regulations, known as me, relating to the cosmos and its components, to gods and humans, to cities and countries, and to the varied aspects of civilized life.'" "Kind of like the Torah." "Yes, but they have a kind of mystical or magical force. And they often deal with banal subjects -- not just religion." "Examples?" "In one myth, the goddess Inanna goes to Eridu and tricks Enki into giving her ninety-four me and brings them back to her home town of Uruk, where they are greeted with much commotion and rejoicing." "Inanna is the person that Juanita's obsessed with." "Yes, sir. She is hailed as a savior because 'she brought the perfect execution of the me.'" "Execution? Like executing a computer program?" "Yes. Apparently, they are like algorithms for carrying out certain activities essential to the society. Some of them have to do with the workings of priesthood and kingship. Some explain how to carry out religious ceremonies. Some relate to the arts of war and diplomacy. Many of them are about the arts and crafts: music, carpentry, smithing, tanning, building, farming, even such simple tasks as lighting fires." "The operating system of society." "I'm sorry?" "When you first turn on a computer, it is an inert collection of circuits that can't really do anything. To start up the machine, you have to infuse those circuits with a collection of rules that tell it how to function. How to be a computer. It sounds as though these me served as the operating system of the society, organizing an inert collection of people into a functioning system." "As you wish. In any case, Enki was the guardian of the me." "So he was a good guy, really." "He was the most beloved of the gods." "He sounds like kind of a hacker. ~ Neal Stephenson,

780:It is hard to overestimate the importance of the Catholic church’s value for European culture and for the whole world. It Christianized and civilized barbaric peoples and for a long time was the only guardian of science and art. Here the church’s cloisters were preeminent. The Catholic church developed a spiritual power unequaled anywhere, and today we still admire the way it combined the principle of catholicism with the principle of one sanctifying church, as well as tolerance with intolerance. It is a world in itself. Infinite diversity flows together, and this colorful picture gives it its irresistible charm (Complexio oppositorum). A country has seldom produced so many different kinds of people as has the Catholic church. With admirable power, it has understood how to maintain unity in diversity, to gain the love and respect of the masses, and to foster a strong sense of community. . . . But it is exactly because of this greatness that we have serious reservations. Has this world [of the Catholic church] really remained the church of Christ? Has it not perhaps become an obstruction blocking the path to God instead of a road sign on the path to God? Has it not blocked the only path to salvation? Yet no one can ever obstruct the way to God. The church still has the Bible, and as long as she has it we can still believe in the holy Christian church. God’s word will never be denied (Isa. 55:11), whether it be preached by us or by our sister church. We adhere to the same confession of faith, we pray the same Lord’s Prayer, and we share some of the same ancient rites. This binds us together, and as far as we are concerned we would like to live in peace with our disparate sister. We do not, however, want to deny anything that we have recognized as God’s word. The designation Catholic or Protestant is unimportant. The important thing is God’s word. Conversely, we will never violate anyone else’s faith. God does not desire reluctant service, and God has given everyone a conscience. We can and should desire that our sister church search its soul and concentrate on nothing but the word [1 Cor. 2:12– 13]. Until that time, we must have patience. We will have to endure it when, in false darkness, the “only holy church” pronounces upon our church the “anathema” (condemnation). She doesn’t know any better, and she doesn’t hate the heretic, only the heresy. As long as we let the word be our only armor we can look confidently into the future. ~ Eric Metaxas,

781:On The Portrait Of A Beautiful Woman, CARVED ON HER MONUMENT. Such _wast_ thou: now in earth below, Dust and a skeleton thou art. Above thy bones and clay, Here vainly placed by loving hands, Sole guardian of memory and woe, The image of departed beauty stands. Mute, motionless, it seems with pensive gaze To watch the flight of the departing days. That gentle look, that, wheresoe'er it fell, As now it seems to fall, Held fast the gazer with its magic spell; That lip, from which as from some copious urn, Redundant pleasure seems to overflow; That neck, on which love once so fondly hung; That loving hand, whose tender pressure still The hand it clasped, with trembling joy would thrill; That bosom, whose transparent loveliness The color from the gazer's cheek would steal; All these _have been_; and now remains alone A wretched heap of bones and clay, Concealed from sight by this benignant stone. To this hath Fate reduced The form, that, when with life it beamed, To us heaven's liveliest image seemed. O Nature's endless mystery! To-day, of grand and lofty thoughts the source, And feelings not to be described, Beauty rules all, and seems, Like some mysterious splendor from on high Forth-darted to illuminate This dreary wilderness; Of superhuman fate, Of fortunate realms, and golden worlds, A token, and a hope secure To give our mortal state; 62 To-morrow, for some trivial cause, Loathsome to sight, abominable, base Becomes, what but a little time before Wore such an angel face; And from our minds, in the same breath, The grand conception it inspired, Swift vanishes and leaves no trace. What infinite desires, What visions grand and high, In our exalted thought, With magic power creates, true harmony! O'er a delicious and mysterious sea, The exulting spirit glides, As some bold swimmer sports in Ocean's tides: But oh, the mischief that is wrought, If but one accent out of tune Assaults the ear! Alas, how soon Our paradise is turned to naught! O human nature, why is this? If frail and vile throughout, If shadow, dust thou art, say, why Hast thou such fancies, aspirations high? And yet, if framed for nobler ends, Alas, why are we doomed To see our highest motives, truest thoughts, By such base causes kindled, and consumed? ~ Count Giacomo Leopardi,

782:The Sphinx THIS mystery of golden hair, Of eyes and lips and bosom fair, Is not--if one could really see-Mere flesh and blood, like you and me: This is a sphinx whose still lips say This one thing ever, day by day, To all who cross her in life's ways: 'Which is the way to love?' she says. For every man who meets her eyes In their deep depths the question lies; And vainly would he seek to fly Or put the wordless challenge by, Unless within his soul be set Some true-love vow as amulet: This clasping, let him flee her spell, Nor trust its guardian powers too well. Nothing seems good to think about But just to find that secret out; We bring her fruits of earnest hours, And offer choice of passion-flowers, Of crowns, of heart's blood, of heart's ache, Our hopes we spurn, our joys forsake, While she looks down upon our pain Without compassion or disdain. She does not will to question thus-Fate made her just to torture us; Nor can she tell you, if she will, Aught of your guesses, good or ill. But if you fail to answer well, Your own foiled heart prepares your hell, And all your days you walk alone, And curse the done and the undone. 389 She does not bid you for her sake Your soul to wreck, your life to break, Nor would she choose it for her part. Only for ever in your heart The haunting question must abide, And clamour morn and eventide, Until no single note your ear Of all life's harmonies can hear. Yet to some man it will be given To find the key that opens heaven; For him, beloved by all the Fates, Answer as well as question waits In those unwakened eyes of hers, And when their calm that answer stirs, From her stone sleep the sphinx will wake Into a woman, for his sake. What though one's whole life's light grows night With that unanswered question's blight? One's one poor chance is richly worth The richest certainties of earth! Myself would rather die, I know-Starved, just because I want her so-Than feast in highest heaven of bliss On any other woman's kiss. Such spells she has, I would not choose One look or touch of hers to lose, Though every touch and look have power To sting me to my dying hour; Though every breath of hers should bring Frost on life's bud and blossoming, What soul could ask a dearer death Than to be withered by her breath? ~ Edith Nesbit,

783:I mounted the stairs to my pavilion and sank onto Hlidskjalf, the magic throne from which I can peer into the Nine Worlds. The seat cradled my posterior with its ermine-lined softness. I took a few deep breaths to focus my concentration, then turned to the worlds beyond. I usually begin with a cursory look-see of my own realm, Asgard, then circle through the remaining eight: Midgard, realm of the humans; the elf kingdom of Alfheim; Vanaheim, the Vanir gods’ domain; Jotunheim, land of the giants; Niflheim, the world of ice, fog, and mist; Helheim, realm of the dishonorable dead; Nidavellir, the gloomy world of the dwarves; and Muspellheim, home of the fire giants. This time, I didn’t make it past Asgard. Because goats. Specifically, Thor’s goats, Marvin and Otis. They were on the Bifrost, the radioactive Rainbow Bridge that connects Asgard to Midgard, wearing footy pajamas. But there was no sign of Thor, which was odd. He usually kept Marvin and Otis close. He killed and ate them every day, and they came back to life the next morning. More disturbing was Heimdall, guardian of the Bifrost. He was hopping around on all fours like a deranged lunatic. “So here’s what I want you guys to do,” he said to Otis and Marvin between hops. “Cavort. Frolic. Frisk about. Okay?” I parted the clouds. “Heimdall! What the Helheim is going on down there?” “Oh, hey, Odin!” Heimdall’s helium-squeaky voice set my teeth on edge. He waved his phablet at me. “I’m making a cute baby goat video as my Snapchat story. Cute baby goat videos are huge in Midgard. Huge!” He spread his hands out wide to demonstrate. “I’m not a baby!” Marvin snapped. “I’m cute?” Otis wondered. “Put that phablet away and return to your duties at once!” According to prophecy, giants will one day storm across the Bifrost, a signal that Ragnarok is upon us. Heimdall’s job is to sound the alarm on his horn, Gjallar—a job he would not be able to perform if he were making Snapchat stories. “Can I finish my cute baby goat video first?” Heimdall pleaded. “No.” “Aw.” He turned to Otis and Marvin. “I guess that’s a wrap, guys.” “Finally,” Marvin said. “I’m going for a graze.” He hopped off the bridge and plummeted to almost certain death and next-day resurrection. Otis sighed something about the grass being greener on the other side, then jumped after him. “Heimdall,” I said tightly, “need I remind you what could happen if even one jotun snuck into Asgard?” Heimdall hung his head. “Apologetic face emoji.” I sighed. “Yes, all right. ~ Rick Riordan,

784:The Guardian Of The Red Disk Spoken by a Citizen of Malta-1300. A curious title held in high repute, One among many honors, thickly strewn On my lord Bishop's head, his grace of Malta. Nobly he bears them all,-with tact, skill, zeal, Fulfills each special office, vast or slight, Nor slurs the least minutia,-therewithal Wears such a stately aspect of command, Broad-checked, broad-chested, reverend, sanctified, Haloed with white about the tonsure's rim, With dropped lids o'er the piercing Spanish eyes (Lynx-keen, I warrant, to spy out heresy); Tall, massive form, o'ertowering all in presence, Or ere they kneel to kiss the large white hand. His looks sustain his deeds,-the perfect prelate, Whose void chair shall be taken, but not filled. You know not, who are foreign to the isle, Haply, what this Red Disk may be, he guards. 'T is the bright blotch, big as the Royal seal, Branded beneath the beard of every Jew. These vermin so infest the isle, so slide Into all byways, highways that may lead Direct or roundabout to wealth or power, Some plain, plump mark was needed, to protect From the degrading contact Christian folk. The evil had grown monstrous: certain Jews Wore such a haughty air, had so refined, With super-subtile arts, strict, monkish lives, And studious habit, the coarse Hebrew type, One might have elbowed in the public mart Iscariot,-nor suspected one's soul-peril. Christ's blood! it sets my flesh a-creep to think! We may breathe freely now, not fearing taint, Praise be our good Lord Bishop! He keeps count Of every Jew, and prints on cheek or chin The scarlet stamp of separateness, of shame. 255 No beard, blue-black, grizzled or Judas-colored, May hide that damning little wafer-flame. When one appears therewith, the urchins know Good sport's at hand; they fling their stones and mud, Sure of their game. But most the wisdom shows Upon the unbelievers' selves; they learn Their proper rank; crouch, cringe, and hide,-lay by Their insolence of self-esteem; no more Flaunt forth in rich attire, but in dull weeds, Slovenly donned, would slink past unobserved; Bow servile necks and crook obsequious knees, Chin sunk in hollow chest, eyes fixed on earth Or blinking sidewise, but to apprehend Whether or not the hated spot be spied. I warrant my Lord Bishop has full hands, Guarding the Red Disk-lest one rogue escape! ~ Emma Lazarus,

785:I stared at Jim in horror, my skin crawling. “A Guardian banished me. Me! But I’m a Guardian. Can we banish each other? Oh, crap!” Jim nodded. “You’re not just a Guardian, you’re a Guardian Plus! Now with extra ‘prince of Abaddon’ cleaning power.” I’d like to point out—the dark power’s voice started to say. “I have enough on my plate right now!” I snapped at it. The voice sulked into silence. “Yeah, well, you may just have to deal with it,” Jim said, moseying over to where I’d been standing. “What were you looking for?” “I can’t believe another Guardian banished me just because I happen to be a prince of Abaddon. There should be some rule about not banishing demon lords who are also Guardians.” Jim cocked an eyebrow. “Like you think this is a normal situation?” “Normal? I don’t even know what’s normal anymore,” I fumed, marching around the room while wringing my hands. “And now look, I’m wringing my hands. Have you ever known me to be a hand-wringer? I detest the sort of woman who wrings her hands! It signifies weakness, and lack of coherence, and a totally unprofessional attitude!” “And if we know anything about you, it’s that you’re a professional, and you’re confident,” Jim said, nosing a spot on the floor. “Damn straight I am!” I yelled, forcing my hands apart so they couldn’t wring themselves. “Look, they’re trying to do it again. It’s like my hands are possessed or something! Dear god, it’s the dark power. The dark power has taken over my hands and is trying to wring me into insanity!” “Is this little drama going to take long? ’Cause if it is, I want popcorn and a Diet Coke with extra ice.” “You’re not going to like where I put the popcorn and extra ice,” I said, ignoring my possessed hands to glare at the demon with much intent. Jim’s eyes widened as it backed away. “You’ve got that evil, slightly insane look down pat. Have you been practicing? We’re talking seriously scary, Ash. Hannibal-Lecter-has-nothing-on-you sort of scary.” “Enough banter from you, buster,” I said, trying to pull myself together. “Let’s go over this situation again calmly. One: the dark power has taken over my hands.” I have not! “Not listening! Two: there is a Guardian out there who can banish me at will. Which means that every other Guardian can probably do the same. Lovely. Just what I need—more people trying to do me in.” I slumped down into a chair and thought seriously about crying, but dropped that thought when my hands crept to ward each other. ~ Katie MacAlister,

786:As you’ve heard in Ms. Ward’s testimony, she is declining guardianship of these children. As per the stipulations in your sister’s will, you are to be offered the legal guardianship of the Ward children. Mr. Walker, do you accept the role of guardian for these children and all the responsibilities that accompany that role?” “No, Your Honor, I don’t.” Meridith’s eyes darted to Jake. He was staring straight at her. She’d misheard. The judge cleared his throat. “Mr. Walker, perhaps you misunderstood the question. Do you wish to be guardian of the children?” “No, Your Honor, I don’t,” Jake said clearly. She didn’t understand. What was he doing? The children— “Mr. Walker—” “Not unless . . .” Jake lowered his voice. “Not unless Meridith Ward agrees to stay.” His gaze beat a path to her heart. “In fact, not unless Ms. Ward agrees to marry me. Only then will I agree to share guardianship of the kids.” What? Meridith’s mind couldn’t assimilate the facts. But the love shining from Jake’s eyes said more than his words. Her eyes burned. “As it turns out,” Jake continued slowly, staring right into Meridith’s eyes, “I’m wildly, madly, and passionately in love with Ms. Ward, and I want us to be a real family.” “Me too!” Benny said loudly. “Me three,” Max called. “Ditto.” Noelle. Even Noelle. Had they known? She turned and looked at the children. Noelle’s eyes were teary. Benny and Max stared back, hope and worry lining their faces. She turned back to Jake, got caught in his eyes. He blurred in front of her. Her lip trembled, and she bit it still. The judge cleared his throat. “I see. This is most unusual. Well, I think a recess might be in order. Would you like to take a moment, Ms. Ward?” He loved her. Jake loved her and wanted to— Could she find the courage to love, to walk in uncertainty? To risk being hurt? She knew her foundation was stable. Everything else she had to take one day at a time, right? “Ms. Ward?” “Uh . . . yes. A recess, please.” The judge and bailiff exited, and Jake stood. She watched all six feet of him close the gap between them. Somewhere behind her, the children were as quiet as fireflies. Meridith stood, her legs trembling beneath her. And then Jake was there, standing in front of her, his solemn brown eyes shining. “I’m so sorry, Meri. I was a jerk. I’m sorry I hurt you, sorry for everything.” He took her chin in his hand. “And I do love you,” he whispered. “I want you to be my wife. Not for the kids, but because I want you with me every day for the rest of my life.” It was enough. More than enough. She swallowed hard. “I want that too. So much.” Jake ~ Denise Hunter,

787:The Two Children Part I Heavy hangs the raindrop From the burdened spray; Heavy broods the damp mist On Uplands far away; Heavy looms the dull sky, Heavy rolls the sea And heavy beats the young heart Beneath that lonely Tree Never has a blue streak Cleft the clouds since morn Never has his grim Fate Smiled since he was born Frowning on the infant, Shadowing childhood's joy; Guardian angel knows not That melancholy boy. Day is passing swiftly Its sad and sombre prime; Youth is fast invading Sterner manhood's time All the flowers are praying For sun before they close, And he prays too, unknowing, That sunless human rose! Blossoms, that the westwind Has never wooed to blow, Scentless are your petals, Your dew as cold as snow Soul, where kindred kindness No early promise woke, Barren is your beauty 104 As weed upon the rock Wither, Brothers, wither, You were vainly given Earth reserves no blessing For the unblessed of Heaven! Part II Child of Delight! with sunbright hair And seablue, sea-deep eyes; Spirit of Bliss, what brings thee here, Beneath these sullen skies? Thou shouldest live in eternal spring, Where endless day is never dim; Why, seraph, has thy erring wing Borne thee down to weep with him? 'Ah, not from heaven am I descended, And I do not come to mingle tears; But sweet is day though with shadows blended; And, though clouded, sweet are youthful years I, the image of light and gladness, Saw and pitied that mournful boy; And I swore to take his gloomy sadness, And give to him my beamy joy 'Heavy and dark the night is closing; Heavy and dark may its biding be; Better for all from grief reposing, And better for all who watch like me 'Guardian angel, he lacks no longer; Evil fortune he need not fear; Fate is strong–but Love is stronger, And more unsleeping than angel's care. (May 28, 1845) 105 Emily's name for these two poems in the Gondal saga was 'A. E. and R. C'; it was Charlotte who gave them this title. The image of two children appears a number of times in Emily Brontë's poetry as well as in her novel. In this poem, the 'melancholy boy' resembles Heathcliff and Hareton, while the 'Child of Delight! with sunbright hair' resembles Catherine Earnshaw and Cathy Linton; the poem hints that they are to redeem the 'melancholy boy.' The dark-light, male-female pair appears in the novel and in the Gondal saga as well. ~ Emily Jane Brontë,

788:Grey Is the morning dim and cloudy? Does the wind drift up the leaves? Is there mist upon the mountains, where the sun shone yesterday? Are the little song-birds silent? Is the sky all blurred and grey? Does the rain fall, patter, patter, from the eaves? Does your glass go down? And does your heart sink in the dreary lull? Are the strings relax'd and limp, and do the soft notes whine and cry? Has the damp got in and jarred the chords and spoil'd the melody? Are you out of tune, belovèd? are you dull? Has the chill wind found an entrance? Does it sigh and rustle there? Is it drifting, not the dead leaves, but your dead hopes, all about? Is it waking up your sorrow while your light is blotted out? Does your heart seem sad and cold and full of care? Are you listless and discouraged, dear? and does your life look grey? Does there seem no use in trying? Does your work fall from your hand? Would you give up the great riddle that's so hard to understand? Oh, then, go you to your chamber straight, and pray. Go and pray, and God will give you peace and comfort for your pain— All the misty, dull confusion He will tenderly reform— And the fire of His own Spirit, that shall make you dry and warm; And your harp-strings shall be strung and tuned again. Ay, the Lord will put the melody in your heart and soul anew; So that, howsoe'er unskilled and rude the hands that touch the wires, There shall come forth beautiful chords of faith and hope and high desires, Only music that is deep and sweet and true. Go and work,—the clouds will show the silver lining that's behind. Go to squalid lanes and alleys, where grim want and sickness lurk; Feed the hungry, soothe the suffering, tell the poor of Christ,—oh, work, And you'll no more hear the rustling of the wind. Then you'll no more hear the restless, hopeless sobbing over sin, No more hear the earthly troubles crying, crying from the ground; For the wings of guardian angels, they shall compass you around, That the wind shall have no place to enter in. 109 Then, as wither'd leaves lie browning on the quiet grassy slopes, As they sink in peaceful earth, and moulder with it as they die, To help nurture precious seeds for coming summers— so shall lie, Calm and still, your sorrowful memories and dead hopes. O belovèd, work and wait! The sun will shine another day, On a heart refresh'd, and strong, and green, and cool. The rain and gloom Are to make the sap run quicker, give the flowers a deeper bloom— We have need for both the golden and the grey. ~ Ada Cambridge,

789:Oh. My. God. You're Rose Hathaway aren't you?" "Yeah." I said with surprise. "Do you know me?" "Everyone knows you. I mean, everyone heard about you. You're the one who ran away. And then you came back and killed the Strigoi. That is so cool! Did you get molnija marks?" Her words came out in one long string. She hardly took a breath. "Yeah. I have two." Thinking about the tiny tattoos on the back of my neck made my skin itch. Her pale green eyes—if possible—grew wider. "Oh my God. Wow." I usually grew irate when people made a big deal about molnija marks. After all, the circumstances had not been cool. But this girl was young, and there was something appealing about her. "What's your name?" I asked. "Jillian—Jill. I mean, just Jill. Not both. Jillian's my full name. Jill's what everyone calls me." "Right." I said, hiding a smile. "I figured it out." "I heard Moroi used magic on that trip to fight. Is that true? I would love to do that. I wish someone would teach me. I use air. Do you think i could fight Strigoi with that? Everyone says I'm crazy!" For centuries, Moroi using magic to fight had been viewed as a sin. Everyone believed it should be used peacefully. Recently, some had started to question that, particularly after Christian had proved useful in the Spokane escape. "I don't know." I said. "You should talk to Christian Ozera." She gaped. "Would he talk to me?" "If you bring up fighting the establishment, yeah he'll talk to you." "Okay, cool. Was that Guardian Belikov?" she asked, switching subjects abruptly. "Yeah." I swore I thought she might faint then and there. "Really? He's even cuter then I heard. He's your teacher right? Like, your own personal teacher?" "Yeah." I wondered where he was. Talking to Jill was exhausting. "Wow. You know you guys don't even act like teacher and student. You seem like friends. Do you hang out when you're not training?" "Er, well, kind of. Sometimes." I remembered my earlier thoughts, about how I was one of the few people Dimitri was social with outside of his guardian duties. "I knew it! I can't even imagine that—I'd be freaking out all the time around him. I'd never get anything done, but your so cool about it all, kind of like, 'Yeah. I'm with this totally hot guy, but whatever it doesn't matter!'" I laughed in spite of myself. "I think you're giving me more credit than I deserve." "No way. And I don't believe any of those stories, you know." "Um, stories?" "Yeah about you beating up Christian Ozera." "Thanks." I said. ~ Richelle Mead,

790:Ekajaṭī or Ekajaṭā, (Sanskrit: "One Plait Woman"; Wylie: ral gcig ma: one who has one knot of hair),[1] also known as Māhacīnatārā,[2] is one of the 21 Taras. Ekajati is, along with Palden Lhamo deity, one of the most powerful and fierce goddesses of Vajrayana Buddhist mythology.[1][3] According to Tibetan legends, her right eye was pierced by the tantric master Padmasambhava so that she could much more effectively help him subjugate Tibetan demons. Ekajati is also known as "Blue Tara", Vajra Tara or "Ugra Tara".[1][3] She is generally considered one of the three principal protectors of the Nyingma school along with Rāhula and Vajrasādhu (Wylie: rdo rje legs pa). Often Ekajati appears as liberator in the mandala of the Green Tara. Along with that, her ascribed powers are removing the fear of enemies, spreading joy, and removing personal hindrances on the path to enlightenment. Ekajati is the protector of secret mantras and "as the mother of the mothers of all the Buddhas" represents the ultimate unity. As such, her own mantra is also secret. She is the most important protector of the Vajrayana teachings, especially the Inner Tantras and termas. As the protector of mantra, she supports the practitioner in deciphering symbolic dakini codes and properly determines appropriate times and circumstances for revealing tantric teachings. Because she completely realizes the texts and mantras under her care, she reminds the practitioner of their preciousness and secrecy.[4] Düsum Khyenpa, 1st Karmapa Lama meditated upon her in early childhood. According to Namkhai Norbu, Ekajati is the principal guardian of the Dzogchen teachings and is "a personification of the essentially non-dual nature of primordial energy."[5] Dzogchen is the most closely guarded teaching in Tibetan Buddhism, of which Ekajati is a main guardian as mentioned above. It is said that Sri Singha (Sanskrit: Śrī Siṃha) himself entrusted the "Heart Essence" (Wylie: snying thig) teachings to her care. To the great master Longchenpa, who initiated the dissemination of certain Dzogchen teachings, Ekajati offered uncharacteristically personal guidance. In his thirty-second year, Ekajati appeared to Longchenpa, supervising every ritual detail of the Heart Essence of the Dakinis empowerment, insisting on the use of a peacock feather and removing unnecessary basin. When Longchenpa performed the ritual, she nodded her head in approval but corrected his pronunciation. When he recited the mantra, Ekajati admonished him, saying, "Imitate me," and sang it in a strange, harmonious melody in the dakini's language. Later she appeared at the gathering and joyously danced, proclaiming the approval of Padmasambhava and the dakinis.[6] ~ Wikipedia,

791:Tatyana’s Letter to Onegin I’m writing you this declaration— What more can I in candour say? It may be now your inclination To scorn me and to turn away; But if my hapless situation Evokes some pity for my woe, You won’t abandon me, I know. I first tried silence and evasion; Believe me, you‘d have never learned My secret shame, had I discerned The slightest hope that on occasion— But once a week—I’d see your face, Behold you at our country place, Might hear you speak a friendly greeting, Could say a word to you; and then, Could dream both day and night again Of but one thing, till our next meeting. They say you like to be alone And find the country unappealing; We lack, I know, a worldly tone, But still, we welcome you with feeling. Why did you ever come to call? In this forgotten country dwelling I’d not have known you then at all, Nor known this bitter heartache’s swelling. Perhaps, when time had helped in quelling The girlish hopes on which I fed, I might have found (who knows?) another And been a faithful wife and mother, Contented with the life I led. Another! No! In all creation There’s no one else whom I’d adore; The heavens chose my destination And made me thine for evermore! My life till now has been a token In pledge of meeting you, my friend; And in your coming, God has spoken, You‘ll be my guardian till the end…. You filled my dreams and sweetest trances; As yet unseen, and yet so dear, You stirred me with your wondrous glances, Your voice within my soul rang clear…. And then the dream came true for me! When you came in, I seemed to waken, I turned to flame, I felt all shaken, And in my heart I cried: It’s he! And was it you I heard replying Amid the stillness of the night, Or when I helped the poor and dying, Or turned to heaven, softly crying, And said a prayer to soothe my plight? And even now, my dearest vision, Did I not see your apparition Flit softly through this lucent night? Was it not you who seemed to hover Above my bed, a gentle lover, To whisper hope and sweet delight? Are you my angel of salvation Or hell’s own demon of temptation? Be kind and send my doubts away; For this may all be mere illusion, The things a simple girl would say, While Fate intends no grand conclusion…. So be it then! Henceforth I place My faith in you and your affection; I plead with tears upon my face And beg you for your kind protection. You cannot know: I’m so alone, There’s no one here to whom I’ve spoken, My mind and will are almost broken, And I must die without a moan. I wait for you … and your decision: Revive my hopes with but a sign, Or halt this heavy dream of mine— Alas, with well-deserved derision! I close. I dare not now reread…. I shrink with shame and fear. But surely, Your honour’s all the pledge I need, And I submit to it securely. ~ Alexander Pushkin,

792:We can’t afford to stay here, honey.” “Don’t call me that. You were just going to sell our home and take us away and not even give Uncle Jay a chance!” “I know you’re upset, but I was going to tell you this week, Noelle. Boys, I—we can’t stay. I wish we could. But you’ll like St. Louis once we get settled there—” “What about Uncle Jay?” Max asked, crossing his arms. “Yeah, what about Uncle Jay?” Ben’s chin quivered. She’d forgotten Jake was there until he touched her shoulder. “Meridith—” “You said you’d give him a chance!” Noelle screamed. Tears leaked from her eyes. “You’ve been planning this all along and lying to us! You’re a liar!” She hated that word. Meridith tamped down her own anger. “I didn’t lie, Noelle. I just hadn’t told you yet.” “You were never planning to give Uncle Jay a chance! You were planning to sell our home and take us away from day one.” “No, I wasn’t—” “Uncle Jay would never take us away, he’d never sell Summer Place, and he’d never lie to us like you have!” “Well, your Uncle Jay wasn’t here to make those decisions, and if he’d be such a wonderful guardian, why isn’t he here now?” “He is here!” Noelle’s eyes went past Meridith’s shoulders. “He’s been here all along, right beside us, and we want him to be our guardian, not you!” The words sank in slowly. Noelle’s eyes, darting toward Jake. His hand tightening on her shoulder. The boys staring wide-eyed at him. He’s been here all along, right beside us. “Meridith, I—” Meridith jerked away from him. Think. She needed to think. Scenes from the past three months raced through her mind. Jake arriving on her doorstep. The low bid. Jake carrying Ben to his truck. Jake teaching her to dance. “Meridith.” Jake asking to stay here. Her chiding him for being alone with Noelle. Hysteria bubbled in her throat. His niece. Jake saving her from Sean. The day of the parade. The kiss in the dark. His declaration of love. She choked back a laugh. Her own declaration of love. “Meridith—” He set his hand on her shoulder. “Don’t talk to me.” She pushed his hand off, backed away. It made sense now, all of it. The way the kids had bonded to him so quickly. They’d been keeping a secret from her. Jake, the children. Everyone in the house knew but her. She felt like such a fool! But . . . the tender moments between her and Jake, his words . . . Was it just a show, some horrible pretense to get access to the kids, to get custody of the kids? She’d let herself trust him, let herself love him—told him she loved him—and it was all . . . “Get out.” He held out his hands, palms down. “Meridith, just let me—” Meridith put her hands over her ears. “I don’t want to hear it!” Her thoughts spun in so many directions, making her dizzy. Max and Ben were crying. She couldn’t process the chaos, didn’t want to. “Get out, Jake. I mean it.” “All ~ Denise Hunter,

793:Is it not very important, while we are young, to be loved and to love? It seems to me that most of us neither love nor are loved. And I think it is essential, while we are young, to understand this problem very seriously because it may be that while we are young, we can be sensitive enough to feel it, to know its quality, to know its perfume and perhaps, when we grow older, it will not be entirely destroyed. So, let us consider the question—that is, not that you should not be loved, but that you should love. What does it mean? Is it an ideal? Is it something far away, unattainable? Or is it something that can be felt by each one at odd moments of the day? To feel it, to be aware, to know the quality of sympathy, the quality of understanding, to help naturally, to aid another without any motive, to be kind, to be generous, to have sympathy, to care for something, to care for a dog, to be sympathetic to the villager, to be generous to your friend, to be forgiving, is that what we mean by love? Or is love something in which there is no sense of resentment, something which is everlasting forgiveness? And is it not possible while we are young, to feel it? Most of us, while we are young, do feel it—a sense of outward agony, sympathy to the villager, to the dog, to those who are little. And should it not be constantly tended? Should you not always have some part of the day when you are helping another or tending a tree or garden or helping in the house or in the hostel so that as you grow into maturity, you will know what it is to be considerate naturally—not with an enforced considerateness that is merely a negative word for one’s own happiness, but with that considerateness that is without motive. So, should you not when you are young, know this quality of real affection? It cannot be brought into being; you have to have it, and those who are in charge of you, like your guardian, your parents, your teachers, must also have it. Most people have not got it. They are concerned with their achievements, with their longings, with their success, with their knowledge, and with what they have done. They have built up their past into such colossal importance that it ultimately destroys them. So, should you not, while you are young, know what it is to take care of the rooms, to care for a number of trees that you yourself dig and plant so that there is a feeling, a subtle feeling of sympathy, of care, of generosity, the actual generosity—not the generosity of the mere mind—that means you give to somebody the little that you may have? If that is not so, if you do not feel that while you are young, it will be very difficult to feel that when you are old. So, if you have that feeling of love, of generosity, of kindness, of gentleness, then perhaps you can awaken that in others. ~ Jiddu Krishnamurti,

794:The traditional Roman wedding was a splendid affair designed to dramatize the bride’s transfer from the protection of her father’s household gods to those of her husband. Originally, this literally meant that she passed from the authority of her father to her husband, but at the end of the Republic women achieved a greater degree of independence, and the bride remained formally in the care of a guardian from her blood family. In the event of financial and other disagreements, this meant that her interests were more easily protected. Divorce was easy, frequent and often consensual, although husbands were obliged to repay their wives’ dowries. The bride was dressed at home in a white tunic, gathered by a special belt which her husband would later have to untie. Over this she wore a flame-colored veil. Her hair was carefully dressed with pads of artificial hair into six tufts and held together by ribbons. The groom went to her father’s house and, taking her right hand in his, confirmed his vow of fidelity. An animal (usually a ewe or a pig) was sacrificed in the atrium or a nearby shrine and an Augur was appointed to examine the entrails and declare the auspices favorable. The couple exchanged vows after this and the marriage was complete. A wedding banquet, attended by the two families, concluded with a ritual attempt to drag the bride from her mother’s arms in a pretended abduction. A procession was then formed which led the bride to her husband’s house, holding the symbols of housewifely duty, a spindle and distaff. She took the hand of a child whose parents were living, while another child, waving a hawthorn torch, walked in front to clear the way. All those in the procession laughed and made obscene jokes at the happy couple’s expense. When the bride arrived at her new home, she smeared the front door with oil and lard and decorated it with strands of wool. Her husband, who had already arrived, was waiting inside and asked for her praenomen or first name. Because Roman women did not have one and were called only by their family name, she replied in a set phrase: “Wherever you are Caius, I will be Caia.” She was then lifted over the threshold. The husband undid the girdle of his wife’s tunic, at which point the guests discreetly withdrew. On the following morning she dressed in the traditional costume of married women and made a sacrifice to her new household gods. By the late Republic this complicated ritual had lost its appeal for sophisticated Romans and could be replaced by a much simpler ceremony, much as today many people marry in a registry office. The man asked the woman if she wished to become the mistress of a household (materfamilias), to which she answered yes. In turn, she asked him if he wished to become paterfamilias, and on his saying he did the couple became husband and wife. ~ Anthony Everitt,

795:You need to come with us right now," one of the queen's guards said. "If you resist, we'll take you by force." "Leave him alone!" I yelled, looking from face to face. That angry darkness exploded within me. How could they still not believe? Why were they still coming after him? "He hasn't done anything! Why can't you guys accept that he's really a dhampir now?" The man who'd spoken arched an eyebrow. "I wasn't talking to him." "You're...you're here for me?" I asked. I tried to think of any new spectacles I might have caused recently. I considered the crazy idea that the queen had found out I'd spent the night with Adrian and was pissed off about it. That was hardly enough to send the palace guard for me, though...or was it? Had I really gone too far with my antics? "What for?" demanded Dimitri. That tall, wonderful bod of his—the one that could be so sensual sometimes—was filled with tension and menace now. The man kept his gaze on me, ignoring Dimitri. "Don't make me repeat myself: Come with us quietly, or we will make you." The glimmer of handcuffs showed in his hands. My eyes went wide. "That's crazy! I'm not going anywhere until you tel me how the hell this—" That was the point at which they apparently decided I wasn't coming quietly. Two of the royal guardians lunged for me, and even though we technically worked for the same side, my instincts kicked in. I didn't understand anything here except that I would not be dragged away like some kind of master criminal. I shoved the chair I'd been sitting in earlier at the one of the guardians and aimed a punch at the other. It was a sloppy throw, made worse because he was taller than me. That height difference allowed me to dodge his next grab, and when I kicked hard at his legs, a grunt told me I'd hit home. [...] Meanwhile, other guardians were joining the fray. Although I got a couple of good punches in, I knew the numbers were too overwhelming. One guardian caught hold of my arm and began trying to put the cuffs on me. He stopped when another set of hands grabbed me from the other side and jerked me away. Dimitri. "Don't touch her," he growled. There was a note in his voice that would have scared me if it had been directed toward me. He shoved me behind him, putting his body protectively in front of mine with my back to the table. Guardians came at us from all directions, and Dimitri began dispatching them with the same deadly grace that had once made people call him a god. [...] The queen's guards might have been the best of the best, but Dimitri...well, my former lover and instructor was in a category all his own. His fighting skills were beyond anyone else's, and he was using them all in defense me. "Stay back," he ordered me. "They aren't laying a hand on you. ~ Richelle Mead,

796:A PICTURE AT FANO. I. Dear and great Angel, wouldst thou only leave That child, when thou hast done with him, for me! Let me sit all the day here, that when eve Shall find performed thy special ministry, And time come for departure, thou, suspending Thy flight, mayst see another child for tending, Another still, to quiet and retrieve. II. Then I shall feel thee step one step, no more, From where thou standest now, to where I gaze, -And suddenly my head is covered o'er With those wings, white above the child who prays Now on that tomb-and I shall feel thee guarding Me, out of all the world; for me, discarding Yon heaven thy home, that waits and opes its door. III. I would not look up thither past thy head Because the door opes, like that child, I know, For I should have thy gracious face instead, Thou bird of God! And wilt thou bend me low Like him, and lay, like his, my hands together, And lift them up to pray, and gently tether Me, as thy lamb there, with thy garment's spread? IV. If this was ever granted, I would rest My bead beneath thine, while thy healing hands Close-covered both my eyes beside thy breast, Pressing the brain, which too much thought expands, Back to its proper size again, and smoothing Distortion down till every nerve had soothing, And all lay quiet, happy and suppressed. V. How soon all worldly wrong would be repaired! I think how I should view the earth and skies And sea, when once again my brow was bared After thy healing, with such different eyes. O world, as God has made it! All is beauty: And knowing this, is love, and love is duty. What further may be sought for or declared? VI. Guercino drew this angel I saw teach (Alfred, dear friend!)-that little child to pray, Holding the little hands up, each to each Pressed gently,-with his own head turned away Over the earth where so much lay before him Of work to do, though heaven was opening o'er him, And he was left at Fano by the beach. VII. We were at Fano, and three times we went To sit and see him in his chapel there, And drink his beauty to our soul's content -My angel with me too: and since I care For dear Guercino's fame (to which in power And glory comes this picture for a dower, Fraught with a pathos so magnificent)- VIII. And since he did not work thus earnestly At all times, and has else endured some wrong- I took one thought his picture struck from me, And spread it out, translating it to song. My love is here. Where are you, dear old friend? How rolls the Wairoa at your world's far end? This is Ancona, yonder is the sea. ~ Robert Browning, The Guardian-Angel ,

797:On May 26th, 2003, Aaron Ralston was hiking, a boulder fell on his right hand, he waited four days, he then amputated his own arm with a pocketknife. On New Year’s Eve, a woman was bungee jumping, the cord broke, she fell into a river and had to swim back to land in crocodile-infested waters with a broken collarbone. Claire Champlin was smashed in the face by a five-pound watermelon being propelled by a slingshot. Mathew Brobst was hit by a javelin. David Striegl was actually punched in the mouth by a kangaroo. The most amazing part of these stories is when asked about the experience they all smiled, shrugged and said “I guess things could’ve been worse.” So go ahead, tell me you’re having a bad day. Tell me about the traffic. Tell me about your boss. Tell me about the job you’ve been trying to quit for the past four years. Tell me the morning is just a townhouse burning to the ground and the snooze button is a fire extinguisher. Tell me the alarm clock stole the keys to your smile, drove it into 7 am and the crash totaled your happiness. Tell me. Tell me how blessed are we to have tragedy so small it can fit on the tips of our tongues. When Evan lost his legs he was speechless. When my cousin was assaulted she didn’t speak for 48 hours. When my uncle was murdered, we had to send out a search party to find my father’s voice. Most people have no idea that tragedy and silence often have the exact same address. When your day is a museum of disappointments, hanging from events that were outside of your control, when you feel like your guardian angel put in his two weeks notice two months ago and just decided not to tell you, when it seems like God is just a babysitter that’s always on the phone, when you get punched in the esophagus by a fistful of life. Remember, every year two million people die of dehydration. So it doesn’t matter if the glass is half full or half empty. There’s water in the cup. Drink it and stop complaining. Muscle is created by lifting things that are designed to weigh us down. When your shoulders are heavy stand up straight and call it exercise. Life is a gym membership with a really complicated cancellation policy. Remember, you will survive, things could be worse, and we are never given anything we can’t handle. When the whole world crumbles, you have to build a new one out of all the pieces that are still here. Remember, you are still here. The human heart beats approximately 4,000 times per hour and each pulse, each throb, each palpitation is a trophy, engraved with the words “You are still alive.” You are still alive. So act like it. ~ Rudy Francisco,

798:MY DEAR MISS BROOKE,—I have your guardian's permission to address you on a subject than which I have none more at heart. I am not, I trust, mistaken in the recognition of some deeper correspondence than that of date in the fact that a consciousness of need in my own life had arisen contemporaneously with the possibility of my becoming acquainted with you. For in the first hour of meeting you, I had an impression of your eminent and perhaps exclusive fitness to supply that need (connected, I may say, with such activity of the affections as even the preoccupations of a work too special to be abdicated could not uninterruptedly dissimulate); and each succeeding opportunity for observation has given the impression an added depth by convincing me more emphatically of that fitness which I had preconceived, and thus evoking more decisively those affections to which I have but now referred. Our conversations have, I think, made sufficiently clear to you the tenor of my life and purposes: a tenor unsuited, I am aware, to the commoner order of minds. But I have discerned in you an elevation of thought and a capability of devotedness, which I had hitherto not conceived to be compatible either with the early bloom of youth or with those graces of sex that may be said at once to win and to confer distinction when combined, as they notably are in you, with the mental qualities above indicated. It was, I confess, beyond my hope to meet with this rare combination of elements both solid and attractive, adapted to supply aid in graver labors and to cast a charm over vacant hours; and but for the event of my introduction to you (which, let me again say, I trust not to be superficially coincident with foreshadowing needs, but providentially related thereto as stages towards the completion of a life's plan), I should presumably have gone on to the last without any attempt to lighten my solitariness by a matrimonial union. Such, my dear Miss Brooke, is the accurate statement of my feelings; and I rely on your kind indulgence in venturing now to ask you how far your own are of a nature to confirm my happy presentiment. To be accepted by you as your husband and the earthly guardian of your welfare, I should regard as the highest of providential gifts. In return I can at least offer you an affection hitherto unwasted, and the faithful consecration of a life which, however short in the sequel, has no backward pages whereon, if you choose to turn them, you will find records such as might justly cause you either bitterness or shame. I await the expression of your sentiments with an anxiety which it would be the part of wisdom (were it possible) to divert by a more arduous labor than usual. But in this order of experience I am still young, and in looking forward to an unfavorable possibility I cannot but feel that resignation to solitude will be more difficult after the temporary illumination of hope. In any case, I shall remain,     Yours with sincere devotion,      EDWARD CASAUBON ~ George Eliot,

799:You said you’d give him a chance!” Noelle screamed. Tears leaked from her eyes. “You’ve been planning this all along and lying to us! You’re a liar!” She hated that word. Meridith tamped down her own anger. “I didn’t lie, Noelle. I just hadn’t told you yet.” “You were never planning to give Uncle Jay a chance! You were planning to sell our home and take us away from day one.” “No, I wasn’t—” “Uncle Jay would never take us away, he’d never sell Summer Place, and he’d never lie to us like you have!” “Well, your Uncle Jay wasn’t here to make those decisions, and if he’d be such a wonderful guardian, why isn’t he here now?” “He is here!” Noelle’s eyes went past Meridith’s shoulders. “He’s been here all along, right beside us, and we want him to be our guardian, not you!” The words sank in slowly. Noelle’s eyes, darting toward Jake. His hand tightening on her shoulder. The boys staring wide-eyed at him. He’s been here all along, right beside us. “Meridith, I—” Meridith jerked away from him. Think. She needed to think. Scenes from the past three months raced through her mind. Jake arriving on her doorstep. The low bid. Jake carrying Ben to his truck. Jake teaching her to dance. “Meridith.” Jake asking to stay here. Her chiding him for being alone with Noelle. Hysteria bubbled in her throat. His niece. Jake saving her from Sean. The day of the parade. The kiss in the dark. His declaration of love. She choked back a laugh. Her own declaration of love. “Meridith—” He set his hand on her shoulder. “Don’t talk to me.” She pushed his hand off, backed away. It made sense now, all of it. The way the kids had bonded to him so quickly. They’d been keeping a secret from her. Jake, the children. Everyone in the house knew but her. She felt like such a fool! But . . . the tender moments between her and Jake, his words . . . Was it just a show, some horrible pretense to get access to the kids, to get custody of the kids? She’d let herself trust him, let herself love him—told him she loved him—and it was all . . . “Get out.” He held out his hands, palms down. “Meridith, just let me—” Meridith put her hands over her ears. “I don’t want to hear it!” Her thoughts spun in so many directions, making her dizzy. Max and Ben were crying. She couldn’t process the chaos, didn’t want to. “Get out, Jake. I mean it.” “All right.” His hands dropped. “All right.” He moved toward the door. “No!” Ben ran to Jake, wrapped his arms around his leg. “You’re the meanest person ever!” Noelle screamed. “Let go, Benny.” Jake pried his hands off. He set the boy aside. “I’ll be back.” His gaze flickered to Max, then to Noelle, and back to Meridith. No, he wouldn’t. She was never letting him in her house, in her heart again. Meridith walked around Jake, opened the front door. “Don’t go, Uncle Jay!” Noelle said. Jake motioned her to settle down. He paused beside Meridith. She wouldn’t look at him. Couldn’t. Could barely contain everything that was building inside. His shoes blurred. She would not cry. “I’ll call you,” he whispered. “Don’t bother.” He ~ Denise Hunter,

800:This fear of the upheld mirror in the hand of genius extends to the teaching profession and perhaps to the primary and secondary school teacher most of all. The teacher occupies a particularly anomalous and exposed position in a society subject to rapid change or threatened by exterior enemies. Society is never totally sure of what it wants of its educators. It wants, first of all, the inculcation of custom, tradition, and all that socializes the child into the good citizen. In the lower grades the demand for conformity is likely to be intense. The child himself, as well as the teacher, is frequently under the surveillance of critical, if not opinionated, parents. Secondly, however, society wants the child to absorb new learning which will simultaneously benefit that society and enhance the individual's prospects of success. Thus the teacher, in some degree, stands as interpreter and disseminator of the cultural mutations introduced by the individual genius into society. Some of the fear, the projected guilt feelings, of those who do not wish to look into the mirrors held up to them by men of the Hawthorne stamp of genius, falls upon us. Moving among innovators of ideas as we do, sifting and judging them daily, something of the suspicion with which the mass of mankind still tends to regard its own cultural creators falls upon the teacher who plays a role of great significance in this process of cultural diffusion. He is, to a degree, placed in a paradoxical position. He is expected both to be the guardian of stability and the exponent of societal change. Since all persons do not accept new ideas at the same rate, it is impossible for the educator to please the entire society even if he remains abjectly servile. This is particularly true in a dynamic and rapidly changing era like the present. Moreover, the true teacher has another allegiance than that to parents alone. More than any other class· in society, teachers mold the future in the minds of the young. They transmit to them the aspirations of great thinkers of which their parents may have only the faintest notions. The teacher is often the first to discover the talented and unusual scholar. How he handles and encourages, or discourages, such a child may make all the difference in the world to that child's future- and to the world. Perhaps he can induce in stubborn parents the conviction that their child is unusual and should be encouraged in his studies. If the teacher is sufficiently judicious, he may even be able to help a child over the teetering planks of a broken home and a bad neighborhood. It is just here, however--in our search for what we might call the able, all-purpose, success-modeled student--that I feel it so necessary not to lose sight of those darker, more uncertain, late-maturing, sometimes painfully abstracted youths who may represent the Darwins, Thoreaus, and Hawthornes of the next generation. ~ Loren Eiseley,

801:LEADER. LET no cares now hover o'er us Let the wine unsparing run! Wilt thou swell our merry chorus? Hast thou all thy duty done? SOLO. Two young folks--the thing is curious-- Loved each other; yesterday Both quite mild, to-day quite furious, Next day, quite the deuce to pay! If her neck she there was stooping, He must here needs pull his hair. I revived their spirits drooping, And they're now a happy pair. CHORUS. Surely we for wine may languish! Let the bumper then go round! For all sighs and groans of anguish Thou to-day in joy hast drown'd. SOLO. Why, young orphan, all this wailing? "Would to heaven that I were dead! For my guardian's craft prevailing Soon will make me beg my bread." Knowing well the rascal genus, Into court I dragg'd the knave; Fair the judges were between us, And the maiden's wealth did save. CHORUS. Surely we for wine may languish! Let the bumper then go round! For all sighs and groans of anguish Thou to-day in joy hast drown'd. SOLO. To a little fellow, quiet, Unpretending and subdued, Has a big clown, running riot, Been to-day extremely rude. I bethought me of my duty, And my courage swell'd apace, So I spoil'd the rascal's beauty, Slashing him across the face. CHORUS. Surely we for wine may languish! Let the bumper then go round! For all sighs and groans of anguish Thou to-day in joy hast drown'd. SOLO. Brief must be my explanation, For I really have done nought. Free from trouble and vexation, I a landlord's business bought. There I've done, with all due ardour, All that duty order'd me; Each one ask'd me for the larder, And there was no scarcity. CHORUS. Surely we for wine may languish! Let the bumper then go round! For all sighs and groans of anguish Thou to-day in joy hast drown'd. LEADER. Each should thus make proclamation Of what he did well to-day! That's the match whose conflagration Should inflame our tuneful lay. Let it be our precept ever To admit no waverer here! For to act the good endeavour, None but rascals meek appear. CHORUS. Surely we for wine may languish! Let the bumper then go round! For all sighs and groans of anguish We have now in rapture drown'd. TRIO. Let each merry minstrel enter, He's right welcome to our hall! 'Tis but with the selftormentor That we are not liberal; For we fear that his caprices, That his eye-brows dark and sad, That his grief that never ceases Hide an empty heart, or bad. CHORUS. No one now for wine shall languish! Here no minstrel shall be found, Who all sighs and groans of anguish, Has not first in rapture drown'd! ~ Johann Wolfgang von Goethe, The Reckoning ,

802:Que Diras-Tu Ce Soir, Pauvre Âme Solitaire (What Will You Say Tonight, Poor Solitary Soul) Que diras-tu ce soir, pauvre âme solitaire, Que diras-tu, mon coeur, coeur autrefois flétri, À la très belle, à la très bonne, à la très chère, Dont le regard divin t'a soudain refleuri? — Nous mettrons notre orgueil à chanter ses louanges: Rien ne vaut la douceur de son autorité Sa chair spirituelle a le parfum des Anges Et son oeil nous revêt d'un habit de clarté. Que ce soit dans la nuit et dans la solitude Que ce soit dans la rue et dans la multitude Son fantôme dans l'air danse comme un flambeau. Parfois il parle et dit: «Je suis belle, et j'ordonne Que pour l'amour de moi vous n'aimiez que le Beau; Je suis l'Ange gardien, la Muse et la Madone.» What Will You Say Tonight, Poor Solitary Soul What will you say tonight, poor solitary soul, What will you say, my heart, heart once so withered, To the kindest, dearest, the fairest of women, Whose divine glance suddenly revived you? — We shall try our pride in singing her praises: There is nothing sweeter than to do her bidding; Her spiritual flesh has the fragrance of Angels, And when she looks upon us we are clothed with light. Be it in the darkness of night, in solitude, Or in the city street among the multitude, Her image in the air dances like a torch flame. Sometimes it speaks and says: 'I am fair, I command That for your love of me you love only Beauty; I am your guardian Angel, your Muse and Madonna.' 401 — Translated by William Aggeler What Can You Say, Poor Lonely Soul of Mine What can you say, poor lonely soul of mine, Or you, poor heart, so long ago turned sour, To the best, dearest, loveliest, whose divine Regard has made you open like a flower? We'll set our pride to sing her highest praise Naught to her sweet authority compares: Her psychic flesh is formed of fragrant airs. Her glances clothe us in a suit of rays. Be it in solitude at dead of night, Or in the crowded streets of glaring light, Her phantom like a torch before me streams. It speaks: 'I'm beautiful. These orders take. Love naught but Beauty, always, for my sake, Madonna, guardian Angel, Muse of dreams.' — Translated by Roy Campbell What Shall You Say Tonight? What shall you say tonight, poor soul so full of care, What shall you say, my heart, heart hitherto so sad, To the most kind, to the most dear, to the most fair, Whose pure serene regard has made you proud and glad? — We shall set all our pride to sing her holy praise! What sweetness to be hers! To live beneath her sight! Half spirit is her flesh, angelic all her ways; Her glance alone invests us in a robe of light! Whether in solitude and deep obscurity, Whether by day among the moving crowd it be, Her phantom like a torch in air will dance and run; 402 It speaks: 'Beauty is mine; Authority is mine; Love only, for my sake, the noble and the fine: I am thine Angel, Muse, Madonna, all in one.' — Translated by Edna St. Vincent Millay ~ Charles Baudelaire,

803:Worthy the majesty of these great finds? Or who in words so strong that he can frame The fit laudations for deserts of him Who left us heritors of such vast prizes, By his own breast discovered and sought out?- There shall be none, methinks, of mortal stock. For if must needs be named for him the name Demanded by the now known majesty Of these high matters, then a god was he,- Hear me, illustrious Memmius- a god; Who first and chief found out that plan of life Which now is called philosophy, and who By cunning craft, out of such mighty waves, Out of such mighty darkness, moored life In havens so serene, in light so clear. Compare those old discoveries divine Of others: lo, according to the tale, Ceres established for mortality The grain, and Bacchus juice of vine-born grape, Though life might yet without these things abide, Even as report saith now some peoples live. But man's well-being was impossible Without a breast all free. Wherefore the more That man doth justly seem to us a god, From whom sweet solaces of life, afar Distributed o'er populous domains, Now soothe the minds of men. But if thou thinkest Labours of Hercules excel the same, Much farther from true reasoning thou farest. For what could hurt us now that mighty maw Of Nemeaean Lion, or what the Boar Who bristled in Arcadia? Or, again, O what could Cretan Bull, or Hydra, pest Of Lerna, fenced with vipers venomous? Or what the triple-breasted power of her The three-fold Geryon The sojourners in the Stymphalian fens So dreadfully offend us, or the Steeds Of Thracian Diomedes breathing fire From out their nostrils off along the zones Bistonian and Ismarian? And the Snake, The dread fierce gazer, guardian of the golden And gleaming apples of the Hesperides, Coiled round the tree-trunk with tremendous bulk, O what, again, could he inflict on us Along the Atlantic shore and wastes of sea?- Where neither one of us approacheth nigh Nor no barbarian ventures. And the rest Of all those monsters slain, even if alive, Unconquered still, what injury could they do? None, as I guess. For so the glutted earth Swarms even now with savage beasts, even now Is filled with anxious terrors through the woods And mighty mountains and the forest deeps- Quarters 'tis ours in general to avoid. But lest the breast be purged, what conflicts then, What perils, must bosom, in our own despite! O then how great and keen the cares of lust That split the man distraught! How great the fears! And lo, the pride, grim greed, and wantonness- How great the slaughters in their train! and lo, Debaucheries and every breed of sloth! Therefore that man who subjugated these, And from the mind expelled, by words indeed, Not arms, O shall it not be seemly him To dignify by ranking with the gods?- And all the more since he was wont to give, Concerning the immortal gods themselves, Many pronouncements with a tongue divine, And to unfold by his pronouncements all The nature of the world. author class:Lucretius ~ can build with puissant breast a song, Proem ,

804:We aren't fighting right now." I blurted out. He gave me a sidelong look. "Do you want to fight?" "No. I hate fighting with you. Verbally, I mean. I don't mind in the gym." I thought I detected the hint of a smile. Always a half-smile for me. Rarely a full one. "I don't like fighting with you either." Sitting next to him there, I marveled at the warm and happy emotions springing up inside me. There was something about being around him that felt so good, that moved me in a way Mason couldn't. You can't force love, I realized, It's there or it isn't. If it's not there, you've got to be able to admit it. If it is there, you've got to do whatever it takes to protect the ones you love. The next words that came out of my mouth astonished me, both because they were completely unselfish and because I actually meant them. "You should take it." He flinched. "What?" "Tasha's offer. You should take her up on it. It's a really great chance." I remembered my mom's words about being ready for children. I wasn't. Maybe she hadn't been. But Tasha was. And I knew Dimitri was too. They got along really well. He could go be her guardian, have some kids with her...it would be a good deal for both of them. "I never expected to hear you say anything like that," he told me, voice tight. "Especially after-" "What a bitch I've been? Yeah." I tugged his coat tighter against the cold. It smelled like him. It was intoxicating, and I could half-imagine being wrapped in his embrace. Adrian might have been onto something about the power of scent. "Well. Like I said, I don't want to fight anymore. I don't want us to hate each other. And...well..." I squeezed my eyes shut and then opened them. "No matter how I feel about us...I want you to be happy." Silence yet again. I noticed then that my chest hurt. Dimitri reached out and put his arm around me. He pulled me to him, and I rested my head on his chest. "Roza," was all he said. It was the first time he'd really touched me since the night of the lust charm. The practice room had been something different...more animal. This wasn't even about sex. It was just about being close to someone you cared about, about the emotion that kind of connection flooded you with. Dimitri might run off with Tasha, but I would still love him. I would probably always love him. I cared about Mason. But I would probably never love him. I sighed into Dimitri, just wishing I could stay like that forever. It felt right being with him. And-no matter how much the thought of him and Tasha made me ache-doing what was best for him felt right. Now, I knew, it was time to stop being a coward and do something else that was right. Mason had said I needed to learn something about myself. I just had. Reluctantly, I pulled away and handed Dimitri his coat. I stood up. He regarded me curiously, sensing my unease. "Where you going?" he asked. "To break someone's heart," I replied. I admired Dimitri for a heartbeat more-the dark, knowing eyes and silken hair. The I headed inside. I had to apologize to Mason...and tell him there'd never be anything between us. ~ Richelle Mead,

805:Soon after the completion of his college course, his whole nature was kindled into one intense and passionate effervescence of romantic passion. His hour came,—the hour that comes only once; his star rose in the horizon,—that star that rises so often in vain, to be remembered only as a thing of dreams; and it rose for him in vain. To drop the figure,—he saw and won the love of a high-minded and beautiful woman, in one of the northern states, and they were affianced. He returned south to make arrangements for their marriage, when, most unexpectedly, his letters were returned to him by mail, with a short note from her guardian, stating to him that ere this reached him the lady would be the wife of another. Stung to madness, he vainly hoped, as many another has done, to fling the whole thing from his heart by one desperate effort. Too proud to supplicate or seek explanation, he threw himself at once into a whirl of fashionable society, and in a fortnight from the time of the fatal letter was the accepted lover of the reigning belle of the season; and as soon as arrangements could be made, he became the husband of a fine figure, a pair of bright dark eyes, and a hundred thousand dollars; and, of course, everybody thought him a happy fellow. The married couple were enjoying their honeymoon, and entertaining a brilliant circle of friends in their splendid villa, near Lake Pontchartrain, when, one day, a letter was brought to him in that well-remembered writing. It was handed to him while he was in full tide of gay and successful conversation, in a whole room-full of company. He turned deadly pale when he saw the writing, but still preserved his composure, and finished the playful warfare of badinage which he was at the moment carrying on with a lady opposite; and, a short time after, was missed from the circle. In his room,alone, he opened and read the letter, now worse than idle and useless to be read. It was from her, giving a long account of a persecution to which she had been exposed by her guardian's family, to lead her to unite herself with their son: and she related how, for a long time, his letters had ceased to arrive; how she had written time and again, till she became weary and doubtful; how her health had failed under her anxieties, and how, at last, she had discovered the whole fraud which had been practised on them both. The letter ended with expressions of hope and thankfulness, and professions of undying affection, which were more bitter than death to the unhappy young man. He wrote to her immediately: I have received yours,—but too late. I believed all I heard. I was desperate. I am married, and all is over. Only forget,—it is all that remains for either of us." And thus ended the whole romance and ideal of life for Augustine St. Clare. But the real remained,—the real, like the flat, bare, oozy tide-mud, when the blue sparkling wave, with all its company of gliding boats and white-winged ships, its music of oars and chiming waters, has gone down, and there it lies, flat, slimy, bare,—exceedingly real. Of course, in a novel, people's hearts break, and they die, and that is the end of it; and in a story this is very convenient. But in real life we do not die when all that makes life bright dies to us. ~ Harriet Beecher Stowe,

806:Ariel to Miranda:-- Take This slave of music, for the sake Of him who is the slave of thee; And teach it all the harmony In which thou canst, and only thou, Make the delighted spirit glow, Till joy denies itself again And, too intense, is turned to pain. For by permission and command Of thine own Prince Ferdinand, Poor Ariel sends this silent token Of more than ever can be spoken; Your guardian spirit, Ariel, who From life to life must still pursue Your happiness,-- for thus alone Can Ariel ever find his own. From Prospero's enchanted cell, As the mighty verses tell, To the throne of Naples he Lit you o'er the trackless sea, Flitting on, your prow before, Like a living meteor. When you die, the silent Moon In her interlunar swoon Is not sadder in her cell Than deserted Ariel. When you live again on earth, Like an unseen Star of birth Ariel guides you o'er the sea Of life from your nativity. Many changes have been run Since Ferdinand and you begun Your course of love, and Ariel still Has tracked your steps and served your will. Now in humbler, happier lot, This is all remembered not; And now, alas! the poor sprite is Imprisoned for some fault of his In a body like a grave From you he only dares to crave, For his service and his sorrow, A smile today, a song tomorrow. The artist who this idol wrought To echo all harmonious thought, Felled a tree, while on the steep The woods were in their winter sleep, Rocked in that repose divine On the wind-swept Apennine; And dreaming, some of Autumn past, And some of Spring approaching fast, And some of April buds and showers, And some of songs in July bowers, And all of love; and so this tree,-- O that such our death may be!-- Died in sleep, and felt no pain, To live in happier form again: From which, beneath Heaven's fairest star, The artist wrought this loved Guitar; And taught it justly to reply To all who question skilfully In language gentle as thine own; Whispering in enamoured tone Sweet oracles of woods and dells, And summer winds in sylvan cells; For it had learnt all harmonies Of the plains and of the skies, Of the forests and the mountains, And the many-voiced fountains; The clearest echoes of the hills, The softest notes of falling rills, The melodies of birds and bees, The murmuring of summer seas, And pattering rain, and breathing dew, And airs of evening; and it knew That seldom-heard mysterious sound Which, driven on its diurnal round, As it floats through boundless day, Our world enkindles on its way: All this it knows, but will not tell To those who cannot question well The Spirit that inhabits it; It talks according to the wit Of its companions; and no more Is heard than has been felt before By those who tempt it to betray These secrets of an elder day. But, sweetly as its answers will Flatter hands of perfect skill, It keeps its highest holiest tone For one beloved Friend alone. Published by Medwin, The Athenaeum, Oct. 20, 1832; Frazer's Magazine, Jan. 1833. There is a copy amongst the Trelawny MSS.    ~ Percy Bysshe Shelley, With A Guitar, To Jane ,

807:Gordon ON through the Libyan sand Rolls ever, mile on mile, League on long league, cleaving the rainless land, Fed by no friendly wave, the immemorial Nile. II Down through the cloudless air, Undimm’d, from heaven’s sheer height, Bend their inscrutable gaze, austere and bare, In long-proceeding pomp, the stars of Libyan night. III Beneath the stars, beside the unpausing flood, Earth trembles at the wandering lion’s roar; Trembles again, when in blind thirst of blood Sweep the wild tribes along the startled shore. IV They sweep and surge and struggle, and are gone: The mournful desert silence reigns again, The immemorial River rolleth on, The order’d stars gaze blank upon the plain. O awful Presence of the lonely Nile, O awful Presence of the starry sky, Lo, in this little while Unto the mind’s trueseeing inward eye There hath arisen there Another haunting Presence as sublime, As great, as sternly fair; Yea, rather fairer far Than stream, or sky, or star, To live while star shall burn or river roll, Unmarr’d by marring Time, The crown of Being, a heroic soul. VI Beyond the weltering tides of worldly change He saw the invisible things, 30 The eternal Forms of Beauty and of Right; Wherewith well pleas’d his spirit wont to range, Rapt with divine delight, Richer than empires, royaler than kings. VII Lover of children, lord of fiery fight, Saviour of empires, servant of the poor, Not in the sordid scales of earth, unsure, Deprav’d, adulterate, He measur’d small and great, But by some righteous balance wrought in heaven, To his pure hand by Powers empyreal given; Therewith, by men unmov’d, as God he judged aright. VIII As on the broad sweet-water’d river tost Falls some poor grain of salt, And melts to naught, nor leaves embittering trace; As in the o’er-arching vault With unrepell’d assault A cloudy climbing vapor, lightly lost, Vanisheth utterly in the starry space; So from our thought, when his enthron’d estate We inly contemplate, All wrangling phantoms fade, and leave us face to face. IX Dwell in us, sacred spirit, as in thee Dwelt the eternal Love, the eternal Life, Nor dwelt in only thee; not thee alone We honor reverently, But in thee all who in some succoring strife, By day or dark, world-witness’d or unknown, Crush’d by the crowd, or in late harvest hail’d, Warring thy war have triumph’d, or have fail’d. Nay, but not only there Broods thy great Presence, o’er the Libyan plain. It haunts a kindlier clime, a dearer air, The liberal air of England, thy lov’d home. Thou through her sunlit clouds and flying rain Breathe, and all winds that sweep her island shore— Rough fields of riven foam, Where in stern watch her guardian breakers roar. Ay, thron’d with all her mighty memories, Wherefrom her nobler sons their nurture draw, With all of good or great For aye incorporate That rears her race to faith and generous shame, To high-aspiring awe, To hate implacable of thick thronging lies, To scorn of gold and gauds and clamorous fame; With all we guard most dear and most divine, All records rank’d with thine, Here be thy home, brave soul, thy undecaying shrine. ~ Ernest Myers,

808:Bring Cecily home,” he said curtly. “I won’t have her at risk, even in the slightest way.” “I’ll take care of Cecily,” came the terse reply. “She’s better off without you in her life.” Tate’s eyes widened. “I beg your pardon?” he asked, affronted. “You know what I mean,” Holden said. “Let her heal. She’s too young to consign herself to spinsterhood over a man who doesn’t even see her.” “Infatuation dies,” Tate said. Holden nodded. “Yes, it does. Goodbye.” “So does hero worship,” he continued, laboring the point. “And that’s why after eight years, Cecily has had one raging affair after the other,” he said facetiously. The words had power. They wounded. “You fool,” Holden said in a soft tone. “Do you really think she’d let any man touch her except you?” He went to his office door and gestured toward the desk. “Don’t forget your gadget,” he added quietly. “Wait!” Holden paused with his hand on the doorknob and turned. “What?” Tate held the device in his hands, watching the lights flicker on it. “Mixing two cultures when one of them is all but extinct is a selfish thing,” he said after a minute. “It has nothing to do with personal feelings. It’s a matter of necessity.” Holden let go of the doorknob and moved to stand directly in front of Tate. “If I had a son,” he said, almost choking on the word, “I’d tell him that there are things even more important than lofty principles. I’d tell him…that love is a rare and precious thing, and that substitutes are notoriously unfulfilling.” Tate searched the older man’s eyes. “You’re a fine one to talk.” Holden’s face fell. “Yes, that’s true.” He turned away. Why should he feel guilty? But he did. “I didn’t mean to say that,” Tate said, irritated by his remorse and the other man’s defeated posture. “I can’t help the way I feel about my culture.” “If it weren’t for the cultural difference, how would you feel about Cecily?” Tate hesitated. “It wouldn’t change anything. She’s been my responsibility. I’ve taken care of her. It would be gratitude on her part, even a little hero worship, nothing more. I couldn’t take advantage of that. Besides, she’s involved with Colby.” “And you couldn’t live with being the second man.” Tate’s face hardened. His eyes flashed. Holden shook his head. “You’re just brimming over with excuses, aren’t you? It isn’t the race thing, it isn’t the culture thing, it isn’t even the guardian-ward thing. You’re afraid.” Tate’s mouth made a thin line. He didn’t reply. “When you love someone, you give up control of yourself,” he continued quietly. “You have to consider the other person’s needs, wants, fears. What you do affects the other person. There’s a certain loss of freedom as well.” He moved a step closer. “The point I’m making is that Cecily already fills that place in your life. You’re still protecting her, and it doesn’t matter that there’s another man. Because you can’t stop looking out for her. Everything you said in this office proves that.” He searched Tate’s turbulent eyes. “You don’t like Colby Lane, and it isn’t because you think Cecily’s involved with him. It’s because he’s been tied to one woman so tight that he can’t struggle free of his love for her, even after years of divorce. That’s how you feel, isn’t it, Tate? You can’t get free of Cecily, either. But Colby’s always around and she indulges him. She might marry him in an act of desperation. And then what will you do? Will your noble excuses matter a damn then? ~ Diana Palmer,

809:Episode 42 A PERILOUS path, it proved, he trod who heinously hid, that hall within, wealth under wall! Its watcher had killed one of a few, and the feud was avenged in woful fashion. Wondrous seems it, what manner a man of might and valor oft ends his life, when the earl no longer in mead-hall may live with loving friends. So Beowulf, when that barrow's warden he sought, and the struggle; himself knew not in what wise he should wend from the world at last. For princes potent, who placed the gold, with a curse to doomsday covered it deep, so that marked with sin the man should be, hedged with horrors, in hell-bonds fast, racked with plagues, who should rob their hoard. Yet no greed for gold, but the grace of heaven, ever the king had kept in view. Wiglaf spake, the son of Weohstan: -"At the mandate of one, oft warriors many sorrow must suffer; and so must we. The people's-shepherd showed not aught of care for our counsel, king beloved! That guardian of gold he should grapple not, urged we, but let him lie where he long had been in his earth-hall waiting the end of the world, the hest of heaven. -- This hoard is ours but grievously gotten; too grim the fate which thither carried our king and lord. I was within there, and all I viewed, the chambered treasure, when chance allowed me (and my path was made in no pleasant wise) under the earth-wall. Eager, I seized such heap from the hoard as hands could bear and hurriedly carried it hither back to my liege and lord. Alive was he still, still wielding his wits. The wise old man spake much in his sorrow, and sent you greetings and bade that ye build, when he breathed no more, 223 on the place of his balefire a barrow high, memorial mighty. Of men was he worthiest warrior wide earth o'er the while he had joy of his jewels and burg. Let us set out in haste now, the second time to see and search this store of treasure, these wall-hid wonders, -- the way I show you, -where, gathered near, ye may gaze your fill at broad-gold and rings. Let the bier, soon made, be all in order when out we come, our king and captain to carry thither -- man beloved -- where long he shall bide safe in the shelter of sovran God." Then the bairn of Weohstan bade command, hardy chief, to heroes many that owned their homesteads, hither to bring firewood from far -- o'er the folk they ruled -for the famed-one's funeral. " Fire shall devour and wan flames feed on the fearless warrior who oft stood stout in the iron-shower, when, sped from the string, a storm of arrows shot o'er the shield-wall: the shaft held firm, featly feathered, followed the barb." And now the sage young son of Weohstan seven chose of the chieftain's thanes, the best he found that band within, and went with these warriors, one of eight, under hostile roof. In hand one bore a lighted torch and led the way. No lots they cast for keeping the hoard when once the warriors saw it in hall, altogether without a guardian, lying there lost. And little they mourned when they had hastily haled it out, dear-bought treasure! The dragon they cast, the worm, o'er the wall for the wave to take, and surges swallowed that shepherd of gems. Then the woven gold on a wain was laden -countless quite! -- and the king was borne, hoary hero, to Hrones-Ness. 224 ~ Anonymous Olde English,

810:Beowulf (Episode 22) BEOWULF spake, bairn of Ecgtheow: -"Have mind, thou honored offspring of Healfdene gold-friend of men, now I go on this quest, sovran wise, what once was said: if in thy cause it came that I should lose my life, thou wouldst loyal bide to me, though fallen, in father's place! Be guardian, thou, to this group of my thanes, my warrior-friends, if War should seize me; and the goodly gifts thou gavest me, Hrothgar beloved, to Hygelac send! Geatland's king may ken by the gold, Hrethel's son see, when he stares at the treasure, that I got me a friend for goodness famed, and joyed while I could in my jewel-bestower. And let Unferth wield this wondrous sword, earl far-honored, this heirloom precious, hard of edge: with Hrunting I seek doom of glory, or Death shall take me." After these words the Weder-Geat lord boldly hastened, biding never answer at all: the ocean floods closed o'er the hero. Long while of the day fled ere he felt the floor of the sea. Soon found the fiend who the flood-domain sword-hungry held these hundred winters, greedy and grim, that some guest from above, some man, was raiding her monster-realm. She grasped out for him with grisly claws, and the warrior seized; yet scathed she not his body hale; the breastplate hindered, as she strove to shatter the sark of war, the linked harness, with loathsome hand. Then bore this brine-wolf, when bottom she touched, the lord of rings to the lair she haunted whiles vainly he strove, though his valor held, weapon to wield against wondrous monsters that sore beset him; sea-beasts many tried with fierce tusks to tear his mail, 131 and swarmed on the stranger. But soon he marked he was now in some hall, he knew not which, where water never could work him harm, nor through the roof could reach him ever fangs of the flood. Firelight he saw, beams of a blaze that brightly shone. Then the warrior was ware of that wolf-of-the-deep, mere-wife monstrous. For mighty stroke he swung his blade, and the blow withheld not. Then sang on her head that seemly blade its war-song wild. But the warrior found the light-of-battle was loath to bite, to harm the heart: its hard edge failed the noble at need, yet had known of old strife hand to hand, and had helmets cloven, doomed men's fighting-gear. First time, this, for the gleaming blade that its glory fell. Firm still stood, nor failed in valor, heedful of high deeds, Hygelac's kinsman; flung away fretted sword, featly jewelled, the angry earl; on earth it lay steel-edged and stiff. His strength he trusted, hand-gripe of might. So man shall do whenever in war he weens to earn him lasting fame, nor fears for his life! Seized then by shoulder, shrank not from combat, the Geatish war-prince Grendel's mother. Flung then the fierce one, filled with wrath, his deadly foe, that she fell to ground. Swift on her part she paid him back with grisly grasp, and grappled with him. Spent with struggle, stumbled the warrior, fiercest of fighting-men, fell adown. On the hall-guest she hurled herself, hent her short sword, broad and brown-edged, the bairn to avenge, the sole-born son. -- On his shoulder lay braided breast-mail, barring death, withstanding entrance of edge or blade. Life would have ended for Ecgtheow's son, under wide earth for that earl of Geats, had his armor of war not aided him, battle-net hard, and holy God 132 wielded the victory, wisest Maker. The Lord of Heaven allowed his cause; and easily rose the earl erect. ~ Anonymous Olde English,

811:The supreme Form is then made visible. It is that of the infinite Godhead whose faces are everywhere and in whom are all the wonders of existence, who multiplies unendingly all the many marvellous revelations of his being, a world-wide Divinity seeing with innumerable eyes, speaking from innumerable mouths, armed for battle with numberless divine uplifted weapons, glorious with divine ornaments of beauty, robed in heavenly raiment of deity, lovely with garlands of divine flowers, fragrant with divine perfumes. Such is the light of this body of God as if a thousand suns had risen at once in heaven. The whole world multitudinously divided and yet unified is visible in the body of the God of Gods. Arjuna sees him, God magnificent and beautiful and terrible, the Lord of souls who has manifested in the glory and greatness of his spirit this wild and monstrous and orderly and wonderful and sweet and terrible world, and overcome with marvel and joy and fear he bows down and adores with words of awe and with clasped hands the tremendous vision. "I see" he cries "all the gods in thy body, O God, and different companies of beings, Brahma the creating lord seated in the Lotus, and the Rishis and the race of the divine Serpents. I see numberless arms and bellies and eyes and faces, I see thy infinite forms on every side, but I see not thy end nor thy middle nor thy beginning, O Lord of the universe, O Form universal. I see thee crowned and with thy mace and thy discus, hard to discern because thou art a luminous mass of energy on all sides of me, an encompassing blaze, a sun-bright fire-bright Immeasurable. Thou art the supreme Immutable whom we have to know, thou art the high foundation and abode of the universe, thou art the imperishable guardian of the eternal laws, thou art the sempiternal soul of existence." But in the greatness of this vision there is too the terrific image of the Destroyer. This Immeasurable without end or middle or beginning is he in whom all things begin and exist and end. This Godhead who embraces the worlds with his numberless arms and destroys with his million hands, whose eyes are suns and moons, has a face of blazing fire and is ever burning up the whole universe with the flame of his energy. The form of him is fierce and marvellous and alone it fills all the regions and occupies the whole space between earth and heaven. The companies of the gods enter it, afraid, adoring; the Rishis and the Siddhas crying "May there be peace and weal" praise it with many praises; the eyes of Gods and Titans and Giants are fixed on it in amazement. It has enormous burning eyes; it has mouths that gape to devour, terrible with many tusks of destruction; it has faces like the fires of Death and Time. The kings and the captains and the heroes on both sides of the world-battle are hastening into its tusked and terrible jaws and some are seen with crushed and bleeding heads caught between its teeth of power; the nations are rushing to destruction with helpless speed into its mouths of flame like many rivers hurrying in their course towards the ocean or like moths that cast themselves on a kindled fire. With those burning mouths the Form of Dread is licking all the regions around; the whole world is full of his burning energies and baked in the fierceness of his lustres. The world and its nations are shaken and in anguish with the terror of destruction and Arjuna shares in the trouble and panic around him; troubled and in pain is the soul within him and he finds no peace or gladness. He cries to the dreadful Godhead, "Declare to me who thou art that wearest this form of fierceness. Salutation to thee, O thou great Godhead, turn thy heart to grace. I would know who thou art who wast from the beginning, for I know not the will of thy workings." ~ Sri Aurobindo, Essays On The Gita, 2.10_-_The_Vision_of_the_World-Spirit_-_Time_the_Destroyer,

812:Tell me the story," said Fenchurch firmly. "You arrived at the station." "I was about twenty minutes early. I'd got the time of the train wrong." "Get on with it." Fenchurch laughed. "So I bought a newspaper, to do the crossword, and went to the buffet to get a cup of coffee." "You do the crossword?" "Yes." "Which one?" "The Guardian usually." "I think it tries to be too cute. I prefer The Times. Did you solve it?" "What?" "The crossword in the Guardian." "I haven't had a chance to look at it yet," said Arthur, "I'm still trying to buy the coffee." "All right then. Buy the coffee." "I'm buying it. I am also," said Arthur, "buying some biscuits." "What sort?" "Rich Tea." "Good Choice." "I like them. Laden with all these new possessions, I go and sit at a table. And don't ask me what the table was like because this was some time ago and I can't remember. It was probably round." "All right." "So let me give you the layout. Me sitting at the table. On my left, the newspaper. On my right, the cup of coffee. In the middle of the table, the packet of biscuits." "I see it perfectly." "What you don't see," said Arthur, "because I haven't mentioned him yet, is the guy sitting at the table already. He is sitting there opposite me." "What's he look like?" "Perfectly ordinary. Briefcase. Business suit. He didn't look," said Arthur, "as if he was about to do anything weird." "Ah. I know the type. What did he do?" "He did this. He leaned across the table, picked up the packet of biscuits, tore it open, took one out, and..." "What?" "Ate it." "What?" "He ate it." Fenchurch looked at him in astonishment. "What on earth did you do?" "Well, in the circumstances I did what any red-blooded Englishman would do. I was compelled," said Arthur, "to ignore it." "What? Why?" "Well, it's not the sort of thing you're trained for is it? I searched my soul, and discovered that there was nothing anywhere in my upbringing, experience or even primal instincts to tell me how to react to someone who has quite simply, calmly, sitting right there in front of me, stolen one of my biscuits." "Well, you could..." Fenchurch thought about it. "I must say I'm not sure what I would have done either. So what happened?" "I stared furiously at the crossword," said Arthur. "Couldn't do a single clue, took a sip of coffee, it was too hot to drink, so there was nothing for it. I braced myself. I took a biscuit, trying very hard not to notice," he added, "that the packet was already mysteriously open..." "But you're fighting back, taking a tough line." "After my fashion, yes. I ate a biscuit. I ate it very deliberately and visibly, so that he would have no doubt as to what it was I was doing. When I eat a biscuit," Arthur said, "it stays eaten." "So what did he do?" "Took another one. Honestly," insisted Arthur, "this is exactly what happened. He took another biscuit, he ate it. Clear as daylight. Certain as we are sitting on the ground." Fenchurch stirred uncomfortably. "And the problem was," said Arthur, "that having not said anything the first time, it was somehow even more difficult to broach the subject a second time around. What do you say? "Excuse me...I couldn't help noticing, er..." Doesn't work. No, I ignored it with, if anything, even more vigor than previously." "My man..." "Stared at the crossword, again, still couldn't budge a bit of it, so showing some of the spirit that Henry V did on St. Crispin's Day..." "What?" "I went into the breach again. I took," said Arthur, "another biscuit. And for an instant our eyes met." "Like this?" "Yes, well, no, not quite like that. But they met. Just for an instant. And we both looked away. But I am here to tell you," said Arthur, "that there was a little electricity in the air. There was a little tension building up over the table. At about this time." "I can imagine. ~ Douglas Adams,

813:The Cathedral Of Rheims He who walks through the meadows of Champagne At noon in Fall, when leaves like gold appear, Sees it draw near Like some great mountain set upon the plain, From radiant dawn until the close of day, Nearer it grows To him who goes Across the country. When tall towers lay Their shadowy pall Upon his way, He enters, where The solid stone is hollowed deep by all Its centuries of beauty and of prayer. Ancient French temple! thou whose hundred kings Watch over thee, emblazoned on thy walls, Tell me, within thy memory-hallowed halls What chant of triumph, or what war-song rings? Thou hast known Clovis and his Frankish train, Whose mighty hand Saint Remy's hand did keep And in thy spacious vault perhaps may sleep An echo of the voice of Charlemagne. For God thou has known fear, when from His side Men wandered, seeking alien shrines and new, But still the sky was bountiful and blue And thou wast crowned with France's love and pride. Sacred thou art, from pinnacle to base; And in thy panes of gold and scarlet glass The setting sun sees thousandfold his face; Sorrow and joy, in stately silence pass Across thy walls, the shadow and the light; Around thy lofty pillars, tapers white Illuminate, with delicate sharp flames, The brows of saints with venerable names, And in the night erect a fiery wall. A great but silent fervour burns in all Those simple folk who kneel, pathetic, dumb, And know that down below, beside the Rhine Cannon, horses, soldiers, flags in line - 310 With blare of trumpets, mighty armies come. Suddenly, each knows fear; Swift rumours pass, that every one must hear, The hostile banners blaze against the sky And by the embassies mobs rage and cry. Now war has come, and peace is at an end. On Paris town the German troops descend. They are turned back, and driven to Champagne. And now, as to so many weary men, The glorious temple gives them welcome, when It meets them at the bottom of the plain. At once, they set their cannon in its way. There is no gable now, nor wall That does not suffer, night and day, As shot and shell in crushing torrents fall. The stricken tocsin quivers through the tower; The triple nave, the apse, the lonely choir Are circled, hour by hour, With thundering bands of fire And Death is scattered broadcast among men. And then That which was splendid with baptismal grace; The stately arches soaring into space, The transepts, columns, windows gray and gold, The organ, in whose tones the ocean rolled, The crypts, of mighty shades the dwelling places, The Virgin's gentle hands, the Saints' pure faces, All, even the pardoning hands of Christ the Lord Were struck and broken by the wanton sword Of sacrilegious lust. O beauty slain, O glory in the dust! Strong walls of faith, most basely overthrown! The crawling flames, like adders glistening Ate the white fabric of this lovely thing. Now from its soul arose a piteous moan, The soul that always loved the just and fair. Granite and marble loud their woe confessed, The silver monstrances that Popes had blessed, 311 The chalices and lamps and crosiers rare Were seared and twisted by a flaming breath; The horror everywhere did range and swell, The guardian Saints into this furnace fell, Their bitter tears and screams were stilled in death. Around the flames armed hosts are skirmishing, The burning sun reflects the lurid scene; The German army, fighting for its life, Rallies its torn and terrified left wing; And, as they near this place The imperial eagles see Before them in their flight, Here, in the solemn night, The old cathedral, to the years to be Showing, with wounded arms, their own disgrace. ~ Emile Verhaeren,

814:Elegy To The Memory Of An Unfortunate Lady What beck'ning ghost, along the moon-light shade Invites my steps, and points to yonder glade? 'Tis she!--but why that bleeding bosom gor'd, Why dimly gleams the visionary sword? Oh ever beauteous, ever friendly! tell, Is it, in heav'n, a crime to love too well? To bear too tender, or too firm a heart, To act a lover's or a Roman's part? Is there no bright reversion in the sky, For those who greatly think, or bravely die? Why bade ye else, ye pow'rs! her soul aspire Above the vulgar flight of low desire? Ambition first sprung from your blest abodes; The glorious fault of angels and of gods; Thence to their images on earth it flows, And in the breasts of kings and heroes glows. Most souls, 'tis true, but peep out once an age, Dull sullen pris'ners in the body's cage: Dim lights of life, that burn a length of years Useless, unseen, as lamps in sepulchres; Like eastern kings a lazy state they keep, And close confin'd to their own palace, sleep. From these perhaps (ere nature bade her die) Fate snatch'd her early to the pitying sky. As into air the purer spirits flow, And sep'rate from their kindred dregs below; So flew the soul to its congenial place, Nor left one virtue to redeem her race. But thou, false guardian of a charge too good, Thou, mean deserter of thy brother's blood! See on these ruby lips the trembling breath, These cheeks now fading at the blast of death: Cold is that breast which warm'd the world before, And those love-darting eyes must roll no more. Thus, if eternal justice rules the ball, Thus shall your wives, and thus your children fall; 51 On all the line a sudden vengeance waits, And frequent hearses shall besiege your gates. There passengers shall stand, and pointing say, (While the long fun'rals blacken all the way) "Lo these were they, whose souls the furies steel'd, And curs'd with hearts unknowing how to yield. Thus unlamented pass the proud away, The gaze of fools, and pageant of a day! So perish all, whose breast ne'er learn'd to glow For others' good, or melt at others' woe." What can atone (oh ever-injur'd shade!) Thy fate unpitied, and thy rites unpaid? No friend's complaint, no kind domestic tear Pleas'd thy pale ghost, or grac'd thy mournful bier. By foreign hands thy dying eyes were clos'd, By foreign hands thy decent limbs compos'd, By foreign hands thy humble grave adorn'd, By strangers honour'd, and by strangers mourn'd! What though no friends in sable weeds appear, Grieve for an hour, perhaps, then mourn a year, And bear about the mockery of woe To midnight dances, and the public show? What though no weeping loves thy ashes grace, Nor polish'd marble emulate thy face? What though no sacred earth allow thee room, Nor hallow'd dirge be mutter'd o'er thy tomb? Yet shall thy grave with rising flow'rs be drest, And the green turf lie lightly on thy breast: There shall the morn her earliest tears bestow, There the first roses of the year shall blow; While angels with their silver wings o'ershade The ground, now sacred by thy reliques made. So peaceful rests, without a stone, a name, What once had beauty, titles, wealth, and fame. How lov'd, how honour'd once, avails thee not, To whom related, or by whom begot; A heap of dust alone remains of thee, 'Tis all thou art, and all the proud shall be! Poets themselves must fall, like those they sung, 52 Deaf the prais'd ear, and mute the tuneful tongue. Ev'n he, whose soul now melts in mournful lays, Shall shortly want the gen'rous tear he pays; Then from his closing eyes thy form shall part, And the last pang shall tear thee from his heart, Life's idle business at one gasp be o'er, The Muse forgot, and thou belov'd no more! ~ Alexander Pope,

815:Episode 32 THAT way he went with no will of his own, in danger of life, to the dragon's hoard, but for pressure of peril, some prince's thane. He fled in fear the fatal scourge, seeking shelter, a sinful man, and entered in. At the awful sight tottered that guest, and terror seized him; yet the wretched fugitive rallied anon from fright and fear ere he fled away, and took the cup from that treasure-hoard. Of such besides there was store enough, heirlooms old, the earth below, which some earl forgotten, in ancient years, left the last of his lofty race, heedfully there had hidden away, dearest treasure. For death of yore had hurried all hence; and he alone left to live, the last of the clan, weeping his friends, yet wished to bide warding the treasure, his one delight, though brief his respite. The barrow, new-ready, to strand and sea-waves stood anear, hard by the headland, hidden and closed; there laid within it his lordly heirlooms and heaped hoard of heavy gold that warden of rings. Few words he spake: "Now hold thou, earth, since heroes may not, what earls have owned! Lo, erst from thee brave men brought it! But battle-death seized and cruel killing my clansmen all, robbed them of life and a liegeman's joys. None have I left to lift the sword, or to cleanse the carven cup of price, beaker bright. My brave are gone. And the helmet hard, all haughty with gold, shall part from its plating. Polishers sleep who could brighten and burnish the battle-mask; and those weeds of war that were wont to brave over bicker of shields the bite of steel 201 rust with their bearer. The ringed mail fares not far with famous chieftain, at side of hero! No harp's delight, no glee-wood's gladness! No good hawk now flies through the hall! Nor horses fleet stamp in the burgstead! Battle and death the flower of my race have reft away." Mournful of mood, thus he moaned his woe, alone, for them all, and unblithe wept by day and by night, till death's fell wave o'erwhelmed his heart. His hoard-of-bliss that old ill-doer open found, who, blazing at twilight the barrows haunteth, naked foe-dragon flying by night folded in fire: the folk of earth dread him sore. 'Tis his doom to seek hoard in the graves, and heathen gold to watch, many-wintered: nor wins he thereby! Powerful this plague-of-the-people thus held the house of the hoard in earth three hundred winters; till One aroused wrath in his breast, to the ruler bearing that costly cup, and the king implored for bond of peace. So the barrow was plundered, borne off was booty. His boon was granted that wretched man; and his ruler saw first time what was fashioned in far-off days. When the dragon awoke, new woe was kindled. O'er the stone he snuffed. The stark-heart found footprint of foe who so far had gone in his hidden craft by the creature's head. -So may the undoomed easily flee evils and exile, if only he gain the grace of The Wielder! -- That warden of gold o'er the ground went seeking, greedy to find the man who wrought him such wrong in sleep. Savage and burning, the barrow he circled all without; nor was any there, none in the waste.... Yet war he desired, was eager for battle. The barrow he entered, sought the cup, and discovered soon that some one of mortals had searched his treasure, 202 his lordly gold. The guardian waited ill-enduring till evening came; boiling with wrath was the barrow's keeper, and fain with flame the foe to pay for the dear cup's loss. -- Now day was fled as the worm had wished. By its wall no more was it glad to bide, but burning flew folded in flame: a fearful beginning for sons of the soil; and soon it came, in the doom of their lord, to a dreadful end. ~ Anonymous Olde English,

816:A Captive Throstle Poor little mite with mottled breast, Half-fledged, and fallen from the nest, For whom this world hath just begun, Who want to fly, yet scarce can run; Why open wide your yellow beak? Is it for hunger, or to speakTo tell me that you fain would be Loosed from my hand to liberty? Well, you yourself decide your fate, But be not too precipitate. Which will you have? If you agree To quit the lanes, and lodge with me, I promise you a bed more soft, Even than that where you aloft First opened wondering eyes, and found A world of green leaves all around. When you awake, you straight shall see A fresh turf, green and velvety, Well of clear water, sifted seed, All things, in short, that bird can need; And gentle beings, far more fair Than build on bough, or skim through air, When all without is wet and bleak, Laying against your cage their cheek, To make you pipe shall coax and coo, And bud their pretty lips at you. And when the clammy winter rain Drips from the roof and clouds the pane, When windows creak and chimneys roar, And beggars wail outside the door, And stretch out fingers lank and thin, You shall be safely housed within, And through the wood-fire's flickering glow Watch drifting leaves or driving snow, Till Marian pulls the shutters up, And you go sleep, and I go sup. But now suppose I let you go, 12 To rains that beat, to winds that blow, To heedless chance and prowling foe? Mayhap this very day, alas! You will be drowned in tangled grass: Or, that escaped, some slinking stoat May seize and suck your speckled throat; Or hawk slow wheeling in the sky Your fluttering feeble wings descry, And, straightway downward flashing thence, Relish and rend your innocence. Should you survive, and glad and strong Make autumn spring-like with your song, You will be lured, the very first, Where netted berries bulge and burst, And, by their guardian caught alive, You may, before I can arrive To bid him not be so unsparing, Have paid the forfeit of your daring. Time too will come, there will not be Berry on bush, or pod on tree, Stripped be the hawthorn, bare the holly, And all the boughs drip melancholy; And you will have to scrape for food Amid a frosty solitude. Which shall it be? Now quick decide! Safety confined, or peril wide? Then did the little bird reply: ``'Tis true, as yet I scarce can fly; But oh! it is such joy to try! Just as you came, I was beginning To win my wings, exult in winning; To feel the promptings of the pinion, The dawn of a divine dominion Over the empty air, and over Fields of young wheat and breadths of clover: Pledge of a power to scale, some day, My native elm-tree's topmost spray, And mid the leaves and branches warm Sing far beyond the reach of harm. And shall I barter gift like this 13 For doled-out joy and measured bliss? For a trim couch and dainty fare Forfeit the freedom of the air? Shall I exchange for punctual food April's sweet loves and summer's brood; The dewy nest 'neath twinkling stars For crushing roof and cramping bars? No! Come what chance or foe that may, Menace of death this very day, The weasel's clutch, the falcon's swoopWhat if these kill? they do not coop. Autumn's worst ambush, winter's rage, Are sweeter than the safest cage.'' Off, little mite! I let you fly, And do as I would be done by. Nature within your heart hath sown A wisdom wiser than my own, And from your choice I learn to prize The birth-right of unbounded skies, Delightful danger of being free, Sweet sense of insecurity; The privilege to risk one's all On being nor captive, caged, nor thrall, The wish to range, the wing to soar Past space behind, through space before, The ecstasy of unknown flight, The doubt, the danger, the delight, To range and roam, unchained, unvext, Nor know what worlds will open next; And, since Death waits both caged and free To die, at least, of liberty. ~ Alfred Austin,

817:AUGOEIDES:    The magicians most important invocation is that of his Genius, Daemon, True Will, or Augoeides. This operation is traditionally known as attaining the Knowledge and Conversation of the Holy Guardian Angel. It is sometimes known as the Magnum Opus or Great Work.    The Augoeides may be defined as the most perfect vehicle of Kia on the plane of duality. As the avatar of Kia on earth, the Augoeides represents the true will, the raison detre of the magician, his purpose in existing. The discovery of ones true will or real nature may be difficult and fraught with danger, since a false identification leads to obsession and madness. The operation of obtaining the knowledge and conversation is usually a lengthy one. The magician is attempting a progressive metamorphosis, a complete overhaul of his entire existence. Yet he has to seek the blueprint for his reborn self as he goes along. Life is less the meaningless accident it seems. Kia has incarnated in these particular conditions of duality for some purpose. The inertia of previous existences propels Kia into new forms of manifestation. Each incarnation represents a task, or a puzzle to be solved, on the way to some greater form of completion.    The key to this puzzle is in the phenomena of the plane of duality in which we find ourselves. We are, as it were, trapped in a labyrinth or maze. The only thing to do is move about and keep a close watch on the way the walls turn. In a completely chaotic universe such as this one, there are no accidents. Everything is signifcant. Move a single grain of sand on a distant shore and the entire future history of the world will eventually be changed. A person doing his true will is assisted by the momentum of the universe and seems possessed of amazing good luck. In beginning the great work of obtaining the knowledge and conversation, the magician vows to interpret every manifestation of existence as a direct message from the infinite Chaos to himself personally.    To do this is to enter the magical world view in its totality. He takes complete responsibility for his present incarnation and must consider every experience, thing, or piece of information which assails him from any source, as a reflection of the way he is conducting his existence. The idea that things happen to one that may or may not be related to the way one acts is an illusion created by our shallow awareness.    Keeping a close eye on the walls of the labyrinth, the conditions of his existence, the magician may then begin his invocation. The genius is not something added to oneself. Rather it is a stripping away of excess to reveal the god within.    Directly on awakening, preferably at dawn, the initiate goes to the place of invocation. Figuring to himself as he goes that being born anew each day brings with it the chance of greater rebirth, first he banishes the temple of his mind by ritual or by some magical trance. Then he unveils some token or symbol or sigil which represents to him the Holy Guardian Angel. This symbol he will likely have to change during the great work as the inspiration begins to move him. Next he invokes an image of the Angel into his minds eye. It may be considered as a luminous duplicate of ones own form standing in front of or behind one, or simply as a ball of brilliant light above ones head. Then he formulates his aspirations in what manner he will, humbling himself in prayer or exalting himself in loud proclamation as his need be. The best form of this invocation is spoken spontaneously from the heart, and if halting at first, will prove itself in time. He is aiming to establish a set of ideas and images which correspond to the nature of his genius, and at the same time receive inspiration from that source. As the magician begins to manifest more of his true will, the Augoeides will reveal images, names, and spiritual principles by which it can be drawn into greater manifestation. Having communicated with the invoked form, the magician should draw it into himself and go forth to live in the way he hath willed.    The ritual may be concluded with an aspiration to the wisdom of silence by a brief concentration on the sigil of the Augoeides, but never by banishing. Periodically more elaborate forms of ritual, using more powerful forms of gnosis, may be employed. At the end of the day, there should be an accounting and fresh resolution made. Though every day be a catalog of failure, there should be no sense of sin or guilt. Magic is the raising of the whole individual in perfect balance to the power of Infinity, and such feelings are symptomatic of imbalance. If any unnecessary or imbalanced scraps of ego become identified with the genius by mistake, then disaster awaits. The life force flows directly into these complexes and bloats them into grotesque monsters variously known as the demon Choronzon. Some magicians attempting to go too fast with this invocation have failed to banish this demon, and have gone spectacularly insane as a result.    ~ Peter J Carroll, Liber Null,

818:The Messiah : A Sacred Eclogue Ye nymphs of Solyma! begin the song, To heavenly themes sublimer strains belong. The mossy fountains, and the sylvan shades, The dreams of Pindus, and the Aonian maids, Delight no more - O thou, my voice inspire, Who touched Isaiah's hallowed lips with fire! Rapt into future times the bard begun, A virgin shall conceive, a Virgin bear a son! From Jesse's root behold a branch arise, Whose sacred flower with fragrance fills the skies; The ethereal Spirit o'er its leaves shall move, And on its top descend the mystic Dove. Ye heavens! from high the dewy nectar pour, And in soft silence shed the kindly shower! The sick and weak, the healing Plant shall aid, From storms a shelter, and from heat a shade. All crimes shall cease, and ancient fraud shall fail; Returning justice lift aloft her scale. Peace o'er the world her olive wand extend, And white robed innocence from heaven descend. Swift fly the years, and rise the expected morn! O spring to light, auspicious Babe, be born! See! nature hastes her earliest wreaths to bring, WIth all the incense of the breathing spring! See! lofty Lebanon his head advance, See! nodding forests on the mountains dance: See! spicy clouds from lowly Sharon rise; And Carmel's flowery top perfumes the skies. Hark! a glad voice the lonely desart cheers; Prepare the way! a God, a God appears: A God, a God! the vocal hills reply, The rocks proclaim the approaching Deity. Lo! earth receives him from the bending skies! Sink down ye mountains, and ye vallies rise! With heads declined ye cedars homage pay! Be smooth ye rocks, ye rapid floods give way! The Saviour comes! by ancient bards foretold: 218 Hear him ye deaf, and all ye blind, behold! He from thick films shall purge the visual ray, And on the sightless eye-ball pour the day. 'Tis he the obstructed paths of sound shall clear, The dumb shall sing, the lame his crutch forego, And leap exulting like the bounding roe: No sigh, no murmer the wide world shall hear; From every face he wipes off every tear. In adamantine chains shall death be bound, And hell's grim tyrant feel the eternal wound. As the good shepherd tends his fleecy care, Seeks freshest pastures and the purest air: Explores the lost, the wandering sheep directs, By day o'ersees them, and by night protects; The tender lambs he raises in his arms, Feeds from his hand, and in his bosom warms! Thus shall mankind his guardian care engage, The promis'd father of the future age. No more shall nation against nation rise, Nor ardent warriors meet with hateful eyes; Nor fields with gleaming steel be cover'd o'er, The brazen trumpets kindle rage no more; But useless lances into scythes shall bend, And the broad faulchion in a plough-share end. Then palaces shall rise: the joyful son Shall finish what his short-liv'd fire begun; Their vines a shadow to their race shall yield, And the same hand that sow'd, shall reap the field. The swain in barren desarts with surprise Sees lillies spring, and sudden verdure rise, And starts amidst the thirsty wilds to hear New falls of water murmuring in his ear; On rifted rocks, the dragon's late abodes, The green reed trembles, and the bulrush nods. Waste sandy vallies once perplex'd with thorn, The spiry fir and shapely box adorn; The leafless shrubs the flow'ring palms succeed, And odorous myrtle to the noisome weed. The lambs with wolves shall grace the verdant mead, And boys in flow'ry bands the tyger lead; The steer and lion at one crib shall meet, And harmless serpents lick the pilgrim's feet. 219 The smiling infant in his hand shall take The crested basilisk and speckled snake; Pleas'd, the green lustres of the scales survey, And with their forky tongues shall innocently play. Rise, crown'd with light, imperial Salem rise! Exalt thy tow'ry head, and lift thy eyes! See! a long race thy spacious courts adorn; See! future sons and daughters yet unborn, In crowding ranks on ev'ry side arise, Demanding life, impatient for the skies! See! barb'rous nations at thy gates attend, Walk in thy light, and in thy temple bend; See! thy bright altars throng'd with prostrate kings, And heap'd with products of Sabaean springs! For thee Idume's spicy forests blow, And seeds of gold in Ophir's mountains glow. See! heav'n its sparkling portals wide display, And break upon thee in a flood of day! No more the rising sun shall gild the morn, Nor ev'ning Cynthia fill her silver horn; But lost, dissolv'd in thy superior rays, One tide of glory, one unclouded blaze, O'erflow thy courts: the Light Himself shall shine Reveal'd, and God's eternal day be thine! The seas shall waste, the skies in smoke decay, Rocks fall to dust, and mountains melt away; But fix'd his word, his saving pow'r remains, Thy realm for ever lasts, thy own Messiah reigns. ~ Alexander Pope,

819:Chapter LXXXII: Epistola Penultima: The Two Ways to Reality Cara Soror, Do what thou wilt shall be the whole of the Law. How very sensible of you, though I admit somewhat exacting! You write-Will you tell me exactly why I should devote so much of my valuable time to subjects like Magick and Yoga. That is all very well. But you ask me to put it in syllogistic form. I have no doubt this can be done, though the task seems somewhat complicated. I think I will leave it to you to construct your series of syllogisms yourself from the arguments of this letter. In your main question the operative word is "valuable. Why, I ask, in my turn, should you consider your time valuable? It certainly is not valuable unless the universe has a meaning, and what is more, unless you know what that meaning is-at least roughly-it is millions to one that you will find yourself barking up the wrong tree. First of all let us consider this question of the meaning of the universe. It is its own evidence to design, and that design intelligent design. There is no question of any moral significance-"one man's meat is another man's poison" and so on. But there can be no possible doubt about the existence of some kind of intelligence, and that kind is far superior to anything of which we know as human. How then are we to explore, and finally to interpret this intelligence? It seems to me that there are two ways and only two. Imagine for a moment that you are an orphan in charge of a guardian, inconceivably learned from your point of view. Suppose therefore that you are puzzled by some problem suitable to your childish nature, your obvious and most simple way is to approach your guardian and ask him to enlighten you. It is clearly part of his function as guardian to do his best to help you. Very good, that is the first method, and close parallel with what we understand by the word Magick. We are bothered by some difficulty about one of the elements-say Fire-it is therefore natural to evoke a Salamander to instruct you on the difficult point. But you must remember that your Holy Guardian Angel is not only far more fully instructed than yourself on every point that you can conceive, but you may go so far as to say that it is definitely his work, or part of his work; remembering always that he inhabits a sphere or plane which is entirely different from anything of which you are normally aware. To attain to the Knowledge and Conversation of the Holy Guardian Angel is consequently without doubt by far the simplest way by which you can yourself approach that higher order of being. That, then, is a clearly intelligible method of procedure. We call it Magick. It is of course possible to strengthen the link between him and yourself so that in course of time you became capable of moving and, generally speaking, operating on that plane which is his natural habitat. There is however one other way, and one only, as far as I can see, of reaching this state. It is at least theoretically possible to exalt the whole of your own consciousness until it becomes as free to move on that exalted plane as it is for him. You should note, by the way, that in this case the postulation of another being is not necessary. There is no way of refuting the solipsism if you feel like that. Personally I cannot accede to its axiom. The evidence for an external universe appears to me perfectly adequate. Still there is no extra charge for thinking on those lines if you so wish. I have paid a great deal of attention in the course of my life to the method of exalting the human consciousness in this way; and it is really quite legitimate to identify my teaching with that of the Yogis. I must however point out that in the course of my instruction I have given continual warnings as to the dangers of this line of research. For one thing there is no means of checking your results in the ordinary scientific sense. It is always perfectly easy to find a subjective explanation of any phenomenon; and when one considers that the greatest of all the dangers in any line of research arise from egocentric vanity, I do not think I have exceeded my duty in anything that I have said to deter students from undertaking so dangerous a course as Yoga. It is, of course, much safer if you are in a position to pursue in the Indian Jungles, provided that your health will stand the climate and also, I must say, unless you have a really sound teacher on whom you can safely rely. But then, if we once introduce a teacher, why not go to the Fountain-head and press towards the Knowledge and conversation of the Holy Guardian Angel? In any case your Indian teacher will ultimately direct you to seek guidance from that source, so it seems to me that you have gone to a great deal of extra trouble and incurred a great deal of unnecessary danger by not leaving yourself in the first place in the hands of the Holy Guardian Angel. In any case there are the two methods which stand as alternatives. I do not know of any third one which can be of any use whatever. Logically, since you have asked me to be logical, there is certainly no third way; there is the external way of Magick, and the internal way of Yoga: there you have your alternatives, and there they cease. Love is the law, love under will. Fraternally, 666 ~ Aleister Crowley, Magick Without Tears,

820:The Orphans' New Year's Gift The room is full of shadow; you can hear, indistinctly, the sad soft whispering of two children. Their foreheads lean forward, still heavy with dreams, beneath the long white bed-curtain which shudders and rises... Outside the birds crowd together, chilled; their wings are benumbed under the grey tints of the skies; and the New Year, with her train of mist, trailing the folds of her snowy garment, smiles through her tears, and shivering, sings... II But the little children, beneath the swaying curtain, talk in low voices as one does on a dark night. Thoughtfully they listen as to a far-off murmur... They tremble often at the clear golden voice of the morning chime repeatedly striking its metallic refrain beneath its glass dome... And then, the room is icy... you can see, strewn here and there on the floor round the beds, mourning clothes: the bitter blast of winter which moans at the threshold blows its melancholy breath into the house! You can feel, in all this, that there is something missing... Is there then no mother for these little children? No mother full of fresh smiles and looks of triumph? Did she forget, last night, stooping down by herself, to kindle a flame saved from these ashes, and to heap up the blankets and eiderdown on them before leaving them, calling out to them: forgive me! Did she not forsee the chill of the morning? Did she forget to close the door against the blast of winter? A mother's dream is the warm coverlet, the downy nest, where children, huddled like pretty birds rocked by the branches, sleep their sweet sleep full of white dreams. -- And here? -- it is like a nest without feathers or warmth, where the little ones are cold, do not sleep, are afraid; a nest that the bitter blast must have frozen... III Your heart has understood: -- these children are motherless. No mother in the place any more!... and their father is far away!... -- An old servant woman, then, has taken them under her care. The little ones are alone in the icy house; four-year-old orphans, see how in their 184 thoughts, little by little, a smiling memory awakes... It's like a rosary which you tell, praying: -Ah, what a beautiful morning, that New Year's morning! Everyone had dreamt of his dear ones that night, in some strange dream where you could see toys, sweets covered with gold, sparkling jewels, all whirling an echoing dance, and then disappearing beneath the curtain, and then reappearing! You awoke in the morning and got up full of joy with your mouth watering, rubbing your eyes... You went with tangled hair and shining eyes, as on holiday mornings, little bare feet brushing the floor, to tap softly on your parents' door... You went in!... And then came the greetings... in your nightshirt, kisses upon kisses, and fun all allowed! IV Ah how charming it was, those words so often spoken! -- But how the old home has changed! There used to be a big fire crackling bright in the grate, so that the old bedroom was all lit up by it; and the red reflection from the great hearth would play over the gleaming furniture... -There was no key in the cupboard!... the big brown cupboard with no key!... You kept looking at the dark brown door... No key!... That was strange!... you kept wondering about the mysteries sleeping within its wooden sides; and you seemed to hear, from the bottom of the huge keyhole, a far-off sound, an indistinct and joyful murmur... Their parents' bedroom is quite empty now: there is no red reflection shining under the door; there are no parents, no fire, no hidden keys; and so there are no kisses either, or pleasant surprises! Oh how sad their New Year's Day will be! -- And sadly, while a bitter tear falls silently from their big blue eyes, they murmur: 'Oh when will our mother come back?'... Now the little ones are dozing sadly: you would say, to see them, that they are crying in their sleep, their eyes are so swollen, their breathing so painful! Small children have such sensitive hearts! -- But the guardian angel of the cradle comes and wipes their eyes and puts a happy dream into their heavy slumber, such a joyous 185 dream that their half-open lips seem, smiling, to murmur something. They are dreaming that, leaning on their small round arms, in the sweet gesture of awakening, they lift their heads and gaze mildly about them... They seem to have fallen asleep in some rose-coloured paradise... The fire crackles merrily in the bright hearth... Through the window you can see a lovely blue sky over there; nature is awakening and becoming drunk again with sunlight... the earth, half-bare, happy to be alive again, trembles with joy beneath the sun's kisses. In the old home all is warm and flushed: no longer are there mourning garments strewn on the floor, and the draught has at least ceased to moan under the door... You would say that a fairy had passed this way!... The children, full of happiness, give two cries... Here, near their mother's bed in a beautiful rose-coloured ray of light, here on the big carpet, something shines... It is two silvery plaques, black and white, glittering with mother-of-pearl and jet; little black frames and wreaths of glass, with three words engraved in gold: 'TO OUR MOTHER'... ~ Arthur Rimbaud,

821:were some of the most famous and important female poets of the Tamil canon. Abithana Chintamani states that there were three female poets titled ~ Avvaiyar . Among them, ~ Avvaiyar I lived during the Sangam period (c. 1st and 2nd century CE) and had cordial relation with the Tamil chieftains Paari and Athiyaman. She wrote 59 poems in the Pu?ana?u?u. ~ Avvaiyar II lived during the period of Kambar and Ottakoothar during the reign of the Chola dynasty in the 13th century. She is often imagined as an old and intelligent lady by Tamil people. She wrote many of the poems that remain very popular even now and are inculcated in school textbooks in Tamil Nadu. These books include a list of dos and don'ts, useful for daily life, arranged in simple and short sentences. There is a very famous legend that is associated with Auvaiyar (also Auvayar) (Tamil: ???????), a prominent female poets/ethicist/political activist of Sangam period (Tamil literature), and Naaval Pazham (Jambu) in Tamil Nadu. Auvaiyar, believing to have achieved everything that is to be achieved, is said to have been pondering her retirement from Tamil literary work while resting under Naaval Pazham tree. But she is met with and was wittily jousted by a disguised Lord Murugan (regarded as one of the guardian deities of Tamil language), who later revealed himself and made her realize that there was still a lot more to be done and learnt. Following this awakening, Auvaiyar is believed to have undertaken a fresh set of literary works, targeted at children. These works, even after a millennium, are often among the very first literature that children are exposed to in Tamil Nadu schools. Name Etymology The name ~ Avvaiyar is a combination of Tamil word avvai with honorific suffix ar. Avvai refers to respectable elderly woman as the word ammai which means good woman in general term for a woman of any age. Thus the name ~ Avvaiyar means a respectable good woman hence a generic title rather than a specific name of a person. Sangam age ~ Avvaiyar The ~ Avvaiyar who lived during the Sangam period is considered to be contemporary to poets Paranar, Kabilar and Thiruvalluvar. She is attributed as the author of 7 verses in Na??i?ai, 15 in Ku?untokai, 4 in Akana?u?u and 33 in Pu?ana?u?u. Legend states that she was a court poet of the rulers of the Tamil country. She travelled from one part of the country to another and from one village to another, sharing the gruel of the poor farmers and composing songs for their enjoyment. Most of her songs were about a small-time chieftain Vallal Athiyamaan Nedumaan Anji and his family. The chieftain had also used her as his ambassador to avert war with another neighbouring chieftain Tontaiman. The rest of her songs related to the various aspects of state governance. Although traditions claim that she was a sister of Kabilar, Thiruvalluvar and Athiyamaan, V. R. Ramachandra Dikshitar refutes this claim based on his studies that all four of them were most likely of different walks of life, thus from different caste backgrounds and hence impossible to be siblings. Chola age ~ Avvaiyar The medievaal period ~ Avvaiyar was the court poet of the Chola monarch and was the contemporary of Kambar and Ottakkuttar. She found great happiness in the life of small children. Her works, Aathichoodi and Konraiventhan written for young children, are even now generally read and enjoyed by them. Her two other works, Mooturai and Nalvali were written for older children. All the four works are didactic in character — they explain the basic wisdom that should govern mundane life. Shrine In Muppandal, a small village in the Kanyakumari District of Tamil Nadu. there is an image of ~ Avvaiyar . By tradition, this is stated to be the spot where the great poetess left the mortal world. Avvai Vizha Annual Avvai Vizha is organized & conducted by Government of Tamil Nadu to commemorate ~ Avvaiyar 's contribution to Tamil literature. This festival is celebrated every year in the month of Panguni on Sadhayam star day. Avvai Vizha has been started by local community long time back and still continuing willingly. Now Govt of Tamil Nadu is continuing this function and adding more values. Local community, Tamil scholars and scholars from various fields participating with passion on this occasion and deliver their speech. Avvai Vizha is conducted in the temple Avvayar situated at Thulasiyappattinam village, Vedaranyam, Nagappatinam District, in the temple premises of Arulmigu Visvanathaswamy Thirukovil. Also this place is referred to famous interaction between Lord Muruga & ~ Avvaiyar "Suttapazham Venduma Sudatha Pazham Venduma". This temple is under the control of the Hindu Religious and Charitable Endowments Department. Legend Legend has it that once the great king Athiyaman gave an eternal amla Nellikani (gooseberry) fruit to ~ Avvaiyar , this is a special and powerful fruit, whoever eats it will have a healthy and long life. Athiyaman wanted ~ Avvaiyar to eat the eternal fruit as she was the right person who could serve the Tamil community. If she could live forever, so would the Tamil heritage and language. Publication in the U.S. In 2009, Red Hen Press published a selection of ~ Avvaiyar 's poetry from the 12th century, entitled Give, Eat, and Live: Poems by Avviyar. The poems were selected and translated into English by Thomas Pruiksma, a poet and translator who discovered Avviyar's work while on a Fulbright scholarship at The American College in Madurai, Tamil Nadu, India. Atthi Chudi ~ Avvaiyar,

822:If this were a world in which there were no such thing   as false promises, how great would be my delight as I listen to your words! Like (0) 3 The Epic of Gilgamesh Tablet V They stood at the forest's edge, gazing at the top of the Cedar Tree, gazing at the entrance to the forest. Where Humbaba would walk there was a trail, the roads led straight on, the path was excellent. Then they saw the Cedar Mountain, the Dwelling of the Gods, the throne dais of Imini. Across the face of the mountain the Cedar brought forth luxurious foliage, its shade was good, extremely pleasant. The thornbushes were matted together, the woods(?) were a thicket among the Cedars, the boxwood, the forest was surrounded by a ravine two leagues long, and again for two-thirds (of that distance), Suddenly the swords, and after the sheaths, the axes were smeared dagger and sword alone Humbaba spoke to Gilgamesh saying:"He does not come (?) Enlil.. ." Enkidu spoke to Humbaba, saying: "Humbaba'One alone.. 'Strangers 'A slippery path is not feared by two people who help each other. 'Twice three times 'A three-ply rope cannot be cut. 'The mighty liontwo cubs can roll him over."' Humbaba spoke to Gilgamesh, saying: ..An idiot' and a moron should give advice to each other, but you, Gilgamesh, why have you come to me! Give advice, Enkidu, you 'son of a fish,' who does not even know his own father, to the large and small turtles which do not suck their mother's milk! When you were still young I saw you but did not go over to you; you, in my belly. ,you have brought Gilgamesh into my presence, you stand.., an enemy, a stranger. Gilgamesh, throat and neck, I would feed your flesh to the screeching vulture, the eagle, and the vulture!" Gilgamerh spoke to Enkidu, saying: "My Friend, Humbaba's face keeps changing! Enkddu spoke to Gilgamesh, saying:' "Why, my friend, are you whining so pitiably, hiding behind your whimpering? Now there, my friend, in the cuppersmith's channel, again to blow (the bellows) for an hour, the glowing (metal)(?) for an hour. To send the Flood, to crack the Whip." Do not snatch your feet away, do not turn your back, strike even harder!" may they be expelled. head fell and it/he confronted him The ground split open with the heels of their feet, as they whirled around in circles Mt. Hermon and Lebanon split. The white clouds darkened, death rained down on them like fog. Shamash raised up against Humbaba mighty tempests' Southwind, Northwind, Eastwind, Westwind, Whistling Wind, Piercing Wind, Blizzard, Bad Wind, Wind of Simurru, Demon Wind, Ice Wind, Storm, Sandstorm thirteen winds rose up against him and covered Humbaba's face. He could nor butt through the front, and could not scramble out the back, so that Gilgamesh'a weapons were in reach of Humbaba. Humbaba begged for his life, saying to Gilgamesh: "You are young yet, Gilgamesh, your mother gave birth to you, and you are the offspring of Rimnt-Nlnsun (?) (It was) at the word of Shamash, Lord of the Mountain, that you were roused (to this expedition). O scion of the heart of Uruk, King Gilgamesh! Gilgamesh Gilgamesh, let me go (?), I will dwell with you as your servant (?) As many trees as you command me I will cut down for you, I will guard for you myrtle wood, wood fine enough for your palace!" Enkidu addressed Gilgamesh, saying: "My friend, do not listen to Humbaba, [io lines are misring Apparently Humbaba sees thar Gilgamrsh is influenced by Enkidu, and moves to dissuade Enkidu.] "You understand the rules of my forest, the rules, further, you are aware of all the things so ordered (by Enlil)." I should have carried you up, and killed you at the very entrance to the branches of my forest. I should have fed your flesh to the screeching vulture, the eagle, and the vulture. So now, Enkidu, clemency is up to you. Speak to Gilgamesh to spare my life!" Enkidu addressed Gilgamesh, saying: My friend, Humbaba, Guardian of the Cedar Forest, grind up, kill, pulverize(?), and destroy him! Humbaba, Guardian of the Forest, grind up, kill, pulverize(?), and destroy him! Before the Preeminent God Enlil hears and thegods be filled with rage against us. Enlil is in Nippur, Shamash is in Sippar. Erect an eternal monument proclaiming how Gilgamesh killed(?) Humbaba." When Humbaba heard [Abour l0 linrs are misiing.] the forest. and denunciations(?) have been made. But you are sitting there like a shepherd and like a 'hireling of his mouth.' Now, Enkidu, clemency is up to you. Speak to Gilgamesh that he spare my life!" Enkidu spoke to Gilgamesh, saying: "My friend, Humbaba, Guardian of the Forest, grind up, kill, pulverize(?), and destroy him! Before the Preeminent God Enlil hears, and the gods are full of rage at us. Enlil is in Nippur, Shamash is in Sippar. Erect an eternal monument proclaiming how Gilgamesh killed(?) Humbaba." Humbaba heard [About 10 lines are missing.] "May he not live the longer of the two, may Enkidu not have any 'share'(?) more than his friend Gilgamesh!" Enkidu spoke to Gilgamesh, saying: "My friend, 1 have been talking to you but you have not been listening to me," You have been listening to the curse of Humbaba!" his friend by his side .. they pulled out his insides including his tongue. he jumped(?). abundance fell over the mountain, abundance fell over the mountain. They cut through the Cedar, While Gilgamesh cuts down the trees, Enkidu searches through the urmazallu. Enkidu addressed Gilgamesh, saying: "My friend, we have cut down the towering Cedar whose top scrapes the sky. Make from it a door 72 cubits high, 24 cubits wide, one cubit thick, its fixture, its lower and upper pivots will be out of one piece. Let them carry it to Nippur, the Euphrates will carry it down, Nippur will rejoice. " They tied together a raft Enkidu steered it while Gilgamesh held the head of Humbaba. ~ Anonymous, If this were a world ,

823:The Missionary LOUGH, vessel, plough the British main, Seek the free ocean's wider plain; Leave English scenes and English skies, Unbind, dissever English ties; Bear me to climes remote and strange, Where altered life, fast-following change, Hot action, never-ceasing toil, Shall stir, turn, dig, the spirit's soil; Fresh roots shall plant, fresh seed shall sow, Till a new garden there shall grow, Cleared of the weeds that fill it now,­ Mere human love, mere selfish yearning, Which, cherished, would arrest me yet. I grasp the plough, there's no returning, Let me, then, struggle to forget. But England's shores are yet in view, And England's skies of tender blue Are arched above her guardian sea. I cannot yet Remembrance flee; I must again, then, firmly face That task of anguish, to retrace. Wedded to home­I home forsake, Fearful of change­I changes make; Too fond of ease­I plunge in toil; Lover of calm­I seek turmoil: Nature and hostile Destiny Stir in my heart a conflict wild; And long and fierce the war will be Ere duty both has reconciled. What other tie yet holds me fast To the divorced, abandoned past? Smouldering, on my heart's altar lies The fire of some great sacrifice, Not yet half quenched. The sacred steel But lately struck my carnal will, My life-long hope, first joy and last, What I loved well, and clung to fast; 64 What I wished wildly to retain, What I renounced with soul-felt pain; What­when I saw it, axe-struck, perish­ Left me no joy on earth to cherish; A man bereft­yet sternly now I do confirm that Jephtha vow: Shall I retract, or fear, or flee ? Did Christ, when rose the fatal tree Before him, on Mount Calvary ? 'Twas a long fight, hard fought, but won, And what I did was justly done. Yet, Helen ! from thy love I turned, When my heart most for thy heart burned; I dared thy tears, I dared thy scorn­ Easier the death-pang had been borne. Helen ! thou mightst not go with me, I could not­dared not stay for thee ! I heard, afar, in bonds complain The savage from beyond the main; And that wild sound rose o'er the cry Wrung out by passion's agony; And even when, with the bitterest tear I ever shed, mine eyes were dim, Still, with the spirit's vision clear, I saw Hell's empire, vast and grim, Spread on each Indian river's shore, Each realm of Asia covering o'er. There the weak, trampled by the strong, Live but to suffer­hopeless die; There pagan-priests, whose creed is Wrong, Extortion, Lust, and Cruelty, Crush our lost race­and brimming fill The bitter cup of human ill; And I­who have the healing creed, The faith benign of Mary's Son; Shall I behold my brother's need And selfishly to aid him shun ? I­who upon my mother's knees, In childhood, read Christ's written word, Received his legacy of peace, 65 His holy rule of action heard; I­in whose heart the sacred sense Of Jesus' love was early felt; Of his pure full benevolence, His pitying tenderness for guilt; His shepherd-care for wandering sheep, For all weak, sorrowing, trembling things, His mercy vast, his passion deep Of anguish for man's sufferings; I­schooled from childhood in such lore­ Dared I draw back or hesitate, When called to heal the sickness sore Of those far off and desolate ? Dark, in the realm and shades of Death, Nations and tribes and empires lie, But even to them the light of Faith Is breaking on their sombre sky: And be it mine to bid them raise Their drooped heads to the kindling scene, And know and hail the sunrise blaze Which heralds Christ the Nazarene. I know how Hell the veil will spread Over their brows and filmy eyes, And earthward crush the lifted head That would look up and seek the skies; I know what war the fiend will wage Against that soldier of the cross, Who comes to dare his demon-rage, And work his kingdom shame and loss. Yes, hard and terrible the toil Of him who steps on foreign soil, Resolved to plant the gospel vine, Where tyrants rule and slaves repine; Eager to lift Religion's light Where thickest shades of mental night Screen the false god and fiendish rite; Reckless that missionary blood, Shed in wild wilderness and wood, Has left, upon the unblest air, The man's deep moan­the martyr's prayer. I know my lot­I only ask Power to fulfil the glorious task; 66 Willing the spirit, may the flesh Strength for the day receive afresh. May burning sun or deadly wind Prevail not o'er an earnest mind; May torments strange or direst death Nor trample truth, nor baffle faith. Though such blood-drops should fall from me As fell in old Gethsemane, Welcome the anguish, so it gave More strength to work­more skill to save. And, oh ! if brief must be my time, If hostile hand or fatal clime Cut short my course­still o'er my grave, Lord, may thy harvest whitening wave. So I the culture may begin, Let others thrust the sickle in; If but the seed will faster grow, May my blood water what I sow ! What ! have I ever trembling stood, And feared to give to God that blood ? What ! has the coward love of life Made me shrink from the righteous strife ? Have human passions, human fears Severed me from those Pioneers, Whose task is to march first, and trace Paths for the progress of our race ? It has been so; but grant me, Lord, Now to stand steadfast by thy word ! Protected by salvation's helm, Shielded by faith­with truth begirt, To smile when trials seek to whelm And stand 'mid testing fires unhurt ! Hurling hell's strongest bulwarks down, Even when the last pang thrills my breast, When Death bestows the Martyr's crown, And calls me into Jesus' rest. Then for my ultimate reward­ Then for the world-rejoicing word­ The voice from Father­Spirit­Son: ' Servant of God, well hast thou done !' 67 ~ Charlotte Brontë,

824:THE SOOTHSAYER "-And I saw a great sadness descend upon mankind. The best grew weary of their works. A doctrine appeared, accompanied by a faith: 'All is empty, all is the same, all has been!' And from all the hills it echoed: 'All is empty, all is the same, all has been' Indeed we have harvested: but why did all our fruit turn rotten and brown? What fell down from the evil moon last night? In vain was all our work; our wine has turned to poison; an evil eye has seared our fields and hearts. We have all become dry; and if fire should descend on us, we should turn to ashes; indeed, we have wearied the fire itself. All our wells have dried up; even the sea has withdrawn. All the soil would crack, but the depth refuses to devour. 'Alas, where is there still a sea in which one might drown?' thus are we wailing across shallow swamps. Verily, we have become too weary even to die. We are still waking and living on-in tombs." Thus Zarathustra heard a soothsayer speak, and the 134 prophecy touched his heart and changed him. He walked about sad and weary; and he became like those of whom the soothsayer had spoken. "Verily," he said to his disciples, "little is lacking and this long twilight will come. Alas, how shall I save my light through it? It must not suffocate in this sadness. For it shall be a light for distant worlds and even more distant nights." Thus grieved in his heart, Zarathustra walked about; and for three days he took neither food nor drink, had no rest, and lost his speech. At last he fell into a deep sleep. But his disciples sat around him in long night watches and waited with great concern for him to wake and speak again and recover from his melancholy. And this is the speech of Zarathustra when he awoke; but his voice came to his disciples as if from a great distance: "Listen to the dream which I dreamed, my friends, and help me guess its meaning. This dream is still a riddle to me; its meaning is concealed in it and imprisoned and does not yet soar above it with unfettered wings. "I had turned my back on all life, thus I dreamed. I had become a night watchman and a guardian of tombs upon the lonely mountain castle of death. Up there I guarded his coffins: the musty vaults were full of such marks of triumph. Life that had been overcome, looked at me out of glass coffins. I breathed the odor of dusty eternities: sultry and dusty lay my soul. And who could have aired his soul there? "The brightness of midnight was always about me; loneliness crouched next to it; and as a third, death-rattle silence, the worst of my friends. I had keys, the rustiest of all keys; and I knew how to use them to open the most creaking of all gates. Like a wickedly 135 angry croaking, the sound ran through the long corridors when the gate's wings moved: fiendishly cried this bird, ferocious at being awakened. Yet still more terrible and heart-constricting was the moment when silence returned and it grew quiet about me, and I sat alone in this treacherous silence. "Thus time passed and crawled, if time still existedhow should I know? But eventually that happened which awakened me. Thrice, strokes struck at the gate like thunder; the vaults echoed and howled thrice; then I went to the gate. 'Alpa,' I cried, 'who is carrying his ashes up the mountain? Alpal Alpal Who is carrying his ashes up the mountain?' And I pressed the key and tried to lift the gate and exerted myself; but still it did not give an inch. Then a roaring wind tore its wings apart; whistling, shrilling, and piercing, it cast up a black coffin before me. "And amid the roaring and whistling and shrilling the coffin burst and spewed out a thousandfold laughter. And from a thousand grimaces of children, angels, owls, fools, and butterflies as big as children, it laughed and mocked and roared at me. Then I was terribly frightened; it threw me to the ground. And I cried in horror as I have never cried. And my own cry awakened meand I came to my senses." Thus Zarathustra told his dream and then became silent; for as yet he did not know the interpretation of his dream. But the disciple whom he loved most rose quickly, took Zarathustra's hand, and said: "Your life itself interprets this dream for us, 0 Zarathustra. Are you not yourself the wind with the shrill whistling that tears open the gates of the castles of death? Are you not yourself the coffin full of colorful sarcasms and the angelic grimaces of life? Verily, like a thousandfold children's laughter Zarathustra enters 136 all death chambers, laughing at all the night watchmen and guardians of tombs and at whoever else is rattling with gloomy keys. You will frighten and prostrate them with your laughter; and your power over them will make them faint and wake them. And even when the long twilight and the weariness of death come, you will not set in our sky, you advocate of life. New stars you have let us see, and new wonders of the night; verily, laughter itself you have spread over us like a colorful tent. Henceforth children's laughter will well forth from all coffins; henceforth a strong wind will come triumphantly to all weariness of death: of this you yourself are our surety and soothsayer. Verily, this is what you dreamed of: your enemies. That was your hardest dream. But as you woke from them and came to your senses, thus they shall awaken from themselves-and come to you." Thus spoke the disciple; and all the others crowded around Zarathustra and took hold of his hands and wanted to persuade him to leave his bed and his sadness and to return to them. But Zarathustra sat erect on his resting place with a strange look in his eyes. Like one coming home from a long sojourn in strange lands, he looked at his disciples and examined their faces; and as yet he did not recognize them. But when they lifted him up and put him on his feet, behold, his eyes suddenly changed; he comprehended all that had happened, stroked his beard, and said in a strong voice: "Now then, there is a time for this too. But see to it, my disciples, that we shall have a good meal, and soon. Thus I plan to atone for bad dreams. The soothsayer, however, shall eat and drink by my side; and verily, I shall show him a sea in which he can drown." Thus spoke Zarathustra. But then he looked a long 137 time into the face of the disciple who had played the dream interpreter and he shook his head. ~ Friedrich Nietzsche, THE SOOTHSAYER ,

825: Nolueram, Belinda, tuos violare capillos; Sedjuvat, hoc precibus me tribuisse tuis. (Martial, Epigrams 12.84) What dire offence from am'rous causes springs, What mighty contests rise from trivial things, I singThis verse to Caryl, Muse! is due: This, ev'n Belinda may vouchsafe to view: Slight is the subject, but not so the praise, If she inspire, and he approve my lays.    Say what strange motive, Goddess! could compel A well-bred lord t' assault a gentle belle? O say what stranger cause, yet unexplor'd, Could make a gentle belle reject a lord? In tasks so bold, can little men engage, And in soft bosoms dwells such mighty rage?    Sol thro' white curtains shot a tim'rous ray, And op'd those eyes that must eclipse the day; Now lap-dogs give themselves the rousing shake, And sleepless lovers, just at twelve, awake: Thrice rung the bell, the slipper knock'd the ground, And the press'd watch return'd a silver sound. Belinda still her downy pillow press'd, Her guardian sylph prolong'd the balmy rest: 'Twas he had summon'd to her silent bed The morning dream that hover'd o'er her head; A youth more glitt'ring than a birthnight beau, (That ev'n in slumber caus'd her cheek to glow) Seem'd to her ear his winning lips to lay, And thus in whispers said, or seem'd to say.    "Fairest of mortals, thou distinguish'd care Of thousand bright inhabitants of air! If e'er one vision touch'd thy infant thought, Of all the nurse and all the priest have taught, Of airy elves by moonlight shadows seen, The silver token, and the circled green, Or virgins visited by angel pow'rs, With golden crowns and wreaths of heav'nly flow'rs, Hear and believe! thy own importance know, Nor bound thy narrow views to things below. Some secret truths from learned pride conceal'd, To maids alone and children are reveal'd: What tho' no credit doubting wits may give? The fair and innocent shall still believe. Know then, unnumber'd spirits round thee fly, The light militia of the lower sky; These, though unseen, are ever on the wing, Hang o'er the box, and hover round the Ring. Think what an equipage thou hast in air, And view with scorn two pages and a chair. As now your own, our beings were of old, And once inclos'd in woman's beauteous mould; Thence, by a soft transition, we repair From earthly vehicles to these of air. Think not, when woman's transient breath is fled, That all her vanities at once are dead; Succeeding vanities she still regards, And tho' she plays no more, o'erlooks the cards. Her joy in gilded chariots, when alive, And love of ombre, after death survive. For when the fair in all their pride expire, To their first elements their souls retire: The sprites of fiery termagants in flame Mount up, and take a Salamander's name. Soft yielding minds to water glide away, And sip with Nymphs, their elemental tea. The graver prude sinks downward to a Gnome, In search of mischief still on earth to roam. The light coquettes in Sylphs aloft repair, And sport and flutter in the fields of air.    Know further yet; whoever fair and chaste Rejects mankind, is by some sylph embrac'd: For spirits, freed from mortal laws, with ease Assume what sexes and what shapes they please. What guards the purity of melting maids, In courtly balls, and midnight masquerades, Safe from the treach'rous friend, the daring spark, The glance by day, the whisper in the dark, When kind occasion prompts their warm desires, When music softens, and when dancing fires? 'Tis but their sylph, the wise celestials know, Though honour is the word with men below.    Some nymphs there are, too conscious of their face, For life predestin'd to the gnomes' embrace. These swell their prospects and exalt their pride, When offers are disdain'd, and love denied: Then gay ideas crowd the vacant brain, While peers, and dukes, and all their sweeping train, And garters, stars, and coronets appear, And in soft sounds 'Your Grace' salutes their ear. 'Tis these that early taint the female soul, Instruct the eyes of young coquettes to roll, Teach infant cheeks a bidden blush to know, And little hearts to flutter at a beau.    Oft, when the world imagine women stray, The Sylphs through mystic mazes guide their way, Thro' all the giddy circle they pursue, And old impertinence expel by new. What tender maid but must a victim fall To one man's treat, but for another's ball? When Florio speaks, what virgin could withstand, If gentle Damon did not squeeze her hand? With varying vanities, from ev'ry part, They shift the moving toyshop of their heart; Where wigs with wigs, with sword-knots sword-knots strive, Beaux banish beaux, and coaches coaches drive. This erring mortals levity may call, Oh blind to truth! the Sylphs contrive it all.    Of these am I, who thy protection claim, A watchful sprite, and Ariel is my name. Late, as I rang'd the crystal wilds of air, In the clear mirror of thy ruling star I saw, alas! some dread event impend, Ere to the main this morning sun descend, But Heav'n reveals not what, or how, or where: Warn'd by the Sylph, oh pious maid, beware! This to disclose is all thy guardian can. Beware of all, but most beware of man!"    He said; when Shock, who thought she slept too long, Leap'd up, and wak'd his mistress with his tongue. 'Twas then, Belinda, if report say true, Thy eyes first open'd on a billet-doux; Wounds, charms, and ardors were no sooner read, But all the vision vanish'd from thy head.    And now, unveil'd, the toilet stands display'd, Each silver vase in mystic order laid. First, rob'd in white, the nymph intent adores With head uncover'd, the cosmetic pow'rs. A heav'nly image in the glass appears, To that she bends, to that her eyes she rears; Th' inferior priestess, at her altar's side, Trembling, begins the sacred rites of pride. Unnumber'd treasures ope at once, and here The various off'rings of the world appear; From each she nicely culls with curious toil, And decks the goddess with the glitt'ring spoil. This casket India's glowing gems unlocks, And all Arabia breathes from yonder box. The tortoise here and elephant unite, Transform'd to combs, the speckled and the white. Here files of pins extend their shining rows, Puffs, powders, patches, bibles, billet-doux. Now awful beauty puts on all its arms; The fair each moment rises in her charms, Repairs her smiles, awakens ev'ry grace, And calls forth all the wonders of her face; Sees by degrees a purer blush arise, And keener lightnings quicken in her eyes. The busy Sylphs surround their darling care; These set the head, and those divide the hair, Some fold the sleeve, whilst others plait the gown; And Betty's prais'd for labours not her own. ~ Alexander Pope, The Rape of the Lock ,

826:The Rape Of The Lock: Canto 1 Nolueram, Belinda, tuos violare capillos; Sedjuvat, hoc precibus me tribuisse tuis. (Martial, Epigrams 12.84) What dire offence from am'rous causes springs, What mighty contests rise from trivial things, I sing--This verse to Caryl, Muse! is due: This, ev'n Belinda may vouchsafe to view: Slight is the subject, but not so the praise, If she inspire, and he approve my lays. Say what strange motive, Goddess! could compel A well-bred lord t' assault a gentle belle? O say what stranger cause, yet unexplor'd, Could make a gentle belle reject a lord? In tasks so bold, can little men engage, And in soft bosoms dwells such mighty rage? Sol thro' white curtains shot a tim'rous ray, And op'd those eyes that must eclipse the day; Now lap-dogs give themselves the rousing shake, And sleepless lovers, just at twelve, awake: Thrice rung the bell, the slipper knock'd the ground, And the press'd watch return'd a silver sound. Belinda still her downy pillow press'd, Her guardian sylph prolong'd the balmy rest: 'Twas he had summon'd to her silent bed The morning dream that hover'd o'er her head; A youth more glitt'ring than a birthnight beau, (That ev'n in slumber caus'd her cheek to glow) Seem'd to her ear his winning lips to lay, And thus in whispers said, or seem'd to say. "Fairest of mortals, thou distinguish'd care Of thousand bright inhabitants of air! If e'er one vision touch'd thy infant thought, Of all the nurse and all the priest have taught, Of airy elves by moonlight shadows seen, The silver token, and the circled green, Or virgins visited by angel pow'rs, With golden crowns and wreaths of heav'nly flow'rs, 221 Hear and believe! thy own importance know, Nor bound thy narrow views to things below. Some secret truths from learned pride conceal'd, To maids alone and children are reveal'd: What tho' no credit doubting wits may give? The fair and innocent shall still believe. Know then, unnumber'd spirits round thee fly, The light militia of the lower sky; These, though unseen, are ever on theg, Hang o'er the box, and hover round the Ring. Think what an equipage thou hast in air, And view with scorn two pages and a chair. As now your own, our beings were of old, And once inclos'd in woman's beauteous mould; Thence, by a soft transition, we repair From earthly vehicles to these of air. Think not, when woman's transient breath is fled, That all her vanities at once are dead; Succeeding vanities she still regards, And tho' she plays no more, o'erlooks the cards. Her joy in gilded chariots, when alive, And love of ombre, after death survive. For when the fair in all their pride expire, To their first elements their souls retire: The sprites of fiery termagants in flame Mount up, and take a Salamander's name. Soft yielding minds to water glide away, And sip with Nymphs, their elemental tea. The graver prude sinks downward to a Gnome, In search of mischief still on earth to roam. The light coquettes in Sylphs aloft repair, And sport and flutter in the fields of air. Know further yet; whoever fair and chaste Rejects mankind, is by some sylph embrac'd: For spirits, freed from mortal laws, with ease Assume what sexes and what shapes they please. What guards the purity of melting maids, In courtly balls, and midnight masquerades, Safe from the treach'rous friend, the daring spark, The glance by day, the whisper in the dark, When kind occasion prompts their warm desires, 222 When music softens, and when dancing fires? 'Tis but their sylph, the wise celestials know, Though honour is the word with men below. Some nymphs there are, too conscious of their face, For life predestin'd to the gnomes' embrace. These swell their prospects and exalt their pride, When offers are disdain'd, and love denied: Then gay ideas crowd the vacant brain, While peers, and dukes, and all their sweeping train, And garters, stars, and coronets appear, And in soft sounds 'Your Grace' salutes their ear. 'Tis these that early taint the female soul, Instruct the eyes of young coquettes to roll, Teach infant cheeks a bidden blush to know, And little hearts to flutter at a beau. Oft, when the world imagine women stray, The Sylphs through mystic mazes guide their way, Thro' all the giddy circle they pursue, And old impertinence expel by new. What tender maid but must a victim fall To one man's treat, but for another's ball? When Florio speaks, what virgin could withstand, If gentle Damon did not squeeze her hand? With varying vanities, from ev'ry part, They shift the moving toyshop of their heart; Where wigs with wigs, with sword-knots sword-knots strive, Beaux banish beaux, and coaches coaches drive. This erring mortals levity may call, Oh blind to truth! the Sylphs contrive it all. Of these am I, who thy protection claim, A watchful sprite, and Ariel is my name. Late, as I rang'd the crystal wilds of air, In the clear mirror of thy ruling star I saw, alas! some dread event impend, Ere to the main this morning sun descend, But Heav'n reveals not what, or how, or where: Warn'd by the Sylph, oh pious maid, beware! This to disclose is all thy guardian can. 223 Beware of all, but most beware of man!" He said; when Shock, who thought she slept too long, Leap'd up, and wak'd his mistress with his tongue. 'Twas then, Belinda, if report say true, Thy eyes first open'd on a billet-doux; Wounds, charms, and ardors were no sooner read, But all the vision vanish'd from thy head. And now, unveil'd, the toilet stands display'd, Each silver vase in mystic order laid. First, rob'd in white, the nymph intent adores With head uncover'd, the cosmetic pow'rs. A heav'nly image in the glass appears, To that she bends, to that her eyes she rears; Th' inferior priestess, at her altar's side, Trembling, begins the sacred rites of pride. Unnumber'd treasures ope at once, and here The various off'rings of the world appear; From each she nicely culls with curious toil, And decks the goddess with the glitt'ring spoil. This casket India's glowing gems unlocks, And all Arabia breathes from yonder box. The tortoise here and elephant unite, Transform'd to combs, the speckled and the white. Here files of pins extend their shining rows, Puffs, powders, patches, bibles, billet-doux. Now awful beauty puts on all its arms; The fair each moment rises in her charms, Repairs her smiles, awakens ev'ry grace, And calls forth all the wonders of her face; Sees by degrees a purer blush arise, And keener lightnings quicken in her eyes. The busy Sylphs surround their darling care; These set the head, and those divide the hair, Some fold the sleeve, whilst others plait the gown; And Betty's prais'd for labours not her own. ~ Alexander Pope,

827:The Many Mansioned House THERE looms, upon the enormous round Where nations come and nations go, A many-mansioned house, whose bound Ranges so wide that none may know Its temperate lands of corn and vine, Its solitudes of Arctic gloom, Its wealth of forest, plain, and mine, Its jungle world of tropic bloom. Yet so its architects devise That still its boundary walls extend, And still its guardian forts arise, And still its builders see no end Of plan, or labor, or the call By which the Master of their Fate Urges to lay the advancing wall Of Law beyond the farthest gate. The mortar oft is red with blood Of men within and men without, For hate’s incessant storm and flood Rage round each uttermost redoubt, And bullets sing, and shrieks are loud, And bordering voices curse the hour That sees the builders onward crowd, True to the Master Mind, whose power Impels them build by plumb and line To give the blood-stained wall increase And forward push the huge design Within whose mansions dwelleth peace. The Master Mind is in no place, 83 It hath no settled rank nor name, Its mood, as moulded by the race, Shifts often, yet remains the same To meditate what millions think, And shape the deed to fit their thought, Now raising high who seemed to sink, Now flinging down their choice as naught. It lauds what sons obey its calls When time has come for hands to smite, And when the hour to cease befalls It chastens them it did requite; Yet still so chooses that the change From war to peace and peace to war Confirms the mansions in their range, And builds the far-built wall more far. Within the many mansions dwell Nations diverse of tongue and blood,— Races whose primal anthems tell How Ganges grew a sacred flood, Tribes long fore-fathered when the birds Of Egypt saw Osiris pass, They that were ancient when the herds Of Abraham cropped Chaldean grass, People whose shepherd-priesthoods saw The might of Nineveh begin, And folk whose slaves baked mud and straw Mid Babylon’s revelling fume of sin; Blacks that have served in every age Since first the yoke of Ham they wore, Yellows who set the printed page Ere Homer sang from shore to shore, 84 Swart Browns whose glittering kreeses held In dread the far-isled Asian seas, Fierce Reds who waged from primal eld Their stealthy warfare of the trees; Men of the jaguar-haunted swamp Whose mountain masters dwelt in pride Of golden-citied Aztec pomp Ages ere Montezuma died; Builders whose blood was in the hands That propped the circled Druid stones, And Odin-fathered men, whose bands Storming all winds, laid warrior bones Round all the Roman mid-world sea, And held the Cæsars’ might in scorn, And kept the Viking liberty That fairer freedom might be born. The wall defendeth all alike, The Master Mind on all ordains:— Within my bound no sword shall strike, Nor fetter bind, save law arraigns; No prisoner here shall feel the rack, No infant be to slavery born, The wage shall labor’s sweat not lack, Nor skill of just reward be shorn. The king and hind alike shall stand Within the peril of my law, And though it change at time’s demand Shall every change be held in awe. Here every voice may freely speak Wisdom or folly as it choose, And though the strong must lead the weak, The weak may yet the strong refuse; Thus shall no change be wrought before The wise who seek a better way 85 Can win, to share their vision, more Than praise the wise who wish delay,— That so the Master Mind be strong Through every drift of time and change, To fashion either right or wrong At will, within the mansions’ range. Of what is wrong and what is right The Master Mind doth ceaseless hear, Listens intent to counselling might, Pity or fury, hope or fear, Sways to the evil, yet repents, Sways to the good, yet half denies, Follows revenge, but quick relents, And makes its wondering foes allies; In memory sees its frenzied hours, And holds those fury-fits in scorn; In gentlest aspiration towers, Or grovels as of faith forlorn, Yet never, never loses quite The thought, the hope, the glory-dream, That beacon of supernal light, The shining, holy Grail-like beam, The Ideal—in which alone it dares Advance the circuit of the wall— The faith that yet shall happy shares Of circumstance be won for all,— This is the vision of its law, This is the Asgard of its dream— That what the world yet never saw Of justice shall arise supreme. 86 The Master Mind proclaims as free Alike, all creeds that men may name, All worships they devise to be Their help in hope, or ease in shame; In Buddha, Mahmoud, Moses, Christ, Outspokenly may any trust, Or he whom no belief enticed May hold the soul a dream of dust, Yet all alike be free to teach, And all alike be free to shun, Because the law of freeman’s speech Impartial guardeth every one; If but all rites of blood be banned, Then may each life select its God, And every congregation stand Past dread of persecution’s rod,— Lo now! Is thus not Jesus set Transcendent o’er the broad domain— The gentle Christ whose anguished sweat Bled for a world-wide mercy’s reign? Yet in many Mansions flaunt, As if they deem their place secure, Legion, whose Christ-defying vaunt How long, O Lord, dost Thou endure! Belshazzar’s Feast is multiplied, Mammon holds fabulous parade, Thousands of Minotaurs divide The procurers’ tribute of the maid, Circe enchants her votary swine, Moloch, though veiled his fire, consumes, 87 And all the man-made Gods assign Their victims self-elected dooms. In large, the suffering and the sin (Full well the Master Mind doth know), From luxury and want begin, And through unequal portions flow. This ancient wrong doth worst defeat The immortal yearning of His plea To save the little, wandering feet,— “Suffer the children come to me”; Wherefore, on streets that Mammon makes 165 The Master Mind bends ruthless eye, Yet calm withholds the blow that breaks, And leaves that stroke to by and by, Since faithful memory, backward cast, Beholds how much hath freedom won, And lest a pomp-destroying blast Might shrivel many a guiltless one, And since it knows that freedom’s plan To build secure alone is skilled, And that firm-grounded gain for man Is only by what man hath willed.— Hence waits the Master Mind, in trust That yet the hour shall Mammon rue, Since, as the mansions grow, so must Freedom upraise The Christ anew. But whether He prevail at last, 88 Or whether all shall pass away, Even as Rome’s great Empire passed When wrought the purpose of its day, Still must the builders heed the call By which the Master of all Fate Ordains they lay the advancing wall Of peace beyond the farthest gate. And, oh! the Master Mind may well In pride of gentleness rejoice That in the Mansions none may quell The lilt of any nation’s voice; But every race may sing their joy, May hymn their pride, their glories boast To listeners glad without alloy— The primal, wall-extending host, The founding, freedom-loving race Whose generous-visioning mind doth see No worth in holding foremost place, Save in an Empire of the Free. ~ Edward William Thomson,

828:Enkidu sits in front of her. [The next 30 lines are missing; some of the fragmentary lines from 35 on are restored from parallels in the Old Babylonian.] "Why"(?) His own counsel At his instruction Who knows his heart Shamhat pulled off her clothing, and clothed him with one piece while she clothed herself with a second. She took hold of him as the gods do' and brought him to the hut of the shepherds. The shepherds gathered all around about him, they marveled to themselves: "How the youth resembles Gilgamesh tall in stature, towering up to the battlements over the wall! Surely he was born in the mountains; his strength is as mighty as the meteorite(!) of Anu!" They placed food in front of him, they placed beer in front of him; Enkidu knew nothing about eating bread for food, and of drinking beer he had not been taught. The harlot spoke to Enkidu, saying: "Eat the food, Enkidu, it ii the way one lives. Drink the beer, as is the custom of the land." Enkidu ate the food until he was sated, he drank the beer-seven jugs! and became expansive and sang with joy! He was elated and his face glowed. He splashed his shaggy body with water, and rubbed himself with oil, and turned into a human. He put on some clothing and became like a warrior(!). He took up his weapon and chased lions so that the shepherds could eat He routed the wolves, and chased the lions. With Enkidu as their guard, the herders could lie down. A wakeful man, a singular youth, he was twice as tall (?) (as normal men [The next 33 lines are missing in the Standard Version; lines 57-86 are taken from the Old Babylonian.] Then he raised his eyes and saw a man. He said to the harlot: "Shamhat, have that man go away! Why has he come'? I will call out his name!" The harlot called out to the man and went over to him and spoke with him. "Young man, where are you hurrying! Why this arduous pace!" The young man spoke, saying to Enkidu: "They have invited me to a wedding, as is the custom of the people. the selection(!) of brides(!) .. I have heaped up tasty delights for the wedding on the ceremonial(!) platter. For the King of Broad-Marted Uruk, open is the veil(!) of the people for choosing (a girl). For Gilgamesh, the King of Broad-Marted Uruk, open is the veil(?) of the people for choosing. He will have intercourse with the 'destined wife,' he first, the husband afterward. This is ordered by the counsel of Anu, from the severing of his umbilical cord it has been destined for him." At the young man's speech his (Enkidu's) face flushed (with anger). [Several lines are missing.] Enkidu walked in front, and Shamhat after him. [The Standard Version resumes.] He (Enkidu) walked down the street of Uruk-Haven, mighty He blocked the way through Uruk the Sheepfold. The land of Uruk stood around him, the whole land assembled about him, the populace was thronging around him, the men were clustered about him, and kissed his feet as if he were a little baby(!). Suddenly a handsome young man For Ishara the bed of night(?)/marriage(?) is ready, for Gilgamesh as for a god a counterpart(!) is set up. Enkidu blocked the entry to the marital chamber, and would not allow Gilgamreh to be brought in. They grappled with each other at the entry to the marital chamber, in the street they attacked each other, the public square of the land. The doorposts trembled and the wall shook, [About 42 lines are missing from the Standard Version; lines 103-129 are taken from the Old Babylonian version.] Gilgamesh bent his knees, with his other foot on the ground, his anger abated and he turned his chest away. After he turned his chest Enkidu said to Gilgamesh: "Your mother bore you ever unique(!), the Wild Cow of the Enclosure, Ninsun, your head is elevated over (other) men, Enlil has destined for you the kingship over the people." [19 lines are missing here.] They kissed each other and became friends. [The Old Babylonian becomes fragmentary. The Standard Version resumes] "His strength is the mightiest in the land! His strength is as mighty as the meteorite(?) of Anu, The mother of Gilgamesh spoke to Gilgamesh, saying; Rimat-Ninsun said to her son: "(I!), Rimar-Ninsun My son Plaintively She went up into his (Shamash's) gateway, plaintively she implored: "Enkidu has no father or mother, his shaggy hair no one cuts. He was horn in the wilderness, no one raised him." Enkidu was standing there, and heard the speech. He and sat down and wept, his eyes filled with tears, his arms felt limp, his strength weakened. They took each other by the hand, and.., their hands like Enkidu made a declaration to (Gilgamesh'). [32 lines are missing here.] "in order to protect the Cedar Forest Enlil assigned (Humbaba) as a terror to human beings, Humbaba's roar is a Flood, his mouth is Fire, and his breath is Death! He can hear 100 leagues away any rustling(?) in his forest! Who would go down into his forest! Enlil assigned him as a terror to human beings, and whoever goes down into his forest paralysis(?) will strike!" Gilgamesh spoke to Enkidu saying: "What you say .. ." [About 42 lines are missing here in the Standard Version; lines 228-249 are taken from the Old Babylonian.] "Who, my Friend, can ascend to the heavens!" (Only) the gods can dwell forever with Shamash. As for human beings, their days are numbered, and whatever they keep trying to achieve is but wind! Now you are afraid of death what has become of your bold strength! I will go in front of you, and your mouth can call out: 'Go on closer, do not be afraid!' Should I fall, I will have established my fame. (They will say 'It was Gilgamesh who locked in battle with Humbaba the Terrible!' You were born and raised in the wilderness, a lion leaped up on you, so you have experienced it all!' [5 lines are fragmentary] I will undertake it and I will cut down the Cedar. It is I who will establish fame for eternity! Come, my friend, I will go over to the forge and have them cast the weapons in our presence!" Holding each other by the hand they went over to the forge. [The Standard Version resumes at this point.] The craftsmen sat and discussed with one another. "We should fashion the axe The hatchet should he one talent in weight Their swords should be one talent Their armor one talent, their armor" Gilgamesh said to the men of Uruk: "Listen to me, men [5 lines are missing here. You, men of Uruk, who know I want to make myself more mighty, and will go on a distant(!) journey! I will face fighting such as I have never known, I will set out on a road I have never traveled! Give me your blessings! I will enter the city gate of Uruk I will devote(?) myself to the New Year's Festival. I will perform the New Year's (ceremonies) in The New Year's Festival will take place, celebrations They will keep shouting 'Hurrah!' in"" Enkidu spoke to the Elders: "What the men of Uruk Say to him that he must not go to the Cedar Forest the journey is not to be made! A man who The Guardian of the Cedar Forest The Noble Counselors of Uruk arose and delivered their advice toGilgamesh: "You are young, Gilgamesh, your heart carries you off you do not know what you are talking about! gave birth to you. Humbaba's roar is a Flood, his mouth is Fire, his breath Death! He can hear any rustling(!) in his forest 100 leagues away! Who would go down into his forest! Who among (even!) the Igigi gods can confront him? In order to keep the Cedar safe, Enlil assigned him as a terror to human beings." Gilgamesh listened to the statement of his Noble Counselors. [About 5 lines are missing to the end of Tablet II.] ~ Anonymous, The Epic of Gilgamesh Tablet II ,

829:Beowulf (Episode 28-30) HASTENED the hardy one, henchmen with him, sandy strand of the sea to tread and widespread ways. The world's great candle, sun shone from south. They strode along with sturdy steps to the spot they knew where the battle-king young, his burg within, slayer of Ongentheow, shared the rings, shelter-of-heroes. To Hygelac Beowulf's coming was quickly told, -that there in the court the clansmen's refuge, the shield-companion sound and alive, hale from the hero-play homeward strode. With haste in the hall, by highest order, room for the rovers was readily made. By his sovran he sat, come safe from battle, kinsman by kinsman. His kindly lord he first had greeted in gracious form, with manly words. The mead dispensing, came through the high hall Haereth's daughter, winsome to warriors, wine-cup bore to the hands of the heroes. Hygelac then his comrade fairly with question plied in the lofty hall, sore longing to know what manner of sojourn the Sea-Geats made. "What came of thy quest, my kinsman Beowulf, when thy yearnings suddenly swept thee yonder battle to seek o'er the briny sea, combat in Heorot? Hrothgar couldst thou aid at all, the honored chief, in his wide-known woes? With waves of care my sad heart seethed; I sore mistrusted my loved one's venture: long I begged thee by no means to seek that slaughtering monster, but suffer the South-Danes to settle their feud themselves with Grendel. Now God be thanked that safe and sound I can see thee now!" Beowulf spake, the bairn of Ecgtheow: -"'Tis known and unhidden, Hygelac Lord, to many men, that meeting of ours, 143 struggle grim between Grendel and me, which we fought on the field where full too many sorrows he wrought for the Scylding-Victors, evils unending. These all I avenged. No boast can be from breed of Grendel, any on earth, for that uproar at dawn, from the longest-lived of the loathsome race in fleshly fold! -- But first I went Hrothgar to greet in the hall of gifts, where Healfdene's kinsman high-renowned, soon as my purpose was plain to him, assigned me a seat by his son and heir. The liegemen were lusty; my life-days never such merry men over mead in hall have I heard under heaven! The high-born queen, people's peace-bringer, passed through the hall, cheered the young clansmen, clasps of gold, ere she sought her seat, to sundry gave. Oft to the heroes Hrothgar's daughter, to earls in turn, the ale-cup tendered, -she whom I heard these hall-companions Freawaru name, when fretted gold she proffered the warriors. Promised is she, gold-decked maid, to the glad son of Froda. Sage this seems to the Scylding's-friend, kingdom's-keeper: he counts it wise the woman to wed so and ward off feud, store of slaughter. But seldom ever when men are slain, does the murder-spear sink but briefest while, though the bride be fair! "Nor haply will like it the Heathobard lord, and as little each of his liegemen all, when a thane of the Danes, in that doughty throng, goes with the lady along their hall, and on him the old-time heirlooms glisten hard and ring-decked, Heathobard's treasure, weapons that once they wielded fair until they lost at the linden-play liegeman leal and their lives as well. Then, over the ale, on this heirloom gazing, some ash-wielder old who has all in mind that spear-death of men, -- he is stern of mood, 144 heavy at heart, -- in the hero young tests the temper and tries the soul and war-hate wakens, with words like these: -Canst thou not, comrade, ken that sword which to the fray thy father carried in his final feud, 'neath the fighting-mask, dearest of blades, when the Danish slew him and wielded the war-place on Withergild's fall, after havoc of heroes, those hardy Scyldings? Now, the son of a certain slaughtering Dane, proud of his treasure, paces this hall, joys in the killing, and carries the jewel that rightfully ought to be owned by thee!_ Thus he urges and eggs him all the time with keenest words, till occasion offers that Freawaru's thane, for his father's deed, after bite of brand in his blood must slumber, losing his life; but that liegeman flies living away, for the land he kens. And thus be broken on both their sides oaths of the earls, when Ingeld's breast wells with war-hate, and wife-love now after the care-billows cooler grows. "So I hold not high the Heathobards' faith due to the Danes, or their during love and pact of peace. -- But I pass from that, turning to Grendel, O giver-of-treasure, and saying in full how the fight resulted, hand-fray of heroes. When heaven's jewel had fled o'er far fields, that fierce sprite came, night-foe savage, to seek us out where safe and sound we sentried the hall. To Hondscio then was that harassing deadly, his fall there was fated. He first was slain, girded warrior. Grendel on him turned murderous mouth, on our mighty kinsman, and all of the brave man's body devoured. Yet none the earlier, empty-handed, would the bloody-toothed murderer, mindful of bale, outward go from the gold-decked hall: but me he attacked in his terror of might, with greedy hand grasped me. A glove hung by him 145 wide and wondrous, wound with bands; and in artful wise it all was wrought, by devilish craft, of dragon-skins. Me therein, an innocent man, the fiendish foe was fain to thrust with many another. He might not so, when I all angrily upright stood. 'Twere long to relate how that land-destroyer I paid in kind for his cruel deeds; yet there, my prince, this people of thine got fame by my fighting. He fled away, and a little space his life preserved; but there staid behind him his stronger hand left in Heorot; heartsick thence on the floor of the ocean that outcast fell. Me for this struggle the Scyldings'-friend paid in plenty with plates of gold, with many a treasure, when morn had come and we all at the banquet-board sat down. Then was song and glee. The gray-haired Scylding, much tested, told of the times of yore. Whiles the hero his harp bestirred, wood-of-delight; now lays he chanted of sooth and sadness, or said aright legends of wonder, the wide-hearted king; or for years of his youth he would yearn at times, for strength of old struggles, now stricken with age, hoary hero: his heart surged full when, wise with winters, he wailed their flight. Thus in the hall the whole of that day at ease we feasted, till fell o'er earth another night. Anon full ready in greed of vengeance, Grendel's mother set forth all doleful. Dead was her son through war-hate of Weders; now, woman monstrous with fury fell a foeman she slew, avenged her offspring. From Aeschere old, loyal councillor, life was gone; nor might they e'en, when morning broke, those Danish people, their death-done comrade burn with brands, on balefire lay the man they mourned. Under mountain stream 146 she had carried the corpse with cruel hands. For Hrothgar that was the heaviest sorrow of all that had laden the lord of his folk. The leader then, by thy life, besought me (sad was his soul) in the sea-waves' coil to play the hero and hazard my being for glory of prowess: my guerdon he pledged. I then in the waters -- 'tis widely known -that sea-floor-guardian savage found. Hand-to-hand there a while we struggled; billows welled blood; in the briny hall her head I hewed with a hardy blade from Grendel's mother, -- and gained my life, though not without danger. My doom was not yet. Then the haven-of-heroes, Healfdene's son, gave me in guerdon great gifts of price. ~ Anonymous Olde English,

830:At twenty leagues they broke for some food, at thirty leagues they stopped for the night, walking Fifty leagues in a whole day, a walk of a month and a half. On the third day they drew near to the Lebanon. They dug a well facing Shamash (the setting sun), Gilgamesh climbed up a mountain peak, made a libation of flour, and said: "Mountain, bring me a dream, a favorable message from Shamash." Enkidu prepared a sleeping place for him for the night; a violent wind passed through so he attached a covering. He made him lie down, and in a circle. they like grain from the mountain While Gilgamesh rested his chin on his knees, sleep that pours over mankind overtook him. in the middle of the night his sleep came to an end, so he got up and said to his friend: "My friend, did you not call out to me? Why did I wake up? Did you not touch me? Why am I so disturbed? Did a god pass by? Why are my muscles trembling? Enkidu, my friend, I have had a dream and the dream I had was deeply disturbing(?) in the mountain gorges the mountain fell down on me (us?) Wet(?) like flies(?) He who was born in the wilderness, Enkidu, interpreted the dream for his friend: "My friend, your dream is favorable. The dream is extremely important. My friend, the mountain which you saw in the dream is Humbaba. "It means we will capture Humbaba, and kill him and throw his corpse into the wasteland. In the morning there will be a favorable message from Shamash. At twenty leagues they broke for some food, at thirty leagues they stopped for the night, walking fifty leagues in a whole day, a walk of a month and a half. They dug a well facing Shamash Gilgamesh climbed up a mountain peak, made a libation of flour, and said, "Mountain, bring me a dream, a favorable message from Shamash." Enkidu prepared a sleeping place for him for the night; a violent wind passed through so he attached a covering. He made him lie down, and in a circle. They like grain from the mountain While Gilgamesh rested his chin on his knees, sleep that pours over mankind overtook him. ,, in the middle of the night his sleep came to an end, so he got up and said to his friend: My friend, did you not call out to me? Why did I wake up? Did you not touch me? Why am I so disturbed? Did a god pass by? Why are my muscles trembling? Enkidu, my friend, I have had a dream, besides my first dream, a second. And the dream I hadso striking, so,so disturbing!' I was grappling with a wild bull of the wilderness, with his bellow he split the ground, a cloud of dustto the sky. I sank to my knees in front of him. He holds that encircled(?) my arm. (My?) tongue(?) hung out(?) My temples throbbed(?) He gave me water to drink from his waterskin." "My friend, the god to whom we go is not the wild bull? He is totally different? The wild bull that you saw is Shamash, the protector, in difficulties he holds our hand. The one who gave you water to drink from his waterskin is your personal) god, who brings honor to you, Lugalbanda. We should join together and do one thing, a deed such as has never (before) been done in the land." At twenty leagues they broke for some food, at thirty leagues they stopped for the night, walking fifty leagues in a whole day, a walk of a month and a half. They dug a well facing Shamash, Gilgamesh climbed up a mountain peak, made a libation of flour, and said: "Mountain, bring me a dream, a favorable message from Shamash." Enkidu prepared a sleeping place for him for the night; a violent wind passed through so he attached a covering. He made him lie dawn, and in a circle. They like grain from the mountain While Gilgamesh rested his chin on his knees, sleep that pours over mankind overtook him. In the middle of the night his sleep came to an end, so he got up and said to his friend: "My friend, did you nor call out to me? Why did I wake up? Did you not touch me? Why am I so disturbed? Did a god pass by) Why are my muscles trembling? Enkidu, my friend, I have had a third dream, and the dream I had was deeply disturbing. ,,     The heavens roared and the earth rumbled; (then) it became deathly still, and darkness loomed. A bolt of lightning cracked and a fire broke out, and where(?) it kept thickening, there rained death. Then the white-hot name dimmed, and the fire went out, and everything that had been falling around turned to ash. Let us go down into the plain so we can talk it over." ,,, Enkidu heard the dream that he had presented and said to Gilgamesh (About 40 lines are missing here.) At twenty leagues they broke for some food, at thirty leagues they stopped for the night, walking fifty leagues in a whole day, a walk of a month and a half. They dug a well facing Shamash, Gilgamesh climbed up a mountain peak, made a libation of flour, and said: "Mountain, bring me a dream, a favorable message from Shamash." Enkidu prepared a sleeping place for him for the night; a violent wind passed through so he attached a covering. He made him lie down, and in a circle. They like grain from the mountain While Gilgamesh rested his chin on his knees, sleep that pours over mankind overtook him. in the middle of the night his sleep came to an end, so he got up and said to his friend: "My friend, did you not call out to me? Why did I wake up? Did you nor touch me? Why am I so disturbed? Did a god pass by? Why are my muscles trembling) Enkidu, my friend, I have had a fourthi(?) dream, and the dream I had was deeply disturbing (?). (About 11 lines are missing) "He was cubits tall Gilgamesh Enkidu listened to his dream "The dream that you had is favorable, it is extremely important? My friend, this Humbaba Eke Before it becomes light We will achieve (victory?) over him, Humbaba, against whom we rage, we will.., and triumph over him. In the morning there will be a favorable message from Shamash. At twenty leagues they broke for some food, at thirty leagues they stopped for the night, walking fifty leagues in a whole day, a walk of a month and a half. They dug a well facing Shamash, Gilgamesh climbed up a mountain peak, made a libation of flour, and said: "Mountain, bring me a dream, a favorable message from Shamash." Enkidu prepared a sleepmg place for him for the night; a violent wind passed through so he attached a covering. He made him lie down, and in a circle. They like grain from the mountain While Gilgamerh rested his chin on his knees, sleep that pours over mankind overtook him. ,, in the middle of the night his sleep came to an end, so he got up and said to his friend: "My friend, did you not call out to me? Why did I wake up? Did you not touch me? Why am I so disturbed? Did a god pass by? Why are my muscles trembling? Enkidu, my friend, I had a fifth(?) dream, and the dream I had was deeply disturbing (?). His tears were running in the presence of Shamash. 'What you said in Uruk, be mindful of it, stand by me ?" Gilgamesh, the offspring of Uruk-Hauen, Shamash heard what issued from his mouth, and suddenly there resounded a warning sound from the sky. "Hurry, stand by him so that he (Humhaba) does nor enter the forest, and does not go down into the thickets and hide (?) He has not put on his seven coats of armor(?) he is wearing only one, but has taken off six." ,,, They(Gilgamesh and Enkidu ') They lunge at each other like raging wild bulls One name he bellowed full of The Guardian of the Forest bellowedHumbaha like "'One alone cannot 'Strangers 'A slippery path is not feared by two people who help each other.' 'Twice three times 'A three-ply rope cannot be cut.' 'The mighty lioness cubs can roll him over."' Enkidu spoke to Gilgamesh, saying: "As soon as we have gone down into the Cedar Forest, let us split open the tree (?) and strip off its branches(?)." Gilgamesh spoke to Enkidu, saying: "Why, my friend, weso wretchedly (?) We have crossed over all the mountarns together, in front of us, before we have cut down the Cedar. My friend, you who are so experienced in battle, who fighting, you' and (need) not fear death. Let your voice bellow forth like the kettledrum, let the stiffness in your arms depart, let the paralysis in your legs go away. Take my hand, my friend, we will go on together. Your heart should burn to do battle pay no heed to death, do not lose heart! The one who watches from the side is a careful man, but the one who walks in front protects himself and saves his comrade, and through their fighting they establish fame'" As the two of them reached the evergreen forest they cut off their talk, and stood still. ~ Anonymous, The Epic of Gilgamesh Tablet IV ,

831:Love Sonnets I. HOW beautiful doth the morning rise O’er the hills, as from her bower a bride Comes brightened—blushing with the shame-faced pride Of love that now consummated supplies All her full heart can wish, and to the eyes Dear are the flowers then, in their green haunts spied, Glist ning with dew: pleasant at noon the side Of shadowy mountains ridging to the skies: At eve ’tis sweet to hear the breeze advance Through the responding forest dense and tall; And sweeter in the moonlight is the dance And natural music of the waterfall: And yet we feel not the full charm of all, Till love be near us with his magic glance. -------------------------------------------------------------------------------- II. WHY tower my spirits, and what means this wild Commotion at my heart—this dreamy chase Of possible joys that glow like stars in space? Now feel I even to all things reconciled, As all were one in spirit. Rudely up-piled Brown hills grow beautiful; a novel grace Exalts the moorland’s once unmeaning face; The river that, like a pure mind beguiled, Grows purer for its errors, and the trees That fringe its margin with a dusky shade, Seem robed in fairy wonder; and are these Exalted thus because with me surveyed By one sweet sould whom well they seem to please Here at my side—an almost stranger maid? -------------------------------------------------------------------------------- 92 III. NOW sunny, as the noontide heavens, are The eyes of my sweet friend, and now serene And chastely shadowy in their maiden mien; Or dream-power, sparkling like a brilliant star Fills all their blue depths, taking me afar To where, in the rich past, through song is seen Some sovereign beauty, knighthood’s mystic queen, Pluming with love the iron brows of war! Bright eyes before, with subtle lightning glance Have kindled all my being into one Wild tumult; but a charm thus to enhance My heart’s love-loyalty till now had none! And can this witchery be the work of chance? I know not—I but know my rest is gone. -------------------------------------------------------------------------------- IV. A VAST and shadowy hope breaks up my rest Unspoken; nor dares even my pen to write How my pent spirit pineth day and night For one fair love with whom I might be blest! And ever with vague jealousies possessed The more I languish, feeling these may so Oppress affection that for very woe She longs at last to die deep buried in my breast! O for a beaker of the wine of love, Or a deep draught of the Lethèan wave! The power a mutual passion to emove, Or that repose which sealeth up the grave! Yet these my bonds are blameless; one more wise Had dreamt away his freedom, dreaming of her eyes. -------------------------------------------------------------------------------- V. 93 HER image haunts me! Lo! I muse at even, And straight it gathers from the gloom, to make My soul its mirror; which (as some still lake Holds pictured in its depths the face of heaven) Through the hushed night retains it: when ’tis given To take a warmer presence and incline A glowing cheek burning with love to mine, Saying—“The heart for which thou long hast stiven With looks so fancy-pale, I grant thee now; And if for ruth, yet more for love’s sweet sake, My lips shall seal this promise on thy brow. ” Thus blest in sleep—oh! Who would care to wake, When the cold real from his belief must shake Such vows, like blossoms from a shattered bough? -------------------------------------------------------------------------------- VI. SHE loves me! From her own bliss-breathing lips The live confession came, like rich perfume From crimson petals bursting into bloom! And still my heart at the remembrance skips Like a young lion, and my tongue too trips As drunk with joy! While very object seen In life’s diurnal round wears in its mien A clear assurance that no doubts eclipse. And if the common things of nature now Are like old faces flushed with new delight, Much more the consciousness of that rich vow Deepens the beauteous, and refines the bright, While throned I seem on love’s divinest height Mid all the glories glowing round its brow. -------------------------------------------------------------------------------- VII. FAIR as the day—a genial day serene Of early summer, when the vital air 94 Breathes as ’twere God’s own breath, and blossoms rare Fill many a bush, or nestle in between The heapy folds of nature’s mantle green, As they were happier for the joint joy there Of birds and bees;—so genial, and so fair And rich in pleasure, is my life’s sole queen. My spirit in the sunshine of her grace Glows with intenser being, and my veins Fill as with nectar! In your pride of place Ye mighty, boast! Ye rich, heap gold space! I envy nor your grandeur nor your gains, Thus gazing at the heaven of her face! -------------------------------------------------------------------------------- VIII. FAIR as the night—when all the astral fires Of heaven are burning in the clear expanse, My love is, and her eyes like star-depths glance Lustrous with glowing thoughts and pure desires, And that mysterious pathos which inspires All moods divine in mortal passion’s trance— All that its earthly music doth enhance As with the rapture of seraphic lyres! I gaze upon her till the atmosphere Sweetens intensely, and to my charmed sight All fair associated forms appear Swimming in joy, as swim yon orbs in light— And all sweet sounds, though common, to mine ear Chime up like silver-winged dreams in flight. -------------------------------------------------------------------------------- IX. TO-DAY we part! I far away to dwell From this the scene that saw our bud of love Bloom into rosehood. The blue heavens above— These hills and valleys, with each rocky dell, 95 Echo’s dim hold,—shall these retain no spell Of foregone passion? Shall they speak no tale Of grief they shrouded in this shaded vale? Shall they of all our joy the story tell? To-morrow—and the sun shall climb yon hill Bright as before; all winged things shall wake To song as glad as if we listened still; The stream as mirthfully its wild way make. But I, pursuing fortune’s wandering star, Shall see and hear them not—from thee and them afar. -------------------------------------------------------------------------------- X. ABSENCE NIGHTLY I watch the moon with silvery sheen Flaking the city house-tops—till I feel Thy memory, dear one, like a presence steal Down in her light; for always in her mien Thy soul’s similitude my soul hath seen! And as she seemeth now—a guardian seal On heaven’s far bliss, upon my future weal Even such thy truth is—radiantly serene. But long my fancy may not entertain These bright resemblances—for lo! A cloud Blots her away! And in my breast the pain Of absent love recurring pines aloud! When shall I look in thy bright eyes again? O my beloved with like sadness bowed! -------------------------------------------------------------------------------- XI. THERE is a trying spirit in the drift Of human life, apportioning the prize (In that true quality wherein it lies) That each one seeketh, to that seeker’s gift. Hence must he suffer many a perilous shift 96 Who unto fame by martial deeds would rise; Hence look at liberty with lion-eyes Must he who’d make the march of man more swift: Hence heaven’s best crown, more glorious than the sun, Is only gained by dying for our kind; And hence, too, true love’s highest meed is won Only through agonies of heart and mind. Such, dear one, is the fate (and therefore ours) Of all whom love would crown with faith’s divinest flowers. -------------------------------------------------------------------------------- XII. THE VOYAGE to that haven of true love Was ever stormy since the world began, Or story from its earliest fountain ran; Teaching us truly that the gods approve, In the superior destinies of man, Only what most the noblest hearts shall move: Hence was Leander’s life so brief a span, Who, weltering a mortal while above The bursting wave, sent on his soul to where The Maid of Sestos from her watch-tower’s height Looked for his coming through the troubled air, Nor knew that he had died for her that night! Hence Sappho’s fatal leap! (The cause the same) Hence too was Petrarch’s heart the martyr of his flame! -------------------------------------------------------------------------------- XIII. LOSS follows gain, and sadness waits on mirth, And much is wasted where too much is given; We cannot fully have our joy on earth Without diminishing our joy in heaven. Envy dogs merit; madness neighbours wit; Stale is their gladness who were never sad; And Dives in this fleshly life, ’tis writ, 97 Received his good things, Lazarus his bad. Thus, dearest, o’er the waves of many things My troubled mind, even like a ship, is tossed, And from the quest this only inference brings: That true love in its earthly course is crossed, Lest by dull worldly usage it should be Too worldly cramped to soar in large eternity. ~ Charles Harpur,

832:The Duellist - Book I The clock struck twelve; o'er half the globe Darkness had spread her pitchy robe: Morpheus, his feet with velvet shod, Treading as if in fear he trod, Gentle as dews at even-tide, Distill'd his poppies far and wide. Ambition, who, when waking, dreams Of mighty, but fantastic schemes, Who, when asleep, ne'er knows that rest With which the humbler soul is blest, Was building castles in the air, Goodly to look upon, and fair, But on a bad foundation laid, Doom'd at return of morn to fade. Pale Study, by the taper's light, Wearing away the watch of night, Sat reading; but, with o'ercharged head, Remember'd nothing that he read. Starving 'midst plenty, with a face Which might the court of Famine grace, Ragged, and filthy to behold, Gray Avarice nodded o'er his gold. Jealousy, his quick eye half-closed, With watchings worn, reluctant dozed; And, mean Distrust not quite forgot, Slumber'd as if he slumber'd not. Stretch'd at his length on the bare ground, His hardy offspring sleeping round, Snored restless Labour; by his side Lay Health, a coarse but comely bride. Virtue, without the doctor's aid, In the soft arms of Sleep was laid; Whilst Vice, within the guilty breast, Could not be physic'd into rest. Thou bloody man! whose ruffian knife Is drawn against thy neighbour's life, And never scruples to descend Into the bosom of a friend; A firm, fast friend, by vice allied, 138 And to thy secret service tied, In whom ten murders breed no awe, If properly secured from law: Thou man of lust! whom passion fires To foulest deeds, whose hot desires O'er honest bars with ease make way, Whilst idiot beauty falls a prey, And to indulge thy brutal flame A Lucrece must be brought to shame; Who dost, a brave, bold sinner, bear Rank incest to the open air, And rapes, full blown upon thy crown, Enough to weigh a nation down: Thou simular of lust! vain man, Whose restless thoughts still form the plan Of guilt, which, wither'd to the root, Thy lifeless nerves can't execute, Whilst in thy marrowless, dry bones Desire without enjoyment groans: Thou perjured wretch! whom falsehood clothes E'en like a garment; who with oaths Dost trifle, as with brokers, meant To serve thy every vile intent, In the day's broad and searching eye Making God witness to a lie, Blaspheming heaven and earth for pelf, And hanging friends to save thyself: Thou son of Chance! whose glorious soul On the four aces doom'd to roll, Was never yet with Honour caught, Nor on poor Virtue lost one thought; Who dost thy wife, thy children set, Thy all, upon a single bet, Risking, the desperate stake to try, Here and hereafter on a die; Who, thy own private fortune lost, Dost game on at thy country's cost, And, grown expert in sharping rules, First fool'd thyself, now prey'st on fools: Thou noble gamester! whose high place Gives too much credit to disgrace; Who, with the motion of a die, 139 Dost make a mighty island fly-The sums, I mean, of good French gold For which a mighty island sold; Who dost betray intelligence, Abuse the dearest confidence, And, private fortune to create, Most falsely play the game of state; Who dost within the Alley sport Sums which might beggar a whole court, And make us bankrupts all, if Care, With good Earl Talbot, was not there: Thou daring infidel! whom pride And sin have drawn from Reason's side; Who, fearing his avengeful rod, Dost wish not to believe a God; Whose hope is founded on a plan Which should distract the soul of man, And make him curse his abject birth; Whose hope is, once return'd to earth, There to lie down, for worms a feast, To rot and perish like a beast; Who dost, of punishment afraid, And by thy crimes a coward made, To every generous soul a curse Than Hell and all her torments worse, When crawling to thy latter end, Call on Destruction as a friend, Choosing to crumble into dust Rather than rise, though rise you must: Thou hypocrite! who dost profane, And take the patriot's name in vain; Then most thy country's foe, when most Of love and loyalty you boast; Who, for the love of filthy gold, Thy friend, thy king, thy God hast sold, And, mocking the just claim of Hell, Were bidders found, thyself wouldst sell: Ye villains! of whatever name, Whatever rank, to whom the claim Of Hell is certain, on whose lids That worm, which never dies, forbids Sweet sleep to fall, come, and behold, 140 Whilst envy makes your blood run cold, Behold, by pitiless Conscience led, So Justice wills, that holy bed Where Peace her full dominion keeps, And Innocence with Holland sleeps. Bid Terror, posting on the wind, Affray the spirits of mankind; Bid Earthquakes, heaving for a vent, Rive their concealing continent, And, forcing an untimely birth Through the vast bowels of the earth, Endeavour, in her monstrous womb, At once all Nature to entomb; Bid all that's horrible and dire, All that man hates and fears, conspire To make night hideous as they can, Still is thy sleep, thou virtuous man! Pure as the thoughts which in thy breast Inhabit, and insure thy rest; Still shall thy Ayliffe, taught, though late, Thy friendly justice in his fate, Turn'd to a guardian angel, spread Sweet dreams of comfort round thy head. Dark was the night, by Fate decreed For the contrivance of a deed More black than common, which might make This land from her foundations shake, Might tear up Freedom by the root, Destroy a Wilkes, and fix a Bute. Deep Horror held her wide domain; The sky in sullen drops of rain Forewept the morn, and through the air, Which, opening, laid its bosom bare, Loud thunders roll'd, and lightning stream'd; The owl at Freedom's window scream'd, The screech-owl, prophet dire, whose breath Brings sickness, and whose note is death; The churchyard teem'd, and from the tomb, All sad and silent, through the gloom The ghosts of men, in former times, Whose public virtues were their crimes, Indignant stalk'd; sorrow and rage 141 Blank'd their pale cheeks; in his own age The prop of Freedom, Hampden there Felt after death the generous care; Sidney by grief from heaven was kept, And for his brother patriot wept: All friends of Liberty, when Fate Prepared to shorten Wilkes's date, Heaved, deeply hurt, the heartfelt groan, And knew that wound to be their own. Hail, Liberty! a glorious word, In other countries scarcely heard, Or heard but as a thing of course, Without, or energy, or force: Here felt, enjoy'd, adored, she springs, Far, far beyond the reach of kings, Fresh blooming from our mother Earth: With pride and joy she owns her birth Derived from us, and in return Bids in our breasts her genius burn; Bids us with all those blessings live Which Liberty alone can give, Or nobly with that spirit die Which makes death more than victory. Hail, those old patriots! on whose tongue Persuasion in the senate hung, Whilst they the sacred cause maintain'd. Hail, those old chiefs! to honour train'd, Who spread, when other methods fail'd, War's bloody banner, and prevail'd. Shall men like these unmention'd sleep Promiscuous with the common heap, And (Gratitude forbid the crime!) Be carried down the stream of time In shoals, unnoticed and forgot, On Lethe's stream, like flags, to rot? No--they shall live, and each fair name, Recorded in the book of Fame, Founded on Honour's basis, fast As the round earth to ages last. Some virtues vanish with our breath; Virtue like this lives after death. Old Time himself, his scythe thrown by, 142 Himself lost in eternity, An everlasting crown shall twine To make a Wilkes and Sidney join. But should some slave-got villain dare Chains for his country to prepare, And, by his birth to slavery broke, Make her, too, feel the galling yoke, May he be evermore accursed, Amongst bad men be rank'd the worst; May he be still himself, and still Go on in vice, and perfect ill; May his broad crimes each day increase, Till he can't live, nor die in peace; May he be plunged so deep in shame, That Satan mayn't endure his name, And hear, scarce crawling on the earth, His children curse him for their birth; May Liberty, beyond the grave, Ordain him to be still a slave, Grant him what here he most requires, And damn him with his own desires! But should some villain, in support And zeal for a despairing court, Placing in craft his confidence, And making honour a pretence To do a deed of deepest shame, Whilst filthy lucre is his aim; Should such a wretch, with sword or knife, Contrive to practise 'gainst the life Of one who, honour'd through the land, For Freedom made a glorious stand; Whose chief, perhaps his only crime, Is (if plain Truth at such a time May dare her sentiments to tell) That he his country loves too well: May he--but words are all too weak The feelings of my heart to speak-May he--oh for a noble curse, Which might his very marrow pierce!-The general contempt engage, And be the Martin of his age! 143 ~ Charles Churchill,

833:Corsica --- A manly race Of unsubmitting spirit, wise and brave; Who still through bleeding ages struggled hard To hold a generous undiminished state; Too much in vain! Thomson Hail, generous Corsica! unconquered isle! The fort of freedom; that amidst the waves Stands like a rock of adamant, and dares The wildest fury of the beating storm. And are there yet, in this late sickly age, Unkindly to the towering growths of virtue, Such bold exalted spirits? Men whose deeds, To the bright annals of old Greece opposed, Would throw in shades her yet unrivaled name, And dim the lustre of her fairest page! And glows the flame of Liberty so strong In this lone speck of earth! this spot obscure, Shaggy with woods, and crusted o'er with rock, By slaves surrounded, and by slaves oppressed! What then should Britons feel?—should they not catch The warm contagion of heroic ardour, And kindle at a fire so like their own? Such were the working thoughts which swelled the breast Of generous Boswel; when with nobler aim And views beyond the narrow beaten track By trivial fancy trod, he turned his course From polished Gallia's soft delicious vales, From the grey reliques of imperial Rome, From her long galleries of laureled stone, Her chiseled heroes and her marble gods, Whose dumb majestic pomp yet awes the world, To animated forms of patriot zeal; Warm in the living majesty of virtue; Elate with fearless spirit; firm; resolved; 37 By fortune nor subdued, nor awed by power. How raptured fancy burns, while warm in thought I trace the pictured landscape; while I kiss With pilgrim lips devout the sacred soil Stained with the blood of heroes. Cyrnus, hail! Hail to thy rocky, deep indented shores, And pointed cliffs, which hear the chafing deep Incessant foaming round their shaggy sides. Hail to thy winding bays, thy sheltering ports And ample harbours, which inviting stretch Their hospitable arms to every sail: Thy numerous streams, that bursting from the cliffs Down the steep channeled rock impetuous pour With grateful murmur: on the fearful edge Of the rude precipice, thy hamlets brown And straw-roofed cots, which from the level vale Scarce seen, amongst the craggy hanging cliffs Seem like an eagle's nest aerial built. Thy swelling mountains, brown with solemn shade Of various trees, that wave their giant arms O'er the rough sons of freedom; lofty pines, And hardy fir, and ilex ever green, And spreading chesnut, with each humbler plant, And shrub of fragrant leaf, that clothes their sides With living verdure; whence the clustering bee Extracts her golden dews: the shining box, And sweet-leaved myrtle, aromatic thyme, The prickly juniper, and the green leaf Which feeds the spinning worm; while glowing bright Beneath the various foliage, wildly spreads The arbutus, and rears his scarlet fruit Luxuriant, mantling o'er the craggy steeps; And thy own native laurel crowns the scene. Hail to thy savage forests, awful, deep; Thy tangled thickets, and thy crowded woods, The haunt of herds untamed; which sullen bound From rock to rock with fierce unsocial air, And wilder gaze, as conscious of the power That loves to reign amid the lonely scenes Of unquelled nature: precipices huge, And tumbling torrents; trackless deserts, plains 38 Fenced in with guardian rocks, whose quarries teem With shining steel, that to the cultured fields And sunny hills which wave with bearded grain Defends their homely produce. Liberty, The mountain Goddess, loves to range at large Amid such scenes, and on the iron soil Prints her majestic step. For these she scorns The green enameled vales, the velvet lap Of smooth savannahs, where the pillowed head Of Luxury reposes; balmy gales, And bowers that breathe of bliss. For these, when first This isle emerging like a beauteous gem From the dark bosom of the Tyrrhene main Reared its fair front, she marked it for her own, And with her spirit warmed. Her genuine sons, A broken remnant, from the generous stock Of ancient Greece, from Sparta's sad remains, True to their high descent, preserved unquenched The sacred fire through many a barbarous age: Whom, nor the iron rod of cruel Carthage, Nor the dread sceptre of imperial Rome, Nor bloody Goth, nor grisly Saracen, Nor the long galling yoke of proud Liguria, Could crush into subjection. Still unquelled They rose superior, bursting from their chains, And claimed man's dearest birthright, liberty: And long, through many a hard unequal strife Maintained the glorious conflict; long withstood, With single arm, the whole collected force Of haughty Genoa, and ambitious Gaul. And shall withstand it—Trust the faithful Muse! It is not in the force of mortal arm, Scarcely in fate, to bind the struggling soul That galled by wanton power, indignant swells Against oppression; breathing great revenge, Careless of life, determined to be free. And favouring Heaven approves: for see the Man, Born to exalt his own, and give mankind A glimpse of higher natures: just, as great; The soul of council, and the nerve of war; Of high unshaken spirit, tempered sweet With soft urbanity, and polished grace, 39 And attic wit, and gay unstudied smiles: Whom Heaven in some propitious hour endowed With every purer virtue: gave him all That lifts the hero, or adorns the man. Gave him the eye sublime; the searching glance, Keen, scanning deep, that smites the guilty soul As with a beam from heaven; on his brow Serene, and spacious front, set the broad seal Of dignity and rule; then smiled benign On this fair pattern of a God below, High wrought, and breathed into his swelling breast The large ambitious wish to save his country. O beauteous title to immortal fame! The man devoted to the public, stands In the bright records of superior worth A step below the skies: if he succeed, The first fair lot which earth affords, is his; And if he falls, he falls above a throne. When such their leader, can the brave despair? Freedom the cause, and Paoli the chief! Success to your fair hopes! A British Muse, Though weak and powerless, lifts her fervent voice, And breathes a prayer for your success. O could She scatter blessings as the morn sheds dews, To drop upon your heads! But patient hope Must wait the appointed hour; secure of this, That never with the indolent and weak Will Freedom deign to dwell; she must be seized By that bold arm that wrestles for the blessing: 'Tis Heaven's best prize, and must be bought with blood. When the storm thickens, when the combat burns, And pain and death in every horrid shape That can appal the feeble, prowl around, Then Virtue triumphs; then her towering form Dilates with kindling majesty; her mien Breathes a diviner spirit, and enlarged Each spreading feature, with an ampler port And bolder tone, exulting, rides the storm, And joys amidst the tempest. Then she reaps Her golden harvest; fruits of nobler growth And higher relish than meridian suns 40 Can ever ripen; fair, heroic deeds, And godlike action. 'Tis not meats and drinks, And balmy airs, and vernal suns and showers, That feed and ripen minds; 'tis toil and danger; And wrestling with the stubborn gripe of fate; And war, and sharp distress, and paths obscure And dubious. The bold swimmer joys not so To feel the proud waves under him, and beat With strong repelling arm the billowy surge; The generous courser does not so exult To toss his floating mane against the wind, And neigh amidst the thunder of the war, As Virtue to oppose her swelling breast Like a firm shield against the darts of fate. And when her sons in that rough school have learned To smile at danger, then the hand that raised Shall hush the storm, and lead the shining train Of peaceful years in bright procession on. Then shall the shepherd's pipe, the Muse's lyre, On Cyrnus' shores be heard: her grateful sons With loud acclaim and hymns of cordial praise Shall hail their high deliverers; every name To Virtue dear be from oblivion snatched And placed among the stars: but chiefly thine, Thine, Paoli, with sweetest sound shall dwell On their applauding lips; thy sacred name, Endeared to long posterity, some Muse, More worthy of the theme, shall consecrate To after-ages, and applauding worlds Shall bless the godlike man who saved his country. So vainly wished, so fondly hoped the Muse: Too fondly hoped. The iron fates prevail, And Cyrnus is no more. Her generous sons, Less vanquished than o'erwhelmed, by numbers crushed, Admired, unaided fell. So strives the moon In dubious battle with the gathering clouds, And strikes a splendour through them; till at length Storms rolled on storms involve the face of heaven And quench her struggling fires. Forgive the zeal That, too presumptuous, whispered better things, And read the book of destiny amiss. 41 Not with the purple colouring of success Is virtue best adorned: the attempt is praise. There yet remains a freedom, nobler far Than kings or senates can destroy or give; Beyond the proud oppressor's cruel grasp Seated secure, uninjured, undestroyed; Worthy of Gods:….the freedom of the mind. ~ Anna Laetitia Barbauld,

834:The Dunciad: Book I. The Mighty Mother, and her son who brings The Smithfield muses to the ear of kings, I sing. Say you, her instruments the great! Called to this work by Dulness, Jove, and Fate; You by whose care, in vain decried and cursed, Still Dunce the second reigns like Dunce the first; Say how the Goddess bade Britannia sleep, And poured her spirit o’er the land and deep. In eldest time, e’er mortals writ or read, E’er Pallas issued from the Thunderer’s head, Dulness o’er all possessed her ancient right, Daughter of Chaos and eternal Night: Fate in their dotage this fair idiot gave, Gross as her sire, and as her mother grave, Laborious, heavy, busy, bold, and blind, She ruled, in native anarchy, the mind. Still her old empire to restore she tries, For, born a goddess, Dulness never dies. O thou! whatever title please thine ear, Dean, Drapier, Bickerstaff, or Gulliver! Whether thou choose Cervantes’ serious air, Or laugh and shake in Rabelais’ easy chair, Or praise the court, or magnify mankind, Or thy grieved country’s copper chains unbind; From thy Boeotia though her power retires, Mourn not, my SWIFT, at ought our realm acquires, Here pleased behold her mighty wings out-spread To hatch a new Saturnian age of lead. Close to those walls where Folly holds her throne, And laughs to think Monroe would take her down, Where o’er the gates, by his famed by father’s hand Great Cibber’s brazen, brainless brothers stand; One cell there is, concealed from vulgar eye, The cave of poverty and poetry. Keen, hollow winds howl through the bleak recess, Emblem of music caused by emptiness. Hence bards, like Proteus long in vain tied down, Escape in monsters, and amaze the town. Hence miscellanies spring, the weekly boast 170 Of Curll’s chaste press, and Lintot’s rubric post : Hence hymning Tyburn’s elegiac lines, Hence Journals, Medleys, Merc’ries, Magazines: Sepulchral lies, our holy walls to grace, And new Year odes, and all the Grub Street race. In clouded majesty here Dulness shone; Four guardian virtues, round, support her throne: Fierce champion Fortitude, that knows no fears Of hisses, blows, or want, or loss of ears: Calm Temperance, whose blessings those partake Who hunger, and who thirst for scribbling sake: Prudence, whose glass presents th’ approaching goal. Poetic justice, with her lifted scale, Where, in nice balance, truth with gold she weighs, And solid pudding against empty praise. Here she beholds the chaos dark and deep, Where nameless somethings in their causes sleep, Till genial Jacob, or a warm third day, Call forth each mass, a poem, or a play: How hints, like spawn, scarce quick in embryo lie, How new-born nonsense first is taught to cry. Maggots half-formed in rhyme exactly meet, And learn to crawl upon poetic feet. Here one poor word an hundred clenches makes, And ductile dullness new meanders takes; There motley images her fancy strike, Figures ill paired, and similes unlike. She sees a mob of metaphors advance, Pleased with the madness of the mazy dance: How tragedy and comedy embrace; How farce and epic get a jumbled race; How time himself stands still at her command, Realms shift their place, and ocean turns to land. Here gay description Egypt glads with showers, Or gives to Zembla fruits, to Barca flowers; Glittering with ice here hoary hills are seen, There painted valleys of eternal green, In cold December fragrant chaplets blow, And heavy harvests nod beneath the snow. All these, and more, the cloud-compelling Queen Beholds through fogs, that magnify the scene. She, tinselled o’er in robes of varying hues, 171 With self-applause her wild creation views; Sees momentary monsters rise and fall, And with her own fools-colours gilds them all. ’Twas on the day, when rich and grave, Like Cimon, triumphed both on land and wave: (Pomps without guilt, of bloodless swords and maces, Glad chains, warm furs, broad banners, and broad faces) Now night descending, the proud scene was o’er, But lived, in Settle’s numbers, one day more. Now mayors and shrieves all hushed and satiate lay, Yet eat, in dreams, the custard of the day; While pensive poets painful vigils keep, Sleepless themselves, to give their readers sleep. Much to the mindful Queen the feast recalls What city swans once sung within the walls; Much she revolves their arts, their ancient praise, And sure succession down from Heywood’s days. She saw, with joy, the line immortal run, Each sire impressed and glaring in his son: So watchful Bruin forms, with plastic care, Each growing lump, and brings it to a bear. She saw old Prynne in restless Daniel shine, And Eusden eke out Blackmore’s endless line; She saw slow Philips creep like Tate’s poor page, And all the mighty mad in Dennis rage. In each she marks her image full expressed, But chief in BAY’S monster-breeding breast; Bays, formed by nature stage and town to bless, And act, and be, a coxcomb with success. Dulness with transport eyes the lively dunce, Remembering she herself was pertness once. Now (shame to fortune!) an ill run at play Blanked his bold visage, and a thin third day: Swearing and supperless the hero sate, Blasphemed his gods, the dice, and damned his fate. Then gnawed his pen, then dashed it on the ground, Sinking from thought to thought, a vast profound! Plunged for his sense, but found no bottom there, Yet wrote and floundered on, in mere despair. Round him much embryo, much abortion lay, 172 Much future ode, and abdicated play; Nonsense precipitate, like running lead, That slipped through cracks and zigzags of the head; All that on folly frenzy could beget, Fruits of dull heat, and sooterkins of wit. Next, o’er his books his eyes began to roll, In pleasing memory of all he stole, How here he sipped, how there he plundered snug And sucked all o’er, like an industrious bug. Here lay poor Fletcher’s half-eat scenes, and here The frippery of crucified Molière; There hapless Shakespeare, yet of Tibbald sore, Wished he had blotted for himself before. The rest on outside merit but presume, Or serve (like other fools) to fill a room; Such with their shelves as due proportion hold, Or their fond parents dressed in red and gold; Or where the pictures for the page atone, And Quarles is saved by beauties not his own. Here swells the shelf with Ogibly the great; There, stamped with arms, Newcastle shines complete: Here all his suffering brotherhood retire, And ’scape the martyrdom of jakes and fire: A Gothic library! Of Greece and Rome Well purged, and worthy Settle, Banks, and Broome. But, high above, more solid learning shone, The classics of an age that heard of none; There Caxton slept, with Wynkyn at his side, One clasped in wood, and one in strong cow-hide; There, saved by spice, like mummies, many a year, Dry bodies of divinity appear: De Lyra there a dreadful front extends, And here the groaning shelves Philemon bends. Of these twelve volumes, twelve of amplest size, Redeemed from tapers and defrauded pies, Inspired he seizes: these an altar raise: An hetatomb of pure, unsullied lays That altar crowns: a folio commonplace Founds the whole pile, of all his works the base: Quartos, octavos, shape the lessening pyre; A twisted birthday ode completes the spire. Then he: ‘Great tamer of all human art! 173 First in my care, and ever at my heart; Dulness! Whose good old cause I yet defend, With whom my muse began, with whom shall end; E’er since Sir Fopling’s periwig was praise To the last honours of the butt and bays: O thou! of business the directing soul! To this our head like bias to the bowl, Which, as more ponderous, made its aim more true, Obliquely waddling to the mark in view: O! ever gracias to perplexed mankind, Still spread a healing mist before the mind; And lest we err by wit’s wild dancing light, Secure us kindly in our native night. Or, if to wit a coxcomb make pretence, Guard the sure barrier between that and sense; Or quite unravel all the reasoning thread, And hang some curious cobweb in its stead! As, forced from wind-guns, lead itself can fly, And ponderous slugs cut swiftly through the sky; As clocks to weight their nimble motion owe, The wheels above urged by the load below: Me emptiness, and Dulness could inspire, And were my elasticity, and fire. Some daemon stole my pen(forgive th’offence) And once betrayed me into common sense: Else all my prose and verse were much the same; This, prose on stilts, that, poetry fallen lame. Did on the stage my fops appear confined? My life gave ampler lessons to mankind. Did the dead letter unsuccessful prove? The brisk example never failed to move. Yet sure had heaven decreed to save the state, Heaven had decreed these works a longer date. Could Troy be saved by any single hand, This grey-goose weapon must have made her stand. What can I now? my Fletcher cast aside, Take up the Bible, once my better guide? Or tread the path by venturous heroes trod, This box my thunder, this right hand my god? Or chaired at White’s amidst the doctors sit, Teach oaths to gamesters, and to nobles wit? Or bidst thou rather party to embrace? 174 (A friend to party thou, and all her race; ’Tis the same rope at different ends they twist; To Dulness Ridpath is as dear as Mist.) Shall I, like Curtius, desperate in my zeal, O’er head and ears plunge for the commonweal? Or rob Rome’s ancient geese of all their glories, And cackling save the monarchy of Tories? Hold—to the minister I more incline; To serve his cause, O Queen! is serving thine. And see! Thy very gazetteers give o’er, Ev’n Ralph repents, and Henley writes no more. What then remains? Ourself. Still, still remain Cibberian forehead, and Cibberian brain. This brazen brightness, to the ‘squire so dear; This polished hardness, that reflects the peer; This arch absurd, that sit and fool delights; This mess, tossed up of Hockley Hole and White’s; Where dukes and butchers join to wreathe my crown, At once the bear and fiddle of the town. O born in sin, and forth in folly brought! Works damned, or to be damned! (your father’s fault) Go, purified by flames ascend the sky, My better and more Christian progeny! Unstained, untouched, and yet in maiden sheets; While all your smutty sisters walk the streets. Ye shall not beg, like gratis-given Bland, Sent with a pass, and vagrant through the land; Not sail, with Ward, to ape-and-monkey climes, Where vile mundungus trucks for viler rhymes; Not sulphur-tipped, emblaze an alehouse fire; Not wrap up oranges, to pelt your sire! O! pass more innocent, in infant state, To the mild limbo of our father Tate: Or peaceably forgot, at once be blessed In Shadwell’s bosom with eternal rest! Soon to that mass of nonsense to return, Where things destroyed are swept to things unborn.’ With that, a tear (portentous sign of grace!) Stole from the master of the sevenfold face: And thrice he lifted high the birthday brand, And thrice he dropped it from his quivering hand; Then lights the structure, with averted eyes: 175 The rolling smokes involve the sacrifice. The opening clouds disclose each work by turns, Now flames the Cid, and now Perolla burns; Great Ceasar roars, and hisses in the fires; King John in silence modestly expires: No merit now the dear Nonjuror claims, Molière’s old stubble in a moment flames. Tears gushed again, as from pale Priam’s eyes When the last blaze sent Ilion to the skies. Roused by the light, old Dulness heaved the head; Then snatched a sheet of Thulè from her bed, Sudden she flies, and whelms it o’er the pyre; Down sink the flames, and with a hiss expire. Her ample presence fills up all the place; A veil of fogs dilates her awful face; Great in her charms! as when on shrieves and mayors She looks, and breathes herself into their airs. She bids him wait her to her sacred dome: Well pleased he entered, and confessed his home. So spirits ending their terrestrial race, Ascend, and recognize their native place. This the Great Mother dearer held than all The clubs of quidnuncs, or her own Guildhall: Here stood her opium, here she nursed her owls, And here she planned th’ imperial seat of Fools. Here to her chosen all her works she shows; Prose swelled to verse, verse loitering into prose: How random thoughts now meaning chance to find, Now leave all memory of sense behind: How prologues into prefaces decay, And these to notes are frittered quite away: How index-learning turns no student pale, Yet holds the eel of science by the tail: How, with less reading than makes felons ’scape, Less human genius than God gives an ape, Small thanks to France, and none to Rome or Greece, A past, vamped, future, old, revived, new piece, ’Twixt Plautus, Fletcher, Shakespeare, and Corneille, Can make a Cibber, Tibbald, or Ozell. The Goddess then, o’er his anointed head, With mystic words, the sacred opium shed. And lo! her bird, (a monster of a fowl, 176 Something betwixt a Heidegger and owl,) Perched on his crown: ‘ All hail! and hail again, My son! The promised land expects thy reign. Know, Eusden thirsts no more for sack or praise; He sleeps among the dull of ancient days; Safe, where no critics damn, no duns molest, Where wretched Withers, Ward, and Gildon rest, And high-born Howard, more majestic sire, With fool of quality completes the quire. Thou Cibber! thou, his laurel shalt support, Folly, my son, has still a friend at court. Lift up your gates, ye princes, see him come! Sound, sound ye viols, be the catcall dumb! Bring, bring the madding bay, the drunken vine; The creeping, dirty, courtly ivy join. And thou! his aide de camp, lead on my sons, Light-armed with points, antitheses, and puns. Let bawdry, Billingsgate, my daughters dear, Support his front, and oaths bring up the rear: And under his, and under Archer’s wing, Gaming and Grub Street skulk behind the king. O! when shall rise a monarch all our own, And I, a nursing-mother, rock the throne, ’Twixt prince and people close the curtain draw, Shade him from light, and cover him from law; Fatten the courtier, starve the learned band, And suckle armies, and dry-nurse the land: Till senates nod to lullabies divine, And all be asleep, as at an ode of thine.’ She ceased. Then swells the Chapel Royal throat: ‘God save King Cibber!’ mounts in every note. Familiar White’s, ‘God save king Colley!’ cries; ‘God save King Colley!’ Drury Lane replies: To Needham’s quick the voice triumphal rode, But pious Needham dropped the name of God; Back to the Devil the last echoes roll, And ‘Coll!’ each butcher roars at Hockley Hole. So when Jove’s block descended from on high (As sings thy great forefather Ogilby) Loud thunder to its bottom shook the bog, And the hoarse nation croaked, ‘God save King Log! 177 ~ Alexander Pope,

835:Scene.Inside the Palace by the Duomo. Monsignor, dismissing his Attendants. Monsignor Thanks, friends, many thanks! I chiefly desire life now, that I may recompense every one of you. Most I know something of already. What, a repast prepared?Benedicto benedicatur . . . ugh, ugh! Where was I? Oh, as you were remarking, Ugo, the weather is mild, very unlike winter-weather: but I am a Sicilian, you know, and shiver in your Julys here. To be sure, when 't was full summer at Messina, as we priests used to cross in procession the great square on Assumption Day, you might see our thickest yellow tapers twist suddenly in two, each like a falling star, or sink down on themselves in a gore of wax. But go, my friends, but go! [To the Intendant] Not you, Ugo! [The others leave the apartment] I have long wanted to converse with you, Ugo. Intendant Uguccio Monsignor . . . 'guccio Stefani, man! of Ascoli, Fermo and Fossombruno;what I do need instructing about, are these accounts of your administration of my poor brother's affairs. Ugh! I shall never get through a third part of your accounts: take some of these dainties before we attempt it, however. Are you bashful to that degree? For me, a crust and water suffice. Intendant Do you choose this especial night to question me? Monsignor This night, Ugo. You have managed my late brother's affairs since the death of our elder brother: fourteen years and a month, all but three days. On the Third of December, I find him . . . Intendant If you have so intimate an acquaintance with your brother's affairs, you will be tender of turning so far back: they will hardly bear looking into, so far back. Monsignor Ay, ay, ugh, ugh,nothing but disappointments here below! I remark a considerable payment made to yourself on this Third of December. Talk of disappointments! There was a young fellow here, Jules, a foreign sculptor I did my utmost to advance, that the Church might be a gainer by us both: he was going on hopefully enough, and of a sudden he notifies to me some marvellous change that has happened in his notions of Art. Here's his letter,"He never had a clearly conceived Ideal within his brain till to-day. Yet since his hand could manage a chisel, he has practised expressing other men's Ideals; and, in the very perfection he has attained to, he foresees an ultimate failure: his unconscious hand will pursue its prescribed course of old years, and will reproduce with a fatal expertness the ancient types, let the novel one appear never so palpably to his spirit. There is but one method of escape: confiding the virgin type to as chaste a hand, he will turn painter instead of sculptor, and paint, not carve, its characteristics," strike out, I dare say, a school like Correggio: how think you, Ugo? Intendant Is Correggio a painter? Monsignor Foolish Jules! and yet, after all, why foolish? He mayprobably willfail egregiously; but if there should arise a new painter, will it not be in some such way, by a poet now, or a musician (spirits who have conceived and perfected an Ideal through some other channel), transferring it to this, and escaping our conventional roads by pure ignorance of them; eh, Ugo? If you have no appetite, talk at least, Ugo! Intendant Sir, I can submit no longer to this course of yours. First, you select the group of which I formed one,next you thin it gradually,always retaining me with your smile,and so do you proceed till you have fairly got me alone with you between four stone walls. And now then? Let this farce, this chatter end now: what is it you want with me? Monsignor Ugo! Intendant From the instant you arrived, I felt your smile on me as you questioned me about this and the other article in those paperswhy your brother should have given me this villa, that podere,and your nod at the end meant,what? Monsignor Possibly that I wished for no loud talk here. If once you set me coughing, Ugo! Intendant I have your brother's hand and seal to all I possess: now ask me what for! what service I did himask me! Monsignor I would better not: I should rip up old disgraces, let out my poor brother's weaknesses. By the way, Maffeo of Forli (which, I forgot to observe, is your true name), was the interdict ever taken off you, for robbing that church at Cesena? Intendant No, nor needs be: for when I murdered your brother's friend, Pasquale, for him . . . Monsignor Ah, he employed you in that business, did he? Well, I must let you keep, as you say, this villa and that podere, for fear the world should find out my relations were of so indifferent a stamp? Maffeo, my family is the oldest in Messina, and century after century have my progenitors gone on polluting themselves with every wickedness under heaven: my own father . . . rest his soul!I have, I know, a chapel to support that it may rest: my dear two dead brothers were,what you know tolerably well; I, the youngest, might have rivalled them in vice, if not in wealth: but from my boyhood I came out from among them, and so am not partaker of their plagues. My glory springs from another source; or if from this, by contrast only,for I, the bishop, am the brother of your employers, Ugo. I hope to repair some of their wrong, however; so far as my brothers' illgotten treasure reverts to me, I can stop the consequences of his crime: and not one soldo shall escape me. Maffec, the sword we quiet men spurn away, you shrewd knaves pick up and commit murders with; what opportunities the virtuous forego, the villanous seize. Because, to pleasure myself apart from other considerations, my food would be millet-cake, my dress sackcloth, and my couch straw,am I therefore to let you, the offscouring of the earth, seduce the poor and ignorant by appropriating a pomp these will be sure to think lessens the abominations so unaccountably and exclusively associated with it? Must I let villas and poderi go to you, a murderer and thief, that you may beget by means of them other murderers and thieves? Noif my cough would but allow me to speak! Intendant What am I to expect? You are going to punish me? Monsignor Must punish you, Maffeo. I cannot afford to cast away a chance. I have whole centuries of sin to redeem, and only a month or two of life to it in. How should I dare to say . . . Intendant "Forgive us our trespasses"? Monsignor My friend, it is because I avow myself a very worm, sinful beyond measure, that I reject a line of conduct you would applaud perhaps. Shall I proceed, as it were, a-pardoning?I?who have no symptom of reason to assume that aught less than my strenuousest efforts will keep myself out of mortal sin, much less keep others out. No: I do trespass, but will not double that by allowing you to trespass. Intendant And suppose the villas are not your brother's to give, nor yours to take? Oh, you are hasty enough just now! Monsignor I, 2No 3!ay, can you read the substance of a letter, No 3, I have received from Rome? It is precisely on the ground there mentioned, of the suspicion I have that a certain child of my late elder brother, who would have succeeded to his estates, was murdered in infancy by you, Maffeo, at the instigation of my late younger brotherthat the Pontiff enjoins on me not merely the bringing that Maffeo to condign punishment, but the taking all pains, as guardian of the infant's heritage for the Church, to recover it parcel by parcel, howsoever, whensoever, and wheresoever. While you are now gnawing those fingers, the police are engaged in sealing up your papers, Maffeo, and the mere raising my voice brings my people from the next room to dispose of yourself. But I want you to confess quietly, and save me raising my voice. Why, man, do I not know the old story? The heir between the succeeding heir, and this heir's ruffianly instrument, and their complot's effect, and the life of fear and bribes and ominous smiling silence? Did you throttle or stab my brother's infant? Come now Intendant So old a story, and tell it no better? When did such an instrument ever produce such an effect? Either the child smiles in his face; or, most likely, he is not fool enough to put himself in the employer's power so thoroughly: the child is always ready to produceas you sayhowsoever, wheresoever, and whensoever. Monsignor Liar! Intendant Strike me? Ah, so might a father chastise! I shall sleep soundly to-night at least, though the gallows await me to-morrow; for what a life did I lead! Carlo of Cesena reminds me of his connivance, every time I pay his annuity; which happens commonly thrice a year. If I remonstrate, he will confess all to the good bishopyou! Monsignor I see through the trick, caitiff! I would you spoke truth for once. All shall be sifted, however seven times sifted. Intendant And how my absurd riches encumbered me! I dared not lay claim to above half my possessions. Let me but once unbosom myself, glorify Heaven, and die! Sir, you are no brutal dastardly idiot like your brother I frightened to death: let us understand one another. Sir, I will make away with her for youthe girlhere close at hand; not the stupid obvious kind of killing; do not speakknow nothing of her nor of me! I see her every daysaw her this morning: of course there is to be no killing; but at Rome the courtesans perish off every three years, and I can entice her thitherhave indeed begun operations already. There's a certain lusty blue-eyed florid-complexioned English knave, I and the Police employ occasionally. You assent, I perceive no, that's not itassent I do not saybut you will let me convert my present havings and holdings into cash, and give me time to cross the Alps? 'T is but a little black-eyed pretty singing Felippa, gay silk-winding girl. I have kept her out of harm's way up to this present; for I always intended to make your life a plague to you with her. 'T is as well settled once and for ever. Some women I have procured will pass Bluphocks, my handsome scoundrel, off for somebody; and once Pippa entangled!you conceive? Through her singing? Is it a bargain? [From without is heard the voice of Pippa, singing Overhead the tree-tops meet, Flowers and grass spring 'neath one's feet; There was nought above me, nought below, My childhood had not learned to know: For, what are the voices of birds Ay, and of beasts,but words, our words, Only so much more sweet? The knowledge of that with my life begun. But I had so near made out the sun, And counted your stars, the seven and one, Like the fingers of my hand: Nay, I could all but understand Wherefore through heaven the white moon ranges; And just when out of her soft fifty changes No unfamiliar face might overlook me Suddenly God took me.] [Pippa passes. Monsignor [springing up]. My peopleone and all allwithin there! Gag this villaintie him hand and foot! He dares . . . I know not half he daresbut remove himquick! Miserere mei, Domine! Quick, I say! Scene.Pippa's chamber again. She enters it. The bee with his comb, The mouse at her dray, The grub in his tomb, Wile winter away; But the fire-fly and hedge-shrew and lob-worm, I pray, How fare they? Ha, ha, thanks for your counsel, my Zanze! "Feast upon lampreys, quaff Breganze" The summer of life so easy to spend, And care for to-morrow so soon put away! But winter hastens at summer's end, And fire-fly, hedge-shrew, lob-worm, pray, How fare they? No bidding me then to . . . what did Zanze say? "Pare your nails pearlwise, get your small feet shoes "More like" . . (what said she?)"and less like canoes!" How pert that girl was!would I be those pert Impudent staring women! It had done me, However, surely no such mighty hurt To learn his name who passed that jest upon me: No foreigner, that I can recollect, Came, as she says, a month since, to inspect Our silk-millsnone with blue eyes and thick rings Of raw-silk-coloured hair, at all events. Well, if old Luca keep his good intents, We shall do better, see what next year brings. I may buy shoes, my Zanze, not appear More destitute than you perhaps next year! Bluph . . . something! I had caught the uncouth name But for Monsignor's people's sudden clatter Above usbound to spoil such idle chatter As ours: it were indeed a serious matter If silly talk like ours should put to shame The pious man, the man devoid of blame, The . . . ah butah but, all the same, No mere mortal has a right To carry that exalted air; Best people are not angels quite: Whilenot the worst of people's doings scare The devil; so there's that proud look to spare! Which is mere counsel to myself, mind! for I have just been the holy Monsignor: And I was you too, Luigi's gentle mother, And you too, Luigi!how that Luigi started Out of the turretdoubtlessly departed On some good errand or another, For he passed just now in a traveller's trim, And the sullen company that prowled About his path, I noticed, scowled As if they had lost a prey in him. And I was Jules the sculptor's bride, And I was Ottima beside, And now what am I?tired of fooling. Day for folly, night for schooling! New year's day is over and spent, Ill or well, I must be content. Even my lily's asleep, I vow: Wake uphere's a friend I've plucked you! Call this flower a heart's-ease now! Something rare, let me instruct you, Is this, with petals triply swollen, Three times spotted, thrice the pollen; While the leaves and parts that witness Old proportions and their fitness, Here remain unchanged, unmoved now; Call this pampered thing improved now! Suppose there's a king of the flowers And a girl-show held in his bowers "Look ye, buds, this growth of ours," Says he, "Zanze from the Brenta, "I have made her gorge polenta "Till both cheeks are near as bouncing "As her . . . name there's no pronouncing! "See this heightened colour too, "For she swilled Breganze wine "Till her nose turned deep carmine; "'T was but white when wild she grew. "And only by this Zanze's eyes "Of which we could not change the size, "The magnitude of all achieved "Otherwise, may be perceived." Oh what a drear dark close to my poor day! How could that red sun drop in that black cloud? Ah Pippa, morning's rule is moved away, Dispensed with, never more to be allowed! Day's turn is over, now arrives the night's. Oh lark, be day's apostle To mavis, merle and throstle, Bid them their betters jostle From day and its delights! But at night, brother howlet, over the woods, Toll the world to thy chantry; Sing to the bats' sleek sisterhoods Full complines with gallantry: Then, owls and bats, Cowls and twats, Monks and nuns, in a cloister's moods, Adjourn to the oak-stump pantry! [After she has begun to undress herself.] Now, one thing I should like to really know: How near I ever might approach all these I only fancied being, this long day: Approach, I mean, so as to touch them, so As to . . . in some way . . . move themif you please, Do good or evil to them some slight way. For instance, if I wind Silk to-morrow, my silk may bind [Sitting on the bedside.] And border Ottima's cloak's hem. Ah me, and my important part with them, This morning's hymn half promised when I rose! True in some sense or other, I suppose. [As she lies down.] God bless me! I can pray no more to-night. No doubt, some way or other, hymns say right. All service ranks the same with God With God, whose puppets, best and worst, Are we: there is no last nor first. [She sleeps.] ~ Robert Browning, Pippa Passes - Part IV - Night ,

836:Into The Silent Land I. 'Oh for a pen of light, a tongue of fire, That every word might burn in living flame Upon the age's brow, and leave one name Engraven on the future! One desire Fills every nook and cranny of my heart; One hope-one sorrow-one beloved aim! She whose pure life was of my life a part, As light is of the day, could she inspire My unmelodious muse, or tune the lyre To diapasons worthy of the theme, How would her joy put on its robes of light, And nestle in my bosom once again, As when life, like an Oriental dream, Fanned by Arabian airs, glode down the stream To music whose remembrance is a pain. The foot of time might trample on my strain, But could not quench its essence. There was might, And majesty, and greatness in the love She blest me with-a blessing without stain, And that was earthly; since her spirit-sight Looked through the veil, and learned love's true delight, Which sainted ministrants alone can prove Who taste the waters of eternal love: I pause to think how wonderful has grown The love that was to me so wondrous here! Chained as I am to this terrestrial sphere, Groping my way through darkness, and alone, Like a blind eaglet soaring towards the sun, How would her full experience lift and cheer The heart that never feels its duty done, And with a girdle of pure light enzone My flowery world of thought, and make it all her own.' Thus mused the Minstrel, for his heart was sad. Death had bereaved him of his bride, while youth, And looming years of future trust and truth, 60 Knit them together, till their souls were clad With joy ineffable. Love's great High Priest Sacrificed in their hearts to Him that doeth All things well; and such rare, perpetual feast Of love and truth no mortals ever had, To keep their memories green, their lives serene and glad, He sat again within the quiet room, Where Death had snapped one golden thread of life, And the pale hand of Sickness, sorrow-rife, Robbed the plump cheek of childhood of its bloom; Where she, another Philomena, moved Like a fond Charity-the coming wife Ordained to crown his being: And he loved. The future rose before him, joy and gloom; For where the sunlight shone, there waved the sable plume. And yet he failed not, for the coming pain; The coming bliss would counterbalance all. The sight prophetic that perceived the pall, Looked far beyond for the celestial gain. They do not truly love who cannot yield The mortal up at the Immortal's call, Or fail to triumph for the soul that's sealed. His mind was strung to one harmonious strain: To give when God should ask, and not resign in vain. Love was to him life's chiefest victory; He knew no greater, and he sought no less. Like a green isle surrounded by the sea That gives it health and vigour, so was he The centre of love's sphere of perfectness; He breathed its heavenly atmosphere; the key That opened every chamber in love's court Was in his hand; love's mystery was his sport, He knelt within love's fane and worshipped thereBut not alone, for one was by his side Whose love refined his being, filled the air Of life's irradiated sky with light, As the sun floods the heavens with a tide Of renovating freshness, as the night 61 Is mellowed by the ample moon. And hoping for the recompense That would be theirs in life's approaching noon, They built on hope's high eminence Their airy palaces, whose magnificence Surpassed the dreams that fancy drew, So fair the promised land that lay within their view. And here they lived; just within reach of heaven. They could put forth their hands and touch the skies That brooded o'er the walls of chrysolite, The airy minarets, and golden domes Of their new home, by Love, the Maker, given, Steeped in his brightest dyes. All nature opened up her ponderous tomes, Whereby they had new knowledge and new sight, Learned greater truths, and saw the paths of light, Mosaic-paven, which to Duty led. And there were secrets written overhead, In burning hieroglyphs of thought, From which they gleaned such lessons as are taught Only to those whom heaven, in graciousness, Lifts in her arms with a divine caress. Earth, like a joyous maiden whose pure soul Is filled with sudden ecstacy, became A fruitful Eden; and the golden bowl That held their elixir of life was filled To overflowing with the rarest draught Ever by gods or men in rapture quaffed; Till from the altar of their hearts love's flame Passed through the veins of the world, and thrilled The soul of the rejoicing universe, Which became theirs, and like true neophytes They drained the sweet nepenthe, and love's rites Wiped from their hearts all trace of the primeval curse. The happy months rolled on; each wedded day A bridal; and each calm and holy eve Strewed with rare blessings all the sunny way Through which they passed, with so divine a joy That in his brain would meditation weave 62 Love's roses into garlands of sweet song, To deck the brow of his devoted wife. In this their El Dorado, no alloy Mixed with the coinage of their wedded life; The workmen in the mint an honest throng. No wonder, then, that with go fine a bliss Informing every fibre of his brain, His thoughts begat impressions such as this; Linking their lives together with a chain Of melody as rare as some divine refrain: Like dew to the thirsty flower, Like sweets to the hungry bee, Is love's divinest dower, Its tenderness and power, To thee, dear Wife! to thee. Like light to the darkened spirit, Like oil to the turbid sea, Like truthful words to merit, Are the blessings I inherit With thee, dear Wife! with thee. Afar in the distant ages, Soul-ransomed, and spirit-free, I'll read all being's pages, Unread by mortal sages, With thee, dear Wife! with thee. None but the happy heart could carol thus; A feather stolen from Devotion's wing, To keep as a memento of the time When earth met heaven, in life's duteous And prayerful journey towards the shadowy clime; Ere they descended from their height sublime, Where at Love's well-filled table, banqueting, They sat, and watched the first glad year, Earthlike, revolving round the sun Of their true life. Within that sphere Was the new Eden. One by one 63 The precious moments dropped like golden sands, And formed the solid hours. No perilous strands Delayed life's blissful current, as it sped Through flowery realms with blue skies overhead, To songs and laughter musically sweet, As if all sorrow had forever fled; And idylls, sung with cheerful tone, Haunted the calm, enchanted zone That hemmed them in, Where, like a stately queen, Sate Peace, beatified, serene, The guardian, heaven-sent, of this their fair demesne: --LOVE'S ANNIVERSARY. Like a bold, adventurous swain, Just a year ago to-day, I launched my bark on a radiant main, And Hymen led the way: 'Breakers ahead!' he cried, As he sought to overwhelm My daring craft in the shrieking tide, But Love, like a pilot bold and tried, Sat, watchful, at the helm. And we passed the treacherous shoals, Where many a hope lay dead, And splendid wrecks were piled, like the ghouls Of joys forever fled. Once safely over these, We sped by a fairy realm, Across the bluest and calmest seas That were ever kissed by a truant breeze, With Love still at the helm. We sailed by sweet, odorous isles, Where the flowers and trees were one; Through lakes that vied with the golden smiles Of heaven's unclouded sun: Still speeds our merry bark, 64 Threading life's peaceful realm, And 'tis ever morn with our marriage-lark, For the Pilot-Love of our safety-ark Stands, watchful, at the helm. II. A beautiful land is the Land of Dreams, Green hills and valleys, and deep lagoons, Swift-rushing torrents and gentle streams, Glassing a myriad silver moons; Mirror-like lakelets with lovely isles, And verdurous headlands looking down On the Neread shapes, whose smiles Were worth the price of a peaceful crown. We clutch at the silvery bars Flung from the motionless stars, And climb far into space, Defying the race Who ride in aerial cars. We take up the harp of the mind, And finger its delicate strings; The notes, soft and light As a moonbeam's flight, Departing on viewless wings. Afar in some fanciful bower, Some region of exquisite calm, Where the starlight falls in a gleaming shower, We sink to repose On our couch of rose, Inhaling no mortal balm. The worlds are no longer unknown, We pass through the uttermost sky, Our eyelids are kissed By a gentle mist, And we feel the tone Of a calmer zone, As if heaven were wondrous nigh. 65 A fanciful land is the Land of Dreams, Where earth and heaven are clasping hands; No heaven-no earth, But one wide, new birth, Where Beauty and Goodness, and human worth, Make earth of heaven and heaven of earth; And angels are walking on golden strands. And the pearly gates of the universe Of mind and fancy, opening To the touch of the dainty finger-tips Of elegant Peris with rose-bud lips, Delicate, weird-like sounds are born From the amber depths of odorous morn, And spirits of beauty and light rehearse Such strains as the young immortals sing, When the souls of the blest Are borne to their rest, On luminous pinions of light serene To the fragrant bowers of evergreen; O'er the rosy plains, where the dying hours Are changed by a spell to celestial flowers, Where the skies have a hue no name can express, For the tone of their passionate loveliness Surpasseth all human imagining. Such was their beautiful Dream of Life; Each stern reality softened down; Earth seemed to have ended her age of Strife, And Harmony reigned, her olive crown Besting on the Parian brow Of the fair victor, like the gleam Of the silvery moon on waves that flow Thoughtfully down the summer stream. Such was their earnest Dream of Life! Was it some angel, with jealous eye, Seeing such love beneath the sky As never yet in world or star, Or spheral height, that reached so far 'Twas never beheld by mortal sight, Or elsewhere, save in highest heaven, 66 Was duly earned, or truly given, That leagued with the usurper, Death, To quench the light that shone so bright That in all the earth there was not a breath So foul as to change their day to night? Alone! alone! Oh, word of fearful tone! Well might the moon withhold her light, The stars withdraw from human sight, When Love was overthrown. The Minstrel's heart how changed! Love's principalities, O'er which he reigned supreme, Usurped by earth's realities; The realm through which he ranged Become a vanished dream! And yet he sung, as sings The dying swan that droops its wings And drifts along the stream: --THE LIGHT IN THE WINDOW PANE. A joy from my soul's departed, A bliss from my heart is flown, As weary, weary-hearted, I wander alone-alone! The night wind sadly sigheth A withering, wild refrain, And my heart within me dieth For the light in the window pane. The stars overhead are shining, As brightly as e'er they shone, As heartless-sad-repining, I wander alone-alone! A sudden flash comes streaming, And flickers adown the lane, But no more for me is gleaming The light in the window pane. 67 The voices that pass are cheerful, Men laugh as the night winds moan; They cannot tell how fearful 'Tis to wander alone-alone! For them, with each night's returning, Life singeth its tenderest strain, Where the beacon of love is burningThe light in the window pane. Oh, sorrow beyond all sorrows To which human life is prone: Without thee, through all the morrows, To wander alone-alone! Oh, dark, deserted dwelling! Where Hope like a lamb was slain, No voice from thy lone walls welling, No light in thy window pane. But memory, sainted angel! Rolls back the sepulchral stone, And sings like a sweet evangel: 'No-never, never alone! True grief has its royal palace, Each loss is a greater gain; And Sorrow ne'er filled a chalice That Joy did not wait to drain! --'Man must be perfected By suffering,' he said; 'And Death is but the stepping-stone, whereby We mount towards the gate Of heaven, soon or late. Death is the penalty of life; we die, Because we live; and life Is but a constant strife With the immortal Impulse that within Our bodies seeks controlThe time-abiding Soul, 68 That wrestles with us-yet we fain would win. And what? the victory Would make us slaves; and we, Who in our blindness struggle for the prize Of this illusive state Called Life, do but frustrate The higher law-refusing to be wise.' Rightly he knew, indeed, Earth's brightest paths but lead To the true wisdom of that perfect state, Where Knowledge, heaven-born, And Love's eternal morn, Awaiteth those who would be truly great. With what abiding trust He rose from out the dust, As Death's swift chariot passed him by the way; No visionary dream Was his-no trifling themeThe Soul's great Mystery before him lay: --THE SOUL. All my mind has sat in state, Pond'ring on the deathless Soul: What must be the Perfect Whole, When the atom is so great! God! I fall in spirit down, Low as Persian to the sun; All my senses, one by one, In the stream of Thought must drown. On the tide of mystery, Like a waif, I'm seaward borne, Ever looking for the morn That will yet interpret Thee, 69 Opening my blinded eyes, That have strove to look within, 'Whelmed in clouds of doubt and sin, Sinking where I dared to rise: Could I trace one Spirit's flight, Track it to its final goal, Know that 'Spirit' meant 'the Soul,' I must perish in the light. All in vain I search, and cry: 'What, O Soul, and whence art thou?' Lower than the earth I bow, Stricken with the grave reply: 'Wouldst thou ope what God has sealedSealed in mercy here below? What is best for man to know, Shall most surely be revealed!' Deep on deep of mystery! Ask the sage, he knows no more Of the soul's unspoken lore Than the child upon his knee! Cannot tell me whence the thought That is passing through my mind! Where the mystic soul is shrined, Wherewith all my life is fraught? Knows not how the brain conceives Images almost divine; Cannot work my mental mine, Cannot bind my golden sheaves. Is he wiser, then, than I, Seeing he can read the stars? I have rode in fancy's oars Leagues beyond his farthest sky! Some old Rabbi, dreaming o'er The sweet legends of his race, 70 Ask him for some certain trace Of the far, eternal shore. No. The Talmud page is dark, Though it burn with quenchless fire, And the insight must pierce higher, That would find the vital spark. O, my Soul! be firm and wait, Hoping with the zealous few, Till the Shekinah of the True Lead thee through the Golden Gate. ~ Charles Sangster,

837:The tavern-keeper Siduri who lives by the seashore, she lives the pot-stand was made for her, the golden fermenting vat was made for her. She is covered with a veil Gilgamesh was roving about wearing a skin, having the flesh of the gods in his body, but sadness deep within him, looking like one who has been traveling a long distance. The tavern-keeper was gazing off into the distance, puzzling to herself, she said, wondering to herself: "That fellow is surely a murderer(!)! Where is he heading!" As soon as the tavern-keeper saw him, she bolted her door, bolted her gate, bolted the lock. But at her noise Gilgamesh pricked up his ears, lifted his chin (to look about) and then laid his eyes on her. Gilgamesh spoke to the tavern-keeper, saying: "Tavern-keeper, what have you seen that made you bolt                your door, bolt your gate, bolt the lock! if you do not let me in I will break your door, and smash                 the lock! the wilderness." Gilgamesh The tavern-keeper Siduri who lives by the seashore, she lives the pot-stand was made for her, the golden fermenting vat was made                  for her. She is covered with a veil Gilgamesh was roving about wearing a skin, having the flesh of the gods in his body, but sadness deep within him, looking like one who has been traveling a long distance. The tavern-keeper was gazing off into the distance, puzzling to herself, she said, wondering to herself: "That fellow is surely a murderer(!)! Where is he heading!" As soon as the tavern-keeper saw him, she bolted her door, bolted her gate, bolted the lock. But at her noise Gilgamesh pricked up his ears, lifted his chin (to look about) and then laid his eyes on her. Gilgamesh spoke to the tavern-keeper, saying: "Tavern-keeper, what have you seen that made you bolt                your door, bolt your gate, bolt the lock! if you do not let me in I will break your door, and smash                 the lock! the wilderness." Gilgamesh gate Gilgamesh said to the tavern-keeper: "I am Gilgamesh, I killed the Guardian! I destroyed Humbaba who lived in the Cedar Forest, I slew lions in the mountain passes! I grappled with the Bull that came down from heaven, and                killed him." The tavern-keeper spoke to Gilgamesh, saying: "lf you are Gilgamesh, who killed the Guardian, who destroyed Humbaba who lived in the Cedar Forest, who slew lions in the mountain passes, who grappled with the Bull that came down from heaven, and                killed him, why are your cheeks emaciated, your expression desolate! Why is your heart so wretched, your features so haggard! Why is there such sadness deep within you! Why do you look like one who has been traveling a long                  distance so that ice and heat have seared your face! you roam the wilderness!" Gilgamesh spoke to her, to the tavern-keeper he said: "Tavern-keeper, should not my cheeks be emaciated? Should my heart not be wretched, my features not haggard? Should there not be sadness deep within me! Should I not look like one who has been traveling a long                 distance, and should ice and heat not have seared my face! , should I not roam the wilderness? My friend, the wild **** who chased the wild donkey, panther of               the wilderness, Enkidu, the wild **** who chased the wild donkey, panther of                the wilderness, we joined together, and went up into the mountain. We grappled with and killed the Bull of Heaven, we destroyed Humbaba who lived in the Cedar Forest, we slew lions in the mountain passes! My friend, whom I love deeply, who went through every hard-              ship with me, Enkidu, whom I love deeply, who went through every hardship                with me, the fate of mankind has overtaken him. Six days and seven nights I mourned over him and would not allow him to be buried until a maggot fell out of his nose. I was terrified by his appearance(!), I began to fear death, and so roam the wilderness. The issue of my friend oppresses me, so I have been roaming long trails through the wilderness. The issue of Enkidu, my friend, oppresses me, so I have been roaming long roads through the wilderness. How can I stay silent, how can 1 be still! My friend whom I love has turned to clay. Am I not like him? Will I lie down, never to get up again?"' Gilgamesh spoke to the tavern-keeper, saying: "So now, tavern-keeper, what is the way to Utanapishtim! What are its markers Give them to me! Give me the markers! If possible, I will cross the sea; if not, I will roam through the wilderness." The tavern-keeper spoke to Gilgamesh, saying: "There has never been, Gilgamesh, any passage whatever, there has never been anyone since days of yore who crossed                  the sea. The (only) one who crosses the sea is valiant Shamash, except             for him who can cross! The crossing is difficult, its ways are treacherous and in between are the Waters of Death that bar its approaches! And even if, Gilgamesh, you should cross the sea, when you reach the Waters of Death what would you do! Gilgamesh, over there is Urshanabi, the ferryman of Utanapishtim. 'The stone things' L are with him, he is in the woods picking                  mint( !). Go on, let him see your face. If possible, cross with him; if not, you should turn back." When Gilgamesh heard this he raised the axe in his hand, drew the dagger from his belt, and slipped stealthily away after them. Like an arrow he fell among them ("the stone things"). From the middle of the woods their noise could be heard. Urshanabi, the sharp-eyed, saw When he heard the axe, he ran toward it. He struck his head Gilgamesh.' He clapped his hands and his chest, while "the stone things" the boat Waters of Death broad sea in the Waters of Death to the river the boat on the shore. Gilgamesh spoke to Urshanabi (?), the ferryman,    you." Urshanabi spoke to Gilgamesh, saying:'    "Why are your cheeks emaciated, your expression desolate!    Why is your heart so wretched, your features so haggard?    Why is there such sadness deep within you!    Why do you look like one who has been traveling a long                   distance    so that ice and heat have seared your face!    Why you roam the wilderness!" Gilgamesh spoke to Urshanabi, saying:    "Urshanabi, should not my cheeks be emaciated, my expression                  desolate!    Should my heart not be wretched, my features not haggard    Should there not be sadness deep within me?    Should I not look like one who has been traveling a long                  distance, and should ice and heat not have seared my face!    should I not roam the wilderness?    My friend who chased wild asses in the mountain, the panther                of the wilderness,    Enkidu, my friend, who chased wild asses in the mountain, the             panther of the wilderness,    we joined together, and went up into the mountain.    We grappled with and killed the Bull of Heaven,    we destroyed Humbaba who dwelled in the Cedar Forest,    we slew lions in the mountain passes!    My friend, whom I love deeply, who went through every hard-                 ship with me,    Enkidu, my friend, whom I love deeply, who went through              every hardship with me,    the fate of mankind has overtaken him. Six days and seven nights I mourned over him    and would not allow him to be buried    until a maggot fell out of his nose.    I was terrified by his appearance(!),    I began to fear death, and so roam the wilderness.    The issue of my friend oppresses me,    so I have been roaming long trails through the wilderness.    The issue of Enkidu, my friend, oppresses me,    so 1 have been roaming long roads through the wilderness.    How can I stay silent, how can I be still!    My friend whom I love has turned to clay;    Enkidu, my friend whom I love, has turned to clay!    Am I not like him! Will I lie down, never to get up again!"   Gilgamesh spoke to Urshanabi, saying:    "Now, Urshanabi! What is the way to Utanapishtim?    What are its markers! Give them to me! Give me the markers!    If possible, I will cross the sea;    if not, I will roam through the wilderness!" Urshanabi spoke to Gilgamesh, saying: "It is your hands, Gilgamesh, that prevent the crossing! You have smashed the stone things,' you have pulled out their              retaining ropes (?). 'The stone things' have been smashed, their retaining ropes (!)               pulled out! Gilgamesh, take the axe in your hand, go down into the woods, and cut down 300 punting poles each 60 cubits in length. Strip them, attach caps(?), and bring them to the boat!" When Gilgamesh heard this he took up the axe in his hand, drew the dagger from his belt, and went down into the woods, and cut 300 punting poles each 60 cubits in length. He stripped them and attached caps(!), and brought them to                  the boat. Gilgamesh and Urshanabi bearded the boat, Gilgamesh launched the magillu-boat' and they sailed away. By the third day they had traveled a stretch of a month and a                  half, and Urshanabi arrived at the Waters of Death. Urshanabi said to Gilgamesh: "Hold back, Gilgamesh, take a punting pole, but your hand must not pass over the Waters of Death ! Take a second, Gilgamesh, a third, and a fourth pole, take a fifth, Gilgamesh, a sixth, and a seventh pole, take an eighth, Gilgamesh, a ninth, and a tenth pole, take an eleventh, Gilgamesh, and a twelfth pole!" In twice 60 rods Gilgamesh had used up the punting poles. Then he loosened his waist-cloth(?) for Gilgamesh stripped off his garment and held it up on the mast(!) with his arms. Utanapishtim was gazing off into the distance, puzzling to himself he said, wondering to himself: "Why are 'the stone things' of the boat smashed to pieces! And why is someone not its master sailing on it? The one who is coming is not a man of mine, I keep looking but not I keep looking but not I keep looking" lines are missing here.] Utanapishtim said to Gilgamesh: "Why are your cheeks emaciated, your expression desolate! Why is your heart so wretched, your features so haggard! Why is there such sadness deep within you! Why do you look like one who has been traveling a long distance so that ice and heat have seared your face! you roam the wilderness!" Gilgamesh spoke to Utanapishtim saying: "Should not my cheeks be emaciated, my expression desolate! Should my heart not be wretched, my features not haggard! Should there not be sadness deep within me! Should I not look like one who has been traveling a long distance, and should ice and heat not have seared my face! should I not roam the wilderness) My friend who chased wild asses in the mountain, the panther              of the wilderness, Enkidu, my friend, who chased wild asses in the mountain, the            panther of the wilderness, we joined together, and went up into the mountain. We grappled with and killed the Bull of Heaven, we destroyed Humbaba who dwelled in the Cedar Forest, we slew lions in the mountain passes! My friend, whom I love deeply, who went through every hard-                shin with me Enkidu, my friend, whom I love deeply, who went through            every hardship with me, the fate of mankind has overtaken him. Six days and seven nights I mourned over him and would not allow him to be buried until a maggot fell out of his nose. I was terrified by his appearance(!), I began to fear death, and so roam the wilderness. The issue of my friend oppresses me, so I have been roaming long trails through the wilderness. The issue of Enkidu, my friend, oppresses me, so I have been roaming long roads through the wilderness. How can I stay silent, how can I be still! My friend whom I love has turned to clay; Enkidu, my friend whom I love, has turned to clay! Am I not like him! Will I lie down never to get up again!" Gilgamesh spoke to Utanapishtim, saying: "That is why (?) I must go on, to see Utanapishtim whom they              call 'The Faraway.'" I went circling through all the mountains, I traversed treacherous mountains, and crossed all the seas that is why (!) sweet sleep has not mellowed my face, through sleepless striving I am strained, my muscles are filled with pain. I had not yet reached the tavern-keeper's area before my              clothing gave out. I killed bear, hyena, lion, panther, tiger, stag, red-stag, and            beasts of the wilderness; I ate their meat and wrapped their skins around me.' The gate of grief must be bolted shut, sealed with pitch and                 bitumen ! As for me, dancing For me unfortunate(!) it(?) will root out" Utanapishtim spoke to Gilgamesh, saying: "Why, Gilgamesh, do you sadness? You who were created (!) from the flesh of gods and mankind who made like your father and mother? Have you ever Gilgamesh to the fool They placed a chair in the Assembly, But to the fool they gave beer dregs instead of butter, bran and cheap flour which like Clothed with a loincloth (!) like And in place of a sash, because he does not have does not have words of counsel Take care about it, Gilgamesh, their master Sin eclipse of the moon The gods are sleepless They are troubled, restless(!) Long ago it has been established You trouble yourself your help If Gilgamesh the temple of the gods the temple of the holy gods, the gods mankind, they took for his fate. You have toiled without cease, and what have you got! Through toil you wear yourself out, you fill your body with grief, your long lifetime you are bringing near (to a premature end)! Mankind, whose offshoot is snapped off like a reed in a               canebreak, the fine youth and lovely girl death. No one can see death, no one can see the face of death, no one can hear the voice of death, yet there is savage death that snaps off mankind. For how long do we build a household? For how long do we seal a document! For how long do brothers share the inheritance? For how long is there to be jealousy in the land(!)! For how long has the river risen and brought the overflowing                waters, so that dragonflies drift down the river!' The face that could gaze upon the face of the Sun has never existed ever. How alike are the sleeping(!) and the dead. The image of Death cannot be depicted. (Yes, you are a) human being, a man (?)! After Enlil had pronounced the blessing,'" the Anunnaki, the Great Gods, assembled. Mammetum, she who forms destiny, determined destiny with them. They established Death and Life, but they did not make known 'the days of death'". ~ Anonymous, The Epic of Gilgamesh Tablet X ,

838:The Kalevala - Rune Xxx THE FROST-FIEND. Lemminkainen, reckless minstrel, Handsome hero, Kaukomieli, Hastens as the dawn is breaking, At the dawning of the morning, To the resting-place of vessels, To the harbor of the island, Finds the vessels sorely weeping, Hears the wailing of the rigging, And the ships intone this chorus: 'Must we wretched lie forever In the harbor of this island, Here to dry and fall in pieces? Ahti wars no more in Northland, Wars no more for sixty summers, Even should he thirst for silver, Should he wish the gold of battle.' Lemminkainen struck his vessels With his gloves adorned with copper, And addressed the ships as follows: 'Mourn no more, my ships of fir-wood, Strong and hardy is your rigging, To the wars ye soon may hasten, Hasten to the seas of battle; Warriors may swarm your cabins Ere to-morrow's morn has risen.!'' Then the reckless Lemminkainen Hastened to his aged mother, Spake to her the words that follow: 'Weep no longer, faithful mother, Do not sorrow for thy hero, Should he leave for scenes of battle, For the hostile fields of Pohya; Sweet revenge has fired my spirit, And my soul is well determined, To avenge the shameful insult That the warriors of Northland 487 Gave to thee, defenseless woman.' To restrain him seeks his mother, Warns her son again of danger: 'Do not go, my son beloved, To the wars in Sariola; There the jaws of Death await thee, Fell destruction lies before thee!' Lemminkainen, little heeding, Still determined, speaks as follows: 'Where may I secure a swordsman, Worthy of my race of heroes, To assist me in the combat? Often I have heard of Tiera, Heard of Kura of the islands, This one I will take to help me, Magic hero of the broadsword; He will aid me in the combat, Will protect me from destruction.' Then he wandered to the islands, On the way to Tiera's hamlet, These the words that Ahti utters As he nears the ancient dwellings: Dearest friend, my noble Tiera, My, beloved hero-brother, Dost thou other times remember, When we fought and bled together, On the battle-fields of Northland? There was not an island-village Where there were not seven mansions, In each mansion seven heroes, And not one of all these foemen Whom we did not slay with broadswords, Victims of our skill and valor.' Near the window sat the father Whittling out a javelin-handle; Near the threshold sat the mother Skimming cream and making butter; Near the portal stood the brother Working on a sledge of birch-wood Near the bridge-pass were the sisters Washing out their varied garments. Spake the father from the window, 488 From the threshold spake the mother, From the portals spake the brother, And the sisters from the bridge-pass: 'Tiera has no time for combat, And his broadsword cannot battle; Tiera is but late a bridegroom, Still unveiled his bride awaits him.' Near the hearth was Tiera lying, Lying by the fire was Kura, Hastily one foot was shoeing, While the other lay in waiting. From the hook he takes his girdle, Buckles it around his body, Takes a javelin from its resting, Not the largest, nor the smallest, Buckles on his mighty scabbard, Dons his heavy mail of copper; On each javelin pranced a charger, Wolves were howling from his helmet, On the rings the bears were growling. Tiera poised his mighty javelin, Launched the spear upon its errand; Hurled the shaft across the pasture, To the border of the forest, O'er the clay-fields of Pohyola, O'er the green and fragrant meadows, Through the distant bills of Northland. Then great Tiera touched his javelin To the mighty spear of Ahti, Pledged his aid to Lemminkainen, As his combatant and comrade. Thereupon wild Kaukomieli Pushed his boat upon the waters; Like the serpent through the heather, Like the creeping of the adder, Sails the boat away to Pohya, O'er the seas of Sariola. Quick the wicked hostess, Louhi, Sends the black-frost of the heavens To the waters of Pohyola, O'er the far-extending sea-plains, Gave the black-frost these directions: 489 'Much-loved Frost, my son and hero, Whom thy mother has instructed, Hasten whither I may send thee, Go wherever I command thee, Freeze the vessel of this hero, Lemminkainen's bark of magic, On the broad back of the ocean, On the far-extending waters; Freeze the wizard in his vessel, Freeze to ice the wicked Ahti, That he never more may wander, Never waken while thou livest, Or at least till I shall free him, Wake him from his icy slumber!' Frost, the son of wicked parents, Hero-son of evil manners, Hastens off to freeze the ocean, Goes to fasten down the flood-gates, Goes to still the ocean-currents. As he hastens on his journey, Takes the leaves from all the forest, Strips the meadows of their verdure, Robs the flowers of their colors. When his journey he had ended, Gained the border of the ocean, Gained the sea-shore curved and endless, On the first night of his visit, Freezes he the lakes and rivers, Freezes too the shore of ocean, Freezes not the ocean-billows, Does not check the ocean-currents. On the sea a finch is resting, Bird of song upon the waters, But his feet are not yet frozen, Neither is his head endangered. When the second night Frost lingered, He began to grow important, He became a fierce intruder, Fearless grew in his invasions, Freezes everything before him; Sends the fiercest cold of Northland, Turns to ice the boundless waters. 490 Ever thicker, thicker, thicker, Grew the ice on sea and ocean, Ever deeper, deeper, deeper, Fell the snow on field and forest, Froze the hero's ship of beauty, Cold and lifeless bark of Ahti; Sought to freeze wild Lemminkainen, Freeze him lifeless as his vessel, Asked the minstrel for his life-blood, For his ears, and feet, and fingers. Then the hero, Lemminkainen, Angry grew and filled with magic, Hurled the black-frost to the fire-god, Threw him to the fiery furnace, Held him in his forge of iron, Then addressed the frost as follows: 'Frost, thou evil son of Northland, Dire and only son of Winter, Let my members not be stiffened, Neither ears, nor feet, nor fingers, Neither let my head be frozen. Thou hast other things to feed on, Many other beads to stiffen; Leave in peace the flesh of heroes, Let this minstrel pass in safety, Freeze the swamps, and lakes, and rivers, Fens and forests, bills and valleys; Let the cold stones grow still colder, Freeze the willows in the waters, Let the aspens freeze and suffer, Let the bark peel from the birch-trees, Let the Pines burst on the mountains, Let this hero pass in safety, Do not let his locks be stiffened. 'If all these prove insufficient, Feed on other worthy matters; Lot the hot stones freeze asunder, Let the flaming rocks be frozen, Freeze the fiery blocks of iron, Freeze to ice the iron mountains; Stiffen well the mighty Wuoksi, Let Imatra freeze to silence; 491 Freeze the sacred stream and whirlpoo4 Let their boiling billows stiffen, Or thine origin I'll sing thee, Tell thy lineage of evil. Well I know thine evil nature, Know thine origin and power, Whence thou camest, where thou goest, Know thine ancestry of evil. Thou wert born upon the aspen, Wert conceived upon the willows, Near the borders of Pohyola, In the courts of dismal Northland; Sin-begotten was thy father, And thy mother was Dishonor. 'While in infancy who fed thee While thy mother could not nurse thee? Surely thou wert fed by adders, Nursed by foul and slimy serpents; North-winds rocked thee into slumber, Cradled thee in roughest weather, In the worst of willow-marshes, In the springs forever flowing, Evil-born and evil-nurtured, Grew to be an evil genius, Evil was thy mind and spirit, And the infant still was nameless, Till the name of Frost was given To the progeny of evil. 'Then the young lad lived in hedges, Dwelt among the weeds and willows, Lived in springs in days of summer, On the borders of the marshes, Tore the lindens in the winter, Stormed among the glens and forests, Raged among the sacred birch-trees, Rattled in the alder-branches, Froze the trees, the shoots, the grasses, Evened all the plains and prairies, Ate the leaves within the woodlands, Made the stalks drop down their blossoms, Peeled the bark on weeds and willows. 'Thou hast grown to large proportions, 492 Hast become too tall and mighty; Dost thou labor to benumb me, Dost thou wish mine ears and fingers, Of my feet wouldst thou deprive me? Do not strive to freeze this hero, In his anguish and misfortune; In my stockings I shall kindle Fire to drive thee from my presence, In my shoes lay flaming faggots, Coals of fire in every garment, Heated sandstones in my rigging; Thus will hold thee at a distance. Then thine evil form I'll banish To the farthest Northland borders; When thy journey is completed, When thy home is reached in safety, Freeze the caldrons in the castle, Freeze the coal upon the hearthstone, In the dough, the hands of women, On its mother's lap, the infant, Freeze the colt beside its mother. 'If thou shouldst not heed this order, I shall banish thee still farther, To the carbon-piles of Hisi, To the chimney-hearth of Lempo, Hurl thee to his fiery furnace, Lay thee on the iron anvil, That thy body may be hammered With the sledges of the blacksmith, May be pounded into atoms, Twixt the anvil and the hammer. 'If thou shouldst not heed this order, Shouldst not leave me to my freedom, Know I still another kingdom, Know another spot of resting; I shall drive thee to the summer, Lead thy tongue to warmer climates, There a prisoner to suffer, Never to obtain thy freedom Till thy spirit I deliver, Till I go myself and free thee.' Wicked Frost, the son of Winter, 493 Saw the magic bird of evil Hovering above his spirit, Straightway prayed for Ahti's mercy, These the words the Frost-fiend uttered: 'Let us now agree together, Neither one to harm the other, Never in the course of ages, Never while the moonlight glimmers On the snow-capped hills of Northland. If thou hearest that I bring thee Cold to freeze thy feet and fingers, Hurl me to the fiery furnace, Hammer me upon the anvil Of the blacksmith, Ilmarinen; Lead my tongue to warmer climates, Banish me to lands of summer, There a prisoner to suffer, Nevermore to gain my freedom.' Thereupon wild Lemminkainen Left his vessel in the ocean, Frozen in the ice of Northland, Left his warlike boat forever, Started on his cheerless journey To the borders of Pohyola, And the mighty Tiera followed In the tracks of his companion. On the ice they journeyed northward Briskly walked upon the ice-plain, Walked one day, and then a second, Till the closing of the third day, When the Hunger-land approached them, When appeared Starvation-island. Here the hardy Lemminkainen Hastened forward to the castle, This the hero's prayer and question; 'Is there food within this castle, Fish or fowl within its larders, To refresh us on our journey, Mighty heroes, cold and weary? When the hero, Lemminkainen, Found no food within the castle, Neither fish, nor fowl, nor bacon, 494 Thus he cursed it and departed: 'May the fire destroy these chambers, May the waters flood this dwelling, Wash it to the seas of Mana!' Then they hastened onward, onward, Hastened on through field and forest, Over by-ways long untrodden, Over unknown paths and snow-fields; Here the hardy Lemminkainen, Reckless hero, Kaukomieli, Pulled the soft wool from the ledges, Gathered lichens from the tree-trunks, Wove them into magic stockings, Wove them into shoes and mittens, On the settles of the hoar-frost, In the stinging cold of Northland. Then he sought to find some pathway, That would guide their wayward footsteps, And the hero spake as follows: 'O thou Tiera, friend beloved, Shall we reach our destination, Wandering for days together, Through these Northland fields and forests? Kura thus replies to Ahti: 'We, alas! have come for vengeance, Come for blood and retribution, To the battle-fields of Northland, To the dismal Sariola, Here to leave our souls and bodies, Here to starve, and freeze, and perish, In the dreariest of places, In this sun-forsaken country! Never shall we gain the knowledge, Never learn it, never tell it, Which the pathway that can guide us To the forest-beds to suffer, To the Pohya-plains to perish, In the home-land of the ravens, Fitting food for crows and eagles. Often do the Northland vultures Hither come to feed their fledgelings; Hither bring the birds of heaven 495 Bits of flesh and blood of heroes; Often do the beaks of ravens Tear the flesh of kindred corpses, Often do the eagle's talons Carry bones and trembling vitals, Such as ours, to feed their nestlings, In their rocky homes and ledges. 'Oh! my mother can but wonder, Never can divine the answer, Where her reckless son is roaming, Where her hero's blood is flowing, Whether in the swamps and lowlands Whether in the heat of battle, Or upon the waves of the ocean, Or upon the hop-feld mountains, Or along some forest by-way. Nothing can her mind discover Of the frailest of her heroes, Only think that he has perished. Thus the hoary-headed mother Weeps and murmurs in her chambers: 'Where is now my son beloved, In the kingdom of Manala? Sow thy crops, thou dread Tuoni, Harrow well the fields of Kalma! Now the bow receives its respite From the fingers of my Tiera; Bow and arrow now are useless, Now the merry birds can fatten In the fields, and fens, and forests; Bears may live in dens of freedom, On the fields may sport the elk-herds.'' Spake the reckless Lemminkainen: 'Thus it is, mine aged mother, Thou that gavest me existence! Thou hast reared thy broods of chickens, Hatched and reared thy flights of white-swans All of them the winds have scattered, Or the evil Lempo frightened; One flew hither, and one thither, And a third one, lost forever! Think thou of our former pleasures, 496 Of our better days together, When I wandered like the flowers, Like the berry in the meadows. Many saw my form majestic, Many thought me well-proportioned. Now is not as then with Ahti, Into evil days have fallen, Since I see but storms and darkness! Then my eyes beheld but sunshine, Then we did not weep and murmur, Did not fill our hearts with sorrow, When the maids in joy were singing, When the virgins twined their tresses; Then the women joined in joyance, Whether brides were happy-wedded, Whether bridegrooms choose discreetly, Whether they were wise or unwise. 'But we must not grow disheartened, Let the Island-maidens cheer us; Here we are not yet enchanted, Not bewitched by magic singing, On the paths not left to perish, Sink and perish on our journey. Full of youth we should not suffer, Strong, we should not die unworthy, Whom the wizards have enchanted, Have bewitched with songs of magic; Sorcerers may charm and conquer, Bury them within their dungeons, Hide them spell-bound in their cabins. Let the wizards charm each other, And bewitch their magic offspring, Bring their tribes to fell destruction. Never did my gray-haired father Bow submission to a wizard, Offer worship to magicians. These the words my father uttered, These the thoughts his son advances: 'Guard us, thou O great Creator, Shield us, thou O God of mercy, With thine arms of grace protect us, Help us with thy strength and wisdom, 497 Guide the minds of all thy heroes, Keep aright the thoughts of women, Keep the old from speaking evil, Keep the young from sin and folly, Be to us a help forever, Be our Guardian and our Father, That our children may not wander From the ways of their Creator, From the path that God has given!'' Then the hero Lemminkainen, Made from cares the fleetest racers, Sable racers from his sorrows, Reins he made from days of evil, From his sacred pains made saddles. To the saddle, quickly springing, Galloped he away from trouble, To his dear and aged mother; And his comrade, faithful Tiera, Galloped to his Island-dwelling. Now departs wild Lemminkainen, Brave and reckless Kaukomieli, From these ancient songs and legends; Only guides his faithful Kura To his waiting bride and kindred, While these lays and incantations Shall be turned to other heroes. ~ Elias Lönnrot,

839:An Athenian Reverie How the returning days, one after one, Came ever in their rhythmic round, unchanged, Yet from each looped robe for every man Some new thing falls. Happy is he Who fronts them without fear, and like the gods Looks out unanxiously on each day's gift With calmly curious eye. How many things Even in a little space, both good and ill, Have fallen on me, and yet in all of them The keen experience or the smooth remembrance Hath found some sweet. It scarcely seems a month Since we saw Crete; so swiftly sped the days, Borne onward with how many changing scenes, Filled with how many crowding memories. Not soon shall I forget them, the stout ship, All the tense labour with the windy sea, The cloud-wrapped heights of Crete, beheld far off, And white Cytaeon with its stormy pier, The fruitful valleys, the wild mountain road, And those long days of ever-vigilant toil, Scarcely with sleepless craft and unmoved front Escaping robbers, that quiet restful eve At rich Gortyna, where we lay and watched The dripping foliage, and the darkening fields, And over all huge-browed above the night Ida's great summit with its fiery crown; And then once more the stormy treacherous sea, The noisy ship, the seamen's vehement cries, That battled with the whistling wind, the feet Reeling upon the swaying deck, and eyes Strained anxiously toward land; ah, with what joy At last the busy pier at Nauplia, Rest and firm shelter for our racking brains: Most sweet of all, most dear to memory That journey with Euktemon through the hills By fair Cleonae and the lofty pass; Then Corinth with its riotous jollity, Remembered like a reeling dream; and here Good Theron's wedding, and this festal day; 33 And I, chief helper in its various rites, Not least, commissioned through these wakeful hours To dream before the quiet thalamos, Unsleeping, like some full-grown bearded Eros, The guardian of love's sweetest mysteries. To-morrow I shall hear again the din Of the loosed cables, and the rowers' chaunt, The rattled cordage and the plunging oars. Once more the bending sail shall bear us on Across the level of the laughing sea. Ere mid-day we shall see far off behind us, Faint as the summit of a sultry cloud, The white Acropolis. Past Sunium With rushing keel, the long Euboean strand, Hymettus and the pine-dark hills shall fade Into the dusk: at Andros we shall water, And ere another starlight hush the shores From seaward valleys catch upon the wind The fragrance of old Chian vintages. At Chios many things shall fall but none Can trace the future; rather let me dream Of what is now, and what hath been, for both Are fraught with life. Here the unbroken silence Awakens thought and makes remembrance sweet. How solidly the brilliant moonlight shines Into the courts; beneath the colonnades How dense the shadows. I can scarcely see Yon painted Dian on the darkened wall; Yet how the gloom hath made her real. What sound, Piercing the leafy covert of her couch, Hath startled her. Perchance some prowling wolf, Or luckless footsteps of the stealthy Pan, Creeping at night among noiseless steeps And hollows of the Erymanthian woods, Roused her from sleep. With listening head, Snatched bow, and quiver lightly slung, she stands, And peers across that dim and motionless glade, Beckoning about her heels the wakeful dogs; Yet Dian, thus alert, is but a dream, Making more real this brooding quietness. 34 How strong and wonderful is night! Mankind Has yielded all to one sweet helplessness: Thought, labour, strife and all activities Have ebbed like fever. The smooth tide of sleep, Rolling across the fields of Attica, Hath covered all the labouring villages. Even great Athens with her busy hands And busier tongues lies quiet beneath its waves. Only a steady murmur seems to come Up from her silentness, as if the land Were breathing heavily in dreams. Abroad No creature stirs, not even the reveller, Staggering, unlanterned, from the cool Piraeus, With drunken shout. The remnants of the feast, The crumpled cushions and the broken wreathes, Lie scattered in yon shadowy court, whose stones Through the warm hours drink up the staining wine. The bridal oxen in their well-filled stalls Sleep, mindless of the happy weight they drew. The torch is charred; the garlands at the door, So gay at morning with their bright festoons, Hang limp and withered; and the joyous flutes Are empty of all sound. Only my brain Holds now in its remote unsleeping depths The echo of the tender hymenaeos And memory of the modest lips that sang it. Within the silent thalamos the queen, The sea-sprung radiant Cytherean reigns, And with her smiling lips and fathomless eyes Regards the lovers, knowing that this hour Is theirs once only. Earth and thought and time Lie far beyond them, a great gulf of joy, Absorbing fear, regret and every grief, A warm eternity: or now perchance Night and the very weight of happiness, Unsought, have turned upon their tremulous eyes The mindless stream of sleep; nor do they care If dawn should never come. How joyously These hours have gone with all their pictured scenes, A string of golden beads for memory 35 To finger over in her moods, or stay The hunger of some wakeful hour like this, The flowers, the myrtles, the gay bridal train, The flutes and pensive voices, the white robes, The shower of sweet-meats, and the jovial feast, The bride cakes, and the teeming merriment, Most beautiful of all, most sweet to name, The good Lysippe with her down-cast eyes, Touched with soft fear, half scared at all the noise, Whose tears were ready as her laughter, fresh, And modest as some pink anemone. How young she looked, and how her smiling lips Betrayed her happiness. Ah, who can tell, How often, when no watchful eye was near, Her eager fingers, trembling and ashamed, Essayed the apple-pips, or strewed the floor With broken poppy petals. Next to her, Theron himself the gladest goodliest figure, His honest face ruddy with health and joy, And smiling like the AEgean, when the sun Hangs high in heaven, and the freshening wind Comes in from Melos, rippling all its floor: And there was Manto too, the good old crone, So dear to children with her store of tales, Warmed with new life: how to her old grey face And withered limbs the very dance of youth Seemed to return, and in her aged eyes The waning fire rekindled: little Maeon, That mischievous satyr with his tipsy wreath, Who kept us laughing at his pranks, and made Old Phyrrho angry. Him too sleep hath bound Upon his rough-hewn couch with subtle thong, Crowding his brain with odd fantastic shapes. Even in sleep his little limbs, I think, Twitch restlessly, and still his tongue gibes on With inarticulate murmur. Ah, quaint Maeon! And Manto, poor old Manto, what dim dreams Of darkly-moving chaos and slow shapes Of things that creep encumbered with huge burdens Gloom and infest her through these dragging hours, Haunting the wavering soul, so near the grave? But all things journey to the same quiet end 36 At last, life, joy and every form of motion. Nothing stands still. Not least inevitable, The sad recession of this passionate love, Whose panting fires, so soon and with such grief, Burn down to ash. Ai! Ai! 'tis a strange madness To give up thought, ambition, liberty, And all the rooted custom of our days, Even life itself for one all pampering dream, That withers like those garlands at the door; And yet I have seen many excellent men Besotted thus, and some that bore till death, In the crook'd vision and embittered tongue, The effect of this strange poison, like a scar, An ineradicable hurt; but Fate, Who deals more wondrously in this disease Even than in others, yet doth sometimes will To make the same thing unto different men Evil or good. Was not Demetrios happy, Who wore his fetters with such grace, and spent On Chione, the Naxian, that shrewd girl, His fortune and his youth, yet, while she lived, Enjoyed the rich reward? He seemed like one, That trod on wind, and I remember well, How when she died in that remorseless plague, And I alone stood with him at the pyre, He shook me with his helpless passionate grief. And honest Agathon, the married man, Whose boyish fondness for his pretty wife We smiled at, and yet envied; at the close Of each day's labour how he posted home, And thence no bait, however plumed, could draw him. We laughed, but envied him. How sweet she looked That morning at the Dyonisia, With her rare eyes and modest girlish grace, Leading her two small children by the palm. I too might marry, if the faithful gods Would promise me such joy as Agathon's. Perhaps some day-but no, I am not one To clip my wings, and wind about my feet A net, whose self-made meshes are as stern 37 As they are soft. To me is ever present The outer world with its untravelled paths, The wanderer's dream, the itch to see new things. A single tie could never bind me fast, For life, this joyous, busy, ever-changing life, Is only dear to me with liberty, With space of earth for feet to travel in And space of mind for thought. Not so for all; To most men life is but a common thing, The hours a sort of coin to barter with, Whose worth is reckoned by the sum they buy In gold, or power, or pleasure; each short day That brings not these deemed fruitless as dry sand. Their lives are but a blind activity, And death to them is but the end of motion, Grey children who have madly eat and drunk, Won the high seats or filled their chests with gold. And yet for all their years have never seen The picture of their lives, or how life looks To him who hath the deep uneager eye, How sweet and large and beautiful it was, How strange the part they played. Like him who sits Beneath some mighty tree, with half-closed eyes, At ease rejoicing in its murmurous shade, Yet never once awakes from his dull dream To mark with curious joy the kingly trunk, The sweeping boughs and tower of leaves that gave it, Even so the most of men; they take the gift, And care not for the giver. Strange indeed Are they, and pitiable beyond measure, Who, thus unmindful of their wretchedness, Crowd at life's bountiful gates, like fattening beggars; Greedy and blind. For see how rich a thing Life is to him who sees, to whom each hour Brings some fresh wonder to be brooded on, Adds some new group or studied history To that wrought sculpture, that our watchful dreams Cast up upon the broad expanse of time, As in a never-finished frieze, not less The little things that most men pass unmarked 38 Than those that shake mankind. Happy is he, Who, as a watcher, stands apart from life, From all life and his own, and thus from all, Each thought, each deed, and each hour's brief event, Draws the full beauty, sucks its meaning dry. For him this life shall be a tranquil joy. He shall be quiet and free. To him shall come No gnawing hunger for the coarser touch, No mad ambition with its fateful grasp; Sorrow itself shall sway him like a dream. How full life is; how many memories Flash, and shine out, when thought is sharply stirred; How the mind works, when once the wheels are loosed, How nimbly, with what swift activity. I think, 'tis strange that men should ever sleep, There are so many things to think upon, So many deeds, so many thoughts to weigh, To pierce and plumb them to the silent depth. Yet in that thought I do rebuke myself, Too little given to probe the inner heart, But rather wont, with the luxurious eye, To catch from life its outer loveliness, Such things as do but store the joyous memory With food for solace rather than for thought, Like light-lined figures on a painted jar. I wonder where Euktemon is to-night, Euktemon with his rough and fitful talk, His moody gesture and defiant stride; How strange, how bleak and unapproachable; And yet I liked him from the first. How soon We know our friends, through all disguise of mood, Discerning by a subtle touch of spirit The honest heart within. Euktemon's glance Betrayed him with its gusty friendliness, Flashing at moments from the clouded brow, Like brave warm sunshine, and his laughter too, So rare, so sudden, so contagious, How at some merry scene, some well-told tale, Or swift invention of the winged wit, It broke like thunderous water, rolling out In shaken peals on the delighted ear. 39 Yet no man would have dreamed, who saw us two That first grey morning on the pier at Crete, That friendship could have forged thus easily A bond so subtle and so sure between us; He, gloomy and austere; I, full of thought As he, yet in adverse mood, at ease, Lifting with lighter hands the lids of life, Untortured by its riddles; he, whose smiles Were rare and sudden as the autumn sun; I, to whom smiles are ever near the lip And yet I think he loved me too; my mood Was not unpleasant to him, though I know At times I teased him with flickering talk. How self-immured he was; for all our converse I gathered little, little, of his life, A bitter trial to me, who love to learn The changes of men's outer circumstance, The strokes that fate has shaped them with, and so, Fitting to these their present speech and favour, Discern the thought within. From him I gleaned Nothing. At least the word, however guarded, That sought to try the fastenings of his life With prying hands, how mute and dark he grew, And like the cautious tortoise at a touch Drew in beneath his shell. But ah, how sweet The memory of that long untroubled day, To me so joyous, and so free from care, Spent as I love on foot, our first together, When fate and the reluctant sea at last Had given us safely to dry land; the tramp From grey Mycenae by the pass to Corinth, The smooth white road, the soft caressing air, Full of the scent of blossoms, the clear sky, Strewn lightly with the little tardy clouds, Old Helios' scattered flock, the low-branched oaks And fountained resting-places, the cool nooks, Where eyes less darkened with life's use than mine Perchance had caught the Naiads in their dreams, Or won white glimpses of their flying heels. How light our feet were: with what rhythmic strides 40 We left the long blue gulf behind us, sown Far out with snowy sails; and how our hearts Rose with the growth of morning, till we reached That moss-hung fountain on the hillside near Cleonae, where the dark anemones Cover the ground, and make it red like fire. Could ever grief, I wonder, or fixed care, Or even the lingering twilight of old age, Divest for me such memories of their sweet? Even Euktemon's obdurate mood broke down. The odorous stillness, the serene bright air, The leafy shadows, the warm blossoming earth, Drew near with their voluptuous eloquence, And melted him. Ah, what a talk we had! How eagerly our nimble tongues ran on, With linked wit, in joyous sympathy. Such hours, I think, are better than long years Of brooding loneliness, mind touching mind To leaping life, and thought sustaining thought, Till even the darkest chambers of grey time, His ancient seats, and bolted mysteries, Open their hoary doors, and at a look Lay all their treasures bare. How, when our thought Wheeling on ever bolder wings at last Grew as it seemed too large for utterance, We both fell silent, striving to recall And grasp such things as in our daring mood We had but glimpsed and leaped at; yet how long We studied thus with absent eyes, I know not; Our thought died slowly out; the busy road, The voices of the passers-by, the change Of garb and feature, and the various tongues Absorbed us. Ah, how clearly I recall them! For in these silent wakeful hours the mind Is strangely swift. With that sharp lines The shapes of things that even years have buried Shine out upon the rapid memory, Moving and warm like life. I can see now The form of that tall peddler, whose strange wares, Outlandish dialect and impudent gait Awoke Euktemon's laughter. In mine ear Is echoing still the cracking string of gibes, 41 They flung at one another. I remember too The grey-haired merchant with his bold black eyes And brace of slaves, the old ship captain tanned With sweeping sea-winds and the pitiless sun, But best of all that dainty amorous pair, Whose youthful spirit neither heat nor toil Could conquer. What a charming group they made? The creaking litter and the long brown poles, The sinewy bearers with their cat-like stride, Dripping with sweat, that merry dark-eyed girl, Whose sudden beauty shook us from our dreams, And chained our eyes. How beautiful she was? Half-hid among the gay Miletian cushions, The lovely laughing face, the gracious form, The fragrant lightly-knotted hair, and eyes Full of the dancing fire of wanton Corinth. That happy stripling, whose delighted feet Swung at her side, whose tongue ran on so gaily, Is it for him alone she wreathes those smiles, And tunes so musically that flexile voice, Soft as the Lydian flute? Surely his gait Proclaimed the lover, and his well-filled girdle Not less the lover's strength. How joyously He strode, unmindful of his ruffled curls, Whose perfumes still went wide upon the wind, His dust-stained robe unheeded, and the stones Whose ragged edges frayed his delicate shoes. How radiant, how full of hope he was! What pleasant memories, how many things Rose up again before me, as I lay Half stretched among the crushed anemones, And watched them, till a far off jutting ledge Precluded sight, still listening till mine ears Caught the last vanishing murmur of their talk. Only a little longer; then we rose With limbs refreshed, and kept a swinging pace Toward Corinth; but our talk, I know not why, Fell for that day. I wonder what there was About those dainty lovers or their speech, That changed Euktemon's mood; for all the way From high Cleonae to the city gates, 42 Till sunset found us loitering without aim, Half lost among the dusky-moving crowds, I could get nothing from him but dark looks, Short answers and the old defiant stride. Some memory pricked him. It may be, perchance, A woman's treachery, some luckless passion, In former days endured, hath seared his blood, And dowered him with that cureless bitter humour. To him solitude and the wanderer's life Alone are sweet, the tumults of this world A thing unworthy of the wise man's touch, Its joys and sorrows to be met alike With broad-browed scorn. One quality at least We have in common; we are idlers both, Shifters and wanderers through this sleepless world, Albeit in different moods. 'Tis that, I think, That knit us, and the universal need For near companionship. Howe'er it be, There is no hand that I would gladlier grasp, Either on earth or in the nether gloom, When the grey keel shall grind the Stygian strand, Than stern Euktemon's. ~ Archibald Lampman,

840:The Tower Of The Dream Part I HOW wonderful are dreams! If they but be As some have said, the thin disjoining shades Of thoughts or feelings, long foregone or late, All interweaving, set in ghostly act And strange procession, fair, grotesque, or grim, By mimic fancy; wonderful no less Are they though this be true and wondrous more Is she, who in the dark, and stript of sense, Can wield such sovereignty—the Queen of Art! For what a cunning painter is she then, Who hurriedly embodying, from the waste Of things memorial littering life’s dim floor, The forms and features, manifold and quaint, That crowd the timeless vistas of a dream, Fails in no stroke, but breathes Pygmalion-like A soul of motion into all her work; And doth full oft in magic mood inspire Her phantom creatures with more eloquent tones Than ever broke upon a waking ear. But are they more? True glimpses oft, though vague, Over that far unnavigable sea Of mystic being, where the impatient soul Is sometimes wont to stray and roam at large? No answer comes. Yet are they wonderful However we may rank them in our lore, And worthy some fond record are these dreams That with so capable a wand can bring Back to the faded heart the rosy flush And sweetness of a long-fled love, or touch The eyes of an old enmity with tears Of a yet older friendship; or restore A world-lost mate, or reunite in joy The living and the dead!—can, when so wills Their wand’s weird wielder, whatsoe’er it be, Lift up the fallen—fallen however low! Give youth unto the worn, enrich the poor; Build in the future higher than the hope 200 Of power, when boldest, ever dared to soar; Annul the bars of space, the dens of time, Giving the rigid and cold-clanking chain Which force, that grey iniquity, hath clenched About its captive, to relent,—yea, stretch Forth into fairy-land, or melt like wax In that fierce life whose spirit lightens wide Round freedom, seated on her mountain throne. But not thus always are our dreams benign; Oft are they miscreations—gloomier worlds, Crowded tempestuously with wrongs and fears, More ghastly than the actual ever knew, And rent with racking noises, such as should Go thundering only through the wastes of hell. Yes, wonderful are dreams: and I have known Many most wild and strange. And once, long since, As in the death-like mystery of sleep My body lay impalled, my soul arose And journeyed outward in a wondrous dream. In the mid-hour of a dark night, methought I roamed the margin of a waveless lake, That in the knotted forehead of the land Deep sunken, like a huge Cyclopean eye, Lidless and void of speculation, stared Glassily up—for ever sleepless—up At the wide vault of heaven; and vaguely came Into my mind a mystic consciousness That over against me, on the farther shore Which yet I might not see, there stood a tower. The darkness darkened, until overhead Solidly black the starless heaven domed, And earth was one wide blot;—when, as I looked, A light swung blazing from the tower (as yet Prophesied only in my inner thought), And brought at once its rounded structure forth Massive and tall out of the mighty gloom. On the broad lake that streaming radiance fell, Through the lit fluid like a shaft of fire, Burning its sullen depths with one red blaze. 201 Long at that wild light was I gazing held In speechless wonder, till I thence could feel A strange and thrillingly attractive power; My bodily weight seemed witched away, aloft I mounted, poised within the passive air, Then felt I through my veins a branching warmth, The herald of some yet unseen content, The nearness of some yet inaudible joy, As if some spell of golden destiny Lifted me onwards to the fateful tower. -------------------------------------------------------------------------------- Part II High up the tower, a circling balcony Emporched a brazen door. The silver roof Rested on shafts of jet, and ivory work Made a light fence against the deep abyss. Before that portal huge a lady stood In radiant loveliness, serene and bright, Yet as it seemed expectant; for as still She witched me towards her, soft she beckon’d me With tiny hand more splendid than a star; And then she smiled, not as a mortal smiles With visible throes, to the mere face confined, But with her whole bright influence all at once In gracious act, as the Immortals might, God-happy, or as smiles the morning, when Its subtle lips in rosy beauty part Under a pearly cloud, and breathe the while A golden prevalence of power abroad, That taketh all the orient heaven and earth Into the glory of its own delight. Then in a voice, keen, sweet, and silvery clear, And intimately tender as the first Fine feeling of a love-born bliss, she spoke, “Where hast thou stayed so long? Oh, tell me where?” 202 With thrilling ears and heart I heard, but felt Pass from me forth a cry of sudden fear, As swooning through the wildness of my joy, Methought I drifted,—whither? All was now One wide cold blank; the lady and the tower, The gleaming lake, with all around it, one Wide dreary blank;—the drearier for that still A dizzy, clinging, ghostly consciousness Kept flickering from mine inmost pulse of life, Like a far meteor in some dismal marsh; How long I knew not, but the thrilling warmth That, like the new birth of a passionate bliss, Erewhile had searched me to the quick, again Shuddered within me, more and more, until Mine eyes had opened under two that made All else like darkness; and upon my cheek A breath that seemed the final spirit of health And floral sweetness, harbingered once more The silver accents of that wondrous voice, Which to have heard was never to forget; And with her tones came, warbled as it seemed, In mystical respondence to her voice, Still music, such as Eolus gives forth, But purer, deeper;—warbled as from some Unsearchable recess of soul supreme, Some depth of the Eternal! echoing thence Through the sweet meanings of its spirit speech. I answered not, but followed in mute love The beamy glances of her eyes; methought Close at her side I lay upon a couch Of purple, blazoned all with stars of gold Tremblingly rayed with spiculated gems; Thus sat we, looking forth; nor seemed it strange That the broad lake, with its green shelving shores, And all the hills and woods and winding vales, Were basking in the beauty of a day So goldenly serene, that never yet The perfect power of life-essential light Had so enrobed, since paradise was lost, The common world inhabited by man. 203 I saw this rare surpassing beauty;—yea, But saw it all through her superior life, Orbing mine own in love; I felt her life, The source of holiest and truth-loving thoughts, Breathing abroad like odours from a flower, Enriched with rosy passion, and pure joy And earnest tenderness. Nor ever might The glassy lake below more quickly give Nimble impressions of the coming wind’s Invisible footsteps, dimpling swift along, Than instant tokens of communion sweet With outward beauty’s subtle spirit, passed Forth from her eyes, and thence in lambent waves Suffused and lightened o’er her visage bright. But as upon the wonder of her face My soul now feasted, even till it seemed Instinct with kindred lustre, lo! her eyes Suddenly saddened; then abstractedly Outfixing them as on some far wild thought That darkened up like a portentous cloud Over the morning of our peace, she flung Her silver voice into a mystic song Of many measures, which, as forth they went, Slid all into a sweet abundant flood Of metric melody! And to her voice As still she sung, invisible singers joined A choral burden that prolonged the strain’s Rich concords, till the echoes of the hills Came forth in tidal flow, and backward then Subsiding like a refluent wave, died down In one rich harmony. It strangely seemed As though the song were ware that I but slept, And that its utterer was but a dream; ’Tis traced upon the tablet of my soul In shining lines that intonate themselves— Not sounding to the ear but to the thought— Out of the vague vast of the wonderful, And might, when hardened into mortal speech, And narrowed from its wide and various sweep Into such flows as make our waking rhymes Most wildly musical, be written thus:— 204 The Song Wide apart, wide apart, In old Time’s dim heart One terrible Fiend doth his stern watch keep Over the mystery Lovely and deep, Locked in thy history, Beautiful Sleep! Could we disarm him, Could we but charm him, The soul of the sleeper might happily leap, Through the dark of the dim waste so deathly and deep That shroudeth the triple divinity, The three of thy mystical Trinity: Gratitude, Liberty, Joy from all trammels free, Beautiful Spirit of Sleep! Beautiful Spirit! Could we confound him Who darkens thy throne, Could we surround him With spells like thine own For the divinity Then of thy Trinity, Oh, what a blesseder reign were begun! For then it were evermore one, With all that soul, freed from the body’s strait scheme, Inherits of seer-light and mystical dream. And to sleep were to die Into life in the Infinite, Holy and high, Spotless and bright, Calmly, peacefully deep Ah then! that dread gulf should be crossed by a mortal, Ah then! to what life were thy bright arch the portal, Beautiful Spirit of Sleep. 205 -------------------------------------------------------------------------------Part III She ceased, and a deep tingling silence fell Instantly round,—silence complete, and yet Instinct as with a breathing sweetness, left By the rare spirit of her voice foregone; Even as the fragrance of a flower were felt Pervading the mute air through which erewhile, It had been borne by the delighted hand Of some sweet-thoughted maiden. Turning then Her bright face towards me, as I stood entranced, Yet with keen wonder stung, she said, “I love thee As first love loveth—utterly! But ah This love itself—this purple-wingéd love— This life-enriching spirit of delight Is but a honey-bee of paradise, That only in the morning glory dares To range abroad, only in vagrant mood, Adventures out into the common world Of man and woman, thither lured by sight Of some sweet human soul that blooms apart, Untainted by a rank soil’s weedy growths Lured thither thus, yet being even then A wilful wanderer from its birthplace pure, Whereto it sadly must return again, Or forfeit else its natal passport, ere The dread night cometh. Yet of how great worth Is love within the world! By the fair spring Of even the lowliest love, how many rich And gracious things that could not else have been, Grow up like flowers, and breathe a perfume forth That never leaves again the quickened sense It once hath hit, as with a fairy’s wand!” She spoke in mournful accents wild and sweet, And lustrous tears brimmed over from the eyes That met my own now melancholy gaze. 206 But not all comfortless is grief that sees Itself reflected in another’s eyes, And love again grew glad: alas, not long For with a short low gasp of sudden fear She started back, and hark! within the tower A sound of strenuous steps approaching fast Rang upwards, as it seemed, from the hard slabs Of a steep winding stair; and soon the huge And brazen portal, that behind us shut, Burst open with a clang of loosened bolts— A clang like thunder, that went rattling out Against the echoes of the distant hills. With deafened ears and looks aghast I turned Towards the harsh noise, there to behold, between The mighty jambs in the strong wall from which The door swung inward, a tremendous form! A horrid gloomy form that shapeless seemed, And yet, in all its monstrous bulk, to man A hideous likeness bare! Still more and more Deformed it grew, as forth it swelled, and then Its outlines melted in a grizzly haze, That hung about them, even as grey clouds Beskirt a coming tempest’s denser mass, That thickens still internally, and shows The murkiest in the midst—yea, murkiest there, Where big with fate, and hid in solid gloom, The yet still spirit of the thunder broods, And menaces the world. Beholding that dread form, the lady of light Had rushed to my extended arms, and hid Her beamy face, fright-harrowed, in my breast! And thus we stood, made one in fear; while still That terrible vision out upon us glared With horny eyeballs—horrible the more For that no evidence of conscious will, No touch of passion, vitalized their fixed Eumenidèan, stone-cold stare, as towards Some surely destined task they seemed to guide Its shapeless bulk and awful ruthless strength. 207 Then with a motion as of one dark stride Shadowing forward, and outstretching straight One vague-seen arm, from my reluctant grasp It tore the radiant lady, saying “This Is love forbidden!” in a voice whose tones Were like low guttural thunders heard afar, Outgrowling from the clouded gorges wild Of steep-cragged mountains, when a sultry storm Is pondering in its dark pavilions there. Me then he seized, and threw me strongly back Within the brazen door; its massive beam Dropped with a wall-quake, and the bolts were shot Into their sockets with a shattering jar. I may not paint the horrible despair That froze me now; more horrible than aught In actual destiny, in waking life, Could give the self -possession of my soul. Within, without,—all silent, stirless, cold Whither was she, my lady of delight Reft terribly away? Time—every drip of which Was as an age—kept trickling on and on, Brought no release, no hope; brought not a breath That spake of fellowship, or even of life Out of myself. Utterly blank I stood In marble-cold astonishment of heart! And when at length I cast despairing eyes— Eyes so despairing that the common gift Of vision stung me like a deadly curse— The dungeon round, pure pity of myself So warmed and loosened from my brain, the pent And icy anguish, that its load at once Came like an Alp-thaw streaming through my eyes; Till resignation, that balm-fragrant flower Of meek pale grief that hath its root in tears, Grew out of mine, and dewed my soul with peace. My dungeon was a half-round lofty cell, Massively set within the crossing wall That seemed to cut the tower’s whole round in twain; A door with iron studs and brazen clamps Shut off the inner stairway of the tower; And by this door a strange and mystic thing, 208 A bat-winged steed on scaly dragon claws, Stood mute and rigid in the darkening cell. The night came on; I saw the bat-winged steed Fade, melt and die into the gathering gloom, Then in the blackness hour by hour I paced, And heard my step—the only sound to me In all the wide world—throb with a dull blow Down through the hollow tower that seemed to yawn. A monstrous well beneath, with wide waste mouth Bridged only by the quaking strip of floor On which I darkling strode. Then hour on hour Paused as if clotting at the heart of time, And yet no other sound had being there And still that strange, mute, mystic, bat-winged steed Stood waiting near me by the inner door. -------------------------------------------------------------------------------- Part IV At last, all suddenly, in the air aloft Over the tower a wild wailful song Woke, flying many-voiced, then sweeping off Far o’er the echoing hills, so passed away In dying murmurs through the hollow dark. Song In vain was the charm sought In vain was our spell wrought Which that dread watcher’s eyes drowsy might keep; In vain was the dragon-steed There at the hour of need Out with his double freight blissward to sweep. Lost—lost—lost—lost! In vain were our spells of an infinite cost Lost—lost—lost—lost! Yon gulf by a mortal may never be crossed 209 Never, ah never! The doom holds for ever For ever! for ever! Away, come away! For see, wide uprolling, the white front of day! Away to the mystic mid-regions of sleep, Of the beautiful Spirit of sleep. Lost—lost—lost—lost! The gulf we are crossing may never be crossed By a mortal, ah, never! The doom holds for ever! For ever! for ever! So passed that song (of which the drift alone Is here reached after in such leaden speech As uncharmed mortals use). And when its tones Out towards the mountains in the dark afar Had wasted, light began to pierce the gloom, Marbling the dusk with grey; and then the steed, With his strange dragon-claws and half-spread wings, Grew slowly back into the day again. The sunrise! Oh, it was a desolate pass Immured in that relentless keep, to feel How o’er the purple hills came the bright sun, Rejoicing in his strength; and then to know That he was wheeling up the heaven, and o’er My prison roof, tracking his midway course With step of fire, loud rolling through the world The thunder of its universal life! Thus seven times wore weary day and night Wearily on, and still I could not sleep. And still through this drear time the wintry tooth Of hunger never gnawed my corporal frame; No thirst inflamed me; while by the grim door That strange, unmoving, dragon-footed steed Stood as at first. Mere wonder at my doom Relieved the else-fixed darkness of despair! But on the seventh night at midnight—hark! 210 What might I hear? A step?—a small light step, That by the stair ascending, swiftly came Straight to the inner door—then stopped. Alas! The black leaf opened not; and yet, the while, A rainbow radiance through its solid breadth Came flushing bright, in subtle wave on wave, As sunset glow in swift rich curves wells forth Through some dense cloud upon the verge of heaven: So came it, filling all the cell at length With rosy lights; and then the mystic steed Moved, and spread wide his glimmering bat-like wings. When hark! deep down in the mysterious tower Another step! Yea, the same strenuous tramp That once before I heard, big beating up— A cry, a struggle, and retreating steps! And that fair light had faded from the air. Again the hateful tramp came booming up; The great door opened, and the monster-fiend Filled all the space between the mighty jambs. My heart glowed hot with rage and hate at once; Fiercely I charged him, but his horrible glooms Enwrapped me closer, in yet denser coils Every dread moment! But my anguish now, My pain, and hate, and loathing, all had grown Into so vast a horror that methought I burst with irresistible strength away— Rushed through the door and down the stairway—down An endless depth—till a portcullis, hinged In the tower’s basement, opened to my flight It fell behind me, and my passage lay By the long ripples of the rock-edged lake. Then, breathless, pausing in my giddy flight, I saw the lustrous lady upward pass Through the lit air, with steadfast downward look Of parting recognition—full of love, But painless, passionless. Above the tower And o’er the clouds her radiance passed away, And melted into heaven’s marble dome! Then fell there on my soul a sense of loss So bleak, so desolate, that with a wild 211 Sleep-startling outcry, sudden I awoke Awoke to find it but a wondrous dream; Yet ever since to feel as if some pure And guardian soul, out of the day and night, Had passed for ever from the reach of love! ~ Charles Harpur,

841:The Farewell _P_. Farewell to Europe, and at once farewell To all the follies which in Europe dwell; To Eastern India now, a richer clime, Richer, alas! in everything but rhyme, The Muses steer their course; and, fond of change, At large, in other worlds, desire to range; Resolved, at least, since they the fool must play, To do it in a different place, and way. _F_. What whim is this, what error of the brain, What madness worse than in the dog-star's reign? Why into foreign countries would you roam, Are there not knaves and fools enough at home? If satire be thy object--and thy lays As yet have shown no talents fit for praise-If satire be thy object, search all round, Nor to thy purpose can one spot be found Like England, where, to rampant vigour grown, Vice chokes up every virtue; where, self-sown, The seeds of folly shoot forth rank and bold, And every seed brings forth a hundredfold. _P_. No more of this--though Truth, (the more our shame, The more our guilt) though Truth perhaps may claim, And justify her part in this, yet here, For the first time, e'en Truth offends my ear; Declaim from morn to night, from night to morn, Take up the theme anew, when day's new-born, I hear, and hate--be England what she will, With all her faults, she is my country still. _F_. Thy country! and what then? Is that mere word Against the voice of Reason to be heard? Are prejudices, deep imbibed in youth, To counteract, and make thee hate the truth? 'Tis sure the symptom of a narrow soul To draw its grand attachment from the whole, And take up with a part; men, not confined Within such paltry limits, men design'd Their nature to exalt, where'er they go, Wherever waves can roll, and winds can blow, Where'er the blessed sun, placed in the sky 165 To watch this subject world, can dart his eye, Are still the same, and, prejudice outgrown, Consider every country as their own; At one grand view they take in Nature's plan, Not more at home in England than Japan. _P_. My good, grave Sir of Theory, whose wit, Grasping at shadows, ne'er caught substance yet, 'Tis mighty easy o'er a glass of wine On vain refinements vainly to refine, To laugh at poverty in plenty's reign, To boast of apathy when out of pain, And in each sentence, worthy of the schools, Varnish'd with sophistry, to deal out rules Most fit for practice, but for one poor fault That into practice they can ne'er be brought. At home, and sitting in your elbow-chair, You praise Japan, though you was never there: But was the ship this moment under sail, Would not your mind be changed, your spirits fail? Would you not cast one longing eye to shore, And vow to deal in such wild schemes no more? Howe'er our pride may tempt us to conceal Those passions which we cannot choose but feel, There's a strange something, which, without a brain, Fools feel, and which e'en wise men can't explain, Planted in man to bind him to that earth, In dearest ties, from whence he drew his birth. If Honour calls, where'er she points the way The sons of Honour follow, and obey; If need compels, wherever we are sent 'Tis want of courage not to be content; But, if we have the liberty of choice, And all depends on our own single voice, To deem of every country as the same Is rank rebellion 'gainst the lawful claim Of Nature, and such dull indifference May be philosophy, but can't be sense. _F_. Weak and unjust distinction, strange design, Most peevish, most perverse, to undermine Philosophy, and throw her empire down By means of Sense, from whom she holds her crown, Divine Philosophy! to thee we owe 166 All that is worth possessing here below; Virtue and wisdom consecrate thy reign, Doubled each joy, and pain no longer pain. When, like a garden, where, for want of toil And wholesome discipline, the rich, rank soil Teems with incumbrances; where all around, Herbs, noxious in their nature, make the ground, Like the good mother of a thankless son, Curse her own womb, by fruitfulness undone; Like such a garden, when the human soul, Uncultured, wild, impatient of control, Brings forth those passions of luxuriant race, Which spread, and stifle every herb of grace; Whilst Virtue, check'd by the cold hand of Scorn, Seems withering on the bed where she was born, Philosophy steps in; with steady hand, She brings her aid, she clears the encumber'd land; Too virtuous to spare Vice one stroke, too wise One moment to attend to Pity's cries-See with what godlike, what relentless power She roots up every weed! _P_. And every flower. Philosophy, a name of meek degree, Embraced, in token of humility, By the proud sage, who, whilst he strove to hide, In that vain artifice reveal'd his pride; Philosophy, whom Nature had design'd To purge all errors from the human mind, Herself misled by the philosopher, At once her priest and master, made us err: Pride, pride, like leaven in a mass of flour, Tainted her laws, and made e'en Virtue sour. Had she, content within her proper sphere, Taught lessons suited to the human ear, Which might fair Virtue's genuine fruits produce, Made not for ornament, but real use, The heart of man, unrivall'd, she had sway'd, Praised by the good, and by the bad obey'd; But when she, overturning Reason's throne, Strove proudly in its place to plant her own; When she with apathy the breast would steel, And teach us, deeply feeling, not to feel; 167 When she would wildly all her force employ, Not to correct our passions, but destroy; When, not content our nature to restore, As made by God, she made it all new o'er; When, with a strange and criminal excess, To make us more than men, she made us less; The good her dwindled power with pity saw, The bad with joy, and none but fools with awe. Truth, with a simple and unvarnish'd tale, E'en from the mouth of Norton might prevail, Could she get there; but Falsehood's sugar'd strain Should pour her fatal blandishments in vain, Nor make one convert, though the Siren hung, Where she too often hangs, on Mansfield's tongue. Should all the Sophs, whom in his course the sun Hath seen, or past, or present, rise in one; Should he, whilst pleasure in each sentence flows, Like Plato, give us poetry in prose; Should he, full orator, at once impart The Athenian's genius with the Roman's art; Genius and Art should in this instance fail, Nor Rome, though join'd with Athens, here prevail. 'Tis not in man, 'tis not in more than man, To make me find one fault in Nature's plan. Placed low ourselves, we censure those above, And, wanting judgment, think that she wants love; Blame, where we ought in reason to commend, And think her most a foe when most a friend. Such be philosophers--their specious art, Though Friendship pleads, shall never warp my heart, Ne'er make me from this breast one passion tear, Which Nature, my best friend, hath planted there. _F_. Forgiving as a friend, what, whilst I live, As a philosopher I can't forgive, In this one point at last I join with you, To Nature pay all that is Nature's due; But let not clouded Reason sink so low, To fancy debts she does not, cannot owe: Bear, to full manhood grown, those shackles bear, Which Nature meant us for a time to wear, As we wear leading-strings, which, useless grown, Are laid aside, when we can walk alone; 168 But on thyself, by peevish humour sway'd, Wilt thou lay burdens Nature never laid? Wilt thou make faults, whilst Judgment weakly errs, And then defend, mistaking them for hers? Darest thou to say, in our enlighten'd age, That this grand master passion, this brave rage, Which flames out for thy country, was impress'd And fix'd by Nature in the human breast? If you prefer the place where you were born, And hold all others in contempt and scorn, On fair comparison; if on that land With liberal, and a more than equal hand, Her gifts, as in profusion, Plenty sends; If Virtue meets with more and better friends; If Science finds a patron 'mongst the great; If Honesty is minister of state; If Power, the guardian of our rights design'd, Is to that great, that only end, confined; If riches are employ'd to bless the poor; If Law is sacred, Liberty secure; Let but these facts depend on proofs of weight, Reason declares thy love can't be too great, And, in this light could he our country view, A very Hottentot must love it too. But if, by Fate's decrees, you owe your birth To some most barren and penurious earth, Where, every comfort of this life denied, Her real wants are scantily supplied; Where Power is Reason, Liberty a joke, Laws never made, or made but to be broke; To fix thy love on such a wretched spot, Because in Lust's wild fever there begot; Because, thy weight no longer fit to bear, By chance, not choice, thy mother dropp'd thee there, Is folly, which admits not of defence; It can't be Nature, for it is not sense. By the same argument which here you hold, (When Falsehood's insolent, let Truth be told) If Propagation can in torments dwell, A devil must, if born there, love his Hell. _P_. Had Fate, to whose decrees I lowly bend, And e'en in punishment confess a friend, 169 Ordain'd my birth in some place yet untried, On purpose made to mortify my pride, Where the sun never gave one glimpse of day, Where Science never yet could dart one ray, Had I been born on some bleak, blasted plain Of barren Scotland, in a Stuart's reign, Or in some kingdom, where men, weak, or worse, Turn'd Nature's every blessing to a curse; Where crowns of freedom, by the fathers won, Dropp'd leaf by leaf from each degenerate son; In spite of all the wisdom you display, All you have said, and yet may have to say, My weakness here, if weakness I confess, I, as my country, had not loved her less. Whether strict Reason bears me out in this, Let those who, always seeking, always miss The ways of Reason, doubt with precious zeal; Theirs be the praise to argue, mine to feel. Wish we to trace this passion to the root, We, like a tree, may know it by its fruit; From its rich stem ten thousand virtues spring, Ten thousand blessings on its branches cling; Yet in the circle of revolving years Not one misfortune, not one vice, appears. Hence, then, and what you Reason call, adore; This, if not Reason, must be something more. But (for I wish not others to confine; Be their opinions unrestrain'd as mine) Whether this love's of good or evil growth, A vice, a virtue, or a spice of both, Let men of nicer argument decide; If it is virtuous, soothe an honest pride With liberal praise; if vicious, be content, It is a vice I never can repent; A vice which, weigh'd in Heaven, shall more avail Than ten cold virtues in the other scale. _F_. This wild, untemper'd zeal (which, after all, We, candour unimpeach'd, might madness call) Is it a virtue? That you scarce pretend; Or can it be a vice, like Virtue's friend, Which draws us off from and dissolves the force Of private ties, nay, stops us in our course 170 To that grand object of the human soul, That nobler love which comprehends the whole? Coop'd in the limits of this petty isle, This nook, which scarce deserves a frown or smile, Weigh'd with Creation, you, by whim undone, Give all your thoughts to what is scarce worth one. The generous soul, by Nature taught to soar, Her strength confirm'd in philosophic lore, At one grand view takes in a world with ease, And, seeing all mankind, loves all she sees. _P_. Was it most sure, which yet a doubt endures, Not found in Reason's creed, though found in yours, That these two services, like what we're told, And know, of God's and Mammon's, cannot hold And draw together; that, however both, We neither serve, attempting to serve both, I could not doubt a moment which to choose, And which in common reason to refuse. Invented oft for purposes of art, Born of the head, though father'd on the heart, This grand love of the world must be confess'd A barren speculation at the best. Not one man in a thousand, should he live Beyond the usual term of life, could give, So rare occasion comes, and to so few, Proof whether his regards are feign'd, or true. The love we bear our country is a root Which never fails to bring forth golden fruit; 'Tis in the mind an everlasting spring Of glorious actions, which become a king, Nor less become a subject; 'tis a debt Which bad men, though they pay not, can't forget; A duty, which the good delight to pay, And every man can practise every day. Nor, for my life (so very dim my eye, Or dull your argument) can I descry What you with faith assert, how that dear love, Which binds me to my country, can remove, And make me of necessity forego, That general love which to the world I owe. Those ties of private nature, small extent, In which the mind of narrow cast is pent, 171 Are only steps on which the generous soul Mounts by degrees till she includes the whole. That spring of love, which, in the human mind, Founded on self, flows narrow and confined, Enlarges as it rolls, and comprehends The social charities of blood and friends, Till, smaller streams included, not o'erpast, It rises to our country's love at last; And he, with liberal and enlarged mind, Who loves his country, cannot hate mankind. _F_. Friend, as you would appear, to Common Sense, Tell me, or think no more of a defence, Is it a proof of love by choice to run A vagrant from your country? _P_. Can the son (Shame, shame on all such sons!) with ruthless eye, And heart more patient than the flint, stand by, And by some ruffian, from all shame divorced, All virtue, see his honour'd mother forced? Then--no, by Him that made me! not e'en then, Could I with patience, by the worst of men, Behold my country plunder'd, beggar'd, lost Beyond redemption, all her glories cross'd, E'en when occasion made them ripe, her fame Fled like a dream, while she awakes to shame. _F_. Is it not more the office of a friend, The office of a patron, to defend Her sinking state, than basely to decline So great a cause, and in despair resign? _P_. Beyond my reach, alas! the grievance lies, And, whilst more able patriots doubt, she dies. From a foul source, more deep than we suppose, Fatally deep and dark, this grievance flows. 'Tis not that peace our glorious hopes defeats: 'Tis not the voice of Faction in the streets; 'Tis not a gross attack on Freedom made; Tis not the arm of Privilege display'd, Against the subject, whilst she wears no sting To disappoint the purpose of a king; These are no ills, or trifles, if compared With those which are contrived, though not declared. Tell me, Philosopher, is it a crime 172 To pry into the secret womb of Time; Or, born in ignorance, must we despair To reach events, and read the future there? Why, be it so--still 'tis the right of man, Imparted by his Maker, where he can, To former times and men his eye to cast, And judge of what's to come, by what is past. Should there be found, in some not distant year, (Oh, how I wish to be no prophet here!) Amongst our British Lords should there be found Some great in power, in principles unsound, Who look on Freedom with an evil eye, In whom the springs of Loyalty are dry; Who wish to soar on wild Ambition's wings, Who hate the Commons, and who love not Kings; Who would divide the people and the throne, To set up separate interests of their own; Who hate whatever aids their wholesome growth, And only join with, to destroy them both; Should there be found such men in after-times, May Heaven, in mercy to our grievous crimes, Allot some milder vengeance, nor to them, And to their rage, this wretched land condemn, Thou God above, on whom all states depend, Who knowest from the first their rise, and end, If there's a day mark'd in the book of Fate, When ruin must involve our equal state; When law, alas! must be no more, and we, To freedom born, must be no longer free; Let not a mob of tyrants seize the helm, Nor titled upstarts league to rob the realm; Let not, whatever other ills assail, A damned aristocracy prevail. If, all too short, our course of freedom run, 'Tis thy good pleasure we should be undone, Let us, some comfort in our griefs to bring, Be slaves to one, and be that one a king. _F_. Poets, accustom'd by their trade to feign, Oft substitute creations of the brain For real substance, and, themselves deceived, Would have the fiction by mankind believed. Such is your case--but grant, to soothe your pride, 173 That you know more than all the world beside, Why deal in hints, why make a moment's doubt? Resolved, and like a man, at once speak out; Show us our danger, tell us where it lies, And, to ensure our safety, make us wise. _P_. Rather than bear the pain of thought, fools stray; The proud will rather lose than ask their way: To men of sense what needs it to unfold, And tell a tale which they must know untold? In the bad, interest warps the canker'd heart, The good are hoodwink'd by the tricks of art; And, whilst arch, subtle hypocrites contrive To keep the flames of discontent alive; Whilst they, with arts to honest men unknown, Breed doubts between the people and the throne, Making us fear, where Reason never yet Allow'd one fear, or could one doubt admit, Themselves pass unsuspected in disguise, And 'gainst our real danger seal our eyes. _F_. Mark them, and let their names recorded stand On Shame's black roll, and stink through all the land. _P_. That might some courage, but no prudence be; No hurt to them, and jeopardy to me. _F_. Leave out their names. _P_. For that kind caution, thanks; But may not judges sometimes fill up blanks? _F_. Your country's laws in doubt then you reject? _P_. The laws I love, the lawyers I suspect. Amongst twelve judges may not one be found (On bare, bare possibility I ground This wholesome doubt) who may enlarge, retrench, Create, and uncreate, and from the bench, With winks, smiles, nods, and such like paltry arts, May work and worm into a jury's hearts? Or, baffled there, may, turbulent of soul, Cramp their high office, and their rights control; Who may, though judge, turn advocate at large, And deal replies out by the way of charge, Making Interpretation all the way, In spite of facts, his wicked will obey, And, leaving Law without the least defence, May damn his conscience to approve his sense? 174 _F_. Whilst, the true guardians of this charter'd land, In full and perfect vigour, juries stand, A judge in vain shall awe, cajole, perplex. _P_. Suppose I should be tried in Middlesex? _F_. To pack a jury they will never dare. _P_. There's no occasion to pack juries there. _F_. 'Gainst prejudice all arguments are weak; Reason herself without effect must speak. Fly then thy country, like a coward fly, Renounce her interest, and her laws defy. But why, bewitch'd, to India turn thine eyes? Cannot our Europe thy vast wrath suffice? Cannot thy misbegotten Muse lay bare Her brawny arm, and play the butcher there? _P_. Thy counsel taken, what should Satire do? Where could she find an object that is new? Those travell'd youths, whom tender mothers wean, And send abroad to see, and to be seen; With whom, lest they should fornicate, or worse, A tutor's sent by way of a dry nurse; Each of whom just enough of spirit bears To show our follies, and to bring home theirs, Have made all Europe's vices so well known, They seem almost as natural as our own. _F_. Will India for thy purpose better do? _P_. In one respect, at least--there's something new. _F_. A harmless people, in whom Nature speaks Free and untainted,'mongst whom Satire seeks, But vainly seeks, so simply plain their hearts, One bosom where to lodge her poison'd darts. _P_. From knowledge speak you this? or, doubt on doubt Weigh'd and resolved, hath Reason found it out? Neither from knowledge, nor by Reason taught, You have faith every where, but where you ought. India or Europe--what's there in a name? Propensity to vice in both the same, Nature alike in both works for man's good, Alike in both by man himself withstood. Nabobs, as well as those who hunt them down, Deserve a cord much better than a crown, And a Mogul can thrones as much debase As any polish'd prince of Christian race. 175 _F_. Could you,--a task more hard than you suppose,-Could you, in ridicule whilst Satire glows, Make all their follies to the life appear, 'Tis ten to one you gain no credit here; Howe'er well drawn, the picture, after all, Because we know not the original, Would not find favour in the public eye. _P_. That, having your good leave, I mean to try: And if your observations sterling hold, If the piece should be heavy, tame, and cold, To make it to the side of Nature lean, And meaning nothing, something seem to mean: To make the whole in lively colours glow, To bring before us something that we know, And from all honest men applause to win, I'll group the Company, and put them in. _F_. Be that ungenerous thought by shame suppress'd, Add not distress to those too much distress'd; Have they not, by blind zeal misled, laid bare Those sores which never might endure the air? Have they not brought their mysteries so low, That what the wise suspected not, fools know? From their first rise e'en to the present hour, Have they not proved their own abuse of power, Made it impossible, if fairly view'd, Ever to have that dangerous power renew'd, Whilst, unseduced by ministers, the throne Regards our interests, and knows its own? _P_. Should every other subject chance to fail, Those who have sail'd, and those who wish'd to sail In the last fleet, afford an ample field, Which must beyond my hopes a harvest yield. _F_. On such vile food Satire can never thrive. _P_. She cannot starve, if there was only Clive. ~ Charles Churchill,

842:A Tale Of True Love Not in the mist of legendary ages, Which in sad moments men call long ago, And people with bards, heroes, saints, and sages, And virtues vanished, since we do not know, But here to-day wherein we all grow old, But only we, this Tale of True Love will be told. For Earth to tender wisdom grows not older, But to young hearts remains for ever young, Spring no less winsome, Winter winds no colder, Than when tales first were told, songs first were sung. And all things always still remain the same, That touch the human heart, and feed Love's vestal flame. And, if you have ears to hear and eyes for seeing, Maidens there be, as were there in your youth, That round you breathe, and move, and have their being, Fair as Greek Helen, pure as Hebrew Ruth; With Heaven-appointed poets, quick to sing Of blameless warrior brave, and wisdom-counselled king. And, tho' in this our day, youth, love, and beauty, Are far too often glorified as slave Of every sense except the sense of Duty, In fables that dishonour and deprave, The old-world Creeds still linger, taught us by The pious lips that mute now in the churchyard lie. And this true simple tale in verse as simple Will from its prelude to its close be told, As free from artifice as is the dimple In childhood's cheek, whereby is age consoled. And haply it may soothe some sufferer's lot, When noisier notes are husht, and newer ones forgot. And think not, of your graciousness, I pray you, Who tells the tale is one of those who deem That love will beckon only to betray you, Life an illusion, happiness a dream; 96 Only that noble grief is happier far Than transitory lusts and feverish raptures are. It was the season when aggressive Winter, That had so long invested the sealed world, With frosts that starve and hurricanes that splinter, And rain, hail, blizzard, mercilessly hurled, Made one forlorn last effort to assail Ere Spring's relieving spears came riding on the gale. For Amazonian March with breast uncovered Blew loud her clarion, and the wintry host Took courage fresh and lingeringly hovered Round vale and hill, wherever needed most; And ever and anon the raging weather And wolfish winds re-formed, and onward swept together, Loud-bellowing to the thunder-clouds to follow: But all in vain, for here, there, everywhere, Primrose battalions, seizing ridge and hollow, Dingle, and covert, wind-flowers wild that dare Beyond their seeming, bluebells without sound, And scentless violets peeped, to spring up from the ground. And, covering their advance, swift-scouring showers, Gathering, dispersing, skirmished through the sky, Till squadrons of innumerable flowers Thronged through the land far as you could descry. Then Winter, smitten with despair and dread, Folded his fluttering tents, sounded retreat, and fled. Whereat the land, so long beleaguered, seeing The peril past, and Winter's iron ring Broken, and all his cohorts norward fleeing, Came forth to welcome and embrace the Spring, Spring the Deliverer, and from sea and shore Rose the rejoicing shout, ``See, April dawns once more!'' Radiant she came, attended by her zephyrs, And forth from dusky stall and hurdled fold Poured lowing kine and sleeky-coated heifers, To roam at will through pastures green and gold, 97 Where unweaned lambs from morning until night Raced round their nibbling dams, and frolicked with delight. High up, on larch and cypress, merle and mavis Vociferated love-lays sweet as strong, And the bird dear to Homer and to Hafiz Proclaimed the joy of sadness all night long; Vowed each new Spring more Spring-like than the last, And triumphed over Time, futile iconoclast. Then imperceptibly and slowly rounded Slim girlish April into maiden May, Whereat still louder everywhere resounded The cuckoo's call and throstle's roundelay. It was as though in meadow, chase, and wood, God made the world anew, and saw that it was good. Then feudal Avoncourt, the stern and stately, Whose dawn deep hidden in undated days, Not like those palaces erected lately Whose feet swift crumble, and whose face decays, Defieth Time's insatiable tooth, Relaxed grave gaze and wore the countenance of youth. It had beheld kings and proud empires vanish, Male sceptres shattered, princedoms pass away, Norman, Plantagenet, Lombard, Swabian, Spanish, Rise, rule, then totter, and topple from their sway; York and Lancastrian Rose unfold and bloom, Then canker and decay, and vanish in the tomb. It faces the four winds with like demeanour Norward as Southernward, as though to say, ``Blow from some other, stronger and still keener, Wherefrom you will, and I will face that way.'' And round it as you roam, to gaze perplexed Each side seems loveliest till you look upon the next. Its present seeming unto ages Tudor It owes, by unnamed, unknown hands designed, Who planned and worked amid a folk deemed ruder, But who with grace enduring strength combined. 98 Like sturdy oak with all its leaves still on, When foliage from elm and sycamore have gone. Upon its delicate, lofty-jutting portal Imaginative minds and hands have wrought Of dead artificers once deemed immortal, From Southern climes by kings and magnates brought, When architects and sculptors smiled in scorn On plain defensive days and called the world reborn. But time hath mellowed mullion, roof, and gable, Stone-work without, and wainscotting within; And nigh them oaken-timbered barn and stable, Lowlier, withal of countenance akin, Cluster, for in times olden, meek, and proud, Being nearer much than now, their kinship was avowed. From it slope woodlands and long alleys shaded, Saving that all around it and more near Stretches wild chase by ploughshare uninvaded, Where roam rough cattle and unherded deer, That look up as you pass from brackened sod, Then flee with step as fleet as that whereon they trod. Through vale below from many a source unfailing A river flows where deft hands cast the line, Well stocked with wary trout and bolder grayling. Through smooth, fat pastures dotted o'er with kine League after league the water winds away, Oft turning as though loth from Avoncourt to stray. It was in the sweet season that hath ravished The virgin heart since ever love began, A maiden, upon whom had Nature lavished Each fair gift given to maiden or to man, Roamed all alone through windings of its wood, Seeking the way to where Avoncourt haply stood. Onward in search of it she went, but slowly, For who could hasten through so fresh a scene, With violets paved, the lovelier because lowly, And pallid primroses on ground of green; 99 While overhead each bird that hath a voice Seemed in its own blithe notes to revel and rejoice. And ever and anon she gazed around her, Or knelt to gather some appealing flower, And to dear God, the Father and the Founder Of all things good, the all-protecting Power, Breathed a brief prayer of thanks within her breast, Feeling she roamed in Heaven on earth made manifest. Sometimes she broke into spontaneous singing, Such as fond nurse to fretful babe might sing, Whose close as sudden is as its beginning. Herself she seemed a portion of the Spring Which, if she went, would lose the chiefest part Of that which charms the gaze and captivates the heart. At length she passed from out these paths embowered To where meek does, young fawns, and shaggy beeves Ranged amid bracken; but the House, that towered Full nigh at hand, for intercepting leaves She still descried not, so, advancing under An arch of hornbeam, stood in husht, astonied wonder. For there it rose as silent and abstracted As though it nothing shared or had to say With those that shadow-like have lived and acted Upon the stage we call our later day; From passing passions thoughtfully aloof, Through age, not pride, without lamenting or reproof. Then slowly timid, tentative explorer, Longing to see yet dreading to be seen, Asudden living figure rose before her Of manly mould and meditative mien; Modern, withal with air of ancient port, As if the same blood flowed through him and Avoncourt. ``Forgive,'' she said, ``an overbold intruder!'' ``I doubt if anywhere you would intrude; But sooth none do on this survival Tudor, Who visit its old age in reverent mood.'' 100 ``And that indeed I do. I never saw Aught that I so admired, or felt for so much awe.'' ``Will you, I round it willingly can guide you, Unless-and, told, shall fully understand,Wander you rather would with none beside you To mar the silence of the windless land, Saving Spring's choristers, whose constant trills One hears or doth not hear, according as one wills.'' ``You know it well?'' she asked. ``I ought to know it. Here was I born, here grew to boy's estate, Pored o'er the page of storier and poet, All that is big, magnanimous, and great, Hardened my own, tried my dear Mother's nerves, Robbed the home orchard, poached my Father's own preserves.'' ``And are you now its occupant and possessor?'' ``So called, alas! whose ancestors have paid The final tax, by Death the stern assessor On all poor mortals equitably laid. I have a leasehold; no one can have more, This side at least the vague, still-undiscovered shore.'' Thereat there fell a silence on their speaking, And on they moved, he follower more than guide; Oblivious she what 'twas that she was seeking, Since conscious now of manhood at her side. Withal, so much there was to lure her gaze, That his on her could rest, nor stint its look of praise. Then when they reached the Jacobean portal, Back rolled its doors of iron brace and stay, On grooves that seemed more cut for feet immortal Than for a feeble transitory day, And mounted oaken stair axe-hewn, unplaned, With lion-headed piers unpolished and unstained. From coffered ceiling hung down tattered banners, And weapons warlike deadly deemed no more Were parked on landing; grants of ancient manors, With charts and parchments of black-letter lore, 101 Stacked spears and dinted armour; ebon presses With jealous bolts stood locked in embrasured recesses. Chamber on chamber wainscotted and spacious Was lined with effigies of warriors wise, Reticent rulers, dames revered and gracious, Whose fingers wove the silken tapestries, Time-toned but faded not, that draped the wall Of gallery long and straight, and square-set banquet-hall. About lay obsolete instruments, wheel and spindle, When women read much less and knew much more, Huge logs for early-rising maids to kindle On deep-set hearths, mottoes of lasting lore In ancient tongues, Norman, or Saxon stave, Bidding man live and die, meek, pious, steadfast, brave. And many a question asked she, always getting The answer craved for, given prompt and plain. ``But look,'' she said, ``the sun will soon be setting, And that old dial-hand that doth nor gain Nor lose, I am sure, in its diurnal pace, Reproves me I still lag in this enthralling place.'' ``Then come again,'' he answered, ``at your leisure,'' And led her outward where the ancient pile Looked as though dwelt within no special treasure, And owned no spell nor charm save sunset's smile; Like one of those large natures that betray No sign that they are made of more than common clay. ``And may I ask, your homeward footsteps, whither? What! there! it is on Avoncourt estate, And I by shorter path can guide you thither Than that you came by, fear you to be late. You lodge with much-loved tenants, for the wife My foster-parent was in rosy-dawning life.'' ``She did not tell me that; but sooth our meeting Was but two days back, though I quickly saw That she for you would evermore be bleating With voice of blent solicitude and awe.'' 102 ``'Tis so: on Sundays with a spirit meek She worships God, then me the rest of all the week.'' Wending and winding under curved ways shaded, Wider than heretofore, they farmward trod, While twilight incense all the air pervaded Round flower-decked altar at the shrine of God, This sacred Earth, and for approaching night One star kept watch, as yet Heaven's only lamp alight. To her it seemed the Real and Ideal At last were one, and every bird that sings Joined prayerfully in chorus hymeneal, Ere folding music underneath its wings. How little did she guess that ambushed grief Watched all her thoughts and lurked 'neath every dewy leaf! ``Are both your parents at the farmstead staying?'' ``Alas!'' she said, ``like yours, they both abide My coming further off, and in my praying Alone survive; my guardian and my guide My Mother's sister, whom we there shall find, Most loving and most loved of living womankind.'' Where buttressed Church with crenellated Tower Over the village still kept watch and ward; ``For these,'' he said, ``inherited have that power, The pious citadels of peace that guard The sin-beleaguered soul, and still repel From humble homes and hearts the ravening hosts of hell.'' Within were monuments of home-delved marble, Whereon lay figures of his race and name, Crusaders whose dead deeds no time can garble, Learning destroy, malignity defame: Legs crossed, feet resting against faithful hound, And, at their side, their dames and children kneeling round. Then would they wend them valeward to the river, And he cast line that neither curled nor sank. Round ran the reel, then the lithe rod would quiver, And May-fly trout lie gasping on the bank, 103 Or, like a flying shadow through the stream, Startled, would pass to pool sheltered from noonday gleam. Which pleased her most, for sooth she thought sport cruel, Yet watched it for the sake of his rare skill, But happiest when asudden wingèd jewel, The king-fisher, disturbed near rustic mill, Darted, and deep into its nest withdrew, Shortly to issue forth, and, flickering, raid anew. So passed the days unnoticed and uncounted, As louder, longer, later, piped the merle, And cuckoo oftener called, if harsher throated, And hawthorn decked itself with loops of pearl. It seemed a world reborn without its woes: Woodbine was in the lanes, and everywhere the rose. All things that are in that seductive season In them struck root and with them got entwined; Looking before or after had seemed treason To the free heart and unconditioned mind, As daily tightened beyond time's control That strongest of all ties, the kinship of the soul. And deeper into bliss they wandered blindly, While woe and wet winds kept from them aloof, As from screened homestead visitings unkindly, Where old-world windows under gabled roof Seem gazing at the present from the past, And wondering how long such happiness will last. Ah me! the days of Summer, not of Winter, The shortest are and swiftest glide away, And leaves of Autumn, sober mezzotinter, Linger far longer than the blooms of May. Time that, when fledged by joy, finds wings to fly, With sorrow for its load limps slowly, wearily. One evening, as they watched the sunset fading, ``To strangers Avoncourt must never pass, For that would be dishonouring and degrading,'' Thinking aloud he said: ``withal, alas! 104 Sit by its hearth they must, and much I fear That there they must abide for many a coming year. ``No fault of mine nor yet of those now sleeping In tombs ancestral. Unrelenting time, That hath the future in its unseen keeping, Hath lowered the lofty, let the lowly climb, And swept away the sustenance of my home. What is there that endures? Go ask of Greece or Rome. ``Mullion from sill, transom from beam, is cracking, Beauty and majesty their only stay; And, save new wealth supply what now is lacking, These too in turn will slowly pass away. And I must save and strive in duteous ways, So irksome felt by most in these luxurious days.'' ``There is another way, some deem a duty, None call unworthy,'' slowly she replied. ``Women there be, gifted with charm and beauty, On whom hath Fortune lavished wealth beside.'' ``I am not made like that,'' he firmly said; ``I but for love alone should ever woo or wed.'' And, as he said it, on her face he centred Strong tender gaze, as though to search her soul, Which straight so deep into her being entered, She felt a current beyond will's control. Crimsoning she turned aside, and thus confessed The secret she had thought to hide within her breast. Out of a cloud long gathering burst a flashing, Followed by thunder's discontented sound; And straight they heard slow big round raindrops plashing On the green leaves o'erhead and emerald ground. ``Hark! I must hasten home,'' she said, ``before The storm-wrack breaks.''-``And I will see you to your door.'' All through the morrow much he seemed to ponder, And oft would halt and gaze upon the ground, Or look out fixedly on something yonder, Unseen by others, which at last he found, 105 And then strode quickly on, since he had solved The doubt that would die out oftener the years revolved. ``Yes, for she hath that higher understanding That routs Life's phantoms with a fearless face, And knows, when spectral enemies throng banding, The good from bad, the noble from the base. To-morrow will I offer, ask for, all, Love, Faith, and Hope can give, whatever else befall.'' But on the morrow came she not. More lonely, Wandering, he felt than ever heretofore; Nor on the morrow's morrow, and he only Could wait her will, nor wend unto their door Till wearily some doubtful days crept on, And then the farmstead sought, to find its guests had gone! Gone three days back, and none knew why or whither. Then he with promptitude unleashed his mind, In search for trace, now hither and now thither, But trace or tidings nowhere could he find. Still unremittingly he sought: in vain Was search within our shore, was search beyond the main. Slowly the glory from the Summer faded, And ominously leaves began to fall; And ever and anon harsh gusts invaded Avoncourt, moaning through deserted hall, And roaring woefully up chimney wide; And mute the deerhound clung unto her master's side, Or gazed at him with sad look sympathetic, As though it too missed what its master missed. ``Ah, Lufra!'' said he in a voice prophetic, ``She is gone, and we shall never see her more. Cling you to me, and I will take you where Wander awhile I must, wherever I may fare. ``No more than you can I unmask the meaning Of hapless things that baffle mortal vows.'' Then, sighing, saw he white-haired Winter gleaning, Amid the crackling drift and fallen boughs 106 That lay on avenue, chase, and garden garth, Fuel to feed faint flame upon her widowed hearth. He was not one of those who love to wrangle Before the populace for place and power, Or fight for wealth with weapons that but strangle The nobler passions, manhood's richest dower. ``I will return when wound shall less be felt, And work among my folk, dwelling where once she dwelt.'' Farewell he took of wood-reeve, keeper, ranger, And tenants grave with grief, and some in tears, And order gave that Avoncourt to stranger Be leased for maybe many coming years; Then crossed the vigilant, unsleeping sea That ranges round our Isle, to keep it great and free. He lingered not in that vain-glorious city, Whose Rulers pass the sceptre to the crowd, But wended to the Land where amorous ditty By swain at work to maid is sung aloud; Where life is simple, and unchanging ways Of tillage still recall loved Virgil's rustic lays: Where on majestic pedestals the mighty Marble imaginings of Art august, Thought-wrinkled Zeus and dimpled Aphrodité, Exact our homage and command our trust; Immortal gods whose never-ending sway Rebellion cannot shake nor scoffing sweep away. And in that high companionship he slowly Stifled his sighs and cicatrised his wound, And, with the griefs the lofty and the lowly Alike must feel, his share of pain attuned; More willingly, it may be, since he knew He unto love and loss would evermore keep true. Ofttimes he stood by shrines where peasants kneeling Told of their sorrows to the Mother-Maid, Unto celestial sympathy appealing From the world's pitiless splendour and parade; 107 And in that sight he resignation found, With sun, and sea, and sky, and mountain-peaks around. So that when nigh upon a year had vanished Homeward his longing and his looks were cast, Feeling 'twere base to longer stay self-banished, Grafting his future on a fruitless past. And soon his steadfast journeying came to close, Where Avoncourt amid its unchanged woodlands rose. It had meanwhile been leased to lately wedded Tenants, unknown to Fame, but well endowed With what could rescue it from fate so dreaded Of slow decay and ruin-mantling shroud, And who already had done much to win Its walls from storm without, and worm and moth within. So, as in duty bound, he promptly started From home prepared for him on his estate, With cheerful step if somewhat heavy-hearted, To visit those who lived within his gate; Ascending through the woodland's winding ways, That wore more careful mien than in the bygone days. It was the dawn of Autumn, very season When he from further search for her forbore, Whom to forget had seemed to him a treason, Though well he knew he ne'er should see her more. Sound, sight, scent, yellowing elm, and conecrowned fir, Sunshine and shade alike, reminded him of her. But, resolute to curb regret, he entered, And, led through hall and corridor, he wound To long ancestral gallery, and centred His curious gaze on what he saw around. It seemed to have lost no look of days gone by, Withal to blend young smile with ancient majesty. Still on the walls the effigies ancestral, In armour or in ermine, hung unchanged, With the device of wild boar, wolf, or kestrel, That once in English forests freely ranged; 108 With later draperies that seemed to bring Distance more near and shed a grace round everything. While gazing out on well-remembered garden, Where old yew hedges screened new-planted rose, Against whose beauty none his heart could harden, He heard a door soft open and then close. And, turning, saw Egeria, with a face Pale as a moon that moves alone through lonely space! ``Are you a guest,'' he said, ``in my poor dwelling?'' ``I am,'' she answered, ``your-your tenant's wife. Hear me in patience, dear, while I am telling What tell I must, but tell this once for life.'' Whereat they towards each other drew more near: One spoke, one listened, both without a sob or tear. ``I loved, I love you. Noble since I know you, Here I confess that I shall love you still; Since you will never show me nor I show you More tenderness than now, for such God's will. Knowing I should, love once avowed, rejoice, Should not refuse your love, could not resist your voice, ``From you I fled, and steadfast left behind me No word to weaken you, no sign, no trace, Whereby your manliness could following find me. For well I knew, that day your face my face Scanned in strong silence, probing to my heart, Love once confessed, no power could keep our lives apart. ``And well, too well I knew, for all things told me, Men's tongues, the air, I thus should wreck your life, And Avoncourt reproachfully behold me A selfish bride and paralysing wife; That duty had decreed a harder fate For you, for me. If wrong, I know the right too late. ``In innocency's life there comes an hour When stands revealed what it could never guess: That there is magical and mystic power To make love strong or leave it powerless; 109 If felt, if given without one selfish thought, That Love is Wisdom's self, and all beside is nought. ``Ask me no more, I beg, than what I tell you: I am your tenant, at another's will. How, wherefore, when, on that which then befell, you, Though I be mute, will understand me still. Forgive, but ne'er forget me. Now depart, Till to endurance Time shall mellowed have the smart.'' Her hand she stretched towards him, and, low bending, On it his lips he reverently laid, As on some sacred relic pilgrims wending From far-off land with faith still undecayed. Then he went forth, and she remained, alone, Stern Duty unassailed upon its sovran throne. But with the morrow's dawn there came the tidings How that a crafty, freedom-loathing race, Its schemes unmasked, had come from out its hidings, And flung defiance in its Suzerain's face, Then on his open territories burst, Proclaiming these annexed unto its rule accursed. Then England said, ``I must endure no longer This long-conspiring, now presumptuous brood, But must assert the Sceptre of the stronger Against their vapourings vain and challenge rude, Who have against me their false flag unfurled, Urged to their ruin by an Empire-envying world.'' Nor England only, nor main-moated Britain, But their brave offspring homed beyond the sea, In righteous wrath arose, and, duty-smitten, Vowed that their Afric brethren should be free To think and speak the thing they would, and dwell Equal and safe around Law's peaceful citadel. Then said Sir Alured, ``Against such foemen I too will ride and strike,'' and round him drew All Avoncourt's hard-knit, well-mounted yeomen, And to his lands ancestral bade adieu. 110 Beneath him seethed the waters no one barred, Over the wave-wide track our steel-shod sentries guard. And day by day Egeria scans and watches The ebb and flow of fluctuating war, And ofttimes sees his name in terse dispatches Shine among those that most distinguished are. Then pride and terror in her heart contend, And low she prays anew, ``Dear God! his life befriend!'' And when she reads of some fresh deed of daring That decorates his breast and crowns his brow, Sparing of others, of himself unsparing, She weeps apart where no one sees. But now This Tale of True Love hath been truly told. May it by some be read, and by it some consoled! ~ Alfred Austin,

843: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,

844:The Great Adventure Of Max Breuck A yellow band of light upon the street Pours from an open door, and makes a wide Pathway of bright gold across a sheet Of calm and liquid moonshine. From inside Come shouts and streams of laughter, and a snatch Of song, soon drowned and lost again in mirth, The clip of tankards on a table top, And stir of booted heels. Against the patch Of candle-light a shadow falls, its girth Proclaims the host himself, and master of his shop. This is the tavern of one Hilverdink, Jan Hilverdink, whose wines are much esteemed. Within his cellar men can have to drink The rarest cordials old monks ever schemed To coax from pulpy grapes, and with nice art Improve and spice their virgin juiciness. Here froths the amber beer of many a brew, Crowning each pewter tankard with as smart A cap as ever in his wantonness Winter set glittering on top of an old yew. Tall candles stand upon the table, where Are twisted glasses, ruby-sparked with wine, Clarets and ports. Those topaz bumpers were Drained from slim, long-necked bottles of the Rhine. The centre of the board is piled with pipes, Slender and clean, the still unbaptized clay Awaits its burning fate. Behind, the vault Stretches from dim to dark, a groping way Bordered by casks and puncheons, whose brass stripes 326 And bands gleam dully still, beyond the gay tumult. 'For good old Master Hilverdink, a toast!' Clamoured a youth with tassels on his boots. 'Bring out your oldest brandy for a boast, From that small barrel in the very roots Of your deep cellar, man. Why here is Max! Ho! Welcome, Max, you're scarcely here in time. We want to drink to old Jan's luck, and smoke His best tobacco for a grand climax. Here, Jan, a paper, fragrant as crushed thyme, We'll have the best to wish you luck, or may we choke!' Max Breuck unclasped his broadcloth cloak, and sat. 'Well thought of, Franz; here's luck to Mynheer Jan.' The host set down a jar; then to a vat Lost in the distance of his cellar, ran. Max took a pipe as graceful as the stem Of some long tulip, crammed it full, and drew The pungent smoke deep to his grateful lung. It curled all blue throughout the cave and flew Into the silver night. At once there flung Into the crowded shop a boy, who cried to them: 'Oh, sirs, is there some learned lawyer here, Some advocate, or all-wise counsellor? My master sent me to inquire where Such men do mostly be, but every door Was shut and barred, for late has grown the hour. I pray you tell me where I may now find One versed in law, the matter will not wait.' 'I am a lawyer, boy,' said Max, 'my mind Is not locked to my business, though 'tis late. 327 I shall be glad to serve what way is in my power. Then once more, cloaked and ready, he set out, Tripping the footsteps of the eager boy Along the dappled cobbles, while the rout Within the tavern jeered at his employ. Through new-burst elm leaves filtered the white moon, Who peered and splashed between the twinkling boughs, Flooded the open spaces, and took flight Before tall, serried houses in platoon, Guarded by shadows. Past the Custom House They took their hurried way in the Spring-scented night. Before a door which fronted a canal The boy halted. A dim tree-shaded spot. The water lapped the stones in musical And rhythmic tappings, and a galliot Slumbered at anchor with no light aboard. The boy knocked twice, and steps approached. A flame Winked through the keyhole, then a key was turned, And through the open door Max went toward Another door, whence sound of voices came. He entered a large room where candelabra burned. An aged man in quilted dressing gown Rose up to greet him. 'Sir,' said Max, 'you sent Your messenger to seek throughout the town A lawyer. I have small accomplishment, But I am at your service, and my name Is Max Breuck, Counsellor, at your command.' 'Mynheer,' replied the aged man, 'obliged Am I, and count myself much privileged. I am Cornelius Kurler, and my fame 328 Is better known on distant oceans than on land. 10 My ship has tasted water in strange seas, And bartered goods at still uncharted isles. She's oft coquetted with a tropic breeze, And sheered off hurricanes with jaunty smiles.' 'Tush, Kurler,' here broke in the other man, 'Enough of poetry, draw the deed and sign.' The old man seemed to wizen at the voice, 'My good friend, Grootver, --' he at once began. 'No introductions, let us have some wine, And business, now that you at last have made your choice.' 11 A harsh and disagreeable man he proved to be, This Grootver, with no single kindly thought. Kurler explained, his old hands nervously Twisting his beard. His vessel he had bought From Grootver. He had thought to soon repay The ducats borrowed, but an adverse wind Had so delayed him that his cargo brought But half its proper price, the very day He came to port he stepped ashore to find The market glutted and his counted profits naught. 12 Little by little Max made out the way That Grootver pressed that poor harassed old man. His money he must have, too long delay Had turned the usurer to a ruffian. 'But let me take my ship, with many bales Of cotton stuffs dyed crimson, green, and blue, Cunningly patterned, made to suit the taste Of mandarin's ladies; when my battered sails Open for home, such stores will I bring you 329 That all your former ventures will be counted waste. 13 Such light and foamy silks, like crinkled cream, And indigo more blue than sun-whipped seas, Spices and fragrant trees, a massive beam Of sandalwood, and pungent China teas, Tobacco, coffee!' Grootver only laughed. Max heard it all, and worse than all he heard The deed to which the sailor gave his word. He shivered, 'twas as if the villain gaffed The old man with a boat-hook; bleeding, spent, He begged for life nor knew at all the road he went. 14 For Kurler had a daughter, young and gay, Carefully reared and shielded, rarely seen. But on one black and most unfriendly day Grootver had caught her as she passed between The kitchen and the garden. She had run In fear of him, his evil leering eye, And when he came she, bolted in her room, Refused to show, though gave no reason why. The spinning of her future had begun, On quiet nights she heard the whirring of her doom. 15 Max mended an old goosequill by the fire, Loathing his work, but seeing no thing to do. He felt his hands were building up the pyre To burn two souls, and seized with vertigo He staggered to his chair. Before him lay White paper still unspotted by a crime. 'Now, young man, write,' said Grootver in his ear. '`If in two years my vessel should yet stay From Amsterdam, I give Grootver, sometime 330 A friend, my daughter for his lawful wife.' Now swear.' 16 And Kurler swore, a palsied, tottering sound, And traced his name, a shaking, wandering line. Then dazed he sat there, speechless from his wound. Grootver got up: 'Fair voyage, the brigantine!' He shuffled from the room, and left the house. His footsteps wore to silence down the street. At last the aged man began to rouse. With help he once more gained his trembling feet. 'My daughter, Mynheer Breuck, is friendless now. Will you watch over her? I ask a solemn vow.' 17 Max laid his hand upon the old man's arm, 'Before God, sir, I vow, when you are gone, So to protect your daughter from all harm As one man may.' Thus sorrowful, forlorn, The situation to Max Breuck appeared, He gave his promise almost without thought, Nor looked to see a difficulty. 'Bred Gently to watch a mother left alone; Bound by a dying father's wish, who feared The world's accustomed harshness when he should be dead; 18 Such was my case from youth, Mynheer Kurler. Last Winter she died also, and my days Are passed in work, lest I should grieve for her, And undo habits used to earn her praise. My leisure I will gladly give to see Your household and your daughter prosperous.' The sailor said his thanks, but turned away. He could not brook that his humility, So little wonted, and so tremulous, 331 Should first before a stranger make such great display. 19 'Come here to-morrow as the bells ring noon, I sail at the full sea, my daughter then I will make known to you. 'Twill be a boon If after I have bid good-by, and when Her eyeballs scorch with watching me depart, You bring her home again. She lives with one Old serving-woman, who has brought her up. But that is no friend for so free a heart. No head to match her questions. It is done. And I must sail away to come and brim her cup. 20 My ship's the fastest that owns Amsterdam As home, so not a letter can you send. I shall be back, before to where I am Another ship could reach. Now your stipend --' Quickly Breuck interposed. 'When you once more Tread on the stones which pave our streets. -- Good night! To-morrow I will be, at stroke of noon, At the great wharf.' Then hurrying, in spite Of cake and wine the old man pressed upon Him ere he went, he took his leave and shut the door. 21 'Twas noon in Amsterdam, the day was clear, And sunshine tipped the pointed roofs with gold. The brown canals ran liquid bronze, for here The sun sank deep into the waters cold. And every clock and belfry in the town Hammered, and struck, and rang. Such peals of bells, To shake the sunny morning into life, And to proclaim the middle, and the crown, Of this most sparkling daytime! The crowd swells, 332 Laughing and pushing toward the quays in friendly strife. 22 The 'Horn of Fortune' sails away to-day. At highest tide she lets her anchor go, And starts for China. Saucy popinjay! Giddy in freshest paint she curtseys low, And beckons to her boats to let her start. Blue is the ocean, with a flashing breeze. The shining waves are quick to take her part. They push and spatter her. Her sails are loose, Her tackles hanging, waiting men to seize And haul them taut, with chanty-singing, as they choose. 23 At the great wharf's edge Mynheer Kurler stands, And by his side, his daughter, young Christine. Max Breuck is there, his hat held in his hands, Bowing before them both. The brigantine Bounces impatient at the long delay, Curvets and jumps, a cable's length from shore. A heavy galliot unloads on the walls Round, yellow cheeses, like gold cannon balls Stacked on the stones in pyramids. Once more Kurler has kissed Christine, and now he is away. 24 Christine stood rigid like a frozen stone, Her hands wrung pale in effort at control. Max moved aside and let her be alone, For grief exacts each penny of its toll. The dancing boat tossed on the glinting sea. A sun-path swallowed it in flaming light, Then, shrunk a cockleshell, it came again Upon the other side. Now on the lee It took the 'Horn of Fortune'. Straining sight 333 Could see it hauled aboard, men pulling on the crane. 25 Then up above the eager brigantine, Along her slender masts, the sails took flight, Were sheeted home, and ropes were coiled. The shine Of the wet anchor, when its heavy weight Rose splashing to the deck. These things they saw, Christine and Max, upon the crowded quay. They saw the sails grow white, then blue in shade, The ship had turned, caught in a windy flaw She glided imperceptibly away, Drew farther off and in the bright sky seemed to fade. 26 Home, through the emptying streets, Max took Christine, Who would have hid her sorrow from his gaze. Before the iron gateway, clasped between Each garden wall, he stopped. She, in amaze, Asked, 'Do you enter not then, Mynheer Breuck? My father told me of your courtesy. Since I am now your charge, 'tis meet for me To show such hospitality as maiden may, Without disdaining rules must not be broke. Katrina will have coffee, and she bakes today.' 27 She straight unhasped the tall, beflowered gate. Curled into tendrils, twisted into cones Of leaves and roses, iron infoliate, It guards the pleasance, and its stiffened bones Are budded with much peering at the rows, And beds, and arbours, which it keeps inside. Max started at the beauty, at the glare Of tints. At either end was set a wide Path strewn with fine, red gravel, and such shows 334 Of tulips in their splendour flaunted everywhere! 28 From side to side, midway each path, there ran A longer one which cut the space in two. And, like a tunnel some magician Has wrought in twinkling green, an alley grew, Pleached thick and walled with apple trees; their flowers Incensed the garden, and when Autumn came The plump and heavy apples crowding stood And tapped against the arbour. Then the dame Katrina shook them down, in pelting showers They plunged to earth, and died transformed to sugared food. 29 Against the high, encircling walls were grapes, Nailed close to feel the baking of the sun From glowing bricks. Their microscopic shapes Half hidden by serrated leaves. And one Old cherry tossed its branches near the door. Bordered along the wall, in beds between, Flickering, streaming, nodding in the air, The pride of all the garden, there were more Tulips than Max had ever dreamed or seen. They jostled, mobbed, and danced. Max stood at helpless stare. 30 'Within the arbour, Mynheer Breuck, I'll bring Coffee and cakes, a pipe, and Father's best Tobacco, brought from countries harbouring Dawn's earliest footstep. Wait.' With girlish zest To please her guest she flew. A moment more She came again, with her old nurse behind. Then, sitting on the bench and knitting fast, She talked as someone with a noble store Of hidden fancies, blown upon the wind, 335 Eager to flutter forth and leave their silent past. 31 The little apple leaves above their heads Let fall a quivering sunshine. Quiet, cool, In blossomed boughs they sat. Beyond, the beds Of tulips blazed, a proper vestibule And antechamber to the rainbow. Dyes Of prismed richness: Carmine. Madder. Blues Tinging dark browns to purple. Silvers flushed To amethyst and tinct with gold. Round eyes Of scarlet, spotting tender saffron hues. Violets sunk to blacks, and reds in orange crushed. 32 Of every pattern and in every shade. Nacreous, iridescent, mottled, checked. Some purest sulphur-yellow, others made An ivory-white with disks of copper flecked. Sprinkled and striped, tasselled, or keenest edged. Striated, powdered, freckled, long or short. They bloomed, and seemed strange wonder-moths new-fledged, Born of the spectrum wedded to a flame. The shade within the arbour made a port To o'ertaxed eyes, its still, green twilight rest became. 33 Her knitting-needles clicked and Christine talked, This child matured to woman unaware, The first time left alone. Now dreams once balked Found utterance. Max thought her very fair. Beneath her cap her ornaments shone gold, And purest gold they were. Kurler was rich And heedful. Her old maiden aunt had died Whose darling care she was. Now, growing bold, She asked, had Max a sister? Dropped a stitch 336 At her own candour. Then she paused and softly sighed. 34 Two years was long! She loved her father well, But fears she had not. He had always been Just sailed or sailing. And she must not dwell On sad thoughts, he had told her so, and seen Her smile at parting. But she sighed once more. Two years was long; 'twas not one hour yet! Mynheer Grootver she would not see at all. Yes, yes, she knew, but ere the date so set, The 'Horn of Fortune' would be at the wall. When Max had bid farewell, she watched him from the door. 35 The next day, and the next, Max went to ask The health of Jufvrouw Kurler, and the news: Another tulip blown, or the great task Of gathering petals which the high wind strews; The polishing of floors, the pictured tiles Well scrubbed, and oaken chairs most deftly oiled. Such things were Christine's world, and his was she Winter drew near, his sun was in her smiles. Another Spring, and at his law he toiled, Unspoken hope counselled a wise efficiency. 36 Max Breuck was honour's soul, he knew himself The guardian of this girl; no more, no less. As one in charge of guineas on a shelf Loose in a china teapot, may confess His need, but may not borrow till his friend Comes back to give. So Max, in honour, said No word of love or marriage; but the days He clipped off on his almanac. The end Must come! The second year, with feet of lead, 337 Lagged slowly by till Spring had plumped the willow sprays. 37 Two years had made Christine a woman grown, With dignity and gently certain pride. But all her childhood fancies had not flown, Her thoughts in lovely dreamings seemed to glide. Max was her trusted friend, did she confess A closer happiness? Max could not tell. Two years were over and his life he found Sphered and complete. In restless eagerness He waited for the 'Horn of Fortune'. Well Had he his promise kept, abating not one pound. 38 Spring slipped away to Summer. Still no glass Sighted the brigantine. Then Grootver came Demanding Jufvrouw Kurler. His trespass Was justified, for he had won the game. Christine begged time, more time! Midsummer went, And Grootver waxed impatient. Still the ship Tarried. Christine, betrayed and weary, sank To dreadful terrors. One day, crazed, she sent For Max. 'Come quickly,' said her note, 'I skip The worst distress until we meet. The world is blank.' 39 Through the long sunshine of late afternoon Max went to her. In the pleached alley, lost In bitter reverie, he found her soon. And sitting down beside her, at the cost Of all his secret, 'Dear,' said he, 'what thing So suddenly has happened?' Then, in tears, She told that Grootver, on the following morn, Would come to marry her, and shuddering: 'I will die rather, death has lesser fears.' 338 Max felt the shackles drop from the oath which he had sworn. 40 'My Dearest One, the hid joy of my heart! I love you, oh! you must indeed have known. In strictest honour I have played my part; But all this misery has overthrown My scruples. If you love me, marry me Before the sun has dipped behind those trees. You cannot be wed twice, and Grootver, foiled, Can eat his anger. My care it shall be To pay your father's debt, by such degrees As I can compass, and for years I've greatly toiled. 41 This is not haste, Christine, for long I've known My love, and silence forced upon my lips. I worship you with all the strength I've shown In keeping faith.' With pleading finger tips He touched her arm. 'Christine! Beloved! Think. Let us not tempt the future. Dearest, speak, I love you. Do my words fall too swift now? They've been in leash so long upon the brink.' She sat quite still, her body loose and weak. Then into him she melted, all her soul at flow. 42 And they were married ere the westering sun Had disappeared behind the garden trees. The evening poured on them its benison, And flower-scents, that only night-time frees, Rose up around them from the beamy ground, Silvered and shadowed by a tranquil moon. Within the arbour, long they lay embraced, In such enraptured sweetness as they found Close-partnered each to each, and thinking soon 339 To be enwoven, long ere night to morning faced. 43 At last Max spoke, 'Dear Heart, this night is ours, To watch it pale, together, into dawn, Pressing our souls apart like opening flowers Until our lives, through quivering bodies drawn, Are mingled and confounded. Then, far spent, Our eyes will close to undisturbed rest. For that desired thing I leave you now. To pinnacle this day's accomplishment, By telling Grootver that a bootless quest Is his, and that his schemes have met a knock-down blow.' 44 But Christine clung to him with sobbing cries, Pleading for love's sake that he leave her not. And wound her arms about his knees and thighs As he stood over her. With dread, begot Of Grootver's name, and silence, and the night, She shook and trembled. Words in moaning plaint Wooed him to stay. She feared, she knew not why, Yet greatly feared. She seemed some anguished saint Martyred by visions. Max Breuck soothed her fright With wisdom, then stepped out under the cooling sky. 45 But at the gate once more she held him close And quenched her heart again upon his lips. 'My Sweetheart, why this terror? I propose But to be gone one hour! Evening slips Away, this errand must be done.' 'Max! Max! First goes my father, if I lose you now!' She grasped him as in panic lest she drown. Softly he laughed, 'One hour through the town By moonlight! That's no place for foul attacks. 340 Dearest, be comforted, and clear that troubled brow. 46 One hour, Dear, and then, no more alone. We front another day as man and wife. I shall be back almost before I'm gone, And midnight shall anoint and crown our life.' Then through the gate he passed. Along the street She watched his buttons gleaming in the moon. He stopped to wave and turned the garden wall. Straight she sank down upon a mossy seat. Her senses, mist-encircled by a swoon, Swayed to unconsciousness beneath its wreathing pall. 47 Briskly Max walked beside the still canal. His step was firm with purpose. Not a jot He feared this meeting, nor the rancorous gall Grootver would spit on him who marred his plot. He dreaded no man, since he could protect Christine. His wife! He stopped and laughed aloud. His starved life had not fitted him for joy. It strained him to the utmost to reject Even this hour with her. His heart beat loud. 'Damn Grootver, who can force my time to this employ!' 48 He laughed again. What boyish uncontrol To be so racked. Then felt his ticking watch. In half an hour Grootver would know the whole. And he would be returned, lifting the latch Of his own gate, eager to take Christine And crush her to his lips. How bear delay? He broke into a run. In front, a line Of candle-light banded the cobbled street. Hilverdink's tavern! Not for many a day 341 Had he been there to take his old, accustomed seat. 49 'Why, Max! Stop, Max!' And out they came pell-mell, His old companions. 'Max, where have you been? Not drink with us? Indeed you serve us well! How many months is it since we have seen You here? Jan, Jan, you slow, old doddering goat! Here's Mynheer Breuck come back again at last, Stir your old bones to welcome him. Fie, Max. Business! And after hours! Fill your throat; Here's beer or brandy. Now, boys, hold him fast. Put down your cane, dear man. What really vicious whacks!' 50 They forced him to a seat, and held him there, Despite his anger, while the hideous joke Was tossed from hand to hand. Franz poured with care A brimming glass of whiskey. 'Here, we've broke Into a virgin barrel for you, drink! Tut! Tut! Just hear him! Married! Who, and when? Married, and out on business. Clever Spark! Which lie's the likeliest? Come, Max, do think.' Swollen with fury, struggling with these men, Max cursed hilarity which must needs have a mark. 51 Forcing himself to steadiness, he tried To quell the uproar, told them what he dared Of his own life and circumstance. Implied Most urgent matters, time could ill be spared. In jesting mood his comrades heard his tale, And scoffed at it. He felt his anger more Goaded and bursting; -- 'Cowards! Is no one loth To mock at duty --' Here they called for ale, And forced a pipe upon him. With an oath 342 He shivered it to fragments on the earthen floor. 52 Sobered a little by his violence, And by the host who begged them to be still, Nor injure his good name, 'Max, no offence,' They blurted, 'you may leave now if you will.' 'One moment, Max,' said Franz. 'We've gone too far. I ask your pardon for our foolish joke. It started in a wager ere you came. The talk somehow had fall'n on drugs, a jar I brought from China, herbs the natives smoke, Was with me, and I thought merely to play a game. 53 Its properties are to induce a sleep Fraught with adventure, and the flight of time Is inconceivable in swiftness. Deep Sunken in slumber, imageries sublime Flatter the senses, or some fearful dream Holds them enmeshed. Years pass which on the clock Are but so many seconds. We agreed That the next man who came should prove the scheme; And you were he. Jan handed you the crock. Two whiffs! And then the pipe was broke, and you were freed.' 54 'It is a lie, a damned, infernal lie!' Max Breuck was maddened now. 'Another jest Of your befuddled wits. I know not why I am to be your butt. At my request You'll choose among you one who'll answer for Your most unseasonable mirth. Good-night And good-by, -- gentlemen. You'll hear from me.' But Franz had caught him at the very door, 'It is no lie, Max Breuck, and for your plight 343 I am to blame. Come back, and we'll talk quietly. 55 You have no business, that is why we laughed, Since you had none a few minutes ago. As to your wedding, naturally we chaffed, Knowing the length of time it takes to do A simple thing like that in this slow world. Indeed, Max, 'twas a dream. Forgive me then. I'll burn the drug if you prefer.' But Breuck Muttered and stared, -- 'A lie.' And then he hurled, Distraught, this word at Franz: 'Prove it. And when It's proven, I'll believe. That thing shall be your work. 56 I'll give you just one week to make your case. On August thirty-first, eighteen-fourteen, I shall require your proof.' With wondering face Franz cried, 'A week to August, and fourteen The year! You're mad, 'tis April now. April, and eighteen-twelve.' Max staggered, caught A chair, -- 'April two years ago! Indeed, Or you, or I, are mad. I know not how Either could blunder so.' Hilverdink brought 'The Amsterdam Gazette', and Max was forced to read. 57 'Eighteen hundred and twelve,' in largest print; And next to it, 'April the twenty-first.' The letters smeared and jumbled, but by dint Of straining every nerve to meet the worst, He read it, and into his pounding brain Tumbled a horror. Like a roaring sea Foreboding shipwreck, came the message plain: 'This is two years ago! What of Christine?' He fled the cellar, in his agony 344 Running to outstrip Fate, and save his holy shrine. 58 The darkened buildings echoed to his feet Clap-clapping on the pavement as he ran. Across moon-misted squares clamoured his fleet And terror-winged steps. His heart began To labour at the speed. And still no sign, No flutter of a leaf against the sky. And this should be the garden wall, and round The corner, the old gate. No even line Was this! No wall! And then a fearful cry Shattered the stillness. Two stiff houses filled the ground. 59 Shoulder to shoulder, like dragoons in line, They stood, and Max knew them to be the ones To right and left of Kurler's garden. Spine Rigid next frozen spine. No mellow tones Of ancient gilded iron, undulate, Expanding in wide circles and broad curves, The twisted iron of the garden gate, Was there. The houses touched and left no space Between. With glassy eyes and shaking nerves Max gazed. Then mad with fear, fled still, and left that place. 60 Stumbling and panting, on he ran, and on. His slobbering lips could only cry, 'Christine! My Dearest Love! My Wife! Where are you gone? What future is our past? What saturnine, Sardonic devil's jest has bid us live Two years together in a puff of smoke? It was no dream, I swear it! In some star, Or still imprisoned in Time's egg, you give Me love. I feel it. Dearest Dear, this stroke 345 Shall never part us, I will reach to where you are.' 61 His burning eyeballs stared into the dark. The moon had long been set. And still he cried: 'Christine! My Love! Christine!' A sudden spark Pricked through the gloom, and shortly Max espied With his uncertain vision, so within Distracted he could scarcely trust its truth, A latticed window where a crimson gleam Spangled the blackness, and hung from a pin, An iron crane, were three gilt balls. His youth Had taught their meaning, now they closed upon his dream. 62 Softly he knocked against the casement, wide It flew, and a cracked voice his business there Demanded. The door opened, and inside Max stepped. He saw a candle held in air Above the head of a gray-bearded Jew. 'Simeon Isaacs, Mynheer, can I serve You?' 'Yes, I think you can. Do you keep arms? I want a pistol.' Quick the old man grew Livid. 'Mynheer, a pistol! Let me swerve You from your purpose. Life brings often false alarms --' 63 'Peace, good old Isaacs, why should you suppose My purpose deadly. In good truth I've been Blest above others. You have many rows Of pistols it would seem. Here, this shagreen Case holds one that I fancy. Silvered mounts Are to my taste. These letters `C. D. L.' Its former owner? Dead, you say. Poor Ghost! 'Twill serve my turn though --' Hastily he counts The florins down upon the table. 'Well, 346 Good-night, and wish me luck for your to-morrow's toast.' 64 Into the night again he hurried, now Pale and in haste; and far beyond the town He set his goal. And then he wondered how Poor C. D. L. had come to die. 'It's grown Handy in killing, maybe, this I've bought, And will work punctually.' His sorrow fell Upon his senses, shutting out all else. Again he wept, and called, and blindly fought The heavy miles away. 'Christine. I'm well. I'm coming. My Own Wife!' He lurched with failing pulse. 65 Along the dyke the keen air blew in gusts, And grasses bent and wailed before the wind. The Zuider Zee, which croons all night and thrusts Long stealthy fingers up some way to find And crumble down the stones, moaned baffled. Here The wide-armed windmills looked like gallows-trees. No lights were burning in the distant thorps. Max laid aside his coat. His mind, half-clear, Babbled 'Christine!' A shot split through the breeze. The cold stars winked and glittered at his chilling corpse. ~ Amy Lowell,

845:Beachy Head ON thy stupendous summit, rock sublime ! That o'er the channel rear'd, half way at sea The mariner at early morning hails, I would recline; while Fancy should go forth, And represent the strange and awful hour Of vast concussion; when the Omnipotent Stretch'd forth his arm, and rent the solid hills, Bidding the impetuous main flood rush between The rifted shores, and from the continent Eternally divided this green isle. Imperial lord of the high southern coast ! From thy projecting head-land I would mark Far in the east the shades of night disperse, Melting and thinned, as from the dark blue wave Emerging, brilliant rays of arrowy light Dart from the horizon; when the glorious sun Just lifts above it his resplendent orb. Advances now, with feathery silver touched, The rippling tide of flood; glisten the sands, While, inmates of the chalky clefts that scar Thy sides precipitous, with shrill harsh cry, Their white wings glancing in the level beam, The terns, and gulls, and tarrocks, seek their food, And thy rough hollows echo to the voice Of the gray choughs, and ever restless daws, With clamour, not unlike the chiding hounds, While the lone shepherd, and his baying dog, Drive to thy turfy crest his bleating flock. The high meridian of the day is past, And Ocean now, reflecting the calm Heaven, Is of cerulean hue; and murmurs low The tide of ebb, upon the level sands. The sloop, her angular canvas shifting still, Catches the light and variable airs That but a little crisp the summer sea. Dimpling its tranquil surface. Afar off, 17 And just emerging from the arch immense Where seem to part the elements, a fleet Of fishing vessels stretch their lesser sails; While more remote, and like a dubious spot Just hanging in the horizon, laden deep, The ship of commerce richly freighted, makes Her slower progress, on her distant voyage, Bound to the orient climates, where the sun Matures the spice within its odorous shell, And, rivalling the gray worm's filmy toil, Bursts from its pod the vegetable down; Which in long turban'd wreaths, from torrid heat Defends the brows of Asia's countless casts. There the Earth hides within her glowing breast The beamy adamant, and the round pearl Enchased in rugged covering; which the slave, With perilous and breathless toil, tears off From the rough sea-rock, deep beneath the waves. These are the toys of Nature; and her sport Of little estimate in Reason's eye: And they who reason, with abhorrence see Man, for such gaudes and baubles, violate The sacred freedom of his fellow man­ Erroneous estimate ! As Heaven's pure air, Fresh as it blows on this aërial height, Or sound of seas upon the stony strand, Or inland, the gay harmony of birds, And winds that wander in the leafy woods; Are to the unadulterate taste more worth Than the elaborate harmony, brought out From fretted stop, or modulated airs Of vocal science.­So the brightest gems, Glancing resplendent on the regal crown, Or trembling in the high born beauty's ear, Are poor and paltry, to the lovely light Of the fair star, that as the day declines, Attendant on her queen, the crescent moon, Bathes her bright tresses in the eastern wave. For now the sun is verging to the sea, 18 And as he westward sinks, the floating clouds Suspended, move upon the evening gale, And gathering round his orb, as if to shade The insufferable brightness, they resign Their gauzy whiteness; and more warm'd, assume All hues of purple. There, transparent gold Mingles with ruby tints, and sapphire gleams, And colours, such as Nature through her works Shews only in the ethereal canopy. Thither aspiring Fancy fondly soars, Wandering sublime thro' visionary vales, Where bright pavilions rise, and trophies, fann'd By airs celestial; and adorn'd with wreaths Of flowers that bloom amid elysian bowers. Now bright, and brighter still the colours glow, Till half the lustrous orb within the flood Seems to retire: the flood reflecting still Its splendor, and in mimic glory drest; Till the last ray shot upward, fires the clouds With blazing crimson; then in paler light, Long lines of tenderer radiance, lingering yield To partial darkness; and on the opposing side The early moon distinctly rising, throws Her pearly brilliance on the trembling tide. The fishermen, who at set seasons pass Many a league off at sea their toiling night, Now hail their comrades, from their daily task Returning; and make ready for their own, With the night tide commencing:­The night tide Bears a dark vessel on, whose hull and sails Mark her a coaster from the north. Her keel Now ploughs the sand; and sidelong now she leans, While with loud clamours her athletic crew Unload her; and resounds the busy hum Along the wave-worn rocks. Yet more remote, Where the rough cliff hangs beetling o'er its base, All breathes repose; the water's rippling sound Scarce heard; but now and then the sea-snipe's cry Just tells that something living is abroad; And sometimes crossing on the moonbright line, 19 Glimmers the skiff, faintly discern'd awhile, Then lost in shadow. Contemplation here, High on her throne of rock, aloof may sit, And bid recording Memory unfold Her scroll voluminous­bid her retrace The period, when from Neustria's hostile shore The Norman launch'd his galleys, and the bay O'er which that mass of ruin frowns even now In vain and sullen menace, then received The new invaders; a proud martial race, Of Scandinavia the undaunted sons, Whom Dogon, Fier-a-bras, and Humfroi led To conquest: while Trinacria to their power Yielded her wheaten garland; and when thou, Parthenope ! within thy fertile bay Receiv'd the victors­ In the mailed ranks Of Normans landing on the British coast Rode Taillefer; and with astounding voice Thunder'd the war song daring Roland sang First in the fierce contention: vainly brave, One not inglorious struggle England made­ But failing, saw the Saxon heptarchy Finish for ever.­Then the holy pile, Yet seen upon the field of conquest, rose, Where to appease heaven's wrath for so much blood, The conqueror bade unceasing prayers ascend, And requiems for the slayers and the slain. But let not modern Gallia form from hence Presumptuous hopes, that ever thou again, Queen of the isles ! shalt crouch to foreign arms. The enervate sons of Italy may yield; And the Iberian, all his trophies torn And wrapp'd in Superstition's monkish weed, May shelter his abasement, and put on Degrading fetters. Never, never thou ! Imperial mistress of the obedient sea; But thou, in thy integrity secure, 20 Shalt now undaunted meet a world in arms. England ! 'twas where this promontory rears Its rugged brow above the channel wave, Parting the hostile nations, that thy fame, Thy naval fame was tarnish'd, at what time Thou, leagued with the Batavian, gavest to France One day of triumph­triumph the more loud, Because even then so rare. Oh ! well redeem'd, Since, by a series of illustrious men, Such as no other country ever rear'd, To vindicate her cause. It is a list Which, as Fame echoes it, blanches the cheek Of bold Ambition; while the despot feels The extorted sceptre tremble in his grasp. From even the proudest roll by glory fill'd, How gladly the reflecting mind returns To simple scenes of peace and industry, Where, bosom'd in some valley of the hills Stands the lone farm; its gate with tawny ricks Surrounded, and with granaries and sheds, Roof'd with green mosses, and by elms and ash Partially shaded; and not far remov'd The hut of sea-flints built; the humble home Of one, who sometimes watches on the heights, When hid in the cold mist of passing clouds, The flock, with dripping fleeces, are dispers'd O'er the wide down; then from some ridged point That overlooks the sea, his eager eye Watches the bark that for his signal waits To land its merchandize:­Quitting for this Clandestine traffic his more honest toil, The crook abandoning, he braves himself The heaviest snow-storm of December's night, When with conflicting winds the ocean raves, And on the tossing boat, unfearing mounts To meet the partners of the perilous trade, And share their hazard. Well it were for him, If no such commerce of destruction known, He were content with what the earth affords 21 To human labour; even where she seems Reluctant most. More happy is the hind, Who, with his own hands rears on some black moor, Or turbary, his independent hut Cover'd with heather, whence the slow white smoke Of smouldering peat arises­­A few sheep, His best possession, with his children share The rugged shed when wintry tempests blow; But, when with Spring's return the green blades rise Amid the russet heath, the household live Joint tenants of the waste throughout the day, And often, from her nest, among the swamps, Where the gemm'd sun-dew grows, or fring'd buck-bean, They scare the plover, that with plaintive cries Flutters, as sorely wounded, down the wind. Rude, and but just remov'd from savage life Is the rough dweller among scenes like these, (Scenes all unlike the poet's fabling dreams Describing Arcady)­But he is free; The dread that follows on illegal acts He never feels; and his industrious mate Shares in his labour. Where the brook is traced By crouding osiers, and the black coot hides Among the plashy reeds, her diving brood, The matron wades; gathering the long green rush That well prepar'd hereafter lends its light To her poor cottage, dark and cheerless else Thro' the drear hours of Winter. Otherwhile She leads her infant group where charlock grows 'Unprofitably gay,' or to the fields, Where congregate the linnet and the finch, That on the thistles, so profusely spread, Feast in the desert; the poor family Early resort, extirpating with care These, and the gaudier mischief of the ground; Then flames the high rais'd heap; seen afar off Like hostile war-fires flashing to the sky. Another task is theirs: On fields that shew As angry Heaven had rain'd sterility, Stony and cold, and hostile to the plough, 22 Where clamouring loud, the evening curlew runs And drops her spotted eggs among the flints; The mother and the children pile the stones In rugged pyramids;­and all this toil They patiently encounter; well content On their flock bed to slumber undisturb'd Beneath the smoky roof they call their own. Oh ! little knows the sturdy hind, who stands Gazing, with looks where envy and contempt Are often strangely mingled, on the car Where prosperous Fortune sits; what secret care Or sick satiety is often hid, Beneath the splendid outside: He knows not How frequently the child of Luxury Enjoying nothing, flies from place to place In chase of pleasure that eludes his grasp; And that content is e'en less found by him, Than by the labourer, whose pick-axe smooths The road before his chariot; and who doffs What was an hat; and as the train pass on, Thinks how one day's expenditure, like this, Would cheer him for long months, when to his toil The frozen earth closes her marble breast. Ah ! who is happy ? Happiness ! a word That like false fire, from marsh effluvia born, Misleads the wanderer, destin'd to contend In the world's wilderness, with want or woe­ Yet they are happy, who have never ask'd What good or evil means. The boy That on the river's margin gaily plays, Has heard that Death is there­He knows not Death, And therefore fears it not; and venturing in He gains a bullrush, or a minnow­then, At certain peril, for a worthless prize, A crow's, or raven's nest, he climbs the boll, Of some tall pine; and of his prowess proud, Is for a moment happy. Are your cares, Ye who despise him, never worse applied ? The village girl is happy, who sets forth 23 To distant fair, gay in her Sunday suit, With cherry colour'd knots, and flourish'd shawl, And bonnet newly purchas'd. So is he Her little brother, who his mimic drum Beats, till he drowns her rural lovers' oaths Of constant faith, and still increasing love; Ah ! yet a while, and half those oaths believ'd, Her happiness is vanish'd; and the boy While yet a stripling, finds the sound he lov'd Has led him on, till he has given up His freedom, and his happiness together. I once was happy, when while yet a child, I learn'd to love these upland solitudes, And, when elastic as the mountain air, To my light spirit, care was yet unknown And evil unforeseen:­Early it came, And childhood scarcely passed, I was condemned, A guiltless exile, silently to sigh, While Memory, with faithful pencil, drew The contrast; and regretting, I compar'd With the polluted smoky atmosphere And dark and stifling streets, the southern hills That to the setting Sun, their graceful heads Rearing, o'erlook the frith, where Vecta breaks With her white rocks, the strong impetuous tide, When western winds the vast Atlantic urge To thunder on the coast­Haunts of my youth ! Scenes of fond day dreams, I behold ye yet ! Where 'twas so pleasant by thy northern slopes To climb the winding sheep-path, aided oft By scatter'd thorns: whose spiny branches bore Small woolly tufts, spoils of the vagrant lamb There seeking shelter from the noon-day sun; And pleasant, seated on the short soft turf, To look beneath upon the hollow way While heavily upward mov'd the labouring wain, And stalking slowly by, the sturdy hind To ease his panting team, stopp'd with a stone The grating wheel. Advancing higher still 24 The prospect widens, and the village church But little, o'er the lowly roofs around Rears its gray belfry, and its simple vane; Those lowly roofs of thatch are half conceal'd By the rude arms of trees, lovely in spring, When on each bough, the rosy-tinctur'd bloom Sits thick, and promises autumnal plenty. For even those orchards round the Norman farms, Which, as their owners mark the promis'd fruit, Console them for the vineyards of the south, Surpass not these. Where woods of ash, and beech, And partial copses, fringe the green hill foot, The upland shepherd rears his modest home, There wanders by, a little nameless stream That from the hill wells forth, bright now and clear, Or after rain with chalky mixture gray, But still refreshing in its shallow course, The cottage garden; most for use design'd, Yet not of beauty destitute. The vine Mantles the little casement; yet the briar Drops fragrant dew among the July flowers; And pansies rayed, and freak'd and mottled pinks Grow among balm, and rosemary and rue: There honeysuckles flaunt, and roses blow Almost uncultured: Some with dark green leaves Contrast their flowers of pure unsullied white; Others, like velvet robes of regal state Of richest crimson, while in thorny moss Enshrined and cradled, the most lovely, wear The hues of youthful beauty's glowing cheek.­ With fond regret I recollect e'en now In Spring and Summer, what delight I felt Among these cottage gardens, and how much Such artless nosegays, knotted with a rush By village housewife or her ruddy maid, Were welcome to me; soon and simply pleas'd. An early worshipper at Nature's shrine; I loved her rudest scenes­warrens, and heaths, 25 And yellow commons, and birch-shaded hollows, And hedge rows, bordering unfrequented lanes Bowered with wild roses, and the clasping woodbine Where purple tassels of the tangling vetch With bittersweet, and bryony inweave, And the dew fills the silver bindweed's cups­ I loved to trace the brooks whose humid banks Nourish the harebell, and the freckled pagil; And stroll among o'ershadowing woods of beech, Lending in Summer, from the heats of noon A whispering shade; while haply there reclines Some pensive lover of uncultur'd flowers, Who, from the tumps with bright green mosses clad, Plucks the wood sorrel, with its light thin leaves, Heart-shaped, and triply folded; and its root Creeping like beaded coral; or who there Gathers, the copse's pride, anémones, With rays like golden studs on ivory laid Most delicate: but touch'd with purple clouds, Fit crown for April's fair but changeful brow. Ah ! hills so early loved ! in fancy still I breathe your pure keen air; and still behold Those widely spreading views, mocking alike The Poet and the Painter's utmost art. And still, observing objects more minute, Wondering remark the strange and foreign forms Of sea-shells; with the pale calcareous soil Mingled, and seeming of resembling substance. Tho' surely the blue Ocean (from the heights Where the downs westward trend, but dimly seen) Here never roll'd its surge. Does Nature then Mimic, in wanton mood, fantastic shapes Of bivalves, and inwreathed volutes, that cling To the dark sea-rock of the wat'ry world ? Or did this range of chalky mountains, once Form a vast bason, where the Ocean waves Swell'd fathomless ? What time these fossil shells, Buoy'd on their native element, were thrown Among the imbedding calx: when the huge hill Its giant bulk heaved, and in strange ferment 26 Grew up a guardian barrier, 'twixt the sea And the green level of the sylvan weald. Ah ! very vain is Science' proudest boast, And but a little light its flame yet lends To its most ardent votaries; since from whence These fossil forms are seen, is but conjecture, Food for vague theories, or vain dispute, While to his daily task the peasant goes, Unheeding such inquiry; with no care But that the kindly change of sun and shower, Fit for his toil the earth he cultivates. As little recks the herdsman of the hill, Who on some turfy knoll, idly reclined, Watches his wether flock; that deep beneath Rest the remains of men, of whom is left No traces in the records of mankind, Save what these half obliterated mounds And half fill'd trenches doubtfully impart To some lone antiquary; who on times remote, Since which two thousand years have roll'd away, Loves to contemplate. He perhaps may trace, Or fancy he can trace, the oblong square Where the mail'd legions, under Claudius, rear'd, The rampire, or excavated fossé delved; What time the huge unwieldy Elephant Auxiliary reluctant, hither led, From Afric's forest glooms and tawny sands, First felt the Northern blast, and his vast frame Sunk useless; whence in after ages found, The wondering hinds, on those enormous bones Gaz'd; and in giants dwelling on the hills Believed and marvell'd­ Hither, Ambition, come ! Come and behold the nothingness of all For which you carry thro' the oppressed Earth, War, and its train of horrors­see where tread The innumerous hoofs of flocks above the works By which the warrior sought to register His glory, and immortalize his name­ 27 The pirate Dane, who from his circular camp Bore in destructive robbery, fire and sword Down thro' the vale, sleeps unremember'd here; And here, beneath the green sward, rests alike The savage native, who his acorn meal Shar'd with the herds, that ranged the pathless woods; And the centurion, who on these wide hills Encamping, planted the Imperial Eagle. All, with the lapse of Time, have passed away, Even as the clouds, with dark and dragon shapes, Or like vast promontories crown'd with towers, Cast their broad shadows on the downs: then sail Far to the northward, and their transient gloom Is soon forgotten. But from thoughts like these, By human crimes suggested, let us turn To where a more attractive study courts The wanderer of the hills; while shepherd girls Will from among the fescue bring him flowers, Of wonderous mockery; some resembling bees In velvet vest, intent on their sweet toil, While others mimic flies, that lightly sport In the green shade, or float along the pool, But here seem perch'd upon the slender stalk, And gathering honey dew. While in the breeze That wafts the thistle's plumed seed along, Blue bells wave tremulous. The mountain thyme Purples the hassock of the heaving mole, And the short turf is gay with tormentil, And bird's foot trefoil, and the lesser tribes Of hawkweed; spangling it with fringed stars.­ Near where a richer tract of cultur'd land Slopes to the south; and burnished by the sun, Bend in the gale of August, floods of corn; The guardian of the flock, with watchful care, Repels by voice and dog the encroaching sheep­ While his boy visits every wired trap That scars the turf; and from the pit-falls takes The timid migrants, who from distant wilds, Warrens, and stone quarries, are destined thus 28 To lose their short existence. But unsought By Luxury yet, the Shepherd still protects The social bird, who from his native haunts Of willowy current, or the rushy pool, Follows the fleecy croud, and flirts and skims, In fellowship among them. Where the knoll More elevated takes the changeful winds, The windmill rears its vanes; and thitherward With his white load, the master travelling, Scares the rooks rising slow on whispering wings, While o'er his head, before the summer sun Lights up the blue expanse, heard more than seen, The lark sings matins; and above the clouds Floating, embathes his spotted breast in dew. Beneath the shadow of a gnarled thorn, Bent by the sea blast, from a seat of turf With fairy nosegays strewn, how wide the view ! Till in the distant north it melts away, And mingles indiscriminate with clouds: But if the eye could reach so far, the mart Of England's capital, its domes and spires Might be perceived­Yet hence the distant range Of Kentish hills, appear in purple haze; And nearer, undulate the wooded heights, And airy summits, that above the mole Rise in green beauty; and the beacon'd ridge Of Black-down shagg'd with heath, and swelling rude Like a dark island from the vale; its brow Catching the last rays of the evening sun That gleam between the nearer park's old oaks, Then lighten up the river, and make prominent The portal, and the ruin'd battlements Of that dismantled fortress; rais'd what time The Conqueror's successors fiercely fought, Tearing with civil feuds the desolate land. But now a tiller of the soil dwells there, And of the turret's loop'd and rafter'd halls Has made an humbler homestead­Where he sees, 29 Instead of armed foemen, herds that graze Along his yellow meadows; or his flocks At evening from the upland driv'n to fold­ In such a castellated mansion once A stranger chose his home; and where hard by In rude disorder fallen, and hid with brushwood Lay fragments gray of towers and buttresses, Among the ruins, often he would muse­ His rustic meal soon ended, he was wont To wander forth, listening the evening sounds Of rushing milldam, or the distant team, Or night-jar, chasing fern-flies: the tir'd hind Pass'd him at nightfall, wondering he should sit On the hill top so late: they from the coast Who sought bye paths with their clandestine load, Saw with suspicious doubt, the lonely man Cross on their way: but village maidens thought His senses injur'd; and with pity say That he, poor youth ! must have been cross'd in love­ For often, stretch'd upon the mountain turf With folded arms, and eyes intently fix'd Where ancient elms and firs obscured a grange, Some little space within the vale below, They heard him, as complaining of his fate, And to the murmuring wind, of cold neglect And baffled hope he told.­The peasant girls These plaintive sounds remember, and even now Among them may be heard the stranger's songs. Were I a Shepherd on the hill And ever as the mists withdrew Could see the willows of the rill Shading the footway to the mill Where once I walk'd with you­ And as away Night's shadows sail, And sounds of birds and brooks arise, Believe, that from the woody vale I hear your voice upon the gale In soothing melodies; And viewing from the Alpine height, 30 The prospect dress'd in hues of air, Could say, while transient colours bright Touch'd the fair scene with dewy light, 'Tis, that her eyes are there ! I think, I could endure my lot And linger on a few short years, And then, by all but you forgot, Sleep, where the turf that clothes the spot May claim some pitying tears. For 'tis not easy to forget One, who thro' life has lov'd you still, And you, however late, might yet With sighs to Memory giv'n, regret The Shepherd of the Hill. Yet otherwhile it seem'd as if young Hope Her flattering pencil gave to Fancy's hand, And in his wanderings, rear'd to sooth his soul Ideal bowers of pleasure­Then, of Solitude And of his hermit life, still more enamour'd, His home was in the forest; and wild fruits And bread sustain'd him. There in early spring The Barkmen found him, e'er the sun arose; There at their daily toil, the Wedgecutters Beheld him thro' the distant thicket move. The shaggy dog following the truffle hunter, Bark'd at the loiterer; and perchance at night Belated villagers from fair or wake, While the fresh night-wind let the moonbeams in Between the swaying boughs, just saw him pass, And then in silence, gliding like a ghost He vanish'd ! Lost among the deepening gloom.­ But near one ancient tree, whose wreathed roots Form'd a rude couch, love-songs and scatter'd rhymes, Unfinish'd sentences, or half erased, And rhapsodies like this, were sometimes found­ ­­­­­­ Let us to woodland wilds repair While yet the glittering night-dews seem To wait the freshly-breathing air, 31 Precursive of the morning beam, That rising with advancing day, Scatters the silver drops away. An elm, uprooted by the storm, The trunk with mosses gray and green, Shall make for us a rustic form, Where lighter grows the forest scene; And far among the bowery shades, Are ferny lawns and grassy glades. Retiring May to lovely June Her latest garland now resigns; The banks with cuckoo-flowers are strewn, The woodwalks blue with columbines, And with its reeds, the wandering stream Reflects the flag-flower's golden gleam. There, feathering down the turf to meet, Their shadowy arms the beeches spread, While high above our sylvan seat, Lifts the light ash its airy head; And later leaved, the oaks between Extend their bows of vernal green. The slender birch its paper rind Seems offering to divided love, And shuddering even without a wind Aspins, their paler foliage move, As if some spirit of the air Breath'd a low sigh in passing there. The Squirrel in his frolic mood, Will fearless bound among the boughs; Yaffils laugh loudly thro' the wood, And murmuring ring-doves tell their vows; While we, as sweetest woodscents rise, Listen to woodland melodies. And I'll contrive a sylvan room Against the time of summer heat, Where leaves, inwoven in Nature's loom, Shall canopy our green retreat; And gales that 'close the eye of day' Shall linger, e'er they die away. 32 And when a sear and sallow hue From early frost the bower receives, I'll dress the sand rock cave for you, And strew the floor with heath and leaves, That you, against the autumnal air May find securer shelter there. The Nightingale will then have ceas'd To sing her moonlight serenade; But the gay bird with blushing breast, And Woodlarks still will haunt the shade, And by the borders of the spring Reed-wrens will yet be carolling. The forest hermit's lonely cave None but such soothing sounds shall reach, Or hardly heard, the distant wave Slow breaking on the stony beach; Or winds, that now sigh soft and low, Now make wild music as they blow. And then, before the chilling North The tawny foliage falling light, Seems, as it flits along the earth, The footfall of the busy Sprite, Who wrapt in pale autumnal gloom, Calls up the mist-born Mushroom. Oh ! could I hear your soft voice there, And see you in the forest green All beauteous as you are, more fair You'ld look, amid the sylvan scene, And in a wood-girl's simple guise, Be still more lovely in mine eyes. Ye phantoms of unreal delight, Visions of fond delirium born ! Rise not on my deluded sight, Then leave me drooping and forlorn To know, such bliss can never be, Unless loved like me. The visionary, nursing dreams like these, Is not indeed unhappy. Summer woods Wave over him, and whisper as they wave, 33 Some future blessings he may yet enjoy. And as above him sail the silver clouds, He follows them in thought to distant climes, Where, far from the cold policy of this, Dividing him from her he fondly loves, He, in some island of the southern sea, May haply build his cane-constructed bower Beneath the bread-fruit, or aspiring palm, With long green foliage rippling in the gale. Oh ! let him cherish his ideal bliss­ For what is life, when Hope has ceas'd to strew Her fragile flowers along its thorny way ? And sad and gloomy are his days, who lives Of Hope abandon'd ! Just beneath the rock Where Beachy overpeers the channel wave, Within a cavern mined by wintry tides Dwelt one, who long disgusted with the world And all its ways, appear'd to suffer life Rather than live; the soul-reviving gale, Fanning the bean-field, or the thymy heath, Had not for many summers breathed on him; And nothing mark'd to him the season's change, Save that more gently rose the placid sea, And that the birds which winter on the coast Gave place to other migrants; save that the fog, Hovering no more above the beetling cliffs Betray'd not then the little careless sheep On the brink grazing, while their headlong fall Near the lone Hermit's flint-surrounded home, Claim'd unavailing pity; for his heart Was feelingly alive to all that breath'd; And outraged as he was, in sanguine youth, By human crimes, he still acutely felt For human misery. Wandering on the beach, He learn'd to augur from the clouds of heaven, And from the changing colours of the sea, And sullen murmurs of the hollow cliffs, 34 Or the dark porpoises, that near the shore Gambol'd and sported on the level brine When tempests were approaching: then at night He listen'd to the wind; and as it drove The billows with o'erwhelming vehemence He, starting from his rugged couch, went forth And hazarding a life, too valueless, He waded thro' the waves, with plank or pole Towards where the mariner in conflict dread Was buffeting for life the roaring surge; And now just seen, now lost in foaming gulphs, The dismal gleaming of the clouded moon Shew'd the dire peril. Often he had snatch'd From the wild billows, some unhappy man Who liv'd to bless the hermit of the rocks. But if his generous cares were all in vain, And with slow swell the tide of morning bore Some blue swol'n cor'se to land; the pale recluse Dug in the chalk a sepulchre­above Where the dank sea-wrack mark'd the utmost tide, And with his prayers perform'd the obsequies For the poor helpless stranger. One dark night The equinoctial wind blew south by west, Fierce on the shore; ­the bellowing cliffs were shook Even to their stony base, and fragments fell Flashing and thundering on the angry flood. At day-break, anxious for the lonely man, His cave the mountain shepherds visited, Tho' sand and banks of weeds had choak'd their way­ He was not in it; but his drowned cor'se By the waves wafted, near his former home Receiv'd the rites of burial. Those who read Chisel'd within the rock, these mournful lines, Memorials of his sufferings, did not grieve, That dying in the cause of charity His spirit, from its earthly bondage freed, Had to some better region fled for ever. 35 ~ Charlotte Smith,

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

847:class:Classics BOOK THE THIRD The Story of of Cadmus When now Agenor had his daughter lost, He sent his son to search on ev'ry coast; And sternly bid him to his arms restore The darling maid, or see his face no more, But live an exile in a foreign clime; Thus was the father pious to a crime. The restless youth search'd all the world around; But how can Jove in his amours be found? When, tir'd at length with unsuccessful toil, To shun his angry sire and native soil, He goes a suppliant to the Delphick dome; There asks the God what new appointed home Should end his wand'rings, and his toils relieve. The Delphick oracles this answer give. "Behold among the fields a lonely cow, Unworn with yokes, unbroken to the plow; Mark well the place where first she lays her down, There measure out thy walls, and build thy town, And from thy guide Boeotia call the land, In which the destin'd walls and town shall stand." No sooner had he left the dark abode, Big with the promise of the Delphick God, When in the fields the fatal cow he view'd, Nor gall'd with yokes, nor worn with servitude: Her gently at a distance he pursu'd; And as he walk'd aloof, in silence pray'd To the great Pow'r whose counsels he obey'd. Her way thro' flow'ry Panope she took, And now, Cephisus, cross'd thy silver brook; When to the Heav'ns her spacious front she rais'd, And bellow'd thrice, then backward turning gaz'd On those behind, 'till on the destin'd place She stoop'd, and couch'd amid the rising grass. Cadmus salutes the soil, and gladly hails The new-found mountains, and the nameless vales, And thanks the Gods, and turns about his eye To see his new dominions round him lye; Then sends his servants to a neighb'ring grove For living streams, a sacrifice to Jove. O'er the wide plain there rose a shady wood Of aged trees; in its dark bosom stood A bushy thicket, pathless and unworn, O'er-run with brambles, and perplex'd with thorn: Amidst the brake a hollow den was found, With rocks and shelving arches vaulted round. Deep in the dreary den, conceal'd from day, Sacred to Mars, a mighty dragon lay, Bloated with poison to a monstrous size; Fire broke in flashes when he glanc'd his eyes: His tow'ring crest was glorious to behold, His shoulders and his sides were scal'd with gold; Three tongues he brandish'd when he charg'd his foes; His teeth stood jaggy in three dreadful rowes. The Tyrians in the den for water sought, And with their urns explor'd the hollow vault: From side to side their empty urns rebound, And rowse the sleeping serpent with the sound. Strait he bestirs him, and is seen to rise; And now with dreadful hissings fills the skies, And darts his forky tongues, and rowles his glaring eyes. The Tyrians drop their vessels in the fright, All pale and trembling at the hideous sight. Spire above spire uprear'd in air he stood, And gazing round him over-look'd the wood: Then floating on the ground in circles rowl'd; Then leap'd upon them in a mighty fold. Of such a bulk, and such a monstrous size The serpent in the polar circle lyes, That stretches over half the northern skies. In vain the Tyrians on their arms rely, In vain attempt to fight, in vain to fly: All their endeavours and their hopes are vain; Some die entangled in the winding train; Some are devour'd, or feel a loathsom death, Swoln up with blasts of pestilential breath. And now the scorching sun was mounted high, In all its lustre, to the noon-day sky; When, anxious for his friends, and fill'd with cares, To search the woods th' impatient chief prepares. A lion's hide around his loins he wore, The well poiz'd javelin to the field he bore, Inur'd to blood; the far-destroying dart; And, the best weapon, an undaunted heart. Soon as the youth approach'd the fatal place, He saw his servants breathless on the grass; The scaly foe amid their corps he view'd, Basking at ease, and feasting in their blood. "Such friends," he cries, "deserv'd a longer date; But Cadmus will revenge or share their fate." Then heav'd a stone, and rising to the throw, He sent it in a whirlwind at the foe: A tow'r, assaulted by so rude a stroke, With all its lofty battlements had shook; But nothing here th' unwieldy rock avails, Rebounding harmless from the plaited scales, That, firmly join'd, preserv'd him from a wound, With native armour crusted all around. With more success, the dart unerring flew, Which at his back the raging warriour threw; Amid the plaited scales it took its course, And in the spinal marrow spent its force. The monster hiss'd aloud, and rag'd in vain, And writh'd his body to and fro with pain; He bit the dart, and wrench'd the wood away; The point still buried in the marrow lay. And now his rage, increasing with his pain, Reddens his eyes, and beats in ev'ry vein; Churn'd in his teeth the foamy venom rose, Whilst from his mouth a blast of vapours flows, Such as th' infernal Stygian waters cast. The plants around him wither in the blast. Now in a maze of rings he lies enrowl'd, Now all unravel'd, and without a fold; Now, like a torrent, with a mighty force Bears down the forest in his boist'rous course. Cadmus gave back, and on the lion's spoil Sustain'd the shock, then forc'd him to recoil; The pointed jav'lin warded off his rage: Mad with his pains, and furious to engage, The serpent champs the steel, and bites the spear, 'Till blood and venom all the point besmear. But still the hurt he yet receiv'd was slight; For, whilst the champion with redoubled might Strikes home the jav'lin, his retiring foe Shrinks from the wound, and disappoints the blow. The dauntless heroe still pursues his stroke, And presses forward, 'till a knotty oak Retards his foe, and stops him in the rear; Full in his throat he plung'd the fatal spear, That in th' extended neck a passage found, And pierc'd the solid timber through the wound. Fix'd to the reeling trunk, with many a stroke Of his huge tail he lash'd the sturdy oak; 'Till spent with toil, and lab'ring hard for breath, He now lay twisting in the pangs of death. Cadmus beheld him wallow in a flood Of swimming poison, intermix'd with blood; When suddenly a speech was heard from high (The speech was heard, nor was the speaker nigh), "Why dost thou thus with secret pleasure see, Insulting man! what thou thy self shalt be?" Astonish'd at the voice, he stood amaz'd, And all around with inward horror gaz'd: When Pallas swift descending from the skies, Pallas, the guardian of the bold and wise, Bids him plow up the field, and scatter round The dragon's teeth o'er all the furrow'd ground; Then tells the youth how to his wond'ring eyes Embattled armies from the field should rise. He sows the teeth at Pallas's command, And flings the future people from his hand. The clods grow warm, and crumble where he sows; And now the pointed spears advance in rows; Now nodding plumes appear, and shining crests, Now the broad shoulders and the rising breasts; O'er all the field the breathing harvest swarms, A growing host, a crop of men and arms. So through the parting stage a figure rears Its body up, and limb by limb appears By just degrees; 'till all the man arise, And in his full proportion strikes the eyes. Cadmus surpriz'd, and startled at the sight Of his new foes, prepar'd himself for fight: When one cry'd out, "Forbear, fond man, forbear To mingle in a blind promiscuous war." This said, he struck his brother to the ground, Himself expiring by another's wound; Nor did the third his conquest long survive, Dying ere scarce he had begun to live. The dire example ran through all the field, 'Till heaps of brothers were by brothers kill'd; The furrows swam in blood: and only five Of all the vast increase were left alive. Echion one, at Pallas's command, Let fall the guiltless weapon from his hand, And with the rest a peaceful treaty makes, Whom Cadmus as his friends and partners takes; So founds a city on the promis'd earth, And gives his new Boeotian empire birth. Here Cadmus reign'd; and now one would have guess'd The royal founder in his exile blest: Long did he live within his new abodes, Ally'd by marriage to the deathless Gods; And, in a fruitful wife's embraces old, A long increase of children's children told: But no frail man, however great or high, Can be concluded blest before he die. Actaeon was the first of all his race, Who griev'd his grandsire in his borrow'd face; Condemn'd by stern Diana to bemoan The branching horns, and visage not his own; To shun his once lov'd dogs, to bound away, And from their huntsman to become their prey, And yet consider why the change was wrought, You'll find it his misfortune, not his fault; Or, if a fault, it was the fault of chance: For how can guilt proceed from ignorance? The Transformation of Actaeon into a Stag In a fair chace a shady mountain stood, Well stor'd with game, and mark'd with trails of blood; Here did the huntsmen, 'till the heat of day, Pursue the stag, and load themselves with rey: When thus Actaeon calling to the rest: "My friends," said he, "our sport is at the best, The sun is high advanc'd, and downward sheds His burning beams directly on our heads; Then by consent abstain from further spoils, Call off the dogs, and gather up the toils, And ere to-morrow's sun begins his race, Take the cool morning to renew the chace." They all consent, and in a chearful train The jolly huntsmen, loaden with the slain, Return in triumph from the sultry plain. Down in a vale with pine and cypress clad, Refresh'd with gentle winds, and brown with shade, The chaste Diana's private haunt, there stood Full in the centre of the darksome wood A spacious grotto, all around o'er-grown With hoary moss, and arch'd with pumice-stone. From out its rocky clefts the waters flow, And trickling swell into a lake below. Nature had ev'ry where so plaid her part, That ev'ry where she seem'd to vie with art. Here the bright Goddess, toil'd and chaf'd with heat, Was wont to ba the her in the cool retreat. Here did she now with all her train resort, Panting with heat, and breathless from the sport; Her armour-bearer laid her bow aside, Some loos'd her sandals, some her veil unty'd; Each busy nymph her proper part undrest; While Crocale, more handy than the rest, Gather'd her flowing hair, and in a noose Bound it together, whilst her own hung loose. Five of the more ignoble sort by turns Fetch up the water, and unlade the urns. Now all undrest the shining Goddess stood, When young Actaeon, wilder'd in the wood, To the cool grott by his hard fate betray'd, The fountains fill'd with naked nymphs survey'd. The frighted virgins shriek'd at the surprize (The forest echo'd with their piercing cries). Then in a huddle round their Goddess prest: She, proudly eminent above the rest, With blushes glow'd; such blushes as adorn The ruddy welkin, or the purple morn; And tho' the crowding nymphs her body hide, Half backward shrunk, and view'd him from a side. Surpriz'd, at first she would have snatch'd her bow, But sees the circling waters round her flow; These in the hollow of her hand she took, And dash'd 'em in his face, while thus she spoke: "Tell, if thou can'st, the wond'rous sight disclos'd, A Goddess naked to thy view expos'd." This said, the man begun to disappear By slow degrees, and ended in a deer. A rising horn on either brow he wears, And stretches out his neck, and pricks his ears; Rough is his skin, with sudden hairs o'er-grown, His bosom pants with fears before unknown: Transform'd at length, he flies away in haste, And wonders why he flies away so fast. But as by chance, within a neighb'ring brook, He saw his branching horns and alter'd look. Wretched Actaeon! in a doleful tone He try'd to speak, but only gave a groan; And as he wept, within the watry glass He saw the big round drops, with silent pace, Run trickling down a savage hairy face. What should he do? Or seek his old abodes, Or herd among the deer, and sculk in woods! Here shame dissuades him, there his fear prevails, And each by turns his aking heart assails. As he thus ponders, he behind him spies His op'ning hounds, and now he hears their cries: A gen'rous pack, or to maintain the chace, Or snuff the vapour from the scented grass. He bounded off with fear, and swiftly ran O'er craggy mountains, and the flow'ry plain; Through brakes and thickets forc'd his way, and flew Through many a ring, where once he did pursue. In vain he oft endeavour'd to proclaim His new misfortune, and to tell his name; Nor voice nor words the brutal tongue supplies; From shouting men, and horns, and dogs he flies, Deafen'd and stunn'd with their promiscuous cries. When now the fleetest of the pack, that prest Close at his heels, and sprung before the rest, Had fasten'd on him, straight another pair, Hung on his wounded haunch, and held him there, 'Till all the pack came up, and ev'ry hound Tore the sad huntsman grov'ling on the ground, Who now appear'd but one continu'd wound. With dropping tears his bitter fate he moans, And fills the mountain with his dying groans. His servants with a piteous look he spies, And turns about his supplicating eyes. His servants, ignorant of what had chanc'd, With eager haste and joyful shouts advanc'd, And call'd their lord Actaeon to the game. He shook his head in answer to the name; He heard, but wish'd he had indeed been gone, Or only to have stood a looker-on. But to his grief he finds himself too near, And feels his rav'nous dogs with fury tear Their wretched master panting in a deer. The Birth of Bacchus Actaeon's suff'rings, and Diana's rage, Did all the thoughts of men and Gods engage; Some call'd the evils which Diana wrought, Too great, and disproportion'd to the fault: Others again, esteem'd Actaeon's woes Fit for a virgin Goddess to impose. The hearers into diff'rent parts divide, And reasons are produc'd on either side. Juno alone, of all that heard the news, Nor would condemn the Goddess, nor excuse: She heeded not the justice of the deed, But joy'd to see the race of Cadmus bleed; For still she kept Europa in her mind, And, for her sake, detested all her kind. Besides, to aggravate her hate, she heard How Semele, to Jove's embrace preferr'd, Was now grown big with an immortal load, And carry'd in her womb a future God. Thus terribly incens'd, the Goddess broke To sudden fury, and abruptly spoke. "Are my reproaches of so small a force? 'Tis time I then pursue another course: It is decreed the guilty wretch shall die, If I'm indeed the mistress of the sky, If rightly styl'd among the Pow'rs above The wife and sister of the thund'ring Jove (And none can sure a sister's right deny); It is decreed the guilty wretch shall die. She boasts an honour I can hardly claim, Pregnant she rises to a mother's name; While proud and vain she triumphs in her Jove, And shows the glorious tokens of his love: But if I'm still the mistress of the skies, By her own lover the fond beauty dies." This said, descending in a yellow cloud, Before the gates of Semele she stood. Old Beroe's decrepit shape she wears, Her wrinkled visage, and her hoary hairs; Whilst in her trembling gait she totters on, And learns to tattle in the nurse's tone. The Goddess, thus disguis'd in age, beguil'd With pleasing stories her false foster-child. Much did she talk of love, and when she came To mention to the nymph her lover's name, Fetching a sigh, and holding down her head, "'Tis well," says she, "if all be true that's said. But trust me, child, I'm much inclin'd to fear Some counterfeit in this your Jupiter: Many an honest well-designing maid Has been by these pretended Gods betray'd, But if he be indeed the thund'ring Jove, Bid him, when next he courts the rites of love, Descend triumphant from th' etherial sky, In all the pomp of his divinity, Encompass'd round by those celestial charms, With which he fills th' immortal Juno's arms." Th' unwary nymph, ensnar'd with what she said, Desir'd of Jove, when next he sought her bed, To grant a certain gift which she would chuse; "Fear not," reply'd the God, "that I'll refuse Whate'er you ask: may Styx confirm my voice, Chuse what you will, and you shall have your choice." "Then," says the nymph, "when next you seek my arms, May you descend in those celestial charms, With which your Juno's bosom you enflame, And fill with transport Heav'n's immortal dame." The God surpriz'd would fain have stopp'd her voice, But he had sworn, and she had made her choice. To keep his promise he ascends, and shrowds His awful brow in whirl-winds and in clouds; Whilst all around, in terrible array, His thunders rattle, and his light'nings play. And yet, the dazling lustre to abate, He set not out in all his pomp and state, Clad in the mildest light'ning of the skies, And arm'd with thunder of the smallest size: Not those huge bolts, by which the giants slain Lay overthrown on the Phlegrean plain. 'Twas of a lesser mould, and lighter weight; They call it thunder of a second-rate, For the rough Cyclops, who by Jove's comm and Temper'd the bolt, and turn'd it to his hand, Work'd up less flame and fury in its make, And quench'd it sooner in the standing lake. Thus dreadfully adorn'd, with horror bright, Th' illustrious God, descending from his height, Came rushing on her in a storm of light. The mortal dame, too feeble to engage The lightning's flashes, and the thunder's rage, Consum'd amidst the glories she desir'd, And in the terrible embrace expir'd. But, to preserve his offspring from the tomb, Jove took him smoaking from the blasted womb: And, if on ancient tales we may rely, Inclos'd th' abortive infant in his thigh. Here when the babe had all his time fulfill'd, Ino first took him for her foster-child; Then the Niseans, in their dark abode, Nurs'd secretly with milk the thriving God. The Transformation of Tiresias 'Twas now, while these transactions past on Earth, And Bacchus thus procur'd a second birth, When Jove, dispos'd to lay aside the weight Of publick empire and the cares of state, As to his queen in nectar bowls he quaff'd, "In troth," says he, and as he spoke he laugh'd, "The sense of pleasure in the male is far More dull and dead, than what you females share." Juno the truth of what was said deny'd; Tiresias therefore must the cause decide, For he the pleasure of each sex had try'd. It happen'd once, within a shady wood, Two twisted snakes he in conjunction view'd, When with his staff their slimy folds he broke, And lost his manhood at the fatal stroke. But, after seven revolving years, he view'd The self-same serpents in the self-same wood: "And if," says he, "such virtue in you lye, That he who dares your slimy folds untie Must change his kind, a second stroke I'll try." Again he struck the snakes, and stood again New-sex'd, and strait recover'd into man. Him therefore both the deities create The sov'raign umpire, in their grand debate; And he declar'd for Jove: when Juno fir'd, More than so trivial an affair requir'd, Depriv'd him, in her fury, of his sight, And left him groping round in sudden night. But Jove (for so it is in Heav'n decreed, That no one God repeal another's deed) Irradiates all his soul with inward light, And with the prophet's art relieves the want of sight. The Transformation of Echo Fam'd far and near for knowing things to come, From him th' enquiring nations sought their doom; The fair Liriope his answers try'd, And first th' unerring prophet justify'd. This nymph the God Cephisus had abus'd, With all his winding waters circumfus'd, And on the Nereid got a lovely boy, Whom the soft maids ev'n then beheld with joy. The tender dame, sollicitous to know Whether her child should reach old age or no, Consults the sage Tiresias, who replies, "If e'er he knows himself he surely dies." Long liv'd the dubious mother in suspence, 'Till time unriddled all the prophet's sense. Narcissus now his sixteenth year began, Just turn'd of boy, and on the verge of man; Many a friend the blooming youth caress'd, Many a love-sick maid her flame confess'd: Such was his pride, in vain the friend caress'd, The love-sick maid in vain her flame confess'd. Once, in the woods, as he pursu'd the chace, The babbling Echo had descry'd his face; She, who in others' words her silence breaks, Nor speaks her self but when another speaks. Echo was then a maid, of speech bereft, Of wonted speech; for tho' her voice was left, Juno a curse did on her tongue impose, To sport with ev'ry sentence in the close. Full often when the Goddess might have caught Jove and her rivals in the very fault, This nymph with subtle stories would delay Her coming, 'till the lovers slip'd away. The Goddess found out the deceit in time, And then she cry'd, "That tongue, for this thy crime, Which could so many subtle tales produce, Shall be hereafter but of little use." Hence 'tis she prattles in a fainter tone, With mimick sounds, and accents not her own. This love-sick virgin, over-joy'd to find The boy alone, still follow'd him behind: When glowing warmly at her near approach, As sulphur blazes at the taper's touch, She long'd her hidden passion to reveal, And tell her pains, but had not words to tell: She can't begin, but waits for the rebound, To catch his voice, and to return the sound. The nymph, when nothing could Narcissus move, Still dash'd with blushes for her slighted love, Liv'd in the shady covert of the woods, In solitary caves and dark abodes; Where pining wander'd the rejected fair, 'Till harrass'd out, and worn away with care, The sounding skeleton, of blood bereft, Besides her bones and voice had nothing left. Her bones are petrify'd, her voice is found In vaults, where still it doubles ev'ry sound. The Story of Narcissus Thus did the nymphs in vain caress the boy, He still was lovely, but he still was coy; When one fair virgin of the slighted train Thus pray'd the Gods, provok'd by his disdain, "Oh may he love like me, and love like me in vain!" Rhamnusia pity'd the neglected fair, And with just vengeance answer'd to her pray'r. There stands a fountain in a darksom wood, Nor stain'd with falling leaves nor rising mud; Untroubled by the breath of winds it rests, Unsully'd by the touch of men or beasts; High bow'rs of shady trees above it grow, And rising grass and chearful greens below. Pleas'd with the form and coolness of the place, And over-heated by the morning chace, Narcissus on the grassie verdure lyes: But whilst within the chrystal fount he tries To quench his heat, he feels new heats arise. For as his own bright image he survey'd, He fell in love with the fantastick shade; And o'er the fair resemblance hung unmov'd, Nor knew, fond youth! it was himself he lov'd. The well-turn'd neck and shoulders he descries, The spacious forehead, and the sparkling eyes; The hands that Bacchus might not scorn to show, And hair that round Apollo's head might flow; With all the purple youthfulness of face, That gently blushes in the wat'ry glass. By his own flames consum'd the lover lyes, And gives himself the wound by which he dies. To the cold water oft he joins his lips, Oft catching at the beauteous shade he dips His arms, as often from himself he slips. Nor knows he who it is his arms pursue With eager clasps, but loves he knows not who. What could, fond youth, this helpless passion move? What kindled in thee this unpity'd love? Thy own warm blush within the water glows, With thee the colour'd shadow comes and goes, Its empty being on thy self relies; Step thou aside, and the frail charmer dies. Still o'er the fountain's wat'ry gleam he stood, Mindless of sleep, and negligent of food; Still view'd his face, and languish'd as he view'd. At length he rais'd his head, and thus began To vent his griefs, and tell the woods his pain. "You trees," says he, "and thou surrounding grove, Who oft have been the kindly scenes of love, Tell me, if e'er within your shades did lye A youth so tortur'd, so perplex'd as I? I, who before me see the charming fair, Whilst there he stands, and yet he stands not there: In such a maze of love my thoughts are lost: And yet no bulwark'd town, nor distant coast, Preserves the beauteous youth from being seen, No mountains rise, nor oceans flow between. A shallow water hinders my embrace; And yet the lovely mimick wears a face That kindly smiles, and when I bend to join My lips to his, he fondly bends to mine. Hear, gentle youth, and pity my complaint, Come from thy well, thou fair inhabitant. My charms an easy conquest have obtain'd O'er other hearts, by thee alone disdain'd. But why should I despair? I'm sure he burns With equal flames, and languishes by turns. When-e'er I stoop, he offers at a kiss, And when my arms I stretch, he stretches his. His eye with pleasure on my face he keeps, He smiles my smiles, and when I weep he weeps. When e'er I speak, his moving lips appear To utter something, which I cannot hear. "Ah wretched me! I now begin too late To find out all the long-perplex'd deceit; It is my self I love, my self I see; The gay delusion is a part of me. I kindle up the fires by which I burn, And my own beauties from the well return. Whom should I court? how utter my complaint? Enjoyment but produces my restraint, And too much plenty makes me die for want. How gladly would I from my self remove! And at a distance set the thing I love. My breast is warm'd with such unusual fire, I wish him absent whom I most desire. And now I faint with grief; my fate draws nigh; In all the pride of blooming youth I die. Death will the sorrows of my heart relieve. Oh might the visionary youth survive, I should with joy my latest breath resign! But oh! I see his fate involv'd in mine." This said, the weeping youth again return'd To the clear fountain, where again he burn'd; His tears defac'd the surface of the well, With circle after circle, as they fell: And now the lovely face but half appears, O'er-run with wrinkles, and deform'd with tears. "Ah whither," cries Narcissus, "dost thou fly? Let me still feed the flame by which I die; Let me still see, tho' I'm no further blest." Then rends his garment off, and beats his breast: His naked bosom redden'd with the blow, In such a blush as purple clusters show, Ere yet the sun's autumnal heats refine Their sprightly juice, and mellow it to wine. The glowing beauties of his breast he spies, And with a new redoubled passion dies. As wax dissolves, as ice begins to run, And trickle into drops before the sun; So melts the youth, and languishes away, His beauty withers, and his limbs decay; And none of those attractive charms remain, To which the slighted Echo su'd in vain. She saw him in his present misery, Whom, spight of all her wrongs, she griev'd to see. She answer'd sadly to the lover's moan, Sigh'd back his sighs, and groan'd to ev'ry groan: "Ah youth! belov'd in vain," Narcissus cries; "Ah youth! belov'd in vain," the nymph replies. "Farewel," says he; the parting sound scarce fell From his faint lips, but she reply'd, "farewel." Then on th' wholsome earth he gasping lyes, 'Till death shuts up those self-admiring eyes. To the cold shades his flitting ghost retires, And in the Stygian waves it self admires. For him the Naiads and the Dryads mourn, Whom the sad Echo answers in her turn; And now the sister-nymphs prepare his urn: When, looking for his corps, they only found A rising stalk, with yellow blossoms crown'd. The Story of Pentheus This sad event gave blind Tiresias fame, Through Greece establish'd in a prophet's name. Th' unhallow'd Pentheus only durst deride The cheated people, and their eyeless guide. To whom the prophet in his fury said, Shaking the hoary honours of his head: "'Twere well, presumptuous man, 'twere well for thee If thou wert eyeless too, and blind, like me: For the time comes, nay, 'tis already here, When the young God's solemnities appear: Which, if thou dost not with just rites adorn, Thy impious carcass, into pieces torn, Shall strew the woods, and hang on ev'ry thorn. Then, then, remember what I now foretel, And own the blind Tiresias saw too well." Still Pentheus scorns him, and derides his skill; But time did all the prophet's threats fulfil. For now through prostrate Greece young Bacchus rode, Whilst howling matrons celebrate the God: All ranks and sexes to his Orgies ran, To mingle in the pomps, and fill the train. When Pentheus thus his wicked rage express'd: "What madness, Thebans, has your souls possess'd? Can hollow timbrels, can a drunken shout, And the lewd clamours of a beastly rout, Thus quell your courage; can the weak alarm Of women's yells those stubborn souls disarm, Whom nor the sword nor trumpet e'er could fright, Nor the loud din and horror of a fight? And you, our sires, who left your old abodes, And fix'd in foreign earth your country Gods; Will you without a stroak your city yield, And poorly quit an undisputed field? But you, whose youth and vigour should inspire Heroick warmth, and kindle martial fire, Whom burnish'd arms and crested helmets grace, Not flow'ry garlands and a painted face; Remember him to whom you stand ally'd: The serpent for his well of waters dy'd. He fought the strong; do you his courage show, And gain a conquest o'er a feeble foe. If Thebes must fall, oh might the fates afford A nobler doom from famine, fire, or sword. Then might the Thebans perish with renown: But now a beardless victor sacks the town; Whom nor the prancing steed, nor pond'rous shield, Nor the hack'd helmet, nor the dusty field, But the soft joys of luxury and ease, The purple vests, and flow'ry garlands please. Stand then aside, I'll make the counterfeit Renounce his god-head, and confess the cheat. Acrisius from the Grecian walls repell'd This boasted pow'r; why then should Pentheus yield? Go quickly drag th' impostor boy to me; I'll try the force of his divinity." Thus did th' audacious wretch those rites profane; His friends dissuade th' audacious wretch in vain: In vain his grandsire urg'd him to give o'er His impious threats; the wretch but raves the more. So have I seen a river gently glide, In a smooth course, and inoffensive tide; But if with dams its current we restrain, It bears down all, and foams along the plain. But now his servants came besmear'd with blood, Sent by their haughty prince to seize the God; The God they found not in the frantick throng, But dragg'd a zealous votary along. The Mariners transform'd to Dolphins Him Pentheus view'd with fury in his look, And scarce with-held his hands, whilst thus he spoke: "Vile slave! whom speedy vengeance shall pursue, And terrify thy base seditious crew: Thy country and thy parentage reveal, And, why thou joinest in these mad Orgies, tell." The captive views him with undaunted eyes, And, arm'd with inward innocence, replies, "From high Meonia's rocky shores I came, Of poor descent, Acoetes is my name: My sire was meanly born; no oxen plow'd His fruitful fields, nor in his pastures low'd. His whole estate within the waters lay; With lines and hooks he caught the finny prey, His art was all his livelyhood; which he Thus with his dying lips bequeath'd to me: In streams, my boy, and rivers take thy chance; There swims, said he, thy whole inheritance. Long did I live on this poor legacy; 'Till tir'd with rocks, and my old native sky, To arts of navigation I inclin'd; Observ'd the turns and changes of the wind, Learn'd the fit havens, and began to note The stormy Hyades, the rainy Goat, The bright Taygete, and the shining Bears, With all the sailor's catalogue of stars. "Once, as by chance for Delos I design'd, My vessel, driv'n by a strong gust of wind, Moor'd in a Chian Creek; a-shore I went, And all the following night in Chios spent. When morning rose, I sent my mates to bring Supplies of water from a neighb'ring spring, Whilst I the motion of the winds explor'd; Then summon'd in my crew, and went aboard. Opheltes heard my summons, and with joy Brought to the shore a soft and lovely boy, With more than female sweetness in his look, Whom straggling in the neighb'ring fields he took. With fumes of wine the little captive glows, And nods with sleep, and staggers as he goes. "I view'd him nicely, and began to trace Each heav'nly feature, each immortal grace, And saw divinity in all his face, I know not who, said I, this God should be; But that he is a God I plainly see: And thou, who-e'er thou art, excuse the force These men have us'd; and oh befriend our course! Pray not for us, the nimble Dictys cry'd, Dictys, that could the main-top mast bestride, And down the ropes with active vigour slide. To the same purpose old Epopeus spoke, Who over-look'd the oars, and tim'd the stroke; The same the pilot, and the same the rest; Such impious avarice their souls possest. Nay, Heav'n forbid that I should bear away Within my vessel so divine a prey, Said I; and stood to hinder their intent: When Lycabas, a wretch for murder sent From Tuscany, to suffer banishment, With his clench'd fist had struck me over-board, Had not my hands in falling grasp'd a cord. "His base confederates the fact approve; When Bacchus (for 'twas he) begun to move, Wak'd by the noise and clamours which they rais'd; And shook his drowsie limbs, and round him gaz'd: What means this noise? he cries; am I betray'd? Ah, whither, whither must I be convey'd? Fear not, said Proreus, child, but tell us where You wish to land, and trust our friendly care. To Naxos then direct your course, said he; Naxos a hospitable port shall be To each of you, a joyful home to me. By ev'ry God, that rules the sea or sky, The perjur'd villains promise to comply, And bid me hasten to unmoor the ship. With eager joy I launch into the deep; And, heedless of the fraud, for Naxos stand. They whisper oft, and beckon with the hand, And give me signs, all anxious for their prey, To tack about, and steer another way. Then let some other to my post succeed, Said I, I'm guiltless of so foul a deed. What, says Ethalion, must the ship's whole crew Follow your humour, and depend on you? And strait himself he seated at the prore, And tack'd about, and sought another shore. "The beauteous youth now found himself betray'd, And from the deck the rising waves survey'd, And seem'd to weep, and as he wept he said: And do you thus my easy faith beguile? Thus do you bear me to my native isle? Will such a multitude of men employ Their strength against a weak defenceless boy? "In vain did I the God-like youth deplore, The more I begg'd, they thwarted me the more. And now by all the Gods in Heav'n that hear This solemn oath, by Bacchus' self, I swear, The mighty miracle that did ensue, Although it seems beyond belief, is true. The vessel, fix'd and rooted in the flood, Unmov'd by all the beating billows stood. In vain the mariners would plow the main With sails unfurl'd, and strike their oars in vain; Around their oars a twining ivy cleaves, And climbs the mast, and hides the cords in leaves: The sails are cover'd with a chearful green, And berries in the fruitful canvass seen. Amidst the waves a sudden forest rears Its verdant head, and a new Spring appears. "The God we now behold with open'd eyes; A herd of spotted panthers round him lyes In glaring forms; the grapy clusters spread On his fair brows, and dangle on his head. And whilst he frowns, and brandishes his spear, My mates surpriz'd with madness or with fear, Leap'd over board; first perjur'd Madon found Rough scales and fins his stiff'ning sides surround; Ah what, cries one, has thus transform'd thy look? Strait his own mouth grew wider as he spoke; And now himself he views with like surprize. Still at his oar th' industrious Libys plies; But, as he plies, each busy arm shrinks in, And by degrees is fashion'd to a fin. Another, as he catches at a cord, Misses his arms, and, tumbling over-board, With his broad fins and forky tail he laves The rising surge, and flounces in the waves. Thus all my crew transform'd around the ship, Or dive below, or on the surface leap, And spout the waves, and wanton in the deep. Full nineteen sailors did the ship convey, A shole of nineteen dolphins round her play. I only in my proper shape appear, Speechless with wonder, and half dead with fear, 'Till Bacchus kindly bid me fear no more. With him I landed on the Chian shore, And him shall ever gratefully adore." "This forging slave," says Pentheus, "would prevail O'er our just fury by a far-fetch'd tale: Go, let him feel the whips, the swords, the fire, And in the tortures of the rack expire." Th' officious servants hurry him away, And the poor captive in a dungeon lay. But, whilst the whips and tortures are prepar'd, The gates fly open, of themselves unbarr'd; At liberty th' unfetter'd captive stands, And flings the loosen'd shackles from his hands. The Death of Pentheus But Pentheus, grown more furious than before, Resolv'd to send his messengers no more, But went himself to the distracted throng, Where high Cithaeron echo'd with their song. And as the fiery war-horse paws the ground, And snorts and trembles at the trumpet's sound; Transported thus he heard the frantick rout, And rav'd and madden'd at the distant shout. A spacious circuit on the hill there stood. Level and wide, and skirted round with wood; Here the rash Pentheus, with unhallow'd eyes, The howling dames and mystick Orgies spies. His mother sternly view'd him where he stood, And kindled into madness as she view'd: Her leafy jav'lin at her son she cast, And cries, "The boar that lays our country waste! The boar, my sisters! Aim the fatal dart, And strike the brindled monster to the heart." Pentheus astonish'd heard the dismal sound, And sees the yelling matrons gath'ring round; He sees, and weeps at his approaching fate, And begs for mercy, and repents too late. "Help, help! my aunt Autonoe," he cry'd; "Remember, how your own Actaeon dy'd." Deaf to his cries, the frantick matron crops One stretch'd-out arm, the other Ino lops. In vain does Pentheus to his mother sue, And the raw bleeding stumps presents to view: His mother howl'd; and, heedless of his pray'r, Her trembling hand she twisted in his hair, "And this," she cry'd, "shall be Agave's share," When from the neck his struggling head she tore, And in her hands the ghastly visage bore. With pleasure all the hideous trunk survey; Then pull'd and tore the mangled limbs away, As starting in the pangs of death it lay, Soon as the wood its leafy honours casts, Blown off and scatter'd by autumnal blasts, With such a sudden death lay Pentheus slain, And in a thousand pieces strow'd the plain. By so distinguishing a judgment aw'd, The Thebans tremble, and confess the God. ---------------------------------------------------------------------- ~ Ovid, BOOK THE THIRD ,

848:The Cremona Violin Part First Frau Concert-Meister Altgelt shut the door. A storm was rising, heavy gusts of wind Swirled through the trees, and scattered leaves before Her on the clean, flagged path. The sky behind The distant town was black, and sharp defined Against it shone the lines of roofs and towers, Superimposed and flat like cardboard flowers. A pasted city on a purple ground, Picked out with luminous paint, it seemed. The cloud Split on an edge of lightning, and a sound Of rivers full and rushing boomed through bowed, Tossed, hissing branches. Thunder rumbled loud Beyond the town fast swallowing into gloom. Frau Altgelt closed the windows of each room. She bustled round to shake by constant moving The strange, weird atmosphere. She stirred the fire, She twitched the supper-cloth as though improving Its careful setting, then her own attire Came in for notice, tiptoeing higher and higher She peered into the wall-glass, now adjusting A straying lock, or else a ribbon thrusting This way or that to suit her. At last sitting, Or rather plumping down upon a chair, She took her work, the stocking she was knitting, And watched the rain upon the window glare In white, bright drops. Through the black glass a flare Of lightning squirmed about her needles. 'Oh!' She cried. 'What can be keeping Theodore so!' A roll of thunder set the casements clapping. Frau Altgelt flung her work aside and ran, Pulled open the house door, with kerchief flapping She stood and gazed along the street. A man Flung back the garden-gate and nearly ran 272 Her down as she stood in the door. 'Why, Dear, What in the name of patience brings you here? Quick, Lotta, shut the door, my violin I fear is wetted. Now, Dear, bring a light. This clasp is very much too worn and thin. I'll take the other fiddle out to-night If it still rains. Tut! Tut! my child, you're quite Clumsy. Here, help me, hold the case while I Give me the candle. No, the inside's dry. Thank God for that! Well, Lotta, how are you? A bad storm, but the house still stands, I see. Is my pipe filled, my Dear? I'll have a few Puffs and a snooze before I eat my tea. What do you say? That you were feared for me? Nonsense, my child. Yes, kiss me, now don't talk. I need a rest, the theatre's a long walk.' Her needles still, her hands upon her lap Patiently laid, Charlotta Altgelt sat And watched the rain-run window. In his nap Her husband stirred and muttered. Seeing that, Charlotta rose and softly, pit-a-pat, Climbed up the stairs, and in her little room Found sighing comfort with a moon in bloom. But even rainy windows, silver-lit By a new-burst, storm-whetted moon, may give But poor content to loneliness, and it Was hard for young Charlotta so to strive And down her eagerness and learn to live In placid quiet. While her husband slept, Charlotta in her upper chamber wept. Herr Concert-Meister Altgelt was a man Gentle and unambitious, that alone Had kept him back. He played as few men can, Drawing out of his instrument a tone So shimmering-sweet and palpitant, it shone Like a bright thread of sound hung in the air, Afloat and swinging upward, slim and fair. 273 Above all things, above Charlotta his wife, Herr Altgelt loved his violin, a fine Cremona pattern, Stradivari's life Was flowering out of early discipline When this was fashioned. Of soft-cutting pine The belly was. The back of broadly curled Maple, the head made thick and sharply whirled. The slanting, youthful sound-holes through The belly of fine, vigorous pine Mellowed each note and blew It out again with a woody flavour Tanged and fragrant as fir-trees are When breezes in their needles jar. The varnish was an orange-brown Lustered like glass that's long laid down Under a crumbling villa stone. Purfled stoutly, with mitres which point Straight up the corners. Each curve and joint Clear, and bold, and thin. Such was Herr Theodore's violin. Seven o'clock, the Concert-Meister gone With his best violin, the rain being stopped, Frau Lotta in the kitchen sat alone Watching the embers which the fire dropped. The china shone upon the dresser, topped By polished copper vessels which her skill Kept brightly burnished. It was very still. An air from `Orfeo' hummed in her head. Herr Altgelt had been practising before The night's performance. Charlotta had plead With him to stay with her. Even at the door She'd begged him not to go. 'I do implore You for this evening, Theodore,' she had said. 'Leave them to-night, and stay with me instead.' 'A silly poppet!' Theodore pinched her ear. 'You'd like to have our good Elector turn 274 Me out I think.' 'But, Theodore, something queer Ails me. Oh, do but notice how they burn, My cheeks! The thunder worried me. You're stern, And cold, and only love your work, I know. But Theodore, for this evening, do not go.' But he had gone, hurriedly at the end, For she had kept him talking. Now she sat Alone again, always alone, the trend Of all her thinking brought her back to that She wished to banish. What would life be? What? For she was young, and loved, while he was moved Only by music. Each day that was proved. Each day he rose and practised. While he played, She stopped her work and listened, and her heart Swelled painfully beneath her bodice. Swayed And longing, she would hide from him her smart. 'Well, Lottchen, will that do?' Then what a start She gave, and she would run to him and cry, And he would gently chide her, 'Fie, Dear, fie. I'm glad I played it well. But such a taking! You'll hear the thing enough before I've done.' And she would draw away from him, still shaking. Had he but guessed she was another one, Another violin. Her strings were aching, Stretched to the touch of his bow hand, again He played and she almost broke at the strain. Where was the use of thinking of it now, Sitting alone and listening to the clock! She'd best make haste and knit another row. Three hours at least must pass before his knock Would startle her. It always was a shock. She listened - listened - for so long before, That when it came her hearing almost tore. She caught herself just starting in to listen. What nerves she had: rattling like brittle sticks! She wandered to the window, for the glisten Of a bright moon was tempting. Snuffed the wicks 275 Of her two candles. Still she could not fix To anything. The moon in a broad swath Beckoned her out and down the garden-path. Against the house, her hollyhocks stood high And black, their shadows doubling them. The night Was white and still with moonlight, and a sigh Of blowing leaves was there, and the dim flight Of insects, and the smell of aconite, And stocks, and Marvel of Peru. She flitted Along the path, where blocks of shadow pitted The even flags. She let herself go dreaming Of Theodore her husband, and the tune From `Orfeo' swam through her mind, but seeming Changed - shriller. Of a sudden, the clear moon Showed her a passer-by, inopportune Indeed, but here he was, whistling and striding. Lotta squeezed in between the currants, hiding. 'The best laid plans of mice and men,' alas! The stranger came indeed, but did not pass. Instead, he leant upon the garden-gate, Folding his arms and whistling. Lotta's state, Crouched in the prickly currants, on wet grass, Was far from pleasant. Still the stranger stayed, And Lotta in her currants watched, dismayed. He seemed a proper fellow standing there In the bright moonshine. His cocked hat was laced With silver, and he wore his own brown hair Tied, but unpowdered. His whole bearing graced A fine cloth coat, and ruffled shirt, and chased Sword-hilt. Charlotta looked, but her position Was hardly easy. When would his volition Suggest his walking on? And then that tune! A half-a-dozen bars from `Orfeo' Gone over and over, and murdered. What Fortune Had brought him there to stare about him so? 'Ach, Gott im Himmel! Why will he not go!' Thought Lotta, but the young man whistled on, 276 And seemed in no great hurry to be gone. Charlotta, crouched among the currant bushes, Watched the moon slowly dip from twig to twig. If Theodore should chance to come, and blushes Streamed over her. He would not care a fig, He'd only laugh. She pushed aside a sprig Of sharp-edged leaves and peered, then she uprose Amid her bushes. 'Sir,' said she, 'pray whose Garden do you suppose you're watching? Why Do you stand there? I really must insist Upon your leaving. 'Tis unmannerly To stay so long.' The young man gave a twist And turned about, and in the amethyst Moonlight he saw her like a nymph half-risen From the green bushes which had been her prison. He swept his hat off in a hurried bow. 'Your pardon, Madam, I had no idea I was not quite alone, and that is how I came to stay. My trespass was not sheer Impertinence. I thought no one was here, And really gardens cry to be admired. To-night especially it seemed required. And may I beg to introduce myself? Heinrich Marohl of Munich. And your name?' Charlotta told him. And the artful elf Promptly exclaimed about her husband's fame. So Lotta, half-unwilling, slowly came To conversation with him. When she went Into the house, she found the evening spent. Theodore arrived quite wearied out and teased, With all excitement in him burned away. It had gone well, he said, the audience pleased, And he had played his very best to-day, But afterwards he had been forced to stay And practise with the stupid ones. His head Ached furiously, and he must get to bed. 277 Part Second Herr Concert-Meister Altgelt played, And the four strings of his violin Were spinning like bees on a day in Spring. The notes rose into the wide sun-mote Which slanted through the window, They lay like coloured beads a-row, They knocked together and parted, And started to dance, Skipping, tripping, each one slipping Under and over the others so That the polychrome fire streamed like a lance Or a comet's tail, Behind them. Then a wail arose - crescendo And dropped from off the end of the bow, And the dancing stopped. A scent of lilies filled the room, Long and slow. Each large white bloom Breathed a sound which was holy perfume from a blessed censer, And the hum of an organ tone, And they waved like fans in a hall of stone Over a bier standing there in the centre, alone. Each lily bent slowly as it was blown. Like smoke they rose from the violin Then faded as a swifter bowing Jumbled the notes like wavelets flowing In a splashing, pashing, rippling motion Between broad meadows to an ocean Wide as a day and blue as a flower, Where every hour Gulls dipped, and scattered, and squawked, and squealed, And over the marshes the Angelus pealed, And the prows of the fishing-boats were spattered With spray. And away a couple of frigates were starting To race to Java with all sails set, Topgallants, and royals, and stunsails, and jibs, And wide moonsails; and the shining rails Were polished so bright they sparked in the sun. All the sails went up with a run: 278 'They call me Hanging Johnny, Away-i-oh; They call me Hanging Johnny, So hang, boys, hang.' And the sun had set and the high moon whitened, And the ship heeled over to the breeze. He drew her into the shade of the sails, And whispered tales Of voyages in the China seas, And his arm around her Held and bound her. She almost swooned, With the breeze and the moon And the slipping sea, And he beside her, Touching her, leaning The ship careening, With the white moon steadily shining over Her and her lover, Theodore, still her lover! Then a quiver fell on the crowded notes, And slowly floated A single note which spread and spread Till it filled the room with a shimmer like gold, And noises shivered throughout its length, And tried its strength. They pulled it, and tore it, And the stuff waned thinner, but still it bore it. Then a wide rent Split the arching tent, And balls of fire spurted through, Spitting yellow, and mauve, and blue. One by one they were quenched as they fell, Only the blue burned steadily. Paler and paler it grew, and - faded - away. Herr Altgelt stopped. 'Well, Lottachen, my Dear, what do you say? I think I'm in good trim. Now let's have dinner. What's this, my Love, you're very sweet to-day. I wonder how it happens I'm the winner 279 Of so much sweetness. But I think you're thinner; You're like a bag of feathers on my knee. Why, Lotta child, you're almost strangling me. I'm glad you're going out this afternoon. The days are getting short, and I'm so tied At the Court Theatre my poor little bride Has not much junketing I fear, but soon I'll ask our manager to grant a boon. To-night, perhaps, I'll get a pass for you, And when I go, why Lotta can come too. Now dinner, Love. I want some onion soup To whip me up till that rehearsal's over. You know it's odd how some women can stoop! Fraeulein Gebnitz has taken on a lover, A Jew named Goldstein. No one can discover If it's his money. But she lives alone Practically. Gebnitz is a stone, Pores over books all day, and has no ear For his wife's singing. Artists must have men; They need appreciation. But it's queer What messes people make of their lives, when They should know more. If Gebnitz finds out, then His wife will pack. Yes, shut the door at once. I did not feel it cold, I am a dunce.' Frau Altgelt tied her bonnet on and went Into the streets. A bright, crisp Autumn wind Flirted her skirts and hair. A turbulent, Audacious wind it was, now close behind, Pushing her bonnet forward till it twined The strings across her face, then from in front Slantingly swinging at her with a shunt, Until she lay against it, struggling, pushing, Dismayed to find her clothing tightly bound Around her, every fold and wrinkle crushing Itself upon her, so that she was wound In draperies as clinging as those found Sucking about a sea nymph on the frieze 280 Of some old Grecian temple. In the breeze The shops and houses had a quality Of hard and dazzling colour; something sharp And buoyant, like white, puffing sails at sea. The city streets were twanging like a harp. Charlotta caught the movement, skippingly She blew along the pavement, hardly knowing Toward what destination she was going. She fetched up opposite a jeweller's shop, Where filigreed tiaras shone like crowns, And necklaces of emeralds seemed to drop And then float up again with lightness. Browns Of striped agates struck her like cold frowns Amid the gaiety of topaz seals, Carved though they were with heads, and arms, and wheels. A row of pencils knobbed with quartz or sard Delighted her. And rings of every size Turned smartly round like hoops before her eyes, Amethyst-flamed or ruby-girdled, jarred To spokes and flashing triangles, and starred Like rockets bursting on a festal day. Charlotta could not tear herself away. With eyes glued tightly on a golden box, Whose rare enamel piqued her with its hue, Changeable, iridescent, shuttlecocks Of shades and lustres always darting through Its level, superimposing sheet of blue, Charlotta did not hear footsteps approaching. She started at the words: 'Am I encroaching?' 'Oh, Heinrich, how you frightened me! I thought We were to meet at three, is it quite that?' 'No, it is not,' he answered, 'but I've caught The trick of missing you. One thing is flat, I cannot go on this way. Life is what Might best be conjured up by the word: `Hell'. Dearest, when will you come?' Lotta, to quell 281 His effervescence, pointed to the gems Within the window, asked him to admire A bracelet or a buckle. But one stems Uneasily the burning of a fire. Heinrich was chafing, pricked by his desire. Little by little she wooed him to her mood Until at last he promised to be good. But here he started on another tack; To buy a jewel, which one would Lotta choose. She vainly urged against him all her lack Of other trinkets. Should she dare to use A ring or brooch her husband might accuse Her of extravagance, and ask to see A strict accounting, or still worse might be. But Heinrich would not be persuaded. Why Should he not give her what he liked? And in He went, determined certainly to buy A thing so beautiful that it would win Her wavering fancy. Altgelt's violin He would outscore by such a handsome jewel That Lotta could no longer be so cruel! Pity Charlotta, torn in diverse ways. If she went in with him, the shopman might Recognize her, give her her name; in days To come he could denounce her. In her fright She almost fled. But Heinrich would be quite Capable of pursuing. By and by She pushed the door and entered hurriedly. It took some pains to keep him from bestowing A pair of ruby earrings, carved like roses, The setting twined to represent the growing Tendrils and leaves, upon her. 'Who supposes I could obtain such things! It simply closes All comfort for me.' So he changed his mind And bought as slight a gift as he could find. A locket, frosted over with seed pearls, Oblong and slim, for wearing at the neck, 282 Or hidden in the bosom; their joined curls Should lie in it. And further to bedeck His love, Heinrich had picked a whiff, a fleck, The merest puff of a thin, linked chain To hang it from. Lotta could not refrain From weeping as they sauntered down the street. She did not want the locket, yet she did. To have him love her she found very sweet, But it is hard to keep love always hid. Then there was something in her heart which chid Her, told her she loved Theodore in him, That all these meetings were a foolish whim. She thought of Theodore and the life they led, So near together, but so little mingled. The great clouds bulged and bellied overhead, And the fresh wind about her body tingled; The crane of a large warehouse creaked and jingled; Charlotta held her breath for very fear, About her in the street she seemed to hear: 'They call me Hanging Johnny, Away-i-oh; They call me Hanging Johnny, So hang, boys, hang.' And it was Theodore, under the racing skies, Who held her and who whispered in her ear. She knew her heart was telling her no lies, Beating and hammering. He was so dear, The touch of him would send her in a queer Swoon that was half an ecstasy. And yearning For Theodore, she wandered, slowly turning Street after street as Heinrich wished it so. He had some aim, she had forgotten what. Their progress was confused and very slow, But at the last they reached a lonely spot, A garden far above the highest shot Of soaring steeple. At their feet, the town Spread open like a chequer-board laid down. 283 Lotta was dimly conscious of the rest, Vaguely remembered how he clasped the chain About her neck. She treated it in jest, And saw his face cloud over with sharp pain. Then suddenly she felt as though a strain Were put upon her, collared like a slave, Leashed in the meshes of this thing he gave. She seized the flimsy rings with both her hands To snap it, but they held with odd persistence. Her eyes were blinded by two wind-blown strands Of hair which had been loosened. Her resistance Melted within her, from remotest distance, Misty, unreal, his face grew warm and near, And giving way she knew him very dear. For long he held her, and they both gazed down At the wide city, and its blue, bridged river. From wooing he jested with her, snipped the blown Strands of her hair, and tied them with a sliver Cut from his own head. But she gave a shiver When, opening the locket, they were placed Under the glass, commingled and enlaced. 'When will you have it so with us?' He sighed. She shook her head. He pressed her further. 'No, No, Heinrich, Theodore loves me,' and she tried To free herself and rise. He held her so, Clipped by his arms, she could not move nor go. 'But you love me,' he whispered, with his face Burning against her through her kerchief's lace. Frau Altgelt knew she toyed with fire, knew That what her husband lit this other man Fanned to hot flame. She told herself that few Women were so discreet as she, who ran No danger since she knew what things to ban. She opened her house door at five o'clock, A short half-hour before her husband's knock. Part Third 284 The `Residenz-Theater' sparked and hummed With lights and people. Gebnitz was to sing, That rare soprano. All the fiddles strummed With tuning up; the wood-winds made a ring Of reedy bubbling noises, and the sting Of sharp, red brass pierced every ear-drum; patting From muffled tympani made a dark slatting Across the silver shimmering of flutes; A bassoon grunted, and an oboe wailed; The 'celli pizzicato-ed like great lutes, And mutterings of double basses trailed Away to silence, while loud harp-strings hailed Their thin, bright colours down in such a scatter They lost themselves amid the general clatter. Frau Altgelt in the gallery, alone, Felt lifted up into another world. Before her eyes a thousand candles shone In the great chandeliers. A maze of curled And powdered periwigs past her eyes swirled. She smelt the smoke of candles guttering, And caught the glint of jewelled fans fluttering All round her in the boxes. Red and gold, The house, like rubies set in filigree, Filliped the candlelight about, and bold Young sparks with eye-glasses, unblushingly Ogled fair beauties in the balcony. An officer went by, his steel spurs jangling. Behind Charlotta an old man was wrangling About a play-bill he had bought and lost. Three drunken soldiers had to be ejected. Frau Altgelt's eyes stared at the vacant post Of Concert-Meister, she at once detected The stir which brought him. But she felt neglected When with no glance about him or her way, He lifted up his violin to play. The curtain went up? Perhaps. If so, Charlotta never saw it go. 285 The famous Fraeulein Gebnitz' singing Only came to her like the ringing Of bells at a festa Which swing in the air And nobody realizes they are there. They jingle and jangle, And clang, and bang, And never a soul could tell whether they rang, For the plopping of guns and rockets And the chinking of silver to spend, in one's pockets, And the shuffling and clapping of feet, And the loud flapping Of flags, with the drums, As the military comes. It's a famous tune to walk to, And I wonder where they're off to. Step-step-stepping to the beating of the drums. But the rhythm changes as though a mist Were curling and twisting Over the landscape. For a moment a rhythmless, tuneless fog Encompasses her. Then her senses jog To the breath of a stately minuet. Herr Altgelt's violin is set In tune to the slow, sweeping bows, and retreats and advances, To curtsies brushing the waxen floor as the Court dances. Long and peaceful like warm Summer nights When stars shine in the quiet river. And against the lights Blundering insects knock, And the `Rathaus' clock Booms twice, through the shrill sounds Of flutes and horns in the lamplit grounds. Pressed against him in the mazy wavering Of a country dance, with her short breath quavering She leans upon the beating, throbbing Music. Laughing, sobbing, Feet gliding after sliding feet; His - hers The ballroom blurs She feels the air Lifting her hair, And the lapping of water on the stone stair. 286 He is there! He is there! Twang harps, and squeal, you thin violins, That the dancers may dance, and never discover The old stone stair leading down to the river With the chestnut-tree branches hanging over Her and her lover. Theodore, still her lover! The evening passed like this, in a half faint, Delirium with waking intervals Which were the entr'acts. Under the restraint Of a large company, the constant calls For oranges or syrops from the stalls Outside, the talk, the passing to and fro, Lotta sat ill at ease, incognito. She heard the Gebnitz praised, the tenor lauded, The music vaunted as most excellent. The scenery and the costumes were applauded, The latter it was whispered had been sent From Italy. The Herr Direktor spent A fortune on them, so the gossips said. Charlotta felt a lightness in her head. When the next act began, her eyes were swimming, Her prodded ears were aching and confused. The first notes from the orchestra sent skimming Her outward consciousness. Her brain was fused Into the music, Theodore's music! Used To hear him play, she caught his single tone. For all she noticed they two were alone. Part Fourth Frau Altgelt waited in the chilly street, Hustled by lackeys who ran up and down Shouting their coachmen's names; forced to retreat A pace or two by lurching chairmen; thrown Rudely aside by linkboys; boldly shown The ogling rapture in two bleary eyes Thrust close to hers in most unpleasant wise. 287 Escaping these, she hit a liveried arm, Was sworn at by this glittering gentleman And ordered off. However, no great harm Came to her. But she looked a trifle wan When Theodore, her belated guardian, Emerged. She snuggled up against him, trembling, Half out of fear, half out of the assembling Of all the thoughts and needs his playing had given. Had she enjoyed herself, he wished to know. 'Oh! Theodore, can't you feel that it was Heaven!' 'Heaven! My Lottachen, and was it so? Gebnitz was in good voice, but all the flow Of her last aria was spoiled by Klops, A wretched flutist, she was mad as hops.' He was so simple, so matter-of-fact, Charlotta Altgelt knew not what to say To bring him to her dream. His lack of tact Kept him explaining all the homeward way How this thing had gone well, that badly. 'Stay, Theodore!' she cried at last. 'You know to me Nothing was real, it was an ecstasy.' And he was heartily glad she had enjoyed Herself so much, and said so. 'But it's good To be got home again.' He was employed In looking at his violin, the wood Was old, and evening air did it no good. But when he drew up to the table for tea Something about his wife's vivacity Struck him as hectic, worried him in short. He talked of this and that but watched her close. Tea over, he endeavoured to extort The cause of her excitement. She arose And stood beside him, trying to compose Herself, all whipt to quivering, curdled life, And he, poor fool, misunderstood his wife. Suddenly, broken through her anxious grasp, Her music-kindled love crashed on him there. 288 Amazed, he felt her fling against him, clasp Her arms about him, weighing down his chair, Sobbing out all her hours of despair. 'Theodore, a woman needs to hear things proved. Unless you tell me, I feel I'm not loved.' Theodore went under in this tearing wave, He yielded to it, and its headlong flow Filled him with all the energy she gave. He was a youth again, and this bright glow, This living, vivid joy he had to show Her what she was to him. Laughing and crying, She asked assurances there's no denying. Over and over again her questions, till He quite convinced her, every now and then She kissed him, shivering as though doubting still. But later when they were composed and when She dared relax her probings, 'Lottachen,' He asked, 'how is it your love has withstood My inadvertence? I was made of wood.' She told him, and no doubt she meant it truly, That he was sun, and grass, and wind, and sky To her. And even if conscience were unruly She salved it by neat sophistries, but why Suppose her insincere, it was no lie She said, for Heinrich was as much forgot As though he'd never been within earshot. But Theodore's hands in straying and caressing Fumbled against the locket where it lay Upon her neck. 'What is this thing I'm pressing?' He asked. 'Let's bring it to the light of day.' He lifted up the locket. 'It should stay Outside, my Dear. Your mother has good taste. To keep it hidden surely is a waste.' Pity again Charlotta, straight aroused Out of her happiness. The locket brought A chilly jet of truth upon her, soused Under its icy spurting she was caught, 289 And choked, and frozen. Suddenly she sought The clasp, but with such art was this contrived Her fumbling fingers never once arrived Upon it. Feeling, twisting, round and round, She pulled the chain quite through the locket's ring And still it held. Her neck, encompassed, bound, Chafed at the sliding meshes. Such a thing To hurl her out of joy! A gilded string Binding her folly to her, and those curls Which lay entwined beneath the clustered pearls! Again she tried to break the cord. It stood. 'Unclasp it, Theodore,' she begged. But he Refused, and being in a happy mood, Twitted her with her inefficiency, Then looking at her very seriously: 'I think, Charlotta, it is well to have Always about one what a mother gave. As she has taken the great pains to send This jewel to you from Dresden, it will be Ingratitude if you do not intend To carry it about you constantly. With her fine taste you cannot disagree, The locket is most beautifully designed.' He opened it and there the curls were, twined. Charlotta's heart dropped beats like knitting-stitches. She burned a moment, flaming; then she froze. Her face was jerked by little, nervous twitches, She heard her husband asking: 'What are those?' Put out her hand quickly to interpose, But stopped, the gesture half-complete, astounded At the calm way the question was propounded. 'A pretty fancy, Dear, I do declare. Indeed I will not let you put it off. A lovely thought: yours and your mother's hair!' Charlotta hid a gasp under a cough. 'Never with my connivance shall you doff This charming gift.' He kissed her on the cheek, 290 And Lotta suffered him, quite crushed and meek. When later in their room she lay awake, Watching the moonlight slip along the floor, She felt the chain and wept for Theodore's sake. She had loved Heinrich also, and the core Of truth, unlovely, startled her. Wherefore She vowed from now to break this double life And see herself only as Theodore's wife. Part Fifth It was no easy matter to convince Heinrich that it was finished. Hard to say That though they could not meet (he saw her wince) She still must keep the locket to allay Suspicion in her husband. She would pay Him from her savings bit by bit - the oath He swore at that was startling to them both. Her resolution taken, Frau Altgelt Adhered to it, and suffered no regret. She found her husband all that she had felt His music to contain. Her days were set In his as though she were an amulet Cased in bright gold. She joyed in her confining; Her eyes put out her looking-glass with shining. Charlotta was so gay that old, dull tasks Were furbished up to seem like rituals. She baked and brewed as one who only asks The right to serve. Her daily manuals Of prayer were duties, and her festivals When Theodore praised some dish, or frankly said She had a knack in making up a bed. So Autumn went, and all the mountains round The city glittered white with fallen snow, For it was Winter. Over the hard ground Herr Altgelt's footsteps came, each one a blow. On the swept flags behind the currant row Charlotta stood to greet him. But his lip 291 Only flicked hers. His Concert-Meistership Was first again. This evening he had got Important news. The opera ordered from Young Mozart was arrived. That old despot, The Bishop of Salzburg, had let him come Himself to lead it, and the parts, still hot From copying, had been tried over. Never Had any music started such a fever. The orchestra had cheered till they were hoarse, The singers clapped and clapped. The town was made, With such a great attraction through the course Of Carnival time. In what utter shade All other cities would be left! The trade In music would all drift here naturally. In his excitement he forgot his tea. Lotta was forced to take his cup and put It in his hand. But still he rattled on, Sipping at intervals. The new catgut Strings he was using gave out such a tone The 'Maestro' had remarked it, and had gone Out of his way to praise him. Lotta smiled, He was as happy as a little child. From that day on, Herr Altgelt, more and more, Absorbed himself in work. Lotta at first Was patient and well-wishing. But it wore Upon her when two weeks had brought no burst Of loving from him. Then she feared the worst; That his short interest in her was a light Flared up an instant only in the night. `Idomeneo' was the opera's name, A name that poor Charlotta learnt to hate. Herr Altgelt worked so hard he seldom came Home for his tea, and it was very late, Past midnight sometimes, when he knocked. His state Was like a flabby orange whose crushed skin Is thin with pulling, and all dented in. 292 He practised every morning and her heart Followed his bow. But often she would sit, While he was playing, quite withdrawn apart, Absently fingering and touching it, The locket, which now seemed to her a bit Of some gone youth. His music drew her tears, And through the notes he played, her dreading ears Heard Heinrich's voice, saying he had not changed; Beer merchants had no ecstasies to take Their minds off love. So far her thoughts had ranged Away from her stern vow, she chanced to take Her way, one morning, quite by a mistake, Along the street where Heinrich had his shop. What harm to pass it since she should not stop! It matters nothing how one day she met Him on a bridge, and blushed, and hurried by. Nor how the following week he stood to let Her pass, the pavement narrowing suddenly. How once he took her basket, and once he Pulled back a rearing horse who might have struck Her with his hoofs. It seemed the oddest luck How many times their business took them each Right to the other. Then at last he spoke, But she would only nod, he got no speech From her. Next time he treated it in joke, And that so lightly that her vow she broke And answered. So they drifted into seeing Each other as before. There was no fleeing. Christmas was over and the Carnival Was very near, and tripping from each tongue Was talk of the new opera. Each book-stall Flaunted it out in bills, what airs were sung, What singers hired. Pictures of the young 'Maestro' were for sale. The town was mad. Only Charlotta felt depressed and sad. Each day now brought a struggle 'twixt her will And Heinrich's. 'Twixt her love for Theodore 293 And him. Sometimes she wished to kill Herself to solve her problem. For a score Of reasons Heinrich tempted her. He bore Her moods with patience, and so surely urged Himself upon her, she was slowly merged Into his way of thinking, and to fly With him seemed easy. But next morning would The Stradivarius undo her mood. Then she would realize that she must cleave Always to Theodore. And she would try To convince Heinrich she should never leave, And afterwards she would go home and grieve. All thought in Munich centered on the part Of January when there would be given `Idomeneo' by Wolfgang Mozart. The twenty-ninth was fixed. And all seats, even Those almost at the ceiling, which were driven Behind the highest gallery, were sold. The inches of the theatre went for gold. Herr Altgelt was a shadow worn so thin With work, he hardly printed black behind The candle. He and his old violin Made up one person. He was not unkind, But dazed outside his playing, and the rind, The pine and maple of his fiddle, guarded A part of him which he had quite discarded. It woke in the silence of frost-bright nights, In little lights, Like will-o'-the-wisps flickering, fluttering, Here - there Spurting, sputtering, Fading and lighting, Together, asunder Till Lotta sat up in bed with wonder, And the faint grey patch of the window shone Upon her sitting there, alone. For Theodore slept. 294 The twenty-eighth was last rehearsal day, 'Twas called for noon, so early morning meant Herr Altgelt's only time in which to play His part alone. Drawn like a monk who's spent Himself in prayer and fasting, Theodore went Into the kitchen, with a weary word Of cheer to Lotta, careless if she heard. Lotta heard more than his spoken word. She heard the vibrating of strings and wood. She was washing the dishes, her hands all suds, When the sound began, Long as the span Of a white road snaking about a hill. The orchards are filled With cherry blossoms at butterfly poise. Hawthorn buds are cracking, And in the distance a shepherd is clacking His shears, snip-snipping the wool from his sheep. The notes are asleep, Lying adrift on the air In level lines Like sunlight hanging in pines and pines, Strung and threaded, All imbedded In the blue-green of the hazy pines. Lines - long, straight lines! And stems, Long, straight stems Pushing up To the cup of blue, blue sky. Stems growing misty With the many of them, Red-green mist Of the trees, And these Wood-flavoured notes. The back is maple and the belly is pine. The rich notes twine As though weaving in and out of leaves, Broad leaves Flapping slowly like elephants' ears, 295 Waving and falling. Another sound peers Through little pine fingers, And lingers, peeping. Ping! Ping! pizzicato, something is cheeping. There is a twittering up in the branches, A chirp and a lilt, And crimson atilt on a swaying twig. Wings! Wings! And a little ruffled-out throat which sings. The forest bends, tumultuous With song. The woodpecker knocks, And the song-sparrow trills, Every fir, and cedar, and yew Has a nest or a bird, It is quite absurd To hear them cutting across each other: Peewits, and thrushes, and larks, all at once, And a loud cuckoo is trying to smother A wood-pigeon perched on a birch, 'Roo - coo - oo - oo -' 'Cuckoo! Cuckoo! That's one for you!' A blackbird whistles, how sharp, how shrill! And the great trees toss And leaves blow down, You can almost hear them splash on the ground. The whistle again: It is double and loud! The leaves are splashing, And water is dashing Over those creepers, for they are shrouds; And men are running up them to furl the sails, For there is a capful of wind to-day, And we are already well under way. The deck is aslant in the bubbling breeze. 'Theodore, please. Oh, Dear, how you tease!' And the boatswain's whistle sounds again, And the men pull on the sheets: 'My name is Hanging Johnny, Away-i-oh; 296 They call me Hanging Johnny, So hang, boys, hang.' The trees of the forest are masts, tall masts; They are swinging over Her and her lover. Almost swooning Under the ballooning canvas, She lies Looking up in his eyes As he bends farther over. Theodore, still her lover! The suds were dried upon Charlotta's hands, She leant against the table for support, Wholly forgotten. Theodore's eyes were brands Burning upon his music. He stopped short. Charlotta almost heard the sound of bands Snapping. She put one hand up to her heart, Her fingers touched the locket with a start. Herr Altgelt put his violin away Listlessly. 'Lotta, I must have some rest. The strain will be a hideous one to-day. Don't speak to me at all. It will be best If I am quiet till I go.' And lest She disobey, he left her. On the stairs She heard his mounting steps. What use were prayers! He could not hear, he was not there, for she Was married to a mummy, a machine. Her hand closed on the locket bitterly. Before her, on a chair, lay the shagreen Case of his violin. She saw the clean Sun flash the open clasp. The locket's edge Cut at her fingers like a pushing wedge. A heavy cart went by, a distant bell Chimed ten, the fire flickered in the grate. She was alone. Her throat began to swell With sobs. What kept her here, why should she wait? The violin she had begun to hate Lay in its case before her. Here she flung 297 The cover open. With the fiddle swung Over her head, the hanging clock's loud ticking Caught on her ear. 'Twas slow, and as she paused The little door in it came open, flicking A wooden cuckoo out: 'Cuckoo!' It caused The forest dream to come again. 'Cuckoo!' Smashed on the grate, the violin broke in two. 'Cuckoo! Cuckoo!' the clock kept striking on; But no one listened. Frau Altgelt had gone. ~ Amy Lowell,

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

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

851:BOOK THE SECOND The Story of Phaeton The Sun's bright palace, on high columns rais'd, With burnish'd gold and flaming jewels blaz'd; The folding gates diffus'd a silver light, And with a milder gleam refresh'd the sight; Of polish'd iv'ry was the cov'ring wrought: The matter vied not with the sculptor's thought, For in the portal was display'd on high (The work of Vulcan) a fictitious sky; A waving sea th' inferiour Earth embrac'd, And Gods and Goddesses the waters grac'd. Aegeon here a mighty whale bestrode; Triton, and Proteus (the deceiving God) With Doris here were carv'd, and all her train, Some loosely swimming in the figur'd main, While some on rocks their dropping hair divide, And some on fishes through the waters glide: Tho' various features did the sisters grace, A sister's likeness was in ev'ry face. On Earth a diff'rent landskip courts the eyes, Men, towns, and beasts in distant prospects rise, And nymphs, and streams, and woods, and rural deities. O'er all, the Heav'n's refulgent image shines; On either gate were six engraven signs. Here Phaeton still gaining on th' ascent, To his suspected father's palace went, 'Till pressing forward through the bright abode, He saw at distance the illustrious God: He saw at distance, or the dazling light Had flash'd too strongly on his aking sight. The God sits high, exalted on a throne Of blazing gems, with purple garments on; The Hours, in order rang'd on either hand, And Days, and Months, and Years, and Ages stand. Here Spring appears with flow'ry chaplets bound; Here Summer in her wheaten garl and crown'd; Here Autumn the rich trodden grapes besmear; And hoary Winter shivers in the reer. Phoebus beheld the youth from off his throne; That eye, which looks on all, was fix'd in one. He saw the boy's confusion in his face, Surpriz'd at all the wonders of the place; And cries aloud, "What wants my son? for know My son thou art, and I must call thee so." "Light of the world," the trembling youth replies, "Illustrious parent! since you don't despise The parent's name, some certain token give, That I may Clymene's proud boast believe, Nor longer under false reproaches grieve." The tender sire was touch'd with what he said, And flung the blaze of glories from his head, And bid the youth advance: "My son," said he, "Come to thy father's arms! for Clymene Has told thee true; a parent's name I own, And deem thee worthy to be called my son. As a sure proof, make some request, and I, Whate'er it be, with that request comply; By Styx I swear, whose waves are hid in night, And roul impervious to my piercing sight." The youth transported, asks, without delay, To guide the sun's bright chariot for a day. The God repented of the oath he took, For anguish thrice his radiant head he shook; "My son," says he, "some other proof require, Rash was my promise, rash is thy desire. I'd fain deny this wish, which thou hast made, Or, what I can't deny, wou'd fain disswade. Too vast and hazardous the task appears, Nor suited to thy strength, nor to thy years. Thy lot is mortal, but thy wishes fly Beyond the province of mortality: There is not one of all the Gods that dares (However skill'd in other great affairs) To mount the burning axle-tree, but I; Not Jove himself, the ruler of the sky, That hurles the three-fork'd thunder from above, Dares try his strength: yet who so strong as Jove? The steeds climb up the first ascent with pain, And when the middle firmament they gain, If downward from the Heav'ns my head I bow, And see the Earth and Ocean hang below, Ev'n I am seiz'd with horror and affright, And my own heart misgives me at the sight. A mighty downfal steeps the ev'ning stage, And steddy reins must curb the horses' rage. Tethys herself has fear'd to see me driv'n Down headlong from the precipice of Heav'n. Besides, consider what impetuous force Turns stars and planets in a diff'rent course. I steer against their motions; nor am I Born back by all the current of the sky. But how cou'd you resist the orbs that roul In adverse whirls, and stem the rapid pole? But you perhaps may hope for pleasing woods, And stately dooms, and cities fill'd with Gods; While through a thousand snares your progress lies, Where forms of starry monsters stock the skies: For, shou'd you hit the doubtful way aright, The bull with stooping horns stands opposite; Next him the bright Haemonian bow is strung, And next, the lion's grinning visage hung: The scorpion's claws, here clasp a wide extent; And here the crab's in lesser clasps are bent. Nor wou'd you find it easie to compose The mettled steeds, when from their nostrils flows The scorching fire, that in their entrails glows. Ev'n I their head-strong fury scarce restrain, When they grow warm and restif to the rein. Let not my son a fatal gift require, But, O! in time, recall your rash desire; You ask a gift that may your parent tell, Let these my fears your parentage reveal; And learn a father from a father's care: Look on my face; or if my heart lay bare, Cou'd you but look, you'd read the father there. Chuse out a gift from seas, or Earth, or skies, For open to your wish all Nature lies, Only decline this one unequal task, For 'tis a mischief, not a gift, you ask. You ask a real mischief, Phaeton: Nay hang not thus about my neck, my son: I grant your wish, and Styx has heard my voice, Chuse what you will, but make a wiser choice." Thus did the God th' unwary youth advise; But he still longs to travel through the skies. When the fond father (for in vain he pleads) At length to the Vulcanian Chariot leads. A golden axle did the work uphold, Gold was the beam, the wheels were orb'd with gold. The spokes in rows of silver pleas'd the sight, The seat with party-colour'd gems was bright; Apollo shin'd amid the glare of light. The youth with secret joy the work surveys, When now the moon disclos'd her purple rays; The stars were fled, for Lucifer had chased The stars away, and fled himself at last. Soon as the father saw the rosy morn, And the moon shining with a blunter horn, He bid the nimble Hours, without delay, Bring forth the steeds; the nimble Hours obey: From their full racks the gen'rous steeds retire, Dropping ambrosial foams, and snorting fire. Still anxious for his son, the God of day, To make him proof against the burning ray, His temples with celestial ointment wet, Of sov'reign virtue to repel the heat; Then fix'd the beamy circle on his head, And fetch'd a deep foreboding sigh, and said, "Take this at least, this last advice, my son, Keep a stiff rein, and move but gently on: The coursers of themselves will run too fast, Your art must be to moderate their haste. Drive 'em not on directly through the skies, But where the Zodiac's winding circle lies, Along the midmost Zone; but sally forth Nor to the distant south, nor stormy north. The horses' hoofs a beaten track will show, But neither mount too high, nor sink too low. That no new fires, or Heav'n or Earth infest; Keep the mid way, the middle way is best. Nor, where in radiant folds the serpent twines, Direct your course, nor where the altar shines. Shun both extreams; the rest let Fortune guide, And better for thee than thy self provide! See, while I speak, the shades disperse away, Aurora gives the promise of a day; I'm call'd, nor can I make a longer stay. Snatch up the reins; or still th' attempt forsake, And not my chariot, but my counsel, take, While yet securely on the Earth you stand; Nor touch the horses with too rash a hand. Let me alone to light the world, while you Enjoy those beams which you may safely view." He spoke in vain; the youth with active heat And sprightly vigour vaults into the seat; And joys to hold the reins, and fondly gives Those thanks his father with remorse receives. Mean-while the restless horses neigh'd aloud, Breathing out fire, and pawing where they stood. Tethys, not knowing what had past, gave way, And all the waste of Heav'n before 'em lay. They spring together out, and swiftly bear The flying youth thro' clouds and yielding air; With wingy speed outstrip the eastern wind, And leave the breezes of the morn behind. The youth was light, nor cou'd he fill the seat, Or poise the chariot with its wonted weight: But as at sea th' unballass'd vessel rides, Cast to and fro, the sport of winds and tides; So in the bounding chariot toss'd on high, The youth is hurry'd headlong through the sky. Soon as the steeds perceive it, they forsake Their stated course, and leave the beaten track. The youth was in a maze, nor did he know Which way to turn the reins, or where to go; Nor wou'd the horses, had he known, obey. Then the sev'n stars first felt Apollo's ray, And wish'd to dip in the forbidden sea. The folded serpent next the frozen pole, Stiff and benum'd before, began to rowle, And raged with inward heat, and threaten'd war, And shot a redder light from ev'ry star; Nay, and 'tis said Bootes too, that fain Thou woud'st have fled, tho' cumber'd with thy wane. Th' unhappy youth then, bending down his head, Saw Earth and Ocean far beneath him spread. His colour chang'd, he startled at the sight, And his eyes darken'd by too great a light. Now cou'd he wish the fiery steeds untry'd, His birth obscure, and his request deny'd: Now wou'd he Merops for his father own, And quit his boasted kindred to the sun. So fares the pilot, when his ship is tost In troubled seas, and all its steerage lost, He gives her to the winds, and in despair Seeks his last refuge in the Gods and pray'r. What cou'd he do? his eyes, if backward cast, Find a long path he had already past; If forward, still a longer path they find: Both he compares, and measures in his mind; And sometimes casts an eye upon the east, And sometimes looks on the forbidden west, The horses' names he knew not in the fright, Nor wou'd he loose the reins, nor cou'd he hold 'em right. Now all the horrors of the Heav'ns he spies, And monstrous shadows of prodigious size, That, deck'd with stars, lye scatter'd o'er the skies. There is a place above, where Scorpio bent In tail and arms surrounds a vast extent; In a wide circuit of the Heav'ns he shines, And fills the space of two coelestial signs. Soon as the youth beheld him vex'd with heat Brandish his sting, and in his poison sweat, Half dead with sudden fear he dropt the reins; The horses felt 'em loose upon their mains, And, flying out through all the plains above, Ran uncontroul'd where-e're their fury drove; Rush'd on the stars, and through a pathless way Of unknown regions hurry'd on the day. And now above, and now below they flew, And near the Earth the burning chariot drew. The clouds disperse in fumes, the wond'ring Moon Beholds her brother's steeds beneath her own; The highlands smoak, cleft by the piercing rays, Or, clad with woods, in their own fewel blaze. Next o'er the plains, where ripen'd harvests grow, The running conflagration spreads below. But these are trivial ills: whole cities burn, And peopled kingdoms into ashes turn. The mountains kindle as the car draws near, Athos and Tmolus red with fires appear; Oeagrian Haemus (then a single name) And virgin Helicon increase the flame; Taurus and Oete glare amid the sky, And Ida, spight of all her fountains, dry. Eryx and Othrys, and Cithaeron, glow, And Rhodope, no longer cloath'd in snow; High Pindus, Mimas, and Parnassus, sweat, And Aetna rages with redoubled heat. Ev'n Scythia, through her hoary regions warm'd, In vain with all her native frost was arm'd. Cover'd with flames the tow'ring Appennine, And Caucasus, and proud Olympus, shine; And, where the long-extended Alpes aspire, Now stands a huge continu'd range of fire. Th' astonisht youth, where-e'er his eyes cou'd turn, Beheld the universe around him burn: The world was in a blaze; nor cou'd he bear The sultry vapours and the scorching air, Which from below, as from a furnace, flow'd; And now the axle-tree beneath him glow'd: Lost in the whirling clouds that round him broke, And white with ashes, hov'ring in the smoke. He flew where-e'er the horses drove, nor knew Whither the horses drove, or where he flew. 'Twas then, they say, the swarthy Moor begun To change his hue, and blacken in the sun. Then Libya first, of all her moisture drain'd, Became a barren waste, a wild of sand. The water-nymphs lament their empty urns, Boeotia, robb's of silve Dirce, mourns, Corinth Pyrene's wasted spring bewails, And Argos grieves whilst Amymone fails. The floods are drain'd from ev'ry distant coast, Ev'n Tanais, tho' fix'd in ice, was lost. Enrag'd Caicus and Lycormas roar, And Xanthus, fated to be burnt once more. The fam'd Maeander, that unweary'd strays Through mazy windings, smoaks in ev'ry maze. From his lov'd Babylon Euphrates flies; The big-swoln Ganges and the Danube rise In thick'ning fumes, and darken half the skies. In flames Ismenos and the Phasis roul'd, And Tagus floating in his melted gold. The swans, that on Cayster often try'd Their tuneful songs, now sung their last and dy'd. The frighted Nile ran off, and under ground Conceal'd his head, nor can it yet be found: His sev'n divided currents all are dry, And where they row'ld, sev'n gaping trenches lye: No more the Rhine or Rhone their course maintain, Nor Tiber, of his promis'd empire vain. The ground, deep-cleft, admits the dazling ray, And startles Pluto with the flash of day. The seas shrink in, and to the sight disclose Wide naked plains, where once their billows rose; Their rocks are all discover'd, and increase The number of the scatter'd Cyclades. The fish in sholes about the bottom creep, Nor longer dares the crooked dolphin leap Gasping for breath, th' unshapen Phocae die, And on the boiling wave extended lye. Nereus, and Doris with her virgin train, Seek out the last recesses of the main; Beneath unfathomable depths they faint, And secret in their gloomy caverns pant. Stern Neptune thrice above the waves upheld His face, and thrice was by the flames repell'd. The Earth at length, on ev'ry side embrac'd With scalding seas that floated round her waste, When now she felt the springs and rivers come, And crowd within the hollow of her womb, Up-lifted to the Heav'ns her blasted head, And clapt her hand upon her brows, and said (But first, impatient of the sultry heat, Sunk deeper down, and sought a cooler seat): "If you, great king of Gods, my death approve, And I deserve it, let me die by Jove; If I must perish by the force of fire, Let me transfix'd with thunder-bolts expire. See, whilst I speak, my breath the vapours choak (For now her face lay wrapt in clouds of smoak), See my singe'd hair, behold my faded eye, And wither'd face, where heaps of cinders lye! And does the plow for this my body tear? This the reward for all the fruits I bear, Tortur'd with rakes, and harrass'd all the year? That herbs for cattle daily I renew, And food for Man, and frankincense for you? But grant me guilty; what has Neptune done? Why are his waters boiling in the sun? The wavy empire, which by lot was giv'n, Why does it waste, and further shrink from Heav'n? If I nor he your pity can provoke, See your own Heav'ns, the Heav'ns begin to smoke! Shou'd once the sparkles catch those bright abodes, Destruction seizes on the Heav'ns and Gods; Atlas becomes unequal to his freight, And almost faints beneath the glowing weight. If Heav'n, and Earth, and sea, together burn, All must again into their chaos turn. Apply some speedy cure, prevent our fate, And succour Nature, ere it be too late." She cea'sd, for choak'd with vapours round her spread, Down to the deepest shades she sunk her head. Jove call'd to witness ev'ry Pow'r above, And ev'n the God, whose son the chariot drove, That what he acts he is compell'd to do, Or universal ruin must ensue. Strait he ascends the high aetherial throne, From whence he us'd to dart his thunder down, From whence his show'rs and storms he us'd to pour, But now cou'd meet with neither storm nor show'r. Then, aiming at the youth, with lifted hand, Full at his head he hurl'd the forky brand, In dreadful thund'rings. Thus th' almighty sire Suppress'd the raging of the fires with fire. At once from life and from the chariot driv'n, Th' ambitious boy fell thunder-struck from Heav'n. The horses started with a sudden bound, And flung the reins and chariot to the ground: The studded harness from their necks they broke, Here fell a wheel, and here a silver spoke, Here were the beam and axle torn away; And, scatter'd o'er the Earth, the shining fragments lay. The breathless Phaeton, with flaming hair, Shot from the chariot, like a falling star, That in a summer's ev'ning from the top Of Heav'n drops down, or seems at least to drop; 'Till on the Po his blasted corps was hurl'd, Far from his country, in the western world. Phaeton's Sisters transform'd into Trees The Latian nymphs came round him, and, amaz'd, On the dead youth, transfix'd with thunder, gaz'd; And, whilst yet smoaking from the bolt he lay, His shatter'd body to a tomb convey, And o'er the tomb an epitaph devise: "Here he, who drove the sun's bright chariot, lies; His father's fiery steeds he cou'd not guide, But in the glorious enterprize he dy'd." Apollo hid his face, and pin'd for grief, And, if the story may deserve belief, The space of one whole day is said to run, From morn to wonted ev'n, without a sun: The burning ruins, with a fainter ray, Supply the sun, and counterfeit a day, A day, that still did Nature's face disclose: This comfort from the mighty mischief rose. But Clymene, enrag'd with grief, laments, And as her grief inspires, her passion vents: Wild for her son, and frantick in her woes, With hair dishevel'd round the world she goes, To seek where-e'er his body might be cast; 'Till, on the borders of the Po, at last The name inscrib'd on the new tomb appears. The dear dear name she bathes in flowing tears, Hangs o'er the tomb, unable to depart, And hugs the marble to her throbbing heart. Her daughters too lament, and sigh, and mourn (A fruitless tri bute to their brother's urn), And beat their naked bosoms, and complain, And call aloud for Phaeton in vain: All the long night their mournful watch they keep, And all the day stand round the tomb, and weep. Four times, revolving, the full moon return'd; So long the mother and the daughters mourn'd: When now the eldest, Phaethusa, strove To rest her weary limbs, but could not move; Lampetia wou'd have help'd her, but she found Her self with-held, and rooted to the ground: A third in wild affliction, as she grieves, Wou'd rend her hair, but fills her hands with leaves; One sees her thighs transform'd, another views Her arms shot out, and branching into boughs. And now their legs, and breasts, and bodies stood Crusted with bark, and hard'ning into wood; But still above were female heads display'd, And mouths, that call'd the mother to their aid. What cou'd, alas! the weeping mother do? From this to that with eager haste she flew, And kiss'd her sprouting daughters as they grew. She tears the bark that to each body cleaves, And from their verdant fingers strips the leaves: The blood came trickling, where she tore away The leaves and bark: the maids were heard to say, "Forbear, mistaken parent, oh! forbear; A wounded daughter in each tree you tear; Farewell for ever." Here the bark encreas'd, Clos'd on their faces, and their words suppress'd. The new-made trees in tears of amber run, Which, harden'd into value by the sun, Distill for ever on the streams below: The limpid streams their radiant treasure show, Mixt in the sand; whence the rich drops convey'd Shine in the dress of the bright Latian maid. The Transformation of Cycnus into a Swan Cycnus beheld the nymphs transform'd, ally'd To their dead brother on the mortal side, In friendship and affection nearer bound; He left the cities and the realms he own'd, Thro' pathless fields and lonely shores to range, And woods made thicker by the sisters' change. Whilst here, within the dismal gloom, alone, The melancholy monarch made his moan, His voice was lessen'd, as he try'd to speak, And issu'd through a long-extended neck; His hair transforms to down, his fingers meet In skinny films, and shape his oary feet; From both his sides the wings and feathers break; And from his mouth proceeds a blunted beak: All Cycnus now into a Swan was turn'd, Who, still remembring how his kinsman burn'd, To solitary pools and lakes retires, And loves the waters as oppos'd to fires. Mean-while Apollo in a gloomy shade (The native lustre of his brows decay'd) Indulging sorrow, sickens at the sight Of his own sun-shine, and abhors the light; The hidden griefs, that in his bosom rise, Sadden his looks and over-cast his eyes, As when some dusky orb obstructs his ray, And sullies in a dim eclipse the day. Now secretly with inward griefs he pin'd, Now warm resentments to his griefs he joyn'd, And now renounc'd his office to mankind. "Ere since the birth of time," said he, "I've born A long ungrateful toil, without return; Let now some other manage, if he dare, The fiery steeds, and mount the burning carr; Or, if none else, let Jove his fortune try, And learn to lay his murd'ring thunder by; Then will he own, perhaps, but own too late, My son deserv'd not so severe a fate." The Gods stand round him, as he mourns, and pray He would resume the conduct of the day, Nor let the world be lost in endless night: Jove too himself descending from his height, Excuses what had happen'd, and intreats, Majestically mixing pray'rs and threats. Prevail'd upon at length, again he took The harness'd steeds, that still with horror shook, And plies 'em with the lash, and whips 'em on, And, as he whips, upbraids 'em with his son. The Story of Calisto The day was settled in its course; and Jove Walk'd the wide circuit of the Heavens above, To search if any cracks or flaws were made; But all was safe: the Earth he then survey'd, And cast an eye on ev'ry diff'rent coast, And ev'ry land; but on Arcadia most. Her fields he cloath'd, and chear'd her blasted face With running fountains, and with springing grass. No tracks of Heav'n's destructive fire remain, The fields and woods revive, and Nature smiles again. But as the God walk'd to and fro the Earth, And rais'd the plants, and gave the spring its birth, By chance a fair Arcadian nymph he view'd, And felt the lovely charmer in his blood. The nymph nor spun, nor dress'd with artful pride, Her vest was gather'd up, her hair was ty'd; Now in her hand a slender spear she bore, Now a light quiver on her shoulders wore; To chaste Diana from her youth inclin'd, The sprightly warriors of the wood she joyn'd. Diana too the gentle huntress lov'd, Nor was there one of all the nymphs that rov'd O'er Maenalus, amid the maiden throng, More favour'd once; but favour lasts not long. The sun now shone in all its strength, and drove The heated virgin panting to a grove; The grove around a grateful shadow cast: She dropt her arrows, and her bow unbrac'd; She flung her self on the cool grassy bed; And on the painted quiver rais'd her head, Jove saw the charming huntress unprepar'd, Stretch'd on the verdant turf, without a guard. "Here I am safe," he cries, "from Juno's eye; Or shou'd my jealous queen the theft descry, Yet wou'd I venture on a theft like this, And stand her rage for such, for such a bliss!" Diana's shape and habit strait he took, Soften'd his brows, and smooth'd his awful look, And mildly in a female accent spoke. "How fares my girl? How went the morning chase?" To whom the virgin, starting from the grass, "All hail, bright deity, whom I prefer To Jove himself, tho' Jove himself were here." The God was nearer than she thought, and heard Well-pleas'd himself before himself preferr'd. He then salutes her with a warm embrace; And, e're she half had told the morning chase, With love enflam'd, and eager on his bliss, Smother'd her words, and stop'd her with a kiss; His kisses with unwonted ardour glow'd, Nor cou'd Diana's shape conceal the God. The virgin did whate'er a virgin cou'd (Sure Juno must have pardon'd, had she view'd); With all her might against his force she strove; But how can mortal maids contend with Jove? Possest at length of what his heart desir'd, Back to his Heav'ns, th' exulting God retir'd. The lovely huntress, rising from the grass, With down-cast eyes, and with a blushing face, By shame confounded, and by fear dismay'd, Flew from the covert of the guilty shade, And almost, in the tumult of her mind, Left her forgotten bow and shafts behind. But now Diana, with a sprightly train Of quiver'd virgins, bounding o'er the plain, Call'd to the nymph; the nymph began to fear A second fraud, a Jove disguis'd in her; But, when she saw the sister nymphs, suppress'd Her rising fears, and mingled with the rest. How in the look does conscious guilt appear! Slowly she mov'd, and loiter'd in the rear; Nor lightly tripp'd, nor by the Goddess ran, As once she us'd, the foremost of the train. Her looks were flush'd, and sullen was her mien, That sure the virgin Goddess (had she been Aught but a virgin) must the guilt have seen. 'Tis said the nymphs saw all, and guess'd aright: And now the moon had nine times lost her light, When Dian, fainting in the mid-day beams, Found a cool covert, and refreshing streams That in soft murmurs through the forest flow'd, And a smooth bed of shining gravel show'd. A covert so obscure, and streams so clear, The Goddess prais'd: "And now no spies are near Let's strip, my gentle maids, and wash," she cries. Pleas'd with the motion, every maid complies; Only the blushing huntress stood confus'd, And form'd delays, and her delays excus'd; In vain excus'd: her fellows round her press'd, And the reluctant nymph by force undress'd, The naked huntress all her shame reveal'd, In vain her hands the pregnant womb conceal'd; "Begone!" the Goddess cries with stern disdain, "Begone! nor dare the hallow'd stream to stain": She fled, for ever banish'd from the train. This Juno heard, who long had watch'd her time To punish the detested rival's crime; The time was come; for, to enrage her more, A lovely boy the teeming rival bore. The Goddess cast a furious look, and cry'd, "It is enough! I'm fully satisfy'd! This boy shall stand a living mark, to prove My husband's baseness and the strumpet's love: But vengeance shall awake: those guilty charms That drew the Thunderer from Juno's arms, No longer shall their wonted force retain, Nor please the God, nor make the mortal vain." This said, her hand within her hair she wound, Swung her to Earth, and drag'd her on the ground: The prostrate wretch lifts up her arms in pray'r; Her arms grow shaggy, and deform'd with hair, Her nails are sharpen'd into pointed claws, Her hands bear half her weight, and turn to paws; Her lips, that once cou'd tempt a God, begin To grow distorted in an ugly grin. And, lest the supplicating brute might reach The ears of Jove, she was depriv'd of speech: Her surly voice thro' a hoarse passage came In savage sounds: her mind was still the same, The furry monster fix'd her eyes above, And heav'd her new unwieldy paws to Jove, And beg'd his aid with inward groans; and tho' She could not call him false, she thought him so. How did she fear to lodge in woods alone, And haunt the fields and meadows, once her own! How often wou'd the deep-mouth'd dogs pursue, Whilst from her hounds the frighted huntress flew! How did she fear her fellow-brutes, and shun The shaggy bear, tho' now her self was one! How from the sight of rugged wolves retire, Although the grim Lycaon was her sire! But now her son had fifteen summers told, Fierce at the chase, and in the forest bold; When, as he beat the woods in quest of prey, He chanc'd to rouze his mother where she lay. She knew her son, and kept him in her sight, And fondly gaz'd: the boy was in a fright, And aim'd a pointed arrow at her breast, And would have slain his mother in the beast; But Jove forbad, and snatch'd 'em through the air In whirlwinds up to Heav'n, and fix'd 'em there! Where the new constellations nightly rise, And add a lustre to the northern skies. When Juno saw the rival in her height, Spangled with stars, and circled round with light, She sought old Ocean in his deep abodes, And Tethys, both rever'd among the Gods. They ask what brings her there: "Ne'er ask," says she, "What brings me here, Heav'n is no place for me. You'll see, when night has cover'd all things o'er, Jove's starry bastard and triumphant whore Usurp the Heav'ns; you'll see 'em proudly rowle And who shall now on Juno's altars wait, When those she hates grow greater by her hate? I on the nymph a brutal form impress'd, Jove to a goddess has transform'd the beast; This, this was all my weak revenge could do: But let the God his chaste amours pursue, And, as he acted after Io's rape, Restore th' adultress to her former shape; Then may he cast his Juno off, and lead The great Lycaon's offspring to his bed. But you, ye venerable Pow'rs, be kind, And, if my wrongs a due resentment find, Receive not in your waves their setting beams, Nor let the glaring strumpet taint your streams." The Goddess ended, and her wish was giv'n. Back she return'd in triumph up to Heav'n; Her gawdy peacocks drew her through the skies. Their tails were spotted with a thousand eyes; The eyes of Argus on their tails were rang'd, At the same time the raven's colour chang'd. The Story of Coronis, and Birth of Aesculapius The raven once in snowy plumes was drest, White as the whitest dove's unsully'd breast, Fair as the guardian of the Capitol, Soft as the swan; a large and lovely fowl; His tongue, his prating tongue had chang'd him quite To sooty blackness, from the purest white. The story of his change shall here be told; In Thessaly there liv'd a nymph of old, Coronis nam'd; a peerless maid she shin'd, Confest the fairest of the fairer kind. Apollo lov'd her, 'till her guilt he knew, While true she was, or whilst he thought her true. But his own bird the raven chanc'd to find The false one with a secret rival joyn'd. Coronis begg'd him to suppress the tale, But could not with repeated pray'rs prevail. His milk-white pinions to the God he ply'd; The busy daw flew with him, side by side, And by a thousand teizing questions drew Th' important secret from him as they flew. The daw gave honest counsel, tho' despis'd, And, tedious in her tattle, thus advis'd: "Stay, silly bird, th' ill-natur'd task refuse, Nor be the bearer of unwelcome news. Be warn'd by my example: you discern What now I am, and what I was shall learn. My foolish honesty was all my crime; Then hear my story. Once upon a time, The two-shap'd Ericthonius had his birth (Without a mother) from the teeming Earth; Minerva nurs'd him, and the infant laid Within a chest, of twining osiers made. The daughters of king Cecrops undertook To guard the chest, commanded not to look On what was hid within. I stood to see The charge obey'd, perch'd on a neighb'ring tree. The sisters Pandrosos and Herse keep The strict command; Aglauros needs would peep, And saw the monstrous infant, in a fright, And call'd her sisters to the hideous sight: A boy's soft shape did to the waste prevail, But the boy ended in a dragon's tail. I told the stern Minerva all that pass'd; But for my pains, discarded and disgrac'd, The frowning Goddess drove me from her sight, And for her fav'rite chose the bird of night. Be then no tell-tale; for I think my wrong Enough to teach a bird to hold her tongue. But you, perhaps, may think I was remov'd, As never by the heav'nly maid belov'd: But I was lov'd; ask Pallas if I lye; Tho' Pallas hate me now, she won't deny: For I, whom in a feather'd shape you view, Was once a maid (by Heav'n the story's true) A blooming maid, and a king's daughter too. A crowd of lovers own'd my beauty's charms; My beauty was the cause of all my harms; Neptune, as on his shores I wont to rove, Observ'd me in my walks, and fell in love. He made his courtship, he confess'd his pain, And offer'd force, when all his arts were vain; Swift he pursu'd: I ran along the strand, 'Till, spent and weary'd on the sinking sand, I shriek'd aloud, with cries I fill'd the air To Gods and men; nor God nor man was there: A virgin Goddess heard a virgin's pray'r. For, as my arms I lifted to the skies, I saw black feathers from my fingers rise; I strove to fling my garment on the ground; My garment turn'd to plumes, and girt me round: My hands to beat my naked bosom try; Nor naked bosom now nor hands had I: Lightly I tript, nor weary as before Sunk in the sand, but skim'd along the shore; 'Till, rising on my wings, I was preferr'd To be the chaste Minerva's virgin bird: Preferr'd in vain! I am now in disgrace: Nyctimene the owl enjoys my place. On her incestuous life I need not dwell (In Lesbos still the horrid tale they tell), And of her dire amours you must have heard, For which she now does penance in a bird, That conscious of her shame, avoids the light, And loves the gloomy cov'ring of the night; The birds, where-e'er she flutters, scare away The hooting wretch, and drive her from the day." The raven, urg'd by such impertinence, Grew passionate, it seems, and took offence, And curst the harmless daw; the daw withdrew: The raven to her injur'd patron flew, And found him out, and told the fatal truth Of false Coronis and the favour'd youth. The God was wroth, the colour left his look, The wreath his head, the harp his hand forsook: His silver bow and feather'd shafts he took, And lodg'd an arrow in the tender breast, That had so often to his own been prest. Down fell the wounded nymph, and sadly groan'd, And pull'd his arrow reeking from the wound; And weltring in her blood, thus faintly cry'd, "Ah cruel God! tho' I have justly dy'd, What has, alas! my unborn infant done, That he should fall, and two expire in one?" This said, in agonies she fetch'd her breath. The God dissolves in pity at her death; He hates the bird that made her falshood known, And hates himself for what himself had done; The feather'd shaft, that sent her to the Fates, And his own hand, that sent the shaft, he hates. Fain would he heal the wound, and ease her pain, And tries the compass of his art in vain. Soon as he saw the lovely nymph expire, The pile made ready, and the kindling fire. With sighs and groans her obsequies he kept, And, if a God could weep, the God had wept. Her corps he kiss'd, and heav'nly incense brought, And solemniz'd the death himself had wrought. But lest his offspring should her fate partake, Spight of th' immortal mixture in his make, He ript her womb, and set the child at large, And gave him to the centaur Chiron's charge: Then in his fury black'd the raven o'er, And bid him prate in his white plumes no more. Ocyrrhoe transform'd into a Mare Old Chiron took the babe with secret joy, Proud of the charge of the celestial boy. His daughter too, whom on the sandy shore The nymph Charicle to the centaur bore, With hair dishevel'd on her shoulders, came To see the child, Ocyrrhoe was her name; She knew her father's arts, and could rehearse The depths of prophecy in sounding verse. Once, as the sacred infant she survey'd, The God was kindled in the raving maid, And thus she utter'd her prophetick tale: "Hail, great physician of the world, all-hail; Hail, mighty infant, who in years to come Shalt heal the nations, and defraud the tomb; Swift be thy growth! thy triumphs unconfin'd! Make kingdoms thicker, and increase mankind. Thy daring art shall animate the dead, And draw the thunder on thy guilty head: Then shalt thou dye, but from the dark abode Rise up victorious, and be twice a God. And thou, my sire, not destin'd by thy birth To turn to dust, and mix with common earth, How wilt thou toss, and rave, and long to dye, And quit thy claim to immortality; When thou shalt feel, enrag'd with inward pains, The Hydra's venom rankling in thy veins? The Gods, in pity, shall contract thy date, And give thee over to the pow'r of Fate." Thus entring into destiny, the maid The secrets of offended Jove betray'd: More had she still to say; but now appears Oppress'd with sobs and sighs, and drown'd in tears. "My voice," says she, "is gone, my language fails; Through ev'ry limb my kindred shape prevails: Why did the God this fatal gift impart, And with prophetick raptures swell my heart! What new desires are these? I long to pace O'er flow'ry meadows, and to feed on grass; I hasten to a brute, a maid no more; But why, alas! am I transform'd all o'er? My sire does half a human shape retain, And in his upper parts preserve the man." Her tongue no more distinct complaints affords, But in shrill accents and mis-shapen words Pours forth such hideous wailings, as declare The human form confounded in the mare: 'Till by degrees accomplish'd in the beast, She neigh'd outright, and all the steed exprest. Her stooping body on her hands is born, Her hands are turn'd to hoofs, and shod in horn, Her yellow tresses ruffle in a mane, And in a flowing tail she frisks her train, The mare was finish'd in her voice and look, And a new name from the new figure took. The Transformation of Battus to a Touch stone Sore wept the centuar, and to Phoebus pray'd; But how could Phoebus give the centaur aid? Degraded of his pow'r by angry Jove, In Elis then a herd of beeves he drove; And wielded in his hand a staff of oak, And o'er his shoulders threw the shepherd's cloak; On sev'n compacted reeds he us'd to play, And on his rural pipe to waste the day. As once attentive to his pipe he play'd, The crafty Hermes from the God convey'd A drove, that sep'rate from their fellows stray'd. The theft an old insidious peasant view'd (They call'd him Battus in the neighbourhood), Hir'd by a vealthy Pylian prince to feed His fav'rite mares, and watch the gen'rous breed. The thievish God suspected him, and took The hind aside, and thus in whispers spoke: "Discover not the theft, whoe'er thou be, And take that milk-white heifer for thy fee." "Go, stranger," cries the clown, "securely on, That stone shall sooner tell," and show'd a stone. The God withdrew, but strait return'd again, In speech and habit like a country swain; And cries out, "Neighbour, hast thou seen a stray Of bullocks and of heifers pass this way? In the recov'ry of my cattle join, A bullock and a heifer shall be thine." The peasant quick replies, "You'll find 'em there In yon dark vale"; and in the vale they were. The double bribe had his false heart beguil'd: The God, successful in the tryal, smil'd; "And dost thou thus betray my self to me? Me to my self dost thou betray?" says he: Then to a Touch stone turns the faithless spy; And in his name records his infamy. The Story of Aglauros, transform'd into a Statue This done, the God flew up on high, and pass'd O'er lofty Athens, by Minerva grac'd, And wide Munichia, whilst his eyes survey All the vast region that beneath him lay. 'Twas now the feast, when each Athenian maid Her yearly homage to Minerva paid; In canisters, with garlands cover'd o'er, High on their heads, their mystick gifts they bore: And now, returning in a solemn train, The troop of shining virgins fill'd the plain. The God well pleas'd beheld the pompous show, And saw the bright procession pass below; Then veer'd about, and took a wheeling flight, And hover'd o'er them: as the spreading kite, That smells the slaughter'd victim from on high, Flies at a distance, if the priests are nigh, And sails around, and keeps it in her eye: So kept the God the virgin quire in view, And in slow winding circles round them flew. As Lucifer excells the meanest star, Or, as the full-orb'd Phoebe, Lucifer; So much did Herse all the rest outvy, And gave a grace to the solemnity. Hermes was fir'd, as in the clouds he hung: So the cold bullet, that with fury slung From Balearick engines mounts on high, Glows in the whirl, and burns along the sky. At length he pitch'd upon the ground, and show'd The form divine, the features of a God. He knew their vertue o'er a female heart, And yet he strives to better them by art. He hangs his mantle loose, and sets to show The golden edging on the seam below; Adjusts his flowing curls, and in his hand Waves, with an air, the sleep-procuring wand; The glitt'ring sandals to his feet applies, And to each heel the well-trim'd pinion ties. His ornaments with nicest art display'd, He seeks th' apartment of the royal maid. The roof was all with polish'd iv'ry lin'd, That richly mix'd, in clouds of tortoise shin'd. Three rooms, contiguous, in a range were plac'd, The midmost by the beauteous Herse grac'd; Her virgin sisters lodg'd on either side. Aglauros first th' approaching God descry'd, And, as he cross'd her chamber, ask'd his name, And what his business was, and whence he came. "I come," reply'd the God, "from Heav'n, to woo Your sister, and to make an aunt of you; I am the son and messenger of Jove; My name is Mercury, my bus'ness love; Do you, kind damsel, take a lover's part, And gain admittance to your sister's heart." She star'd him in the face with looks amaz'd, As when she on Minerva's secret gaz'd, And asks a mighty treasure for her hire; And, 'till he brings it, makes the God retire. Minerva griev'd to see the nymph succeed; And now remembring the late impious deed, When, disobedient to her strict command, She touch'd the chest with an unhallow'd hand; In big-swoln sighs her inward rage express'd, That heav'd the rising Aegis on her breast; Then sought out Envy in her dark abode, Defil'd with ropy gore and clots of blood: Shut from the winds, and from the wholesome skies, In a deep vale the gloomy dungeon lies, Dismal and cold, where not a beam of light Invades the winter, or disturbs the night. Directly to the cave her course she steer'd; Against the gates her martial lance she rear'd; The gates flew open, and the fiend appear'd. A pois'nous morsel in her teeth she chew'd, And gorg'd the flesh of vipers for her food. Minerva loathing turn'd away her eye; The hideous monster, rising heavily, Came stalking forward with a sullen pace, And left her mangled offals on the place. Soon as she saw the goddess gay and bright, She fetch'd a groan at such a chearful sight. Livid and meagre were her looks, her eye In foul distorted glances turn'd awry; A hoard of gall her inward parts possess'd, And spread a greenness o'er her canker'd breast; Her teeth were brown with rust, and from her tongue, In dangling drops, the stringy poison hung. She never smiles but when the wretched weep, Nor lulls her malice with a moment's sleep, Restless in spite: while watchful to destroy, She pines and sickens at another's joy; Foe to her self, distressing and distrest, She bears her own tormentor in her breast. The Goddess gave (for she abhorr'd her sight) A short command: "To Athens speed thy flight; On curst Aglauros try thy utmost art, And fix thy rankest venoms in her heart." This said, her spear she push'd against the ground, And mounting from it with an active bound, Flew off to Heav'n: the hag with eyes askew Look'd up, and mutter'd curses as she flew; For sore she fretted, and began to grieve At the success which she her self must give. Then takes her staff, hung round with wreaths of thorn, And sails along, in a black whirlwind born, O'er fields and flow'ry meadows: where she steers Her baneful course, a mighty blast appears, Mildews and blights; the meadows are defac'd, The fields, the flow'rs, and the whole years laid waste: On mortals next, and peopled towns she falls, And breathes a burning plague among their walls. When Athens she beheld, for arts renown'd, With peace made happy, and with plenty crown'd, Scarce could the hideous fiend from tears forbear, To find out nothing that deserv'd a tear. Th' apartment now she enter'd, where at rest Aglauros lay, with gentle sleep opprest. To execute Minerva's dire command, She stroak'd the virgin with her canker'd hand, Then prickly thorns into her breast convey'd, That stung to madness the devoted maid: Her subtle venom still improves the smart, Frets in the blood, and festers in the heart. To make the work more sure, a scene she drew, And plac'd before the dreaming virgin's view Her sister's marriage, and her glorious fate: Th' imaginary bride appears in state; The bride-groom with unwonted beauty glows: For envy magnifies what-e'er she shows. Full of the dream, Aglauros pin'd away In tears all night, in darkness all the day; Consum'd like ice, that just begins to run, When feebly smitten by the distant sun; Or like unwholsome weeds, that set on fire Are slowly wasted, and in smoke expire. Giv'n up to envy (for in ev'ry thought The thorns, the venom, and the vision wrought) Oft did she call on death, as oft decreed, Rather than see her sister's wish succeed, To tell her awfull father what had past: At length before the door her self she cast; And, sitting on the ground with sullen pride, A passage to the love-sick God deny'd. The God caress'd, and for admission pray'd, And sooth'd in softest words th' envenom'd maid. In vain he sooth'd: "Begone!" the maid replies, "Or here I keep my seat, and never rise." "Then keep thy seat for ever," cries the God, And touch'd the door, wide op'ning to his rod. Fain would she rise, and stop him, but she found Her trunk too heavy to forsake the ground; Her joynts are all benum'd, her hands are pale, And marble now appears in ev'ry nail. As when a cancer in the body feeds, And gradual death from limb to limb proceeds; So does the chilness to each vital parte Spread by degrees, and creeps into her heart; 'Till hard'ning ev'ry where, and speechless grown, She sits unmov'd, and freezes to a stone. But still her envious hue and sullen mien Are in the sedentary figure seen. Europa's Rape When now the God his fury had allay'd, And taken vengeance of the stubborn maid, From where the bright Athenian turrets rise He mounts aloft, and re-ascends the skies. Jove saw him enter the sublime abodes, And, as he mix'd among the crowd of Gods, Beckon'd him out, and drew him from the rest, And in soft whispers thus his will exprest. "My trusty Hermes, by whose ready aid Thy sire's commands are through the world convey'd. Resume thy wings, exert their utmost force, And to the walls of Sidon speed thy course; There find a herd of heifers wand'ring o'er The neighb'ring hill, and drive 'em to the shore." Thus spoke the God, concealing his intent. The trusty Hermes, on his message went, And found the herd of heifers wand'ring o'er A neighb'ring hill, and drove 'em to the shore; Where the king's daughter, with a lovely train Of fellow-nymphs, was sporting on the plain. The dignity of empire laid aside, (For love but ill agrees with kingly pride) The ruler of the skies, the thund'ring God, Who shakes the world's foundations with a nod, Among a herd of lowing heifers ran, Frisk'd in a bull, and bellow'd o'er the plain. Large rowles of fat about his shoulders clung, And from his neck the double dewlap hung. His skin was whiter than the snow that lies Unsully'd by the breath of southern skies; Small shining horns on his curl'd forehead stand, As turn'd and polish'd by the work-man's hand; His eye-balls rowl'd, not formidably bright, But gaz'd and languish'd with a gentle light. His ev'ry look was peaceful, and exprest The softness of the lover in the beast. Agenor's royal daughter, as she plaid Among the fields, the milk-white bull survey'd, And view'd his spotless body with delight, And at a distance kept him in her sight. At length she pluck'd the rising flow'rs, and fed The gentle beast, and fondly stroak'd his head. He stood well-pleas'd to touch the charming fair, But hardly could confine his pleasure there. And now he wantons o'er the neighb'ring strand, Now rowls his body on the yellow sand; And, now perceiving all her fears decay'd, Comes tossing forward to the royal maid; Gives her his breast to stroke, and downward turns His grizly brow, and gently stoops his horns. In flow'ry wreaths the royal virgin drest His bending horns, and kindly clapt his breast. 'Till now grown wanton and devoid of fear, Not knowing that she prest the Thunderer, She plac'd her self upon his back, and rode O'er fields and meadows, seated on the God. He gently march'd along, and by degrees Left the dry meadow, and approach'd the seas; Where now he dips his hoofs and wets his thighs, Now plunges in, and carries off the prize. The frighted nymph looks backward on the shoar, And hears the tumbling billows round her roar; But still she holds him fast: one hand is born Upon his back; the other grasps a horn: Her train of ruffling garments flies behind, Swells in the air, and hovers in the wind. Through storms and tempests he the virgin bore, And lands her safe on the Dictean shore; Where now, in his divinest form array'd, In his true shape he captivates the maid; Who gazes on him, and with wond'ring eyes Beholds the new majestick figure rise, His glowing features, and celestial light, And all the God discover'd to her sight. ---------------------------------------------------------------------- ~ Ovid, BOOK THE SECOND ,

852:BOOK THE SEVENTH The Story of Medea and Jason The Argonauts now stemm'd the foaming tide, And to Arcadia's shore their course apply'd; Where sightless Phineus spent his age in grief, But Boreas' sons engage in his relief; And those unwelcome guests, the odious race Of Harpyes, from the monarch's table chase. With Jason then they greater toils sustain, And Phasis' slimy banks at last they gain, Here boldly they demand the golden prize Of Scythia's king, who sternly thus replies: That mighty labours they must first o'ercome, Or sail their Argo thence unfreighted home. Meanwhile Medea, seiz'd with fierce desire, By reason strives to quench the raging fire; But strives in vain!- Some God (she said) withstands, And reason's baffl'd council countermands. What unseen Pow'r does this disorder move? 'Tis love,- at least 'tis like, what men call love. Else wherefore shou'd the king's commands appear To me too hard?- But so indeed they are. Why shou'd I for a stranger fear, lest he Shou'd perish, whom I did but lately see? His death, or safety, what are they to me? Wretch, from thy virgin-breast this flame expel, And soon- Oh cou'd I, all wou'd then be well! But love, resistless love, my soul invades; Discretion this, affection that perswades. I see the right, and I approve it too, Condemn the wrong- and yet the wrong pursue. Why, royal maid, shou'dst thou desire to wed A wanderer, and court a foreign bed? Thy native land, tho' barb'rous, can present A bridegroom worth a royal bride's content: And whether this advent'rer lives, or dies, In Fate, and Fortune's fickle pleasure lies. Yet may be live! for to the Pow'rs above, A virgin, led by no impulse of love, So just a suit may, for the guiltless, move. Whom wou'd not Jason's valour, youth and blood Invite? or cou'd these merits be withstood, At least his charming person must encline The hardest heart- I'm sure 'tis so with mine! Yet, if I help him not, the flaming breath Of bulls, and earth-born foes, must be his death. Or, should he through these dangers force his way, At last he must be made the dragon's prey. If no remorse for such distress I feel, I am a tigress, and my breast is steel. Why do I scruple then to see him slain, And with the tragick scene my eyes prophane? My magick's art employ, not to asswage The Salvages, but to enflame their rage? His earth-born foes to fiercer fury move, And accessary to his murder prove? The Gods forbid- But pray'rs are idle breath, When action only can prevent his death. Shall I betray my father, and the state, To intercept a rambling hero's fate; Who may sail off next hour, and sav'd from harms By my assistance, bless another's arms? Whilst I, not only of my hopes bereft, But to unpity'd punishment am left. If he is false, let the ingrateful bleed! But no such symptom in his looks I read. Nature wou'd ne'er have lavish'd so much grace Upon his person, if his soul were base. Besides, he first shall plight his faith, and swear By all the Gods; what therefore can'st thou fear? Medea haste, from danger set him free, Jason shall thy eternal debtor be. And thou, his queen, with sov'raign state enstall'd, By Graecian dames the Kind Preserver call'd. Hence idle dreams, by love-sick fancy bred! Wilt thou, Medea, by vain wishes led, To sister, brother, father bid adieu? Forsake thy country's Gods, and country too? My father's harsh, my brother but a child, My sister rivals me, my country's wild; And for its Gods, the greatest of 'em all Inspires my breast, and I obey his call. That great endearments I forsake, is true, But greater far the hopes that I pursue: The pride of having sav'd the youths of Greece (Each life more precious than our golden fleece); A nobler soil by me shall be possest, I shall see towns with arts and manners blest; And, what I prize above the world beside, Enjoy my Jason- and when once his bride, Be more than mortal, and to Gods ally'd. They talk of hazards I must first sustain, Of floating islands justling in the main; Our tender barque expos'd to dreadful shocks Of fierce Charybdis' gulf, and Scylla's rocks, Where breaking waves in whirling eddies rowl, And rav'nous dogs that in deep caverns howl: Amidst these terrors, while I lye possest Of him I love, and lean on Jason's breast, In tempests unconcern'd I will appear, Or, only for my husband's safety fear. Didst thou say husband?- canst thou so deceive Thy self, fond maid, and thy own cheat believe? In vain thou striv'st to varnish o'er thy shame, And grace thy guilt with wedlock's sacred name. Pull off the coz'ning masque, and oh! in time Discover and avoid the fatal crime. She ceas'd- the Graces now, with kind surprize, And virtue's lovely train, before her eyes Present themselves, and vanquish'd Cupid flies. She then retires to Hecate's shrine, that stood Far in the covert of a shady wood: She finds the fury of her flames asswag'd, But, seeing Jason there, again they rag'd. Blushes, and paleness did by turns invade Her tender cheeks, and secret grief betray'd. As fire, that sleeping under ashes lyes, Fresh-blown, and rous'd, does up in blazes rise, So flam'd the virgin's breast- New kindled by her lover's sparkling eyes. For chance, that day, had with uncommon grace Adorn'd the lovely youth, and through his face Display'd an air so pleasing as might charm A Goddess, and a Vestal's bosom warm. Her ravish'd eyes survey him o'er and o'er, As some gay wonder never seen before; Transported to the skies she seems to be, And thinks she gazes on a deity. But when he spoke, and prest her trembling hand, And did with tender words her aid demand, With vows, and oaths to make her soon his bride, She wept a flood of tears, and thus reply'd: I see my error, yet to ruin move, Nor owe my fate to ignorance, but love: Your life I'll guard, and only crave of you To swear once more- and to your oath be true. He swears by Hecate he would all fulfil, And by her grandfa ther's prophetick skill, By ev'ry thing that doubting love cou'd press, His present danger, and desir'd success. She credits him, and kindly does produce Enchanted herbs, and teaches him their use: Their mystick names, and virtues he admires, And with his booty joyfully retires. The Dragon's Teeth transform'd to Men Impatient for the wonders of the day, Aurora drives the loyt'ring stars away. Now Mars's mount the pressing people fill, The crowd below, the nobles crown the hill; The king himself high-thron'd above the rest, With iv'ry scepter, and in purple drest. Forthwith the brass-hoof'd bulls are set at large, Whose furious nostrils sulph'rous flame discharge: The blasted herbage by their breath expires; As forges rumble with excessive fires, And furnaces with fiercer fury glow, When water on the panting mass ye throw; With such a noise, from their convulsive breast, Thro' bellowing throats, the struggling vapour prest. Yet Jason marches up without concern, While on th' advent'rous youth the monsters turn Their glaring eyes, and, eager to engage, Brandish their steel-tipt horns in threatning rage: With brazen hoofs they beat the ground, and choak The ambient air with clouds of dust and smoak: Each gazing Graecian for his champion shakes, While bold advances he securely makes Thro' sindging blasts; such wonders magick art Can work, when love conspires, and plays his part. The passive savages like statues stand, While he their dew-laps stroaks with soothing hand; To unknown yokes their brawny necks they yield, And, like tame oxen, plow the wond'ring field. The Colchians stare; the Graecians shout, and raise Their champion's courage with inspiring praise. Embolden'd now, on fresh attempts he goes, With serpent's teeth the fertile furrows sows; The glebe, fermenting with inchanted juice, Makes the snake's teeth a human crop produce. For as an infant, pris'ner to the womb, Contented sleeps, 'till to perfection come, Then does the cell's obscure confinement scorn, He tosses, throbs, and presses to be born; So from the lab'ring Earth no single birth, But a whole troop of lusty youths rush forth; And, what's more strange, with martial fury warm'd, And for encounter all compleatly arm'd; In rank and file, as they were sow'd, they stand, Impatient for the signal of command. No foe but the Aemonian youth appears; At him they level their steel-pointed spears; His frighted friends, who triumph'd, just before, With peals of sighs his desp'rate case deplore: And where such hardy warriors are afraid, What must the tender, and enamour'd maid? Her spirits sink, the blood her cheek forsook; She fears, who for his safety undertook: She knew the vertue of the spells she gave, She knew the force, and knew her lover brave; But what's a single champion to an host? Yet scorning thus to see him tamely lost, Her strong reserve of secret arts she brings, And last, her never-failing song she sings. Wonders ensue; among his gazing foes The massy fragment of a rock he throws; This charm in civil war engag'd 'em all; By mutual wounds those Earth-born brothers fall. The Greeks, transported with the strange success, Leap from their seats the conqu'ror to caress; Commend, and kiss, and clasp him in their arms: So would the kind contriver of the charms; But her, who felt the tenderest concern, Honour condemns in secret flames to burn; Committed to a double guard of fame, Aw'd by a virgin's, and a princess' name. But thoughts are free, and fancy unconfin'd, She kisses, courts, and hugs him in her mind; To fav'ring Pow'rs her silent thanks she gives, By whose indulgence her lov'd hero lives. One labour more remains, and, tho' the last, In danger far surmounting all the past; That enterprize by Fates in store was kept, To make the dragon sleep that never slept, Whose crest shoots dreadful lustre; from his jaws A tripple tire of forked stings he draws, With fangs, and wings of a prodigious size: Such was the guardian of the golden prize. Yet him, besprinkled with Lethaean dew, The fair inchantress into slumber threw; And then, to fix him, thrice she did repeat The rhyme, that makes the raging winds retreat, In stormy seas can halcyon seasons make, Turn rapid streams into a standing lake; While the soft guest his drowzy eye-lids seals, Th' ungarded golden fleece the stranger steals; Proud to possess the purchase of his toil, Proud of his royal bride, the richer spoil; To sea both prize, and patroness he bore, And lands triumphant on his native shore. Old Aeson restor'd to Youth Aemonian matrons, who their absence mourn'd, Rejoyce to see their prosp'rous sons return'd: Rich curling fumes of incense feast the skies, An hecatomb of voted victims dies, With gilded horns, and garlands on their head, And all the pomp of death, to th' altar led. Congratulating bowls go briskly round, Triumphant shouts in louder musick drown'd. Amidst these revels, why that cloud of care On Jason's brow? (to whom the largest share Of mirth was due)- His father was not there. Aeson was absent, once the young, and brave, Now crush'd with years, and bending to the grave. At last withdrawn, and by the crowd unseen, Pressing her hand (with starting sighs between), He supplicates his kind, and skilful queen. O patroness! preserver of my life! (Dear when my mistress, and much dearer wife) Your favours to so vast a sum amount, 'Tis past the pow'r of numbers to recount; Or cou'd they be to computation brought, The history would a romance be thought: And yet, unless you add one favour more, Greater than all that you conferr'd before, But not too hard for love and magick skill, Your past are thrown away, and Jason's wretched still. The morning of my life is just begun, But my declining father's race is run; From my large stock retrench the long arrears, And add 'em to expiring Aeson's years. Thus spake the gen'rous youth, and wept the rest. Mov'd with the piety of his request, To his ag'd sire such filial duty shown, So diff'rent from her treatment of her own, But still endeav'ring her remorse to hide, She check'd her rising sighs, and thus reply'd. How cou'd the thought of such inhuman wrong Escape (said she) from pious Jason's tongue? Does the whole world another Jason bear, Whose life Medea can to yours prefer? Or cou'd I with so dire a change dispence, Hecate will never join in that offence: Unjust is the request you make, and I In kindness your petition shall deny; Yet she that grants not what you do implore, Shall yet essay to give her Jason more; Find means t' encrease the stock of Aeson's years, Without retrenchment of your life's arrears; Provided that the triple Goddess join A strong confed'rate in my bold design. Thus was her enterprize resolv'd; but still Three tedious nights are wanting to fulfil The circling crescents of th' encreasing moon; Then, in the height of her nocturnal noon, Medea steals from court; her ankles bare, Her garments closely girt, but loose her hair; Thus sally'd, like a solitary sprite, She traverses the terrors of the night. Men, beasts, and birds in soft repose lay charm'd, No boistrous wind the mountain-woods alarm'd; Nor did those walks of love, the myrtle-trees, Of am'rous Zephir hear the whisp'ring breeze; All elements chain'd in unactive rest, No sense but what the twinkling stars exprest; To them (that only wak'd) she rears her arm, And thus commences her mysterious charms. She turn'd her thrice about, as oft she threw On her pale tresses the nocturnal dew; Then yelling thrice a most enormous sound, Her bare knee bended on the flinty ground. O night (said she) thou confident and guide Of secrets, such as darkness ought to hide; Ye stars and moon, that, when the sun retires, Support his empire with succeeding fires; And thou, great Hecate, friend to my design; Songs, mutt'ring spells, your magick forces join; And thou, O Earth, the magazine that yields The midnight sorcerer drugs; skies, mountains, fields; Ye wat'ry Pow'rs of fountain, stream, and lake; Ye sylvan Gods, and Gods of night, awake, And gen'rously your parts in my adventure take. Oft by your aid swift currents I have led Thro' wand'ring banks, back to their fountain head; Transformed the prospect of the briny deep, Made sleeping billows rave, and raving billows sleep; Made clouds, or sunshine; tempests rise, or fall; And stubborn lawless winds obey my call: With mutter'd words disarm'd the viper's jaw; Up by the roots vast oaks, and rocks cou'd draw, Make forests dance, and trembling mountains come, Like malefactors, to receive their doom; Earth groan, and frighted ghosts forsake their tomb. Thee, Cynthia, my resistless rhymes drew down, When tinkling cymbals strove my voice to drown; Nor stronger Titan could their force sustain, In full career compell'd to stop his wain: Nor could Aurora's virgin blush avail, With pois'nous herbs I turn'd her roses pale; The fury of the fiery bulls I broke, Their stubborn necks submitting to my yoke; And when the sons of Earth with fury burn'd, Their hostile rage upon themselves I turn'd; The brothers made with mutual wounds to bleed, And by their fatal strife my lover freed; And, while the dragon slept, to distant Greece, Thro' cheated guards, convey'd the golden fleece. But now to bolder action I proceed, Of such prevailing juices now have need, That wither'd years back to their bloom can bring, And in dead winter raise a second spring. And you'll perform't- You will; for lo! the stars, with sparkling fires, Presage as bright success to my desires: And now another happy omen see! A chariot drawn by dragons waits for me. With these last words he leaps into the wain, Stroaks the snakes' necks, and shakes the golden rein; That signal giv'n, they mount her to the skies, And now beneath her fruitful Tempe lies, Whose stories she ransacks, then to Crete she flies; There Ossa, Pelion, Othrys, Pindus, all To the fair ravisher, a booty fall; The tri bute of their verdure she collects, Nor proud Olympus' height his plants protects. Some by the roots she plucks; the tender tops Of others with her culling sickle crops. Nor could the plunder of the hills suffice, Down to the humble vales, and meads she flies; Apidanus, Amphrysus, the next rape Sustain, nor could Enipeus' bank escape; Thro' Beebe's marsh, and thro' the border rang'd Whose pasture Glaucus to a Triton chang'd. Now the ninth day, and ninth successive night, Had wonder'd at the restless rover's flight; Mean-while her dragons, fed with no repast, But her exhaling simples od'rous blast, Their tarnish'd scales, and wrinkled skins had cast. At last return'd before her palace gate, Quitting her chariot, on the ground she sate; The sky her only canopy of state. All conversation with her sex she fled, Shun'd the caresses of the nuptial bed: Two altars next of grassy turf she rears, This Hecate's name, that Youth's inscription bears; With forest-boughs, and vervain these she crown'd; Then delves a double trench in lower ground, And sticks a black-fleec'd ram, that ready stood, And drench'd the ditches with devoted blood: New wine she pours, and milk from th' udder warm, With mystick murmurs to compleat the charm, And subterranean deities alarm. To the stern king of ghosts she next apply'd, And gentle Proserpine, his ravish'd bride, That for old Aeson with the laws of Fate They would dispense, and leng then his short date; Thus with repeated pray'rs she long assails Th' infernal tyrant and at last prevails; Then calls to have decrepit Aeson brought, And stupifies him with a sleeping draught; On Earth his body, like a corpse, extends, Then charges Jason and his waiting friends To quit the place, that no unhallow'd eye Into her art's forbidden secrets pry. This done, th' inchantress, with her locks unbound, About her altars trips a frantick round; Piece-meal the consecrated wood she splits, And dips the splinters in the bloody pits, Then hurles 'em on the piles; the sleeping sire She lustrates thrice, with sulphur, water, fire. In a large cauldron now the med'cine boils, Compounded of her late-collected spoils, Blending into the mesh the various pow'rs Of wonder-working juices, roots, and flow'rs; With gems i' th' eastern ocean's cell refin'd, And such as ebbing tides had left behind; To them the midnight's pearly dew she flings, A scretch-owl's carcase, and ill boding wings; Nor could the wizard wolf's warm entrails scape (That wolf who counterfeits a human shape). Then, from the bottom of her conj'ring bag, Snakes' skins, and liver of a long-liv'd stag; Last a crow's head to such an age arriv'd, That he had now nine centuries surviv'd; These, and with these a thousand more that grew In sundry soils, into her pot she threw; Then with a wither'd olive-bough she rakes The bubling broth; the bough fresh verdure takes; Green leaves at first the perish'd plant surround, Which the next minute with ripe fruit were crown'd. The foaming juices now the brink o'er-swell; The barren heath, where-e'er the liquor fell, Sprang out with vernal grass, and all the pride Of blooming May- When this Medea spy'd, She cuts her patient's throat; th' exhausted blood Recruiting with her new enchanted flood; While at his mouth, and thro' his op'ning wound, A double inlet her infusion found; His feeble frame resumes a youthful air, A glossy brown his hoary beard and hair. The meager paleness from his aspect fled, And in its room sprang up a florid red; Thro' all his limbs a youthful vigour flies, His empty'd art'ries swell with fresh supplies: Gazing spectators scarce believe their eyes. But Aeson is the most surpriz'd to find A happy change in body and in mind; In sense and constitution the same man, As when his fortieth active year began. Bacchus, who from the clouds this wonder view'd, Medea's method instantly pursu'd, And his indulgent nurse's youth renew'd. The Death of Pelias Thus far obliging love employ'd her art, But now revenge must act a tragick part; Medea feigns a mortal quarrel bred Betwixt her, and the partner of her bed; On this pretence to Pelias' court she flies, Who languishing with age and sickness lies: His guiltless daughters, with inveigling wiles, And well dissembled friendship, she beguiles: The strange achievements of her art she tells, With Aeson's cure, and long on that she dwells, 'Till them to firm perswasion she has won, The same for their old father may be done: For him they court her to employ her skill, And put upon the cure what price she will. At first she's mute, and with a grave pretence Of difficulty, holds 'em in suspense; Then promises, and bids 'em, from the fold Chuse out a ram, the most infirm and old; That so by fact their doubts may be remov'd, And first on him the operation prov'd. A wreath-horn'd ram is brought, so far o'er-grown With years, his age was to that age unknown Of sense too dull the piercing point to feel, And scarce sufficient blood to stain the steel. His carcass she into a cauldron threw, With drugs whose vital qualities she knew; His limbs grow less, he casts his horns, and years, And tender bleatings strike their wond'ring ears. Then instantly leaps forth a frisking lamb, That seeks (too young to graze) a suckling dam. The sisters, thus confirm'd with the success, Her promise with renew'd entreaty press; To countenance the cheat, three nights and days Before experiment th' inchantress stays; Then into limpid water, from the springs, Weeds, and ingredients of no force she flings; With antique ceremonies for pretence And rambling rhymes without a word of sense. Mean-while the king with all his guards lay bound In magick sleep, scarce that of death so sound; The daughters now are by the sorc'ress led Into his chamber, and surround his bed. Your father's health's concern'd, and can ye stay? Unnat'ral nymphs, why this unkind delay? Unsheath your swords, dismiss his lifeless blood, And I'll recruit it with a vital flood: Your father's life and health is in your hand, And can ye thus like idle gazers stand? Unless you are of common sense bereft, If yet one spark of piety is left, Dispatch a father's cure, and disengage The monarch from his toilsome load of age: Come- drench your weapons in his putrid gore; 'Tis charity to wound, when wounding will restore. Thus urg'd, the poor deluded maids proceed, Betray'd by zeal, to an inhumane deed, And, in compassion, make a father bleed. Yes, she who had the kindest, tend'rest heart, Is foremost to perform the bloody part. Yet, tho' to act the butchery betray'd, They could not bear to see the wounds they made; With looks averted, backward they advance, Then strike, and stab, and leave the blows to chance. Waking in consternation, he essays (Weltring in blood) his feeble arms to raise: Environ'd with so many swords- From whence This barb'rous usage? what is my offence? What fatal fury, what infernal charm, 'Gainst a kind father does his daughters arm? Hearing his voice, as thunder-struck they stopt, Their resolution, and their weapons dropt: Medea then the mortal blow bestows, And that perform'd, the tragick scene to close, His corpse into the boiling cauldron throws. Then, dreading the revenge that must ensue, High mounted on her dragon-coach she flew; And in her stately progress thro' the skies, Beneath her shady Pelion first she spies, With Othrys, that above the clouds did rise; With skilful Chiron's cave, and neighb'ring ground, For old Cerambus' strange escape renown'd, By nymphs deliver'd, when the world was drown'd; Who him with unexpected wings supply'd, When delug'd hills a safe retreat deny'd. Aeolian Pitane on her left hand She saw, and there the statu'd dragon stand; With Ida's grove, where Bacchus, to disguise His son's bold theft, and to secure the prize, Made the stoln steer a stag to represent; Cocytus' father's sandy monument; And fields that held the murder'd sire's remains, Where howling Moera frights the startled plains. Euryphilus' high town, with tow'rs defac'd By Hercules, and matrons more disgrac'd With sprouting horns, in signal punishment, From Juno, or resenting Venus sent. Then Rhodes, which Phoebus did so dearly prize, And Jove no less severely did chastize; For he the wizard native's pois'ning sight, That us'd the farmer's hopeful crops to blight, In rage o'erwhelm'd with everlasting night. Cartheia's ancient walls come next in view, Where once the sire almost a statue grew With wonder, which a strange event did move, His daughter turn'd into a turtle-dove. Then Hyrie's lake, and Tempe's field o'er-ran, Fam'd for the boy who there became a swan; For there enamour'd Phyllius, like a slave, Perform'd what tasks his paramour would crave. For presents he had mountain-vultures caught, And from the desart a tame lion brought; Then a wild bull commanded to subdue, The conquer'd savage by the horns he drew; But, mock'd so oft, the treatment he disdains, And from the craving boy this prize detains. Then thus in choler the resenting lad: Won't you deliver him?- You'll wish you had: Nor sooner said, but, in a peevish mood, Leapt from the precipice on which he stood: The standers-by were struck with fresh surprize, Instead of falling, to behold him rise A snowy swan, and soaring to the skies. But dearly the rash prank his mother cost, Who ignorantly gave her son for lost; For his misfortune wept, 'till she became A lake, and still renown'd with Hyrie's name. Thence to Latona's isle, where once were seen, Transform'd to birds, a monarch, and his queen. Far off she saw how old Cephisus mourn'd His son, into a seele by Phoebus turn'd; And where, astonish'd at a stranger sight, Eumelus gaz'd on his wing'd daughter's flight. Aetolian Pleuron she did next survey, Where sons a mother's murder did essay, But sudden plumes the matron bore away. On her right hand, Cyllene, a fair soil, Fair, 'till Menephron there the beauteous hill Attempted with foul incest to defile. Her harness'd dragons now direct she drives For Corinth, and at Corinth she arrives; Where, if what old tradition tells, be true, In former ages men from mushrooms grew. But here Medea finds her bed supply'd, During her absence, by another bride; And hopeless to recover her lost game, She sets both bride and palace in a flame. Nor could a rival's death her wrath asswage, Nor stopt at Creon's family her rage, She murders her own infants, in despight To faithless Jason, and in Jason's sight; Yet e'er his sword could reach her, up she springs, Securely mounted on her dragon's wings. The Story of Aegeus From hence to Athens she directs her flight, Where Phineus, so renown'd for doing right; Where Periphas, and Polyphemon's neece, Soaring with sudden plumes amaz'd the towns of Greece. Here Aegeus so engaging she addrest, That first he treats her like a royal guest; Then takes the sorc'ress for his wedded wife; The only blemish of his prudent life. Mean-while his son, from actions of renown, Arrives at court, but to his sire unknown. Medea, to dispatch a dang'rous heir (She knew him), did a pois'nous draught prepare; Drawn from a drug, was long reserv'd in store For desp'rate uses, from the Scythian shore; That from the Echydnaean monster's jaws Deriv'd its origin, and this the cause. Thro' a dark cave a craggy passage lies, To ours, ascending from the nether skies; Thro' which, by strength of hand, Alcides drew Chain'd Cerberus, who lagg'd, and restive grew, With his blear'd eyes our brighter day to view. Thrice he repeated his enormous yell, With which he scares the ghosts, and startles Hell; At last outragious (tho' compell'd to yield) He sheds his foam in fury on the field,- Which, with its own, and rankness of the ground, Produc'd a weed, by sorcerers renown'd, The strongest constitution to confound; Call'd Aconite, because it can unlock All bars, and force its passage thro' a rock. The pious father, by her wheedles won, Presents this deadly potion to his son; Who, with the same assurance takes the cup, And to the monarch's health had drank it up, But in the very instant he apply'd The goblet to his lips, old Aegeus spy'd The iv'ry hilted sword that grac'd his side. That certain signal of his son he knew, And snatcht the bowl away; the sword he drew, Resolv'd, for such a son's endanger'd life, To sacrifice the most perfidious wife. Revenge is swift, but her more active charms A whirlwind rais'd, that snatch'd her from his arms. While conjur'd clouds their baffled sense surprize, She vanishes from their deluded eyes, And thro' the hurricane triumphant flies. The gen'rous king, altho' o'er-joy'd to find His son was safe, yet bearing still in mind The mischief by his treach'rous queen design'd; The horrour of the deed, and then how near The danger drew, he stands congeal'd with fear. But soon that fear into devotion turns, With grateful incense ev'ry altar burns; Proud victims, and unconscious of their fate, Stalk to the temple, there to die in state. In Athens never had a day been found For mirth, like that grand festival, renown'd. Promiscuously the peers, and people dine, Promiscuously their thankful voices join, In songs of wit, sublim'd by spritely wine. To list'ning spheres their joint applause they raise, And thus resound their matchless Theseus' praise. Great Theseus! Thee the Marathonian plain Admires, and wears with pride the noble stain Of the dire monster's blood, by valiant Theseus slain. That now Cromyon's swains in safety sow, And reap their fertile field, to thee they owe. By thee th' infested Epidaurian coast Was clear'd, and now can a free commerce boast. The traveller his journey can pursue, With pleasure the late dreadful valley view, And cry, Here Theseus the grand robber slew. Cephysus' cries to his rescu'd shore, The merciless Procrustes is no more. In peace, Eleusis, Ceres' rites renew, Since Theseus' sword the fierce Cercyon slew. By him the tort'rer Sinis was destroy'd, Of strength (but strength to barb'rous use employ'd) That tops of tallest pines to Earth could bend, And thus in pieces wretched captives rend. Inhuman Scyron now has breath'd his last, And now Alcatho's roads securely past; By Theseus slain, and thrown into the deep: But Earth nor Sea his scatter'd bones wou'd keep, Which, after floating long, a rock became, Still infamous with Scyron's hated name. When Fame to count thy acts and years proceeds, Thy years appear but cyphers to thy deeds. For thee, brave youth, as for our common-wealth, We pray; and drink, in yours, the publick health. Your praise the senate, and plebeians sing, With your lov'd name the court, and cottage ring. You make our shepherds and our sailors glad, And not a house in this vast city's sad. But mortal bliss will never come sincere, Pleasure may lead, but grief brings up the rear; While for his sons' arrival, rev'ling joy Aegeus, and all his subjects does employ; While they for only costly feasts prepare, His neighb'ring monarch, Minos, threatens war: Weak in land-forces, nor by sea more strong, But pow'rful in a deep resented wrong For a son's murder, arm'd with pious rage; Yet prudently before he would engage, To raise auxiliaries resolv'd to sail, And with the pow'rful princes to prevail. First Anaphe, then proud Astypalaea gains, By presents that, and this by threats obtains: Low Mycone, Cymolus, chalky soil, Tall Cythnos, Scyros, flat Seriphos' isle; Paros, with marble cliffs afar display'd; Impregnable Sithonia; yet betray'd To a weak foe by a gold-admiring maid, Who, chang'd into a daw of sable hue, Still hoards up gold, and hides it from the view. But as these islands chearfully combine, Others refuse t' embark in his design. Now leftward with an easy sail he bore, And prosp'rous passage to Oenopia's shore; Oenopia once, but now Aegina call'd, And with his royal mother's name install'd By Aeacus, under whose reign did spring The Myrmidons, and now their reigning king. Down to the port, amidst the rabble, run The princes of the blood; with Telamon, Peleus the next, and Phocus the third son: Then Aeacus, altho' opprest with years, To ask the cause of their approach appears. That question does the Gnossian's grief renew, And sighs from his afflicted bosom drew; Yet after a short solemn respite made, The ruler of the hundred cities said: Assist our arms, rais'd for a murder'd son, In this religious war no risque you'll run: Revenge the dead- for who refuse to give Rest to their urns, unworthy are to live. What you request, thus Aeacus replies, Not I, but truth and common faith denies; Athens and we have long been sworn allies: Our leagues are fix'd, confed'rate are our pow'rs, And who declare themselves their foes, are ours. Minos rejoins, Your league shall dearly cost (Yet, mindful how much safer 'twas to boast, Than there to waste his forces, and his fame, Before in field with his grand foe he came), Parts without blows- nor long had left the shore, E're into port another navy bore, With Cephalus, and all his jolly crew; Th' Aeacides their old acquaintance knew: The princes bid him welcome, and in state Conduct the heroe to their palace gate; Who entr'ring, seem'd the charming mein to wear, As when in youth he paid his visit there. In his right hand an olive-branch he holds, And, salutation past, the chief unfolds His embassy from the Athenian state, Their mutual friendship, leagues of ancient date; Their common danger, ev'ry thing cou'd wake Concern, and his address successful make: Strength'ning his plea with all the charms of sense, And those, with all the charms of eloquence. Then thus the king: Like suitors do you stand For that assistance which you may command? Athenians, all our listed forces use (They're such as no bold service will refuse); And when y' ave drawn them off, the Gods be prais'd, Fresh legions can within our isle be rais'd: So stock'd with people, that we can prepare Both for domestick, and for distant war, Ours, or our friends' insulters to chastize. Long may ye flourish thus, the prince replies. Strange transport seiz'd me as I pass'd along, To meet so many troops, and all so young, As if your army did of twins consist; Yet amongst them my late acquaintance miss'd: Ev'n all that to your palace did resort, When first you entertain'd me at your court; And cannot guess the cause from whence cou'd spring So vast a change- Then thus the sighing king: Illustrious guest, to my strange tale attend, Of sad beginning, but a joyful end: The whole to a vast history wou'd swell, I shall but half, and that confus'dly, tell. That race whom so deserv'dly you admir'd, Are all into their silent tombs retir'd: They fell; and falling, how they shook my state, Thought may conceive, but words can ne'er relate. The Story of Ants chang'd to Men A dreadful plague from angry Juno came, To scourge the land, that bore her rival's name; Before her fatal anger was reveal'd, And teeming malice lay as yet conceal'd, All remedies we try, all med'cines use, Which Nature cou'd supply, or art produce; Th' unconquer'd foe derides the vain design, And art, and Nature foil'd, declare the cause divine. At first we only felt th' oppressive weight Of gloomy clouds, then teeming with our fate, And lab'ring to discarge unactive heat: But ere four moons alternate changes knew, With deadly blasts the fatal South-wind blew, Infected all the air, and poison'd as it flew. Our fountains too a dire infection yield, For crowds of vipers creep along the field, And with polluted gore, and baneful steams, Taint all the lakes, and venom all the streams. The young disease with milder force began, And rag'd on birds, and beasts, excusing Man. The lab'ring oxen fall before the plow, Th' unhappy plow-men stare, and wonder how: The tabid sheep, with sickly bleatings, pines; Its wool decreasing, as its strength declines: The warlike steed, by inward foes compell'd, Neglects his honours, and deserts the field; Unnerv'd, and languid, seeks a base retreat, And at the manger groans, but wish'd a nobler fate: The stags forget their speed, the boars their rage, Nor can the bears the stronger herds engage: A gen'ral faintness does invade 'em all, And in the woods, and fields, promiscuously they fall. The air receives the stench, and (strange to say) The rav'nous birds and beasts avoid the prey: Th' offensive bodies rot upon the ground, And spread the dire contagion all around. But now the plague, grown to a larger size, Riots on Man, and scorns a meaner prize. Intestine heats begin the civil war, And flushings first the latent flame declare, And breath inspir'd, which seem'd like fiery air. Their black dry tongues are swell'd, and scarce can move, And short thick sighs from panting lung are drove. They gape for air, with flatt'ring hopes t' abate Their raging flames, but that augments their heat. No bed, no cov'ring can the wretches bear, But on the ground, expos'd to open air, They lye, and hope to find a pleasing coolness there. The suff'ring Earth with that oppression curst, Returns the heat which they imparted first. In vain physicians would bestow their aid, Vain all their art, and useless all their trade; And they, ev'n they, who fleeting life recall, Feel the same Pow'rs, and undistinguish'd fall. If any proves so daring to attend His sick companion, or his darling friend, Th' officious wretch sucks in contagious breath, And with his friend does sympathize in death. And now the care and hopes of life are past, They please their fancies, and indulge their taste; At brooks and streams, regardless of their shame, Each sex, promiscuous, strives to quench their flame; Nor do they strive in vain to quench it there, For thirst, and life at once extinguish'd are. Thus in the brooks the dying bodies sink, But heedless still the rash survivors drink. So much uneasy down the wretches hate, They fly their beds, to struggle with their fate; But if decaying strength forbids to rise, The victim crawls and rouls, 'till on the ground he lies. Each shuns his bed, as each wou'd shun his tomb, And thinks th' infection only lodg'd at home. Here one, with fainting steps, does slowly creep O'er heaps of dead, and strait augments the heap; Another, while his strength and tongue prevail'd, Bewails his friend, and falls himself bewail'd: This with imploring looks surveys the skies, The last dear office of his closing eyes, But finds the Heav'ns implacable, and dies. What now, ah! what employ'd my troubled mind? But only hopes my subjects' fate to find. What place soe'er my weeping eyes survey, There in lamented heaps the vulgar lay; As acorns scatter when the winds prevail, Or mellow fruit from shaken branches fall. You see that dome which rears its front so high: 'Tis sacred to the monarch of the sky: How many there, with unregarded tears, And fruitless vows, sent up successless pray'rs? There fathers for expiring sons implor'd, And there the wife bewail'd her gasping lord; With pious off'rings they'd appease the skies, But they, ere yet th' attoning vapours rise, Before the altars fall, themselves a sacrifice: They fall, while yet their hands the gums contain, The gums surviving, but their off'rers slain. The destin'd ox, with holy garlands crown'd, Prevents the blow, and feels th' expected wound: When I my self invok'd the Pow'rs divine, To drive the fatal pest from me and mine; When now the priest with hands uplifted stood, Prepar'd to strike, and shed the sacred blood, The Gods themselves the mortal stroke bestow, The victim falls, but they impart the blow: Scarce was the knife with the pale purple stain'd, And no presages cou'd be then obtain'd, From putrid entrails, where th' infection reign'd. Death stalk'd around with such resistless sway, The temples of the Gods his force obey, And suppliants feel his stroke, while yet they pray. Go now, said he, your deities implore For fruitless aid, for I defie their pow'r. Then with a curst malicious joy survey'd The very altars, stain'd with trophies of the dead. The rest grown mad, and frantick with despair, Urge their own fate, and so prevent the fear. Strange madness that, when Death pursu'd so fast, T' anticipate the blow with impious haste. No decent honours to their urns are paid, Nor cou'd the graves receive the num'rous dead; For, or they lay unbury'd on the ground, Or unadorn'd a needy fun'ral found: All rev'rence past, the fainting wretches fight For fun'ral piles which were another's right. Unmourn'd they fall: for, who surviv'd to mourn? And sires, and mothers unlamented burn: Parents, and sons sustain an equal fate, And wand'ring ghosts their kindred shadows meet. The dead a larger space of ground require, Nor are the trees sufficient for the fire. Despairing under grief's oppressive weight, And sunk by these tempestuous blasts of Fate, O Jove, said I, if common fame says true, If e'er Aegina gave those joys to you, If e'er you lay enclos'd in her embrace, Fond of her charms, and eager to possess; O father, if you do not yet disclaim Paternal care, nor yet disown the name; Grant my petitions, and with speed restore My subjects num'rous as they were before, Or make me partner of the fate they bore. I spoke, and glorious lightning shone around, And ratling thunder gave a prosp'rous sound; So let it be, and may these omens prove A pledge, said I, of your returning love. By chance a rev'rend oak was near the place, Sacred to Jove, and of Dodona's race, Where frugal ants laid up their winter meat, Whose little bodies bear a mighty weight: We saw them march along, and hide their store, And much admir'd their number, and their pow'r; Admir'd at first, but after envy'd more. Full of amazement, thus to Jove I pray'd, O grant, since thus my subjects are decay'd, As many subjects to supply the dead. I pray'd, and strange convulsions mov'd the oak, Which murmur'd, tho' by ambient winds unshook: My trembling hands, and stiff-erected hair, Exprest all tokens of uncommon fear; Yet both the earth and sacred oak I kist, And scarce cou'd hope, yet still I hop'd the best; For wretches, whatsoe'er the Fates divine, Expound all omens to their own design. But now 'twas night, when ev'n distraction wears A pleasing look, and dreams beguile our cares, Lo! the same oak appears before my eyes, Nor alter'd in his shape, nor former size; As many ants the num'rous branches bear, The same their labour, and their frugal care; The branches too a like commotion sound, And shook th' industrious creatures on the ground, Who, by degrees (what's scarce to be believ'd) A nobler form, and larger bulk receiv'd, And on the earth walk'd an unusual pace, With manly strides, and an erected face- Their num'rous legs, and former colour lost, The insects cou'd a human figure boast. I wake, and waking find my cares again, And to the unperforming Gods complain, And call their promise, and pretences, vain. Yet in my court I heard the murm'ring voice Of strangers, and a mixt uncommon noise: But I suspected all was still a dream, 'Till Telamon to my apartment came, Op'ning the door with an impetuous haste, O come, said he, and see your faith and hopes surpast: I follow, and, confus'd with wonder, view Those shapes which my presaging slumbers drew: I saw, and own'd, and call'd them subjects; they Confest my pow'r, submissive to my sway. To Jove, restorer of my race decay'd, My vows were first with due oblations paid, I then divide with an impartial hand My empty city, and my ruin'd land, To give the new-born youth an equal share, And call them Myrmidons, from what they were. You saw their persons, and they still retain The thrift of ants, tho' now transform'd to men. A frugal people, and inur'd to sweat, Lab'ring to gain, and keeping what they get. These, equal both in strength and years, shall join Their willing aid, and follow your design, With the first southern gale that shall present To fill your sails, and favour your intent. With such discourse they entertain the day; The ev'ning past in banquets, sport, and play: Then, having crown'd the night with sweet repose, Aurora (with the wind at east) arose. Now Pallas' sons to Cephalus resort, And Cephalus with Pallas' sons to court, To the king's levee; him sleep's silken chain, And pleasing dreams, beyond his hour detain; But then the princes of the blood, in state, Expect, and meet 'em at the palace gate. The Story of Cephalus and Procris To th' inmost courts the Grecian youths were led, And plac'd by Phocus on a Tyrian bed; Who, soon observing Cephalus to hold A dart of unknown wood, but arm'd with gold: None better loves (said he) the huntsman's sport, Or does more often to the woods resort; Yet I that jav'lin's stem with wonder view, Too brown for box, too smooth a grain for yew. I cannot guess the tree; but never art Did form, or eyes behold so fair a dart! The guest then interrupts him- 'Twou'd produce Still greater wonder, if you knew its use. It never fails to strike the game, and then Comes bloody back into your hand again. Then Phocus each particular desires, And th' author of the wond'rous gift enquires. To which the owner thus, with weeping eyes, And sorrow for his wife's sad fate, replies, This weapon here (o prince!) can you believe This dart the cause for which so much I grieve; And shall continue to grieve on, 'till Fate Afford such wretched life no longer date. Would I this fatal gift had ne'er enjoy'd, This fatal gift my tender wife destroy'd: Procris her name, ally'd in charms and blood To fair Orythia courted by a God. Her father seal'd my hopes with rites divine, But firmer love before had made her mine. Men call'd me blest, and blest I was indeed. The second month our nuptials did succeed; When (as upon Hymettus' dewy head, For mountain stags my net betimes I spread) Aurora spy'd, and ravish'd me away, With rev'rence to the Goddess, I must say, Against my will, for Procris had my heart, Nor wou'd her image from my thoughts depart. At last, in rage she cry'd, Ingrateful boy Go to your Procris, take your fatal joy; And so dismiss'd me: musing, as I went, What those expressions of the Goddess meant, A thousand jealous fears possess me now, Lest Procris had prophan'd her nuptial vow: Her youth and charms did to my fancy paint A lewd adultress, but her life a saint. Yet I was absent long, the Goddess too Taught me how far a woman cou'd be true. Aurora's treatment much suspicion bred; Besides, who truly love, ev'n shadows dread. I strait impatient for the tryal grew, What courtship back'd with richest gifts cou'd do. Aurora's envy aided my design, And lent me features far unlike to mine. In this disguise to my own house I came, But all was chaste, no conscious sign of blame: With thousand arts I scarce admittance found, And then beheld her weeping on the ground For her lost husband; hardly I retain'd My purpose, scarce the wish'd embrace refrain'd. How charming was her grief! Then, Phocus, guess What killing beauties waited on her dress. Her constant answer, when my suit I prest, Forbear, my lord's dear image guards this breast; Where-e'er he is, whatever cause detains, Who-e'er has his, my heart unmov'd remains. What greater proofs of truth than these cou'd be? Yet I persist, and urge my destiny. At length, she found, when my own form return'd, Her jealous lover there, whose loss she mourn'd. Enrag'd with my suspicion, swift as wind, She fled at once from me and all mankind; And so became, her purpose to retain, A nymph, and huntress in Diana's train: Forsaken thus, I found my flames encrease, I own'd my folly, and I su'd for peace. It was a fault, but not of guilt, to move Such punishment, a fault of too much love. Thus I retriev'd her to my longing arms, And many happy days possess'd her charms. But with herself she kindly did confer, What gifts the Goddess had bestow'd on her; The fleetest grey-hound, with this lovely dart, And I of both have wonders to impart. Near Thebes a savage beast, of race unknown, Laid waste the field, and bore the vineyards down; The swains fled from him, and with one consent Our Grecian youth to chase the monster went; More swift than light'ning he the toils surpast, And in his course spears, men, and trees o'er-cast. We slipt our dogs, and last my Lelaps too, When none of all the mortal race wou'd do: He long before was struggling from my hands, And, e're we cou'd unloose him, broke his bands. That minute where he was, we cou'd not find, And only saw the dust he left behind. I climb'd a neighb'ring hill to view the chase, While in the plain they held an equal race; The savage now seems caught, and now by force To quit himself, nor holds the same strait course; But running counter, from the foe withdraws, And with short turning cheats his gaping jaws: Which he retrieves, and still so closely prest, You'd fear at ev'ry stretch he were possess'd; Yet for the gripe his fangs in vain prepare; The game shoots from him, and he chops the air. To cast my jav'lin then I took my stand; But as the thongs were fitting to my hand, While to the valley I o'er-look'd the wood, Before my eyes two marble statues stood; That, as pursu'd appearing at full stretch, This barking after, and at point to catch: Some God their course did with this wonder grace, That neither might be conquer'd in the chase. A sudden silence here his tongue supprest, He here stops short, and fain wou'd wave the rest. The eager prince then urg'd him to impart, The Fortune that attended on the dart. First then (said he) past joys let me relate, For bliss was the foundation of my fate. No language can those happy hours express, Did from our nuptials me, and Procris bless: The kindest pair! What more cou'd Heav'n confer? For she was all to me, and I to her. Had Jove made love, great Jove had been despis'd; And I my Procris more than Venus priz'd: Thus while no other joy we did aspire, We grew at last one soul, and one desire. Forth to the woods I went at break of day (The constant practice of my youth) for prey: Nor yet for servant, horse, or dog did call, I found this single dart to serve for all. With slaughter tir'd, I sought the cooler shade, And winds that from the mountains pierc'd the glade: Come, gentle air (so was I wont to say) Come, gentle air, sweet Aura come away. This always was the burden of my song, Come 'swage my flames, sweet Aura come along. Thou always art most welcome to my breast; I faint; approach, thou dearest, kindest guest! These blandishments, and more than these, I said (By Fate to unsuspected ruin led), Thou art my joy, for thy dear sake I love Each desart hill, and solitary grove; When (faint with labour) I refreshment need, For cordials on thy fragrant breath I feed. At last a wand'ring swain in hearing came, And cheated with the sound of Aura's name, He thought I some assignation made; And to my Procris' ear the news convey'd. Great love is soonest with suspicion fir'd: She swoon'd, and with the tale almost expir'd. Ah! wretched heart! (she cry'd) ah! faithless man. And then to curse th' imagin'd nymph began: Yet oft she doubts, oft hopes she is deceiv'd, And chides herself, that ever she believ'd Her lord to such injustice cou'd proceed, 'Till she her self were witness of the deed. Next morn I to the woods again repair, And, weary with the chase, invoke the air: Approach, dear Aura, and my bosom chear: At which a mournful sound did strike my ear; Yet I proceeded, 'till the thicket by, With rustling noise and motion, drew my eye: I thought some beast of prey was shelter'd there, And to the covert threw my certain spear; From whence a tender sigh my soul did wound, Ah me! it cry'd, and did like Procris sound. Procris was there, too well the voice I knew, And to the place with headlong horror flew; Where I beheld her gasping on the ground, In vain attempting from the deadly wound To draw the dart, her love's dear fatal gift! My guilty arms had scarce the strength to lift The beauteous load; my silks, and hair I tore (If possible) to stanch the pressing gore; For pity beg'd her keep her flitting breath, And not to leave me guilty of her death. While I intreat she fainted fast away, And these few words had only strength to say: By all the sacred bonds of plighted love, By all your rev'rence to the Pow'rs above, By all the truth for which you held me dear, And last by love, the cause through which I bleed, Let Aura never to my bed succeed. I then perceiv'd the error of our fate, And told it her, but found and told too late! I felt her lower to my bosom fall, And while her eyes had any sight at all, On mine she fix'd them; in her pangs still prest My hand, and sigh'd her soul into my breast; Yet, being undeceiv'd, resign'd her breath Methought more chearfully, and smil'd in death. With such concern the weeping heroe told This tale, that none who heard him cou'd with-hold From melting into sympathizing tears, 'Till Aeacus with his two sons appears; Whom he commits, with their new-levy'd bands, To Fortune's, and so brave a gen'ral's hands. ---------------------------------------------------------------------- ~ Ovid, BOOK THE SEVENTH ,

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

854:Obiit Mdcccxxxiii (Entire) Strong Son of God, immortal Love, Whom we, that have not seen thy face, By faith, and faith alone, embrace, Believing where we cannot prove; Thine are these orbs of light and shade; Thou madest Life in man and brute; Thou madest Death; and lo, thy foot Is on the skull which thou hast made. Thou wilt not leave us in the dust: Thou madest man, he knows not why, He thinks he was not made to die; And thou hast made him: thou art just. Thou seemest human and divine, The highest, holiest manhood, thou: Our wills are ours, we know not how; Our wills are ours, to make them thine. Our little systems have their day; They have their day and cease to be: They are but broken lights of thee, And thou, O Lord, art more than they. We have but faith: we cannot know; For knowledge is of things we see; And yet we trust it comes from thee, A beam in darkness: let it grow. Let knowledge grow from more to more, But more of reverence in us dwell; That mind and soul, according well, May make one music as before, But vaster. We are fools and slight; We mock thee when we do not fear: But help thy foolish ones to bear; Help thy vain worlds to bear thy light. 414 Forgive what seem’d my sin in me; What seem’d my worth since I began; For merit lives from man to man, And not from man, O Lord, to thee. Forgive my grief for one removed, Thy creature, whom I found so fair. I trust he lives in thee, and there I find him worthier to be loved. Forgive these wild and wandering cries, Confusions of a wasted youth; Forgive them where they fail in truth, And in thy wisdom make me wise. I. I held it truth, with him who sings To one clear harp in divers tones, That men may rise on stepping-stones Of their dead selves to higher things. But who shall so forecast the years And find in loss a gain to match? Or reach a hand thro’ time to catch The far-off interest of tears? Let Love clasp Grief lest both be drown’d, Let darkness keep her raven gloss: Ah, sweeter to be drunk with loss, To dance with death, to beat the ground, Than that the victor Hours should scorn The long result of love, and boast, ‘Behold the man that loved and lost, But all he was is overworn.’ II. 415 Old Yew, which graspest at the stones That name the under-lying dead, Thy fibres net the dreamless head, Thy roots are wrapt about the bones. The seasons bring the flower again, And bring the firstling to the flock; And in the dusk of thee, the clock Beats out the little lives of men. O not for thee the glow, the bloom, Who changest not in any gale, Nor branding summer suns avail To touch thy thousand years of gloom: And gazing on thee, sullen tree, Sick for thy stubborn hardihood, I seem to fail from out my blood And grow incorporate into thee. III. O Sorrow, cruel fellowship, O Priestess in the vaults of Death, O sweet and bitter in a breath, What whispers from thy lying lip? ‘The stars,’ she whispers, ‘blindly run; A web is wov’n across the sky; From out waste places comes a cry, And murmurs from the dying sun: ‘And all the phantom, Nature, stands– With all the music in her tone, A hollow echo of my own,– A hollow form with empty hands.’ And shall I take a thing so blind, Embrace her as my natural good; Or crush her, like a vice of blood, Upon the threshold of the mind? 416 IV. To Sleep I give my powers away; My will is bondsman to the dark; I sit within a helmless bark, And with my heart I muse and say: O heart, how fares it with thee now, That thou should’st fail from thy desire, Who scarcely darest to inquire, ‘What is it makes me beat so low?’ Something it is which thou hast lost, Some pleasure from thine early years. Break, thou deep vase of chilling tears, That grief hath shaken into frost! Such clouds of nameless trouble cross All night below the darken’d eyes; With morning wakes the will, and cries, ‘Thou shalt not be the fool of loss.’ V. I sometimes hold it half a sin To put in words the grief I feel; For words, like Nature, half reveal And half conceal the Soul within. But, for the unquiet heart and brain, A use in measured language lies; The sad mechanic exercise, Like dull narcotics, numbing pain. In words, like weeds, I’ll wrap me o’er, Like coarsest clothes against the cold: But that large grief which these enfold Is given in outline and no more. 417 VI. One writes, that ‘Other friends remain,’ That ‘Loss is common to the race’– And common is the commonplace, And vacant chaff well meant for grain. That loss is common would not make My own less bitter, rather more: Too common! Never morning wore To evening, but some heart did break. O father, wheresoe’er thou be, Who pledgest now thy gallant son; A shot, ere half thy draught be done, Hath still’d the life that beat from thee. O mother, praying God will save Thy sailor,–while thy head is bow’d, His heavy-shotted hammock-shroud Drops in his vast and wandering grave. Ye know no more than I who wrought At that last hour to please him well; Who mused on all I had to tell, And something written, something thought; Expecting still his advent home; And ever met him on his way With wishes, thinking, ‘here to-day,’ Or ‘here to-morrow will he come.’ O somewhere, meek, unconscious dove, That sittest ranging golden hair; And glad to find thyself so fair, Poor child, that waitest for thy love! For now her father’s chimney glows In expectation of a guest; And thinking ‘this will please him best,’ She takes a riband or a rose; 418 For he will see them on to-night; And with the thought her colour burns; And, having left the glass, she turns Once more to set a ringlet right; And, even when she turn’d, the curse Had fallen, and her future Lord Was drown’d in passing thro’ the ford, Or kill’d in falling from his horse. O what to her shall be the end? And what to me remains of good? To her, perpetual maidenhood, And unto me no second friend. VII. Dark house, by which once more I stand Here in the long unlovely street, Doors, where my heart was used to beat So quickly, waiting for a hand, A hand that can be clasp’d no more– Behold me, for I cannot sleep, And like a guilty thing I creep At earliest morning to the door. He is not here; but far away The noise of life begins again, And ghastly thro’ the drizzling rain On the bald street breaks the blank day. VIII. A happy lover who has come To look on her that loves him well, Who ’lights and rings the gateway bell, And learns her gone and far from home; 419 He saddens, all the magic light Dies off at once from bower and hall, And all the place is dark, and all The chambers emptied of delight: So find I every pleasant spot In which we two were wont to meet, The field, the chamber and the street, For all is dark where thou art not. Yet as that other, wandering there In those deserted walks, may find A flower beat with rain and wind, Which once she foster'd up with care; So seems it in my deep regret, O my forsaken heart, with thee And this poor flower of poesy Which little cared for fades not yet. But since it pleased a vanish’d eye, I go to plant it on his tomb, That if it can it there may bloom, Or dying, there at least may die. IX. Fair ship, that from the Italian shore Sailest the placid ocean-plains With my lost Arthur’s loved remains, Spread thy full wings, and waft him o’er. So draw him home to those that mourn In vain; a favourable speed Ruffle thy mirror’d mast, and lead Thro’ prosperous floods his holy urn. All night no ruder air perplex Thy sliding keel, till Phosphor, bright As our pure love, thro’ early light Shall glimmer on the dewy decks. 420 Sphere all your lights around, above; Sleep, gentle heavens, before the prow; Sleep, gentle winds, as he sleeps now, My friend, the brother of my love; My Arthur, whom I shall not see Till all my widow’d race be run; Dear as the mother to the son, More than my brothers are to me. X. I hear the noise about thy keel; I hear the bell struck in the night: I see the cabin-window bright; I see the sailor at the wheel. Thou bring’st the sailor to his wife, And travell’d men from foreign lands; And letters unto trembling hands; And, thy dark freight, a vanish’d life. So bring him: we have idle dreams: This look of quiet flatters thus Our home-bred fancies: O to us, The fools of habit, sweeter seems To rest beneath the clover sod, That takes the sunshine and the rains, Or where the kneeling hamlet drains The chalice of the grapes of God; Than if with thee the roaring wells Should gulf him fathom-deep in brine; And hands so often clasp’d in mine, Should toss with tangle and with shells. XI. 421 Calm is the morn without a sound, Calm as to suit a calmer grief, And only thro’ the faded leaf The chestnut pattering to the ground: Calm and deep peace on this high wold, And on these dews that drench the furze, And all the silvery gossamers That twinkle into green and gold: Calm and still light on yon great plain That sweeps with all its autumn bowers, And crowded farms and lessening towers, To mingle with the bounding main: Calm and deep peace in this wide air, These leaves that redden to the fall; And in my heart, if calm at all, If any calm, a calm despair: Calm on the seas, and silver sleep, And waves that sway themselves in rest, And dead calm in that noble breast Which heaves but with the heaving deep. XII. Lo, as a dove when up she springs To bear thro’ Heaven a tale of woe, Some dolorous message knit below The wild pulsation of her wings; Like her I go; I cannot stay; I leave this mortal ark behind, A weight of nerves without a mind, And leave the cliffs, and haste away O’er ocean-mirrors rounded large, And reach the glow of southern skies, And see the sails at distance rise, And linger weeping on the marge, 422 And saying; ‘Comes he thus, my friend? Is this the end of all my care?’ And circle moaning in the air: ‘Is this the end? Is this the end?’ And forward dart again, and play About the prow, and back return To where the body sits, and learn That I have been an hour away. XIII. Tears of the widower, when he sees A late-lost form that sleep reveals, And moves his doubtful arms, and feels Her place is empty, fall like these; Which weep a loss for ever new, A void where heart on heart reposed; And, where warm hands have prest and closed, Silence, till I be silent too. Which weeps the comrade of my choice, An awful thought, a life removed, The human-hearted man I loved, A Spirit, not a breathing voice. Come Time, and teach me, many years, I do not suffer in a dream; For now so strange do these things seem, Mine eyes have leisure for their tears; My fancies time to rise on wing, And glance about the approaching sails, As tho’ they brought but merchants’ bales, And not the burthen that they bring. XIV. 423 If one should bring me this report, That thou hadst touch’d the land to-day, And I went down unto the quay, And found thee lying in the port; And standing, muffled round with woe, Should see thy passengers in rank Come stepping lightly down the plank, And beckoning unto those they know; And if along with these should come The man I held as half-divine; Should strike a sudden hand in mine, And ask a thousand things of home; And And And And I should tell him all my pain, how my life had droop’d of late, he should sorrow o’er my state marvel what possess’d my brain; And I perceived no touch of change, No hint of death in all his frame, But found him all in all the same, I should not feel it to be strange. XV. To-night the winds begin to rise And roar from yonder dropping day: The last red leaf is whirl’d away, The rooks are blown about the skies; The forest crack’d, the waters curl’d, The cattle huddled on the lea; And wildly dash’d on tower and tree The sunbeam strikes along the world: And but for fancies, which aver That all thy motions gently pass Athwart a plane of molten glass, I scarce could brook the strain and stir 424 That makes the barren branches loud; And but for fear it is not so, The wild unrest that lives in woe Would dote and pore on yonder cloud That rises upward always higher, And onward drags a labouring breast, And topples round the dreary west, A looming bastion fringed with fire. XVI. What words are these have fall’n from me? Can calm despair and wild unrest Be tenants of a single breast, Or sorrow such a changeling be? Or doth she only seem to take The touch of change in calm or storm; But knows no more of transient form In her deep self, than some dead lake That holds the shadow of a lark Hung in the shadow of a heaven? Or has the shock, so harshly given, Confused me like the unhappy bark That strikes by night a craggy shelf, And staggers blindly ere she sink? And stunn’d me from my power to think And all my knowledge of myself; And made me that delirious man Whose fancy fuses old and new, And flashes into false and true, And mingles all without a plan? XVII. 425 Thou comest, much wept for: such a breeze Compell’d thy canvas, and my prayer Was as the whisper of an air To breathe thee over lonely seas. For I in spirit saw thee move Thro’ circles of the bounding sky, Week after week: the days go by: Come quick, thou bringest all I love. Henceforth, wherever thou may’st roam, My blessing, like a line of light, Is on the waters day and night, And like a beacon guards thee home. So may whatever tempest mars Mid-ocean, spare thee, sacred bark; And balmy drops in summer dark Slide from the bosom of the stars. So kind an office hath been done, Such precious relics brought by thee; The dust of him I shall not see Till all my widow’d race be run. XVIII. ’Tis well; ’tis something; we may stand Where he in English earth is laid, And from his ashes may be made The violet of his native land. ’Tis little; but it looks in truth As if the quiet bones were blest Among familiar names to rest And in the places of his youth. Come then, pure hands, and bear the head That sleeps or wears the mask of sleep, And come, whatever loves to weep, And hear the ritual of the dead. 426 Ah yet, ev’n yet, if this might be, I, falling on his faithful heart, Would breathing thro’ his lips impart The life that almost dies in me; That dies not, but endures with pain, And slowly forms the the firmer mind, Treasuring the look it cannot find, The words that are not heard again. XIX. The Danube to the Severn gave The darken’d heart that beat no more; They laid him by the pleasant shore, And in the hearing of the wave. There twice a day the Severn fills; That salt sea-water passes by, And hushes half the babbling Wye, And makes a silence in the hills. The Wye is hush’d nor moved along, And hush’d my deepest grief of all, When fill’d with tears that cannot fall, I brim with sorrow drowning song. The tide flows down, the wave again Is vocal in its wooded walls; My deeper anguish also falls, And I can speak a little then. XX. The lesser griefs that may be said, That breathe a thousand tender vows, Are but as servants in a house Where lies the master newly dead; 427 Who speak their feeling as it is, And weep the fulness from the mind: ‘It will be hard,’ they say, ‘to find Another service such as this.’ My lighter moods are like to these, That out of words a comfort win; But there are other griefs within, And tears that at their fountain freeze; For by the hearth the children sit Cold in that atmosphere of Death, And scarce endure to draw the breath, Or like to noiseless phantoms flit: But open converse is there none, So much the vital spirits sink To see the vacant chair, and think, ‘How good! how kind! and he is gone.’ XXI. I sing to him that rests below, And, since the grasses round me wave, I take the grasses of the grave, And make them pipes whereon to blow. The traveller hears me now and then, And sometimes harshly will he speak: ‘This fellow would make weakness weak, And melt the waxen hearts of men.’ Another answers, ‘Let him be, He loves to make parade of pain, That with his piping he may gain The praise that comes to constancy.’ A third is wroth: ‘Is this an hour For private sorrow’s barren song, When more and more the people throng The chairs and thrones of civil power? 428 ‘A time to sicken and to swoon, When Science reaches forth her arms To feel from world to world, and charms Her secret from the latest moon?’ Behold, ye speak an idle thing: Ye never knew the sacred dust: I do but sing because I must, And pipe but as the linnets sing: And one is glad; her note is gay, For now her little ones have ranged; And one is sad; her note is changed, Because her brood is stol’n away. XXII. The path by which we twain did go, Which led by tracts that pleased us well, Thro’ four sweet years arose and fell, From flower to flower, from snow to snow: And we with singing cheer’d the way, And, crown’d with all the season lent, From April on to April went, And glad at heart from May to May: But where the path we walk’d began To slant the fifth autumnal slope, As we descended following Hope, There sat the Shadow fear’d of man; Who broke our fair companionship, And spread his mantle dark and cold, And wrapt thee formless in the fold, And dull’d the murmur on thy lip, And bore thee where I could not see Nor follow, tho’ I walk in haste, And think, that somewhere in the waste 429 The Shadow sits and waits for me. XXIII. Now, sometimes in my sorrow shut, Or breaking into song by fits, Alone, alone, to where he sits, The Shadow cloak’d from head to foot, Who keeps the keys of all the creeds, I wander, often falling lame, And looking back to whence I came, Or on to where the pathway leads; And crying, How changed from where it ran Thro’ lands where not a leaf was dumb; But all the lavish hills would hum The murmur of a happy Pan: When each by turns was guide to each, And Fancy light from Fancy caught, And Thought leapt out to wed with Thought Ere Thought could wed itself with Speech; And all we met was fair and good, And all was good that Time could bring, And all the secret of the Spring Moved in the chambers of the blood; And many an old philosophy On Argive heights divinely sang, And round us all the thicket rang To many a flute of Arcady. XXIV. And was the day of my delight As pure and perfect as I say? The very source and fount of Day 430 Is dash’d with wandering isles of night. If all was good and fair we met, This earth had been the Paradise It never look’d to human eyes Since our first Sun arose and set. And is it that the haze of grief Makes former gladness loom so great? The lowness of the present state, That sets the past in this relief? Or that the past will always win A glory from its being far; And orb into the perfect star We saw not, when we moved therein? XXV. I know that this was Life,–the track Whereon with equal feet we fared; And then, as now, the day prepared The daily burden for the back. But this it was that made me move As light as carrier-birds in air; I loved the weight I had to bear, Because it needed help of Love: Nor could I weary, heart or limb, When mighty Love would cleave in twain The lading of a single pain, And part it, giving half to him. XXVI. Still onward winds the dreary way; I with it; for I long to prove No lapse of moons can canker Love, Whatever fickle tongues may say. 431 And if that eye which watches guilt And goodness, and hath power to see Within the green the moulder’d tree, And towers fall’n as soon as built– Oh, if indeed that eye foresee Or see (in Him is no before) In more of life true life no more And Love the indifference to be, Then might I find, ere yet the morn Breaks hither over Indian seas, That Shadow waiting with the keys, To shroud me from my proper scorn. XXVII. I envy not in any moods The captive void of noble rage, The linnet born within the cage, That never knew the summer woods: I envy not the beast that takes His license in the field of time, Unfetter’d by the sense of crime, To whom a conscience never wakes; Nor, what may count itself as blest, The heart that never plighted troth But stagnates in the weeds of sloth; Nor any want-begotten rest. I hold it true, whate’er befall; I feel it, when I sorrow most; ’Tis better to have loved and lost Than never to have loved at all. XXVIII. 432 The time draws near the birth of Christ: The moon is hid; the night is still; The Christmas bells from hill to hill Answer each other in the mist. Four voices of four hamlets round, From far and near, on mead and moor, Swell out and fail, as if a door Were shut between me and the sound: Each voice four changes on the wind, That now dilate, and now decrease, Peace and goodwill, goodwill and peace, Peace and goodwill, to all mankind. This year I slept and woke with pain, I almost wish’d no more to wake, And that my hold on life would break Before I heard those bells again: But they my troubled spirit rule, For they controll’d me when a boy; They bring me sorrow touch’d with joy, The merry merry bells of Yule. XXIX. With such compelling cause to grieve As daily vexes household peace, And chains regret to his decease, How dare we keep our Christmas-eve; Which brings no more a welcome guest To enrich the threshold of the night With shower’d largess of delight In dance and song and game and jest? Yet go, and while the holly boughs Entwine the cold baptismal font, Make one wreath more for Use and Wont, That guard the portals of the house; 433 Old sisters of a day gone by, Gray nurses, loving nothing new; Why should they miss their yearly due Before their time? They too will die. XXX. With trembling fingers did we weave The holly round the Christmas hearth; A rainy cloud possess’d the earth, And sadly fell our Christmas-eve. At our old pastimes in the hall We gambol’d, making vain pretence Of gladness, with an awful sense Of one mute Shadow watching all. We paused: the winds were in the beech: We heard them sweep the winter land; And in a circle hand-in-hand Sat silent, looking each at each. Then echo-like our voices rang; We sung, tho’ every eye was dim, A merry song we sang with him Last year: impetuously we sang: We ceased: a gentler feeling crept Upon us: surely rest is meet: ‘They rest,’ we said, ‘their sleep is sweet,’ And silence follow’d, and we wept. Our voices took a higher range; Once more we sang: ‘They do not die Nor lose their mortal sympathy, Nor change to us, although they change; ‘Rapt from the fickle and the frail With gather’d power, yet the same, Pierces the keen seraphic flame From orb to orb, from veil to veil.’ 434 Rise, happy morn, rise, holy morn, Draw forth the cheerful day from night: O Father, touch the east, and light The light that shone when Hope was born. XXXI. When Lazarus left his charnel-cave, And home to Mary’s house return’d, Was this demanded–if he yearn’d To hear her weeping by his grave? ‘Where wert thou, brother, those four days?’ There lives no record of reply, Which telling what it is to die Had surely added praise to praise. From every house the neighbours met, The streets were fill’d with joyful sound, A solemn gladness even crown’d The purple brows of Olivet. Behold a man raised up by Christ! The rest remaineth unreveal’d; He told it not; or something seal’d The lips of that Evangelist. XXXII. Her eyes are homes of silent prayer, Nor other thought her mind admits But, he was dead, and there he sits, And he that brought him back is there. Then one deep love doth supersede All other, when her ardent gaze Roves from the living brother’s face, And rests upon the Life indeed. 435 All subtle thought, all curious fears, Borne down by gladness so complete, She bows, she bathes the Saviour’s feet With costly spikenard and with tears. Thrice blest whose lives are faithful prayers, Whose loves in higher love endure; What souls possess themselves so pure, Or is there blessedness like theirs? XXXIII. O thou that after toil and storm Mayst seem to have reach’d a purer air, Whose faith has centre everywhere, Nor cares to fix itself to form, Leave thou thy sister when she prays, Her early Heaven, her happy views; Nor thou with shadow’d hint confuse A life that leads melodious days. Her faith thro’ form is pure as thine, Her hands are quicker unto good: Oh, sacred be the flesh and blood To which she links a truth divine! See thou, that countest reason ripe In holding by the law within, Thou fail not in a world of sin, And ev’n for want of such a type. XXXIV. My own dim life should teach me this, That life shall live for evermore, Else earth is darkness at the core, And dust and ashes all that is; This round of green, this orb of flame, 436 Fantastic beauty; such as lurks In some wild Poet, when he works Without a conscience or an aim. What then were God to such as I? ’Twere hardly worth my while to choose Of things all mortal, or to use A little patience ere I die; ’Twere best at once to sink to peace, Like birds the charming serpent draws, To drop head-foremost in the jaws Of vacant darkness and to cease. XXXV. Yet if some voice that man could trust Should murmur from the narrow house, ‘The cheeks drop in; the body bows; Man dies: nor is there hope in dust:’ Might I not say? ‘Yet even here, But for one hour, O Love, I strive To keep so sweet a thing alive:’ But I should turn mine ears and hear The moanings of the homeless sea, The sound of streams that swift or slow Draw down Æonian hills, and sow The dust of continents to be; And Love would answer with a sigh, ‘The sound of that forgetful shore Will change my sweetness more and more, Half-dead to know that I shall die.’ O me, what profits it to put And idle case? If Death were seen At first as Death, Love had not been, Or been in narrowest working shut, 437 Mere fellowship of sluggish moods, Or in his coarsest Satyr-shape Had bruised the herb and crush’d the grape, And bask’d and batten’d in the woods. XXXVI. Tho’ truths in manhood darkly join, Deep-seated in our mystic frame, We yield all blessing to the name Of Him that made them current coin; For Wisdom dealt with mortal powers, Where truth in closest words shall fail, When truth embodied in a tale Shall enter in at lowly doors. And so the Word had breath, and wrought With human hands the creed of creeds In loveliness of perfect deeds, More strong than all poetic thought; Which he may read that binds the sheaf, Or builds the house, or digs the grave, And those wild eyes that watch the wave In roarings round the coral reef. XXXVII. Urania speaks with darken’d brow: ‘Thou pratest here where thou art least; This faith has many a purer priest, And many an abler voice than thou. ‘Go down beside thy native rill, On thy Parnassus set thy feet, And hear thy laurel whisper sweet About the ledges of the hill.’ And my Melpomene replies, 438 A touch of shame upon her cheek: ‘I am not worthy ev’n to speak Of thy prevailing mysteries; ‘For I am but an earthly Muse, And owning but a little art To lull with song an aching heart, And render human love his dues; ‘But brooding on the dear one dead, And all he said of things divine, (And dear to me as sacred wine To dying lips is all he said), ‘I murmur’d, as I came along, Of comfort clasp’d in truth reveal’d; And loiter’d in the master’s field, And darken’d sanctities with song.’ XXXVIII. With weary steps I loiter on, Tho’ always under alter’d skies The purple from the distance dies, My prospect and horizon gone. No joy the blowing season gives, The herald melodies of spring, But in the songs I love to sing A doubtful gleam of solace lives. If any care for what is here Survive in spirits render’d free, Then are these songs I sing of thee Not all ungrateful to thine ear. XXXIX. Old warder of these buried bones, 439 And answering now my random stroke With fruitful cloud and living smoke, Dark yew, that graspest at the stones And dippest toward the dreamless head, To thee too comes the golden hour When flower is feeling after flower; But Sorrow–fixt upon the dead, And darkening the dark graves of men,– What whisper’d from her lying lips? Thy gloom is kindled at the tips, And passes into gloom again. XL. Could we forget the widow’d hour And look on Spirits breathed away, As on a maiden in the day When first she wears her orange-flower! When crown’d with blessing she doth rise To take her latest leave of home, And hopes and light regrets that come Make April of her tender eyes; And doubtful joys the father move, And tears are on the mother’s face, As parting with a long embrace She enters other realms of love; Her office there to rear, to teach, Becoming as is meet and fit A link among the days, to knit The generations each with each; And, doubtless, unto thee is given A life that bears immortal fruit In those great offices that suit The full-grown energies of heaven. Ay me, the difference I discern! 440 How often shall her old fireside Be cheer’d with tidings of the bride, How often she herself return, And tell them all they would have told, And bring her babe, and make her boast, Till even those that miss’d her most Shall count new things as dear as old: But thou and I have shaken hands, Till growing winters lay me low; My paths are in the fields I know, And thine in undiscover’d lands. XLI. The spirit ere our fatal loss Did ever rise from high to higher; As mounts the heavenward altar-fire, As flies the lighter thro’ the gross. But thou art turn’d to something strange, And I have lost the links that bound Thy changes; here upon the ground, No more partaker of thy change. Deep folly! yet that this could be– That I could wing my will with might To leap the grades of life and light, And flash at once, my friend, to thee. For tho’ my nature rarely yields To that vague fear implied in death; Nor shudders at the gulfs beneath, The howlings from forgotten fields; Yet oft when sundown skirts the moor An inner trouble I behold, A spectral doubt which makes me cold, That I shall be thy mate no more, 441 Tho’ following with an upward mind The wonders that have come to thee, Thro’ all the secular to-be, But evermore a life behind. XLII. I vex my heart with fancies dim: He still outstript me in the race; It was but unity of place That made me dream I rank’d with him. And so may Place retain us still, And he the much-beloved again, A lord of large experience, train To riper growth the mind and will: And what delights can equal those That stir the spirit’s inner deeps, When one that loves but knows not, reaps A truth from one that loves and knows? XLIII. If Sleep and Death be truly one, And every spirit’s folded bloom Thro’ all its intervital gloom In some long trance should slumber on; Unconscious of the sliding hour, Bare of the body, might it last, And silent traces of the past Be all the colour of the flower: So then were nothing lost to man; So that still garden of the souls In many a figured leaf enrolls The total world since life began; And love will last as pure and whole 442 As when he loved me here in Time, And at the spiritual prime Rewaken with the dawning soul. XLIV. How fares it with the happy dead? For here the man is more and more; But he forgets the days before God shut the doorways of his head. The days have vanish’d, tone and tint, And yet perhaps the hoarding sense Gives out at times (he knows not whence) A little flash, a mystic hint; And in the long harmonious years (If Death so taste Lethean springs), May some dim touch of earthly things Surprise thee ranging with thy peers. If such a dreamy touch should fall, O turn thee round, resolve the doubt; My guardian angel will speak out In that high place, and tell thee all. XLV. The baby new to earth and sky, What time his tender palm is prest Against the circle of the breast, Has never thought that ‘this is I:’ But as he grows he gathers much, And learns the use of ‘I,’ and ‘me,’ And finds ‘I am not what I see, And other than the things I touch.’ So rounds he to a separate mind From whence clear memory may begin, 443 As thro’ the frame that binds him in His isolation grows defined. This use may lie in blood and breath, Which else were fruitless of their due, Had man to learn himself anew Beyond the second birth of Death. XLVI. We ranging down this lower track, The path we came by, thorn and flower, Is shadow’d by the growing hour, Lest life should fail in looking back. So be it: there no shade can last In that deep dawn behind the tomb, But clear from marge to marge shall bloom The eternal landscape of the past; A lifelong tract of time reveal’d; The fruitful hours of still increase; Days order’d in a wealthy peace, And those five years its richest field. O Love, thy province were not large, A bounded field, nor stretching far; Look also, Love, a brooding star, A rosy warmth from marge to marge. XLVII. That each, who seems a separate whole, Should move his rounds, and fusing all The skirts of self again, should fall Remerging in the general Soul, Is faith as vague as all unsweet: Eternal form shall still divide The eternal soul from all beside; 444 And I shall know him when we meet: And we shall sit at endless feast, Enjoying each the other’s good: What vaster dream can hit the mood Of Love on earth? He seeks at least Upon the last and sharpest height, Before the spirits fade away, Some landing-place, to clasp and say, ‘Farewell! We lose ourselves in light.’ XLVIII. If these brief lays, of Sorrow born, Were taken to be such as closed Grave doubts and answers here proposed, Then these were such as men might scorn: Her care is not to part and prove; She takes, when harsher moods remit, What slender shade of doubt may flit, And makes it vassal unto love: And hence, indeed, she sports with words, But better serves a wholesome law, And holds it sin and shame to draw The deepest measure from the chords: Nor dare she trust a larger lay, But rather loosens from the lip Short swallow-flights of song, that dip Their wings in tears, and skim away. XLIX. From art, from nature, from the schools, Let random influences glance, Like light in many a shiver’d lance 445 That breaks about the dappled pools: The lightest wave of thought shall lisp, The fancy’s tenderest eddy wreathe, The slightest air of song shall breathe To make the sullen surface crisp. And look thy look, and go thy way, But blame not thou the winds that make The seeming-wanton ripple break, The tender-pencil’d shadow play. Beneath all fancied hopes and fears Ay me, the sorrow deepens down, Whose muffled motions blindly drown The bases of my life in tears. L. Be near me when my light is low, When the blood creeps, and the nerves prick And tingle; and the heart is sick, And all the wheels of Being slow. Be near me when the sensuous frame Is rack’d with pangs that conquer trust; And Time, a maniac scattering dust, And Life, a Fury slinging flame. Be near me when my faith is dry, And men the flies of latter spring, That lay their eggs, and sting and sing And weave their petty cells and die. Be near me when I fade away, To point the term of human strife, And on the low dark verge of life The twilight of eternal day. LI. 446 Do we indeed desire the dead Should still be near us at our side? Is there no baseness we would hide? No inner vileness that we dread? Shall he for whose applause I strove, I had such reverence for his blame, See with clear eye some hidden shame And I be lessen’d in his love? I wrong the grave with fears untrue: Shall love be blamed for want of faith? There must be wisdom with great Death: The dead shall look me thro’ and thro’. Be near us when we climb or fall: Ye watch, like God, the rolling hours With larger other eyes than ours, To make allowance for us all. LII. I cannot love thee as I ought, For love reflects the thing beloved; My words are only words, and moved Upon the topmost froth of thought. ‘Yet blame not thou thy plaintive song,’ The Spirit of true love replied; ‘Thou canst not move me from thy side, Nor human frailty do me wrong. ‘What keeps a spirit wholly true To that ideal which he bears? What record? not the sinless years That breathed beneath the Syrian blue: ‘So fret not, like an idle girl, That life is dash’d with flecks of sin. Abide: thy wealth is gather’d in, When Time hath sunder’d shell from pearl.’ 447 LIII. How many a father have I seen, A sober man, among his boys, Whose youth was full of foolish noise, Who wears his manhood hale and green: And dare we to this fancy give, That had the wild oat not been sown, The soil, left barren, scarce had grown The grain by which a man may live? Or, if we held the doctrine sound For life outliving heats of youth, Yet who would preach it as a truth To those that eddy round and round? Hold thou the good: define it well: For fear divine Philosophy Should push beyond her mark, and be Procuress to the Lords of Hell. LIV. Oh yet we trust that somehow good Will be the final goal of ill, To pangs of nature, sins of will, Defects of doubt, and taints of blood; That nothing walks with aimless feet; That not one life shall be destroy’d, Or cast as rubbish to the void, When God hath made the pile complete; That not a worm is cloven in vain; That not a moth with vain desire Is shrivell’d in a fruitless fire, Or but subserves another’s gain. 448 Behold, we know not anything; I can but trust that good shall fall At last–far off–at last, to all, And every winter change to spring. So runs my dream: but what am I? An infant crying in the night: An infant crying for the light: And with no language but a cry. LV. The wish, that of the living whole No life may fail beyond the grave, Derives it not from what we have The likest God within the soul? Are God and Nature then at strife, That Nature lends such evil dreams? So careful of the type she seems, So careless of the single life; That I, considering everywhere Her secret meaning in her deeds, And finding that of fifty seeds She often brings but one to bear, I falter where I firmly trod, And falling with my weight of cares Upon the great world’s altar-stairs That slope thro’ darkness up to God, I stretch lame hands of faith, and grope, And gather dust and chaff, and call To what I feel is Lord of all, And faintly trust the larger hope. LVI. 449 ‘So careful of the type?’ but no. From scarped cliff and quarried stone She cries, ‘A thousand types are gone: I care for nothing, all shall go. ‘Thou makest thine appeal to me: I bring to life, I bring to death: The spirit does but mean the breath: I know no more.’ And he, shall he, Man, her last work, who seem’d so fair, Such splendid purpose in his eyes, Who roll’d the psalm to wintry skies, Who built him fanes of fruitless prayer, Who trusted God was love indeed And love Creation’s final law– Tho’ Nature, red in tooth and claw With ravine, shriek’d against his creed– Who loved, who suffer’d countless ills, Who battled for the True, the Just, Be blown about the desert dust, Or seal’d within the iron hills? No more? A monster then, a dream, A discord. Dragons of the prime, That tare each other in their slime, Were mellow music match’d with him. O life as futile, then, as frail! O for thy voice to soothe and bless! What hope of answer, or redress? Behind the veil, behind the veil. LVII. Peace; come away: the song of woe Is after all an earthly song: Peace; come away: we do him wrong To sing so wildly: let us go. 450 Come; let us go: your cheeks are pale; But half my life I leave behind: Methinks my friend is richly shrined; But I shall pass; my work will fail. Yet in these ears, till hearing dies, One set slow bell will seem to toll The passing of the sweetest soul That ever look’d with human eyes. I hear it now, and o’er and o’er, Eternal greetings to the dead; And ‘Ave, Ave, Ave,’ said, ‘Adieu, adieu’ for evermore. LVIII. In those sad words I took farewell: Like echoes in sepulchral halls, As drop by drop the water falls In vaults and catacombs, they fell; And, falling, idly broke the peace Of hearts that beat from day to day, Half-conscious of their dying clay, And those cold crypts where they shall cease. The high Muse answer’d: ‘Wherefore grieve Thy brethren with a fruitless tear? Abide a little longer here, And thou shalt take a nobler leave.’ LIX. O Sorrow, wilt thou live with me No casual mistress, but a wife, My bosom-friend and half of life; As I confess it needs must be; O Sorrow, wilt thou rule my blood, 451 Be sometimes lovely like a bride, And put thy harsher moods aside, If thou wilt have me wise and good. My centred passion cannot move, Nor will it lessen from to-day; But I’ll have leave at times to play As with the creature of my love; And set thee forth, for thou art mine, With so much hope for years to come, That, howsoe’er I know thee, some Could hardly tell what name were thine. LX. He past; a soul of nobler tone: My spirit loved and loves him yet, Like some poor girl whose heart is set On one whose rank exceeds her own. He mixing with his proper sphere, She finds the baseness of her lot, Half jealous of she knows not what, And envying all that meet him there. The little village looks forlorn; She sighs amid her narrow days, Moving about the household ways, In that dark house where she was born. The foolish neighbours come and go, And tease her till the day draws by: At night she weeps, ‘How vain am I! How should he love a thing so low?’ LXI. If, in thy second state sublime, 452 Thy ransom’d reason change replies With all the circle of the wise, The perfect flower of human time; And if thou cast thine eyes below, How dimly character’d and slight, How dwarf’d a growth of cold and night, How blanch'd with darkness must I grow! Yet turn thee to the doubtful shore, Where thy first form was made a man: I loved thee, Spirit, and love, nor can The soul of Shakespeare love thee more. LXII. Tho’ if an eye that’s downward cast Could make thee somewhat blench or fail, Then be my love an idle tale, And fading legend of the past; And thou, as one that once declined, When he was little more than boy, On some unworthy heart with joy, But lives to wed an equal mind; And breathes a novel world, the while His other passion wholly dies, Or in the light of deeper eyes Is matter for a flying smile. LXIII. Yet pity for a horse o’er-driven, And love in which my hound has part, Can hang no weight upon my heart In its assumptions up to heaven; And I am so much more than these, As thou, perchance, art more than I, And yet I spare them sympathy, 453 And I would set their pains at ease. So mayst thou watch me where I weep, As, unto vaster motions bound, The circuits of thine orbit round A higher height, a deeper deep. LXIV. Dost thou look back on what hath been, As some divinely gifted man, Whose life in low estate began And on a simple village green; Who breaks his birth’s invidious bar, And grasps the skirts of happy chance, And breasts the blows of circumstance, And grapples with his evil star; Who makes by force his merit known And lives to clutch the golden keys, To mould a mighty state’s decrees, And shape the whisper of the throne; And moving up from high to higher, Becomes on Fortune’s crowning slope The pillar of a people’s hope, The centre of a world’s desire; Yet feels, as in a pensive dream, When all his active powers are still, A distant dearness in the hill, A secret sweetness in the stream, The limit of his narrower fate, While yet beside its vocal springs He play’d at counsellors and kings, With one that was his earliest mate; Who ploughs with pain his native lea And reaps the labour of his hands, 454 Or in the furrow musing stands; ‘Does my old friend remember me?’ LXV. Sweet soul, do with me as thou wilt; I lull a fancy trouble-tost With ‘Love’s too precious to be lost, A little grain shall not be spilt.’ And in that solace can I sing, Till out of painful phases wrought There flutters up a happy thought, Self-balanced on a lightsome wing: Since we deserved the name of friends, And thine effect so lives in me, A part of mine may live in thee And move thee on to noble ends. LXVI. You thought my heart too far diseased; You wonder when my fancies play To find me gay among the gay, Like one with any trifle pleased. The shade by which my life was crost, Which makes a desert in the mind, Has made me kindly with my kind, And like to him whose sight is lost; Whose feet are guided thro’ the land, Whose jest among his friends is free, Who takes the children on his knee, And winds their curls about his hand: He plays with threads, he beats his chair For pastime, dreaming of the sky; His inner day can never die, 455 His night of loss is always there. LXVII. When on my bed the moonlight falls, I know that in thy place of rest By that broad water of the west, There comes a glory on the walls: Thy marble bright in dark appears, As slowly steals a silver flame Along the letters of thy name, And o’er the number of thy years. The mystic glory swims away; From off my bed the moonlight dies; And closing eaves of wearied eyes I sleep till dusk is dipt in gray: And then I know the mist is drawn A lucid veil from coast to coast, And in the dark church like a ghost Thy tablet glimmers to the dawn. LXVIII. When in the down I sink my head, Sleep, Death’s twin-brother, times my breath; Sleep, Death’s twin-brother, knows not Death, Nor can I dream of thee as dead: I walk as ere I walk’d forlorn, When all our path was fresh with dew, And all the bugle breezes blew Reveillée to the breaking morn. But what is this? I turn about, I find a trouble in thine eye, Which makes me sad I know not why, Nor can my dream resolve the doubt: 456 But ere the lark hath left the lea I wake, and I discern the truth; It is the trouble of my youth That foolish sleep transfers to thee. LXIX. I dream’d there would be Spring no more, That Nature’s ancient power was lost: The streets were black with smoke and frost, They chatter’d trifles at the door: I wander’d from the noisy town, I found a wood with thorny boughs: I took the thorns to bind my brows, I wore them like a civic crown: I met with scoffs, I met with scorns From youth and babe and hoary hairs: They call’d me in the public squares The fool that wears a crown of thorns: They call’d me fool, they call’d me child: I found an angel of the night; The voice was low, the look was bright; He look’d upon my crown and smiled: He reach’d the glory of a hand, That seem’d to touch it into leaf: The voice was not the voice of grief, The words were hard to understand. LXX. I cannot see the features right, When on the gloom I strive to paint The face I know; the hues are faint And mix with hollow masks of night; 457 Cloud-towers by ghostly masons wrought, A gulf that ever shuts and gapes, A hand that points, and palled shapes In shadowy thoroughfares of thought; And crowds that stream from yawning doors, And shoals of pucker’d faces drive; Dark bulks that tumble half alive, And lazy lengths on boundless shores; Till all at once beyond the will I hear a wizard music roll, And thro’ a lattice on the soul Looks thy fair face and makes it still. LXXI. Sleep, kinsman thou to death and trance And madness, thou hast forged at last A night-long Present of the Past In which we went thro’ summer France. Hadst thou such credit with the soul? Then bring an opiate trebly strong, Drug down the blindfold sense of wrong That so my pleasure may be whole; While now we talk as once we talk’d Of men and minds, the dust of change, The days that grow to something strange, In walking as of old we walk’d Beside the river’s wooded reach, The fortress, and the mountain ridge, The cataract flashing from the bridge, The breaker breaking on the beach. LXXII. 458 Risest thou thus, dim dawn, again, And howlest, issuing out of night, With blasts that blow the poplar white, And lash with storm the streaming pane? Day, when my crown’d estate begun To pine in that reverse of doom, Which sicken’d every living bloom, And blurr’d the splendour of the sun; Who usherest in the dolorous hour With thy quick tears that make the rose Pull sideways, and the daisy close Her crimson fringes to the shower; Who might’st have heaved a windless flame Up the deep East, or, whispering, play’d A chequer-work of beam and shade Along the hills, yet look’d the same. As wan, as chill, as wild as now; Day, mark’d as with some hideous crime, When the dark hand struck down thro’ time, And cancell’d nature’s best: but thou, Lift as thou may’st thy burthen’d brows Thro’ clouds that drench the morning star, And whirl the ungarner’d sheaf afar, And sow the sky with flying boughs, And up thy vault with roaring sound Climb thy thick noon, disastrous day; Touch thy dull goal of joyless gray, And hide thy shame beneath the ground. LXXIII. So many worlds, so much to do, So little done, such things to be, How know I what had need of thee, For thou wert strong as thou wert true? 459 The fame is quench’d that I foresaw, The head hath miss’d an earthly wreath: I curse not nature, no, nor death; For nothing is that errs from law. We pass; the path that each man trod Is dim, or will be dim, with weeds: What fame is left for human deeds In endless age? It rests with God. O hollow wraith of dying fame, Fade wholly, while the soul exults, And self-infolds the large results Of force that would have forged a name. LXXIV. As sometimes in a dead man’s face, To those that watch it more and more, A likeness, hardly seen before, Comes out–to some one of his race: So, dearest, now thy brows are cold, I see thee what thou art, and know Thy likeness to the wise below, Thy kindred with the great of old. But there is more than I can see, And what I see I leave unsaid, Nor speak it, knowing Death has made His darkness beautiful with thee. LXXV. I leave thy praises unexpress’d In verse that brings myself relief, And by the measure of my grief I leave thy greatness to be guess’d; What practice howsoe’er expert 460 In fitting aptest words to things, Or voice the richest-toned that sings, Hath power to give thee as thou wert? I care not in these fading days To raise a cry that lasts not long, And round thee with the breeze of song To stir a little dust of praise. Thy leaf has perish’d in the green, And, while we breathe beneath the sun, The world which credits what is done Is cold to all that might have been. So here shall silence guard thy fame; But somewhere, out of human view, Whate’er thy hands are set to do Is wrought with tumult of acclaim. LXXVI. Take wings of fancy, and ascend, And in a moment set thy face Where all the starry heavens of space Are sharpen’d to a needle’s end; Take wings of foresight; lighten thro’ The secular abyss to come, And lo, thy deepest lays are dumb Before the mouldering of a yew; And if the matin songs, that woke The darkness of our planet, last, Thine own shall wither in the vast, Ere half the lifetime of an oak. Ere these have clothed their branchy bowers With fifty Mays, thy songs are vain; And what are they when these remain The ruin’d shells of hollow towers? 461 LXXVII. What hope is here for modern rhyme To him, who turns a musing eye On songs, and deeds, and lives, that lie Foreshorten’d in the tract of time? These mortal lullabies of pain May bind a book, may line a box, May serve to curl a maiden’s locks; Or when a thousand moons shall wane A man upon a stall may find, And, passing, turn the page that tells A grief, then changed to something else, Sung by a long-forgotten mind. But what of that? My darken’d ways Shall ring with music all the same; To breathe my loss is more than fame, To utter love more sweet than praise. LXXVIII. Again at Christmas did we weave The holly round the Christmas hearth; The silent snow possess’d the earth, And calmly fell our Christmas-eve: The yule-clog sparkled keen with frost, No wing of wind the region swept, But over all things brooding slept The quiet sense of something lost. As in the winters left behind, Again our ancient games had place, The mimic picture’s breathing grace, And dance and song and hoodman-blind. Who show’d a token of distress? 462 No single tear, no mark of pain: O sorrow, then can sorrow wane? O grief, can grief be changed to less? O last regret, regret can die! No–mixt with all this mystic frame, Her deep relations are the same, But with long use her tears are dry. LXXIX. ‘More than my brothers are to me,’– Let this not vex thee, noble heart! I know thee of what force thou art To hold the costliest love in fee. But thou and I are one in kind, As moulded like in Nature’s mint; And hill and wood and field did print The same sweet forms in either mind. For us the same cold streamlet curl’d Thro’ all his eddying coves; the same All winds that roam the twilight came In whispers of the beauteous world. At one dear knee we proffer’d vows, One lesson from one book we learn’d, Ere childhood’s flaxen ringlet turn’d To black and brown on kindred brows. And so my wealth resembles thine, But he was rich where I was poor, And he supplied my want the more As his unlikeness fitted mine. LXXX. If any vague desire should rise, 463 That holy Death ere Arthur died Had moved me kindly from his side, And dropt the dust on tearless eyes; Then fancy shapes, as fancy can, The grief my loss in him had wrought, A grief as deep as life or thought, But stay’d in peace with God and man. I make a picture in the brain; I hear the sentence that he speaks; He bears the burthen of the weeks But turns his burthen into gain. His credit thus shall set me free; And, influence-rich to soothe and save, Unused example from the grave Reach out dead hands to comfort me. LXXXI. Could I have said while he was here, ‘My love shall now no further range; There cannot come a mellower change, For now is love mature in ear.’ Love, then, had hope of richer store: What end is here to my complaint? This haunting whisper makes me faint, ‘More years had made me love thee more.’ But Death returns an answer sweet: ‘My sudden frost was sudden gain, And gave all ripeness to the grain, It might have drawn from after-heat.’ LXXXII. I wage not any feud with Death For changes wrought on form and face; 464 No lower life that earth’s embrace May breed with him, can fright my faith. Eternal process moving on, From state to state the spirit walks; And these are but the shatter’d stalks, Or ruin’d chrysalis of one. Nor blame I Death, because he bare The use of virtue out of earth: I know transplanted human worth Will bloom to profit, otherwhere. For this alone on Death I wreak The wrath that garners in my heart; He put our lives so far apart We cannot hear each other speak. LXXXIII. Dip down upon the northern shore, O sweet new-year delaying long; Thou doest expectant nature wrong; Delaying long, delay no more. What stays thee from the clouded noons, Thy sweetness from its proper place? Can trouble live with April days, Or sadness in the summer moons? Bring orchis, bring the foxglove spire, The little speedwell’s darling blue, Deep tulips dash’d with fiery dew, Laburnums, dropping-wells of fire. O thou, new-year, delaying long, Delayest the sorrow in my blood, That longs to burst a frozen bud And flood a fresher throat with song. 465 LXXXIV. When I contemplate all alone The life that had been thine below, And fix my thoughts on all the glow To which thy crescent would have grown; I see thee sitting crown’d with good, A central warmth diffusing bliss In glance and smile, and clasp and kiss, On all the branches of thy blood; Thy blood, my friend, and partly mine; For now the day was drawing on, When thou should’st link thy life with one Of mine own house, and boys of thine Had babbled ‘Uncle’ on my knee; But that remorseless iron hour Made cypress of her orange flower, Despair of Hope, and earth of thee. I seem to meet their least desire, To clap their cheeks, to call them mine. I see their unborn faces shine Beside the never-lighted fire. I see myself an honour’d guest, Thy partner in the flowery walk Of letters, genial table-talk, Or deep dispute, and graceful jest; While now thy prosperous labour fills The lips of men with honest praise, And sun by sun the happy days Descend below the golden hills With promise of a morn as fair; And all the train of bounteous hours Conduct by paths of growing powers, To reverence and the silver hair; Till slowly worn her earthly robe, 466 Her lavish mission richly wrought, Leaving great legacies of thought, Thy spirit should fail from off the globe; What time mine own might also flee, As link’d with thine in love and fate, And, hovering o’er the dolorous strait To the other shore, involved in thee, Arrive at last the blessed goal, And He that died in Holy Land Would reach us out the shining hand, And take us as a single soul. What reed was that on which I leant? Ah, backward fancy, wherefore wake The old bitterness again, and break The low beginnings of content. LXXXV. This truth came borne with bier and pall, I felt it, when I sorrow’d most, ’Tis better to have loved and lost, Than never to have loved at all– O true in word, and tried in deed, Demanding, so to bring relief To this which is our common grief, What kind of life is that I lead; And whether trust in things above Be dimm’d of sorrow, or sustain’d; And whether love for him have drain’d My capabilities of love; Your words have virtue such as draws A faithful answer from the breast, Thro’ light reproaches, half exprest, And loyal unto kindly laws. 467 My blood an even tenor kept, Till on mine ear this message falls, That in Vienna’s fatal walls God’s finger touch’d him, and he slept. The great Intelligences fair That range above our mortal state, In circle round the blessed gate, Received and gave him welcome there; And led him thro’ the blissful climes, And show'd him in the fountain fresh All knowledge that the sons of flesh Shall gather in the cycled times. But I remained, whose hopes were dim, Whose life, whose thoughts were little worth, To wander on a darkened earth, Where all things round me breathed of him. friendship, equal poised control, heart, with kindliest motion warm, sacred essence, other form, solemn ghost, O crowned soul! Yet none could better know than I, How much of act at human hands The sense of human will demands By which we dare to live or die. Whatever way my days decline, I felt and feel, tho’ left alone, His being working in mine own, The footsteps of his life in mine; A life that all the Muses decked With gifts of grace, that might express All comprehensive tenderness, All-subtilising intellect: And so my passion hath not swerved To works of weakness, but I find 468 An image comforting the mind, And in my grief a strength reserved. Likewise the imaginative woe, That loved to handle spiritual strife, Diffused the shock thro’ all my life, But in the present broke the blow. My pulses therefore beat again For other friends that once I met; Nor can it suit me to forget The mighty hopes that make us men. I woo your love: I count it crime To mourn for any overmuch; I, the divided half of such A friendship as had master’d Time; Which masters Time indeed, and is Eternal, separate from fears: The all-assuming months and years Can take no part away from this: But Summer on the steaming floods, And Spring that swells the narrow brooks, And Autumn, with a noise of rooks, That gather in the waning woods, And every pulse of wind and wave Recalls, in change of light or gloom, My old affection of the tomb, And my prime passion in the grave: My old affection of the tomb, A part of stillness, yearns to speak: ‘Arise, and get thee forth and seek A friendship for the years to come. ‘I watch thee from the quiet shore; Thy spirit up to mine can reach; But in dear words of human speech We two communicate no more.’ 469 And I, ‘Can clouds of nature stain The starry clearness of the free? How is it? Canst thou feel for me Some painless sympathy with pain?’ And lightly does the whisper fall; ‘’Tis hard for thee to fathom this; I triumph in conclusive bliss, And that serene result of all.’ So hold I commerce with the dead; Or so methinks the dead would say; Or so shall grief with symbols play And pining life be fancy-fed. Now looking to some settled end, That these things pass, and I shall prove A meeting somewhere, love with love, I crave your pardon, O my friend; If not so fresh, with love as true, I, clasping brother-hands aver I could not, if I would, transfer The whole I felt for him to you. For which be they that hold apart The promise of the golden hours? First love, first friendship, equal powers, That marry with the virgin heart. Still mine, that cannot but deplore, That beats within a lonely place, That yet remembers his embrace, But at his footstep leaps no more, My heart, tho’ widow’d, may not rest Quite in the love of what is gone, But seeks to beat in time with one That warms another living breast. Ah, take the imperfect gift I bring, 470 Knowing the primrose yet is dear, The primrose of the later year, As not unlike to that of Spring. LXXXVI. Sweet after showers, ambrosial air, That rollest from the gorgeous gloom Of evening over brake and bloom And meadow, slowly breathing bare The round of space, and rapt below Thro’ all the dewy-tassell’d wood, And shadowing down the horned flood In ripples, fan my brows and blow The fever from my cheek, and sigh The full new life that feeds thy breath Throughout my frame, till Doubt and Death, Ill brethren, let the fancy fly From belt to belt of crimson seas On leagues of odour streaming far, To where in yonder orient star A hundred spirits whisper ‘Peace.’ LXXXVII. I past beside the reverend walls In which of old I wore the gown; I roved at random thro’ the town, And saw the tumult of the halls; And heard one more in college fanes The storm their high-built organs make, And thunder-music, rolling, shake The prophet blazon’d on the panes; And caught one more the distant shout, The measured pulse of racing oars 471 Among the willows; paced the shores And many a bridge, and all about The same gray flats again, and felt The same, but not the same; and last Up that long walk of limes I past To see the rooms in which he dwelt. Another name was on the door: I linger’d; all within was noise Of songs, and clapping hands, and boys That crash’d the glass and beat the floor; Where once we held debate, a band Of youthful friends, on mind and art, And labour, and the changing mart, And all the framework of the land; When one would aim an arrow fair, But send it slackly from the string; And one would pierce an outer ring, And one an inner, here and there; And last the master-bowman, he, Would cleave the mark. A willing ear We lent him. Who, but hung to hear The rapt oration flowing free From point to point, with power and grace And music in the bounds of law, To those conclusions when we saw The God within him light his face, And seem to lift the form, and glow In azure orbits heavenly wise; And over those ethereal eyes The bar of Michael Angelo. LXXXVIII. 472 Wild bird, whose warble, liquid sweet, Rings Eden thro’ the budded quicks, O tell me where the senses mix, O tell me where the passions meet, Whence radiate: fierce extremes employ Thy spirits in the darkening leaf, And in the midmost heart of grief Thy passion clasps a secret joy: And I–my harp would prelude woe– I cannot all command the strings; The glory of the sum of things Will flash along the chords and go. LXXXIX. Witch-elms that counterchange the floor Of this flat lawn with dusk and bright; And thou, with all thy breadth and height Of foliage, towering sycamore; How often, hither wandering down, My Arthur found your shadows fair, And shook to all the liberal air The dust and din and steam of town: He brought an eye for all he saw; He mixt in all our simple sports; They pleased him, fresh from brawling courts And dusty purlieus of the law. O joy to him in this retreat, Immantled in ambrosial dark, To drink the cooler air, and mark The landscape winking thro’ the heat: O sound to rout the brood of cares, The sweep of scythe in morning dew, The gust that round the garden flew, And tumbled half the mellowing pears! 473 O bliss, when all in circle drawn About him, heart and ear were fed To hear him, as he lay and read The Tuscan poets on the lawn: Or in the all-golden afternoon A guest, or happy sister, sung, Or here she brought the harp and flung A ballad to the brightening moon: Nor less it pleased in livelier moods, Beyond the bounding hill to stray, And break the livelong summer day With banquet in the distant woods; Whereat we glanced from theme to theme, Discuss’d the books to love or hate, Or touch’d the changes of the state, Or threaded some Socratic dream; But if I praised the busy town, He loved to rail against it still, For ‘ground in yonder social mill We rub each other’s angles down, ‘And merge’ he said ‘in form and gloss The picturesque of man and man.’ We talk’d: the stream beneath us ran, The wine-flask lying couch’d in moss, Or cool’d within the glooming wave; And last, returning from afar, Before the crimson-circled star Had fall’n into her father’s grave, And brushing ankle-deep in flowers, We heard behind the woodbine veil The milk that bubbled in the pail, And buzzings of the honied hours. 474 XC. He tasted love with half his mind, Nor ever drank the inviolate spring Where nighest heaven, who first could fling This bitter seed among mankind; That could the dead, whose dying eyes Were closed with wail, resume their life, They would but find in child and wife An iron welcome when they rise: ’Twas well, indeed, when warm with wine, To pledge them with a kindly tear, To talk them o’er, to wish them here, To count their memories half divine; But if they came who past away, Behold their brides in other hands; The hard heir strides about their lands, And will not yield them for a day. Yea, tho’ their sons were none of these, Not less the yet-loved sire would make Confusion worse than death, and shake The pillars of domestic peace. Ah dear, but come thou back to me: Whatever change the years have wrought, I find not yet one lonely thought That cries against my wish for thee. XCI. When rosy plumelets tuft the larch, And rarely pipes the mounted thrush; Or underneath the barren bush Flits by the sea-blue bird of March; Come, wear the form by which I know Thy spirit in time among thy peers; The hope of unaccomplish’d years 475 Be large and lucid round thy brow. When summer’s hourly-mellowing change May breathe, with many roses sweet, Upon the thousand waves of wheat, That ripple round the lonely grange; Come: not in watches of the night, But where the sunbeam broodeth warm, Come, beauteous in thine after form, And like a finer light in light. XCII. If any vision should reveal Thy likeness, I might count it vain As but the canker of the brain; Yea, tho’ it spake and made appeal To chances where our lots were cast Together in the days behind, I might but say, I hear a wind Of memory murmuring the past. Yea, tho’ it spake and bared to view A fact within the coming year; And tho’ the months, revolving near, Should prove the phantom-warning true, They might not seem thy prophecies, But spiritual presentiments, And such refraction of events As often rises ere they rise. XCIII. I shall not see thee. Dare I say No spirit ever brake the band That stays him from the native land 476 Where first he walk’d when claspt in clay? No visual shade of some one lost, But he, the Spirit himself, may come Where all the nerve of sense is numb; Spirit to Spirit, Ghost to Ghost. O, therefore from thy sightless range With gods in unconjectured bliss, O, from the distance of the abyss Of tenfold-complicated change, Descend, and touch, and enter; hear The wish too strong for words to name; That in this blindness of the frame My Ghost may feel that thine is near. XCIV. How pure at heart and sound in head, With what divine affections bold Should be the man whose thought would hold An hour’s communion with the dead. In vain shalt thou, or any, call The spirits from their golden day, Except, like them, thou too canst say, My spirit is at peace with all. They haunt the silence of the breast, Imaginations calm and fair, The memory like a cloudless air, The conscience as a sea at rest: But when the heart is full of din, And doubt beside the portal waits, They can but listen at the gates, And hear the household jar within. XCV. 477 By night we linger’d on the lawn, For underfoot the herb was dry; And genial warmth; and o’er the sky The silvery haze of summer drawn; And calm that let the tapers burn Unwavering: not a cricket chirr’d: The brook alone far-off was heard, And on the board the fluttering urn: And bats went round in fragrant skies, And wheel’d or lit the filmy shapes That haunt the dusk, with ermine capes And woolly breasts and beaded eyes; While now we sang old songs that peal’d From knoll to knoll, where, couch’d at ease, The white kine glimmer’d, and the trees Laid their dark arms about the field. But when those others, one by one, Withdrew themselves from me and night, And in the house light after light Went out, and I was all alone, A hunger seized my heart; I read Of that glad year which once had been, In those fall’n leaves which kept their green, The noble letters of the dead: And strangely on the silence broke The silent-speaking words, and strange Was love’s dumb cry defying change To test his worth; and strangely spoke The faith, the vigour, bold to dwell On doubts that drive the coward back, And keen thro’ wordy snares to track Suggestion to her inmost cell. So word by word, and line by line, The dead man touch’d me from the past, 478 And all at once it seem’d at last The living soul was flash’d on mine, And mine in this was wound, and whirl’d About empyreal heights of thought, And came on that which is, and caught The deep pulsations of the world, Æonian music measuring out The steps of Time–the shocks of Chance– The blows of Death. At length my trance Was cancell’d, stricken thro’ with doubt. Vague words! but ah, how hard to frame In matter-moulded forms of speech, Or ev’n for intellect to reach Thro’ memory that which I became: Till now the doubtful dusk reveal’d The knolls once more where, couch’d at ease, The white kine glimmer’d, and the trees Laid their dark arms about the field: And suck’d from out the distant gloom A breeze began to tremble o’er The large leaves of the sycamore, And fluctuate all the still perfume, And gathering freshlier overhead, Rock’d the full-foliaged elms, and swung The heavy-folded rose, and flung The lilies to and fro, and said ‘The dawn, the dawn,’ and died away; And East and West, without a breath, Mixt their dim lights, like life and death, To broaden into boundless day. XCVI. 479 You say, but with no touch of scorn, Sweet-hearted, you, whose light-blue eyes Are tender over drowning flies, You tell me, doubt is Devil-born. I know not: one indeed I knew In many a subtle question versed, Who touch’d a jarring lyre at first, But ever strove to make it true: Perplext in faith, but pure in deeds, At last he beat his music out. There lives more faith in honest doubt, Believe me, than in half the creeds. He fought his doubts and gather’d strength, He would not make his judgment blind, He faced the spectres of the mind And laid them: thus he came at length To find a stronger faith his own; And Power was with him in the night, Which makes the darkness and the light, And dwells not in the light alone, But in the darkness and the cloud, As over Sinaï’s peaks of old, While Israel made their gods of gold, Altho’ the trumpet blew so loud. XCVII. My love has talk’d with rocks and trees; He finds on misty mountain-ground His own vast shadow glory-crown’d; He sees himself in all he sees. Two partners of a married life– I look’d on these and thought of thee In vastness and in mystery, And of my spirit as of a wife. 480 These two–they dwelt with eye on eye, Their hearts of old have beat in tune, Their meetings made December June, Their every parting was to die. Their love has never past away; The days she never can forget Are earnest that he loves her yet, Whate’er the faithless people say. Her life is lone, he sits apart, He loves her yet, she will not weep, Tho’ rapt in matters dark and deep He seems to slight her simple heart. He He He He thrids the labyrinth of the mind, reads the secret of the star, seems so near and yet so far, looks so cold: she thinks him kind. She keeps the gift of years before, A wither’d violet is her bliss: She knows not what his greatness is, For that, for all, she loves him more. For him she plays, to him she sings Of early faith and plighted vows; She knows but matters of the house, And he, he knows a thousand things. Her faith is fixt and cannot move, She darkly feels him great and wise, She dwells on him with faithful eyes, ‘I cannot understand: I love.’ XCVIII. You leave us: you will see the Rhine, And those fair hills I sail’d below, When I was there with him; and go 481 By summer belts of wheat and vine To where he breathed his latest breath, That City. All her splendour seems No livelier than the wisp that gleams On Lethe in the eyes of Death. Let her great Danube rolling fair Enwind her isles, unmark’d of me: I have not seen, I will not see Vienna; rather dream that there, A treble darkness, Evil haunts The birth, the bridal; friend from friend Is oftener parted, fathers bend Above more graves, a thousand wants Gnarr at the heels of men, and prey By each cold hearth, and sadness flings Her shadow on the blaze of kings: And yet myself have heard him say, That not in any mother town With statelier progress to and fro The double tides of chariots flow By park and suburb under brown Of lustier leaves; nor more content, He told me, lives in any crowd, When all is gay with lamps, and loud With sport and song, in booth and tent, Imperial halls, or open plain; And wheels the circled dance, and breaks The rocket molten into flakes Of crimson or in emerald rain. XCIX. Risest thou thus, dim dawn, again, So loud with voices of the birds, 482 So thick with lowings of the herds, Day, when I lost the flower of men; Who tremblest thro’ thy darkling red On yon swoll’n brook that bubbles fast By meadows breathing of the past, And woodlands holy to the dead; Who murmurest in the foliaged eaves A song that slights the coming care, And Autumn laying here and there A fiery finger on the leaves; Who wakenest with thy balmy breath To myriads on the genial earth, Memories of bridal, or of birth, And unto myriads more, of death. O wheresoever those may be, Betwixt the slumber of the poles, To-day they count as kindred souls; They know me not, but mourn with me. C. I climb the hill: from end to end Of all the landscape underneath, I find no place that does not breathe Some gracious memory of my friend; No gray old grange, or lonely fold, Or low morass and whispering reed, Or simple stile from mead to mead, Or sheepwalk up the windy wold; Nor hoary knoll of ash and haw That hears the latest linnet trill, Nor quarry trench’d along the hill And haunted by the wrangling daw; Nor runlet tinkling from the rock; Nor pastoral rivulet that swerves 483 To left and right thro’ meadowy curves, That feed the mothers of the flock; But each has pleased a kindred eye, And each reflects a kindlier day; And, leaving these, to pass away, I think once more he seems to die. CI. Unwatch’d, the garden bough shall sway, The tender blossom flutter down, Unloved, that beech will gather brown, This maple burn itself away; Unloved, the sun-flower, shining fair, Ray round with flames her disk of seed, And many a rose-carnation feed With summer spice the humming air; Unloved, by many a sandy bar, The brook shall babble down the plain, At noon or when the lesser wain Is twisting round the polar star; Uncared for, gird the windy grove, And flood the haunts of hern and crake; Or into silver arrows break The sailing moon in creek and cove; Till from the garden and the wild A fresh association blow, And year by year the landscape grow Familiar to the stranger’s child; As year by year the labourer tills His wonted glebe, or lops the glades; And year by year our memory fades From all the circle of the hills. 484 CII. We leave the well-beloved place Where first we gazed upon the sky; The roofs, that heard our earliest cry, Will shelter one of stranger race. We go, but ere we go from home, As down the garden-walks I move, Two spirits of a diverse love Contend for loving masterdom. One whispers, ‘Here thy boyhood sung Long since its matin song, and heard The low love-language of the bird In native hazels tassel-hung.’ The other answers, ‘Yea, but here Thy feet have stray’d in after hours With thy lost friend among the bowers, And this hath made them trebly dear.’ These two have striven half the day, And each prefers his separate claim, Poor rivals in a losing game, That will not yield each other way. I turn to go: my feet are set To leave the pleasant fields and farms; They mix in one another’s arms To one pure image of regret. CIII. On that last night before we went From out the doors where I was bred, I dream’d a vision of the dead, Which left my after-morn content. Methought I dwelt within a hall, And maidens with me: distant hills 485 From hidden summits fed with rills A river sliding by the wall. The hall with harp and carol rang. They sang of what is wise and good And graceful. In the centre stood A statue veil’d, to which they sang; And which, tho’ veil’d, was known to me, The shape of him I loved, and love For ever: then flew in a dove And brought a summons from the sea: And when they learnt that I must go They wept and wail’d, but led the way To where a little shallop lay At anchor in the flood below; And on by many a level mead, And shadowing bluff that made the banks, We glided winding under ranks Of iris, and the golden reed; And still as vaster grew the shore And roll’d the floods in grander space, The maidens gather’d strength and grace And presence, lordlier than before; And I myself, who sat apart And watch’d them, wax’d in every limb; I felt the thews of Anakim, The pulses of a Titan’s heart; As one would sing the death of war, And one would chant the history Of that great race, which is to be, And one the shaping of a star; Until the forward-creeping tides Began to foam, and we to draw From deep to deep, to where we saw A great ship lift her shining sides. 486 The man we loved was there on deck, But thrice as large as man he bent To greet us. Up the side I went, And fell in silence on his neck: Whereat those maidens with one mind Bewail’d their lot; I did them wrong: ‘We served thee here’ they said, ‘so long, And wilt thou leave us now behind?’ So rapt I was, they could not win An answer from my lips, but he Replying, ‘Enter likewise ye And go with us:’ they enter’d in. And while the wind began to sweep A music out of sheet and shroud, We steer’d her toward a crimson cloud That landlike slept along the deep. CIV. The time draws near the birth of Christ; The moon is hid, the night is still; A single church below the hill Is pealing, folded in the mist. A single peal of bells below, That wakens at this hour of rest A single murmur in the breast, That these are not the bells I know. Like strangers’ voices here they sound, In lands where not a memory strays, Nor landmark breathes of other days, But all is new unhallow’d ground. CV. 487 To-night ungather’d let us leave This laurel, let this holly stand: We live within the stranger’s land, And strangely falls our Christmas-eve. Our father’s dust is left alone And silent under other snows: There in due time the woodbine blows, The violet comes, but we are gone. No more shall wayward grief abuse The genial hour with mask and mime; For change of place, like growth of time, Has broke the bond of dying use. Let cares that petty shadows cast, By which our lives are chiefly proved, A little spare the night I loved, And hold it solemn to the past. But let no footstep beat the floor, Nor bowl of wassail mantle warm; For who would keep an ancient form Thro’ which the spirit breathes no more? Be neither song, nor game, nor feast; Nor harp be touch’d, nor flute be blown; No dance, no motion, save alone What lightens in the lucid east Of rising worlds by yonder wood. Long sleeps the summer in the seed; Run out your measured arcs, and lead The closing cycle rich in good. CVI. Ring out, wild bells, to the wild sky, The flying cloud, the frosty light: The year is dying in the night; 488 Ring out, wild bells, and let him die. Ring out the old, ring in the new, Ring, happy bells, across the snow: The year is going, let him go; Ring out the false, ring in the true. Ring out the grief that saps the mind, For those that here we see no more; Ring out the feud of rich and poor, Ring in redress to all mankind. Ring out a slowly dying cause, And ancient forms of party strife; Ring in the nobler modes of life, With sweeter manners, purer laws. Ring out the want, the care, the sin, The faithless coldness of the times; Ring out, ring out my mournful rhymes, But ring the fuller minstrel in. Ring out false pride in place and blood, The civic slander and the spite; Ring in the love of truth and right, Ring in the common love of good. Ring Ring Ring Ring out old shapes of foul disease; out the narrowing lust of gold; out the thousand wars of old, in the thousand years of peace. Ring in the valiant man and free, The larger heart, the kindlier hand; Ring out the darkness of the land, Ring in the Christ that is to be. CVII. It is the day when he was born, A bitter day that early sank 489 Behind a purple-frosty bank Of vapour, leaving night forlorn. The time admits not flowers or leaves To deck the banquet. Fiercely flies The blast of North and East, and ice Makes daggers at the sharpen’d eaves, And bristles all the brakes and thorns To yon hard crescent, as she hangs Above the wood which grides and clangs Its leafless ribs and iron horns Together, in the drifts that pass To darken on the rolling brine That breaks the coast. But fetch the wine, Arrange the board and brim the glass; Bring in great logs and let them lie, To make a solid core of heat; Be cheerful-minded, talk and treat Of all things ev’n as he were by; We keep the day. With festal cheer, With books and music, surely we Will drink to him, whate’er he be, And sing the songs he loved to hear. CVIII. I will not shut me from my kind, And, lest I stiffen into stone, I will not eat my heart alone, Nor feed with sighs a passing wind: What profit lies in barren faith, And vacant yearning, tho’ with might To scale the heaven’s highest height, Or dive below the wells of Death? What find I in the highest place, But mine own phantom chanting hymns? 490 And on the depths of death there swims The reflex of a human face. I'll rather take what fruit may be Of sorrow under human skies: ’Tis held that sorrow makes us wise, Whatever wisdom sleep with thee. CIX. Heart-affluence in discursive talk From household fountains never dry; The critic clearness of an eye, That saw thro’ all the Muses’ walk; Seraphic intellect and force To seize and throw the doubts of man; Impassion’d logic, which outran The hearer in its fiery course; High nature amorous of the good, But touch’d with no ascetic gloom; And passion pure in snowy bloom Thro’ all the years of April blood; A love of freedom rarely felt, Of freedom in her regal seat Of England; not the schoolboy heat, The blind hysterics of the Celt; And manhood fused with female grace In such a sort, the child would twine A trustful hand, unask’d, in thine, And find his comfort in thy face; All these have been, and thee mine eyes Have look’d on: if they look’d in vain, My shame is greater who remain, Nor let thy wisdom make me wise. 491 CX. Thy converse drew us with delight, The men of rathe and riper years: The feeble soul, a haunt of fears, Forgot his weakness in thy sight. On thee the loyal-hearted hung, The proud was half disarm’d of pride, Nor cared the serpent at thy side To flicker with his double tongue. The stern were mild when thou wert by, The flippant put himself to school And heard thee, and the brazen fool Was soften’d, and he knew not why; While I, thy nearest, sat apart, And felt thy triumph was as mine; And loved them more, that they were thine, The graceful tact, the Christian art; Nor mine the sweetness or the skill, But mine the love that will not tire, And, born of love, the vague desire That spurs an imitative will. CXI. The churl in spirit, up or down Along the scale of ranks, thro’ all, To him who grasps a golden ball, By blood a king, at heart a clown; The churl in spirit, howe’er he veil His want in forms for fashion’s sake, Will let his coltish nature break At seasons thro’ the gilded pale: For who can always act? but he, To whom a thousand memories call, 492 Not being less but more than all The gentleness he seem’d to be, Best seem’d the thing he was, and join’d Each office of the social hour To noble manners, as the flower And native growth of noble mind; Nor ever narrowness or spite, Or villain fancy fleeting by, Drew in the expression of an eye, Where God and Nature met in light; And thus he bore without abuse The grand old name of gentleman, Defamed by every charlatan, And soil’d with all ignoble use. CXII. High wisdom holds my wisdom less, That I, who gaze with temperate eyes On glorious insufficiencies, Set light by narrower perfectness. But thou, that fillest all the room Of all my love, art reason why I seem to cast a careless eye On souls, the lesser lords of doom. For what wert thou? some novel power Sprang up for ever at a touch, And hope could never hope too much, In watching thee from hour to hour, Large elements in order brought, And tracts of calm from tempest made, And world-wide fluctuation sway’d In vassal tides that follow’d thought. 493 CXIII. ’Tis held that sorrow makes us wise; Yet how much wisdom sleeps with thee Which not alone had guided me, But served the seasons that may rise; For can I doubt, who knew thee keen In intellect, with force and skill To strive, to fashion, to fulfil– I doubt not what thou wouldst have been: life in civic action warm, soul on highest mission sent, potent voice of Parliament, pillar steadfast in the storm, Should licensed boldness gather force, Becoming, when the time has birth, A lever to uplift the earth And roll it in another course, With thousand shocks that come and go, With agonies, with energies, With overthrowings, and with cries, And undulations to and fro. CXIV. Who loves not Knowledge? Who shall rail Against her beauty? May she mix With men and prosper! Who shall fix Her pillars? Let her work prevail. But on her forehead sits a fire: She sets her forward countenance And leaps into the future chance, Submitting all things to desire. Half-grown as yet, a child, and vain– She cannot fight the fear of death. 494 What is she, cut from love and faith, But some wild Pallas from the brain Of Demons? fiery-hot to burst All barriers in her onward race For power. Let her know her place; She is the second, not the first. A higher hand must make her mild, If all be not in vain; and guide Her footsteps, moving side by side With wisdom, like the younger child: For she is earthly of the mind, But Wisdom heavenly of the soul. O, friend, who camest to thy goal So early, leaving me behind, I would the great world grew like thee, Who grewest not alone in power And knowledge, but by year and hour In reverence and in charity. CXV. Now fades the last long streak of snow, Now burgeons every maze of quick About the flowering squares, and thick By ashen roots the violets blow. Now rings the woodland loud and long, The distance takes a lovelier hue, And drown’d in yonder living blue The lark becomes a sightless song. Now dance the lights on lawn and lea, The flocks are whiter down the vale, And milkier every milky sail On winding stream or distant sea; Where now the seamew pipes, or dives 495 In yonder greening gleam, and fly The happy birds, that change their sky To build and brood; that live their lives From land to land; and in my breast Spring wakens too; and my regret Becomes an April violet, And buds and blossoms like the rest. CXVI. Is it, then, regret for buried time That keenlier in sweet April wakes, And meets the year, and gives and takes The colours of the crescent prime? Not all: the songs, the stirring air, The life re-orient out of dust, Cry thro’ the sense to hearten trust In that which made the world so fair. Not all regret: the face will shine Upon me, while I muse alone; And that dear voice, I once have known, Still speak to me of me and mine: Yet less of sorrow lives in me For days of happy commune dead; Less yearning for the friendship fled, Than some strong bond which is to be. CXVII. O days and hours, your work is this To hold me from my proper place, A little while from his embrace For fuller gain of after bliss: That out of distance might ensue Desire of nearness doubly sweet; 496 And unto meeting when we meet, Delight a hundredfold accrue, For every grain of sand that runs, And every span of shade that steals, And every kiss of toothed wheels, And all the courses of the suns. CXVIII. Contemplate all this work of Time, The giant labouring in his youth; Nor dream of human love and truth, As dying Nature’s earth and lime; But trust that those we call the dead Are breathers of an ampler day For ever nobler ends. They say, The solid earth whereon we tread In tracts of fluent heat began, And grew to seeming-random forms, The seeming prey of cyclic storms, Till at the last arose the man; Who throve and branch’d from clime to clime, The herald of a higher race, And of himself in higher place, If so he type this work of time Within himself, from more to more; Or, crown’d with attributes of woe Like glories, move his course, and show That life is not as idle ore, But iron dug from central gloom, And heated hot with burning fears, And dipt in baths of hissing tears, And batter’d with the shocks of doom To shape and use. Arise and fly 497 The reeling Faun, the sensual feast; Move upward, working out the beast, And let the ape and tiger die. CXIX. Doors, where my heart was used to beat So quickly, not as one that weeps I come once more; the city sleeps; I smell the meadow in the street; I hear a chirp of birds; I see Betwixt the black fronts long-withdrawn A light-blue lane of early dawn, And think of early days and thee, And bless thee, for thy lips are bland, And bright the friendship of thine eye; And in my thoughts with scarce a sigh I take the pressure of thine hand. CXX. I trust I have not wasted breath: I think we are not wholly brain, Magnetic mockeries; not in vain, Like Paul with beasts, I fought with Death; Not only cunning casts in clay: Let Science prove we are, and then What matters Science unto men, At least to me? I would not stay. Let him, the wiser man who springs Hereafter, up from childhood shape His action like the greater ape, But I was born to other things. 498 CXXI. Sad Hesper o’er the buried sun And ready, thou, to die with him, Thou watchest all things ever dim And dimmer, and a glory done: The team is loosen’d from the wain, The boat is drawn upon the shore; Thou listenest to the closing door, And life is darken’d in the brain. Bright Phosphor, fresher for the night, By thee the world’s great work is heard Beginning, and the wakeful bird; Behind thee comes the greater light: The market boat is on the stream, And voices hail it from the brink; Thou hear’st the village hammer clink, And see’st the moving of the team. Sweet Hesper-Phosphor, double name For what is one, the first, the last, Thou, like my present and my past, Thy place is changed; thou art the same. CXXII. Oh, wast thou with me, dearest, then, While I rose up against my doom, And yearn’d to burst the folded gloom, To bare the eternal Heavens again, To feel once more, in placid awe, The strong imagination roll A sphere of stars about my soul, In all her motion one with law; If thou wert with me, and the grave Divide us not, be with me now, And enter in at breast and brow, 499 Till all my blood, a fuller wave, Be quicken’d with a livelier breath, And like an inconsiderate boy, As in the former flash of joy, I slip the thoughts of life and death; And all the breeze of Fancy blows, And every dew-drop paints a bow, The wizard lightnings deeply glow, And every thought breaks out a rose. CXXIII. There rolls the deep where grew the tree. O earth, what changes hast thou seen! There where the long street roars, hath been The stillness of the central sea. The hills are shadows, and they flow From form to form, and nothing stands; They melt like mist, the solid lands, Like clouds they shape themselves and go. But in my spirit will I dwell, And dream my dream, and hold it true; For tho’ my lips may breathe adieu, I cannot think the thing farewell. CXXIV. That which we dare invoke to bless; Our dearest faith; our ghastliest doubt; He, They, One, All; within, without; The Power in darkness whom we guess; I found Him not in world or sun, Or eagle’s wing, or insect’s eye; Nor thro’ the questions men may try, The petty cobwebs we have spun: 500 If e’er when faith had fall’n asleep, I heard a voice ‘believe no more’ And heard an ever-breaking shore That tumbled in the Godless deep; A warmth within the breast would melt The freezing reason’s colder part, And like a man in wrath the heart Stood up and answer’d ‘I have felt.’ No, like a child in doubt and fear: But that blind clamour made me wise; Then was I as a child that cries, But, crying, knows his father near; And what I am beheld again What is, and no man understands; And out of darkness came the hands That reach thro’ nature, moulding men. CXXV. Whatever I have said or sung, Some bitter notes my harp would give, Yea, tho’ there often seem’d to live A contradiction on the tongue, Yet Hope had never lost her youth; She did but look through dimmer eyes; Or Love but play’d with gracious lies, Because he felt so fix’d in truth: And if the song were full of care, He breathed the spirit of the song; And if the words were sweet and strong He set his royal signet there; Abiding with me till I sail To seek thee on the mystic deeps, And this electric force, that keeps 501 A thousand pulses dancing, fail. CXXVI. Love is and was my Lord and King, And in his presence I attend To hear the tidings of my friend, Which every hour his couriers bring. Love is and was my King and Lord, And will be, tho’ as yet I keep Within his court on earth, and sleep Encompass’d by his faithful guard, And hear at times a sentinel Who moves about from place to place, And whispers to the worlds of space, In the deep night, that all is well. CXXVII. And all is well, tho’ faith and form Be sunder’d in the night of fear; Well roars the storm to those that hear A deeper voice across the storm, Proclaiming social truth shall spread, And justice, ev’n tho’ thrice again The red fool-fury of the Seine Should pile her barricades with dead. But ill for him that wears a crown, And him, the lazar, in his rags: They tremble, the sustaining crags; The spires of ice are toppled down, And molten up, and roar in flood; The fortress crashes from on high, The brute earth lightens to the sky, And the great Æon sinks in blood, 502 And compass’d by the fires of Hell; While thou, dear spirit, happy star, O’erlook’st the tumult from afar, And smilest, knowing all is well. CXXVIII. The love that rose on stronger wings, Unpalsied when he met with Death, Is comrade of the lesser faith That sees the course of human things. No doubt vast eddies in the flood Of onward time shall yet be made, And throned races may degrade; Yet O ye mysteries of good, Wild Hours that fly with Hope and Fear, If all your office had to do With old results that look like new; If this were all your mission here, To To To To draw, to sheathe a useless sword, fool the crowd with glorious lies, cleave a creed in sects and cries, change the bearing of a word, To shift an arbitrary power, To cramp the student at his desk, To make old bareness picturesque And tuft with grass a feudal tower; Why then my scorn might well descend On you and yours. I see in part That all, as in some piece of art, Is toil coöperant to an end. CXXIX. 503 Dear friend, far off, my lost desire, So far, so near in woe and weal; O loved the most, when most I feel There is a lower and a higher; Known and unknown; human, divine; Sweet human hand and lips and eye; Dear heavenly friend that canst not die, Mine, mine, for ever, ever mine; Strange friend, past, present, and to be; Loved deeplier, darklier understood; Behold, I dream a dream of good, And mingle all the world with thee. CXXX. Thy voice is on the rolling air; I hear thee where the waters run; Thou standest in the rising sun, And in the setting thou art fair. What art thou then? I cannot guess; But tho’ I seem in star and flower To feel thee some diffusive power, I do not therefore love thee less: My love involves the love before; My love is vaster passion now; Tho’ mix’d with God and Nature thou, I seem to love thee more and more. Far off thou art, but ever nigh; I have thee still, and I rejoice; I prosper, circled with thy voice; I shall not lose thee tho’ I die. CXXXI. 504 O living will that shalt endure When all that seems shall suffer shock, Rise in the spiritual rock, Flow thro’ our deeds and make them pure, That we may lift from out of dust A voice as unto him that hears, A cry above the conquer’d years To one that with us works, and trust, With faith that comes of self-control, The truths that never can be proved Until we close with all we loved, And all we flow from, soul in soul. _________ O true and tried, so well and long, Demand not thou a marriage lay; In that it is thy marriage day Is music more than any song. Nor have I felt so much of bliss Since first he told me that he loved A daughter of our house; nor proved Since that dark day a day like this; Tho’ I since then have number’d o’er Some thrice three years: they went and came, Remade the blood and changed the frame, And yet is love not less, but more; No longer caring to embalm In dying songs a dead regret, But like a statue solid-set, And moulded in colossal calm. Regret is dead, but love is more Than in the summers that are flown, For I myself with these have grown To something greater than before; Which makes appear the songs I made 505 As echoes out of weaker times, As half but idle brawling rhymes, The sport of random sun and shade. But where is she, the bridal flower, That must he made a wife ere noon? She enters, glowing like the moon Of Eden on its bridal bower: On me she bends her blissful eyes And then on thee; they meet thy look And brighten like the star that shook Betwixt the palms of paradise. O when her life was yet in bud, He too foretold the perfect rose. For thee she grew, for thee she grows For ever, and as fair as good. And thou art worthy; full of power; As gentle; liberal-minded, great, Consistent; wearing all that weight Of learning lightly like a flower. But now set out: the noon is near, And I must give away the bride; She fears not, or with thee beside And me behind her, will not fear. For I that danced her on my knee, That watch’d her on her nurse’s arm, That shielded all her life from harm At last must part with her to thee; Now waiting to be made a wife, Her feet, my darling, on the dead; Their pensive tablets round her head, And the most living words of life Breathed in her ear. The ring is on, The ‘wilt thou’ answer’d, and again The ‘wilt thou’ ask’d, till out of twain 506 Her sweet ‘I will’ has made you one. Now sign your names, which shall be read, Mute symbols of a joyful morn, By village eyes as yet unborn; The names are sign’d, and overhead Begins the clash and clang that tells The joy to every wandering breeze; The blind wall rocks, and on the trees The dead leaf trembles to the bells. O happy hour, and happier hours Await them. Many a merry face Salutes them–maidens of the place, That pelt us in the porch with flowers. O happy hour, behold the bride With him to whom her hand I gave. They leave the porch, they pass the grave That has to-day its sunny side. To-day the grave is bright for me, For them the light of life increased, Who stay to share the morning feast, Who rest to-night beside the sea. Let all my genial spirits advance To meet and greet a whiter sun; My drooping memory will not shun The foaming grape of eastern France. It circles round, and fancy plays, And hearts are warm’d and faces bloom, As drinking health to bride and groom We wish them store of happy days. Nor count me all to blame if I Conjecture of a stiller guest, Perchance, perchance, among the rest, And, tho’ in silence, wishing joy. 507 But they must go, the time draws on, And those white-favour’d horses wait; They rise, but linger; it is late; Farewell, we kiss, and they are gone. A shade falls on us like the dark From little cloudlets on the grass, But sweeps away as out we pass To range the woods, to roam the park, Discussing how their courtship grew, And talk of others that are wed, And how she look’d, and what he said, And back we come at fall of dew. Again the feast, the speech, the glee, The shade of passing thought, the wealth Of words and wit, the double health, The crowning cup, the three-times-three, And last the dance;–till I retire: Dumb is that tower which spake so loud, And high in heaven the streaming cloud, And on the downs a rising fire: And rise, O moon, from yonder down, Till over down and over dale All night the shining vapour sail And pass the silent-lighted town, The white-faced halls, the glancing rills, And catch at every mountain head, And o’er the friths that branch and spread Their sleeping silver thro’ the hills; And touch with shade the bridal doors, With tender gloom the roof, the wall; And breaking let the splendour fall To spangle all the happy shores By which they rest, and ocean sounds, And, star and system rolling past, 508 A soul shall draw from out the vast And strike his being into bounds, And, moved thro’ life of lower phase, Result in man, be born and think, And act and love, a closer link Betwixt us and the crowning race Of those that, eye to eye, shall look On knowledge; under whose command Is Earth and Earth’s, and in their hand Is Nature like an open book; No longer half-akin to brute, For all we thought and loved and did, And hoped, and suffer’d, is but seed Of what in them is flower and fruit; Whereof the man, that with me trod This planet, was a noble type Appearing ere the times were ripe, That friend of mine who lives in God, That God, which ever lives and loves, One God, one law, one element, And one far-off divine event, To which the whole creation moves. ~ Alfred Lord Tennyson,

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