KEYS (10k)

   5 Sri Aurobindo
   1 Mage the Ascension
   1 J R R Tolkien
   1 JB
   1 Gary Gygax
   1 AD&D
   1 Aaron Koblin

NEW FULL DB (2.4M)

  213 J K Rowling
  108 Terry Pratchett
   82 Jim Butcher
   21 L Frank Baum
   15 Terry Goodkind
   13 Ursula K Le Guin
   13 Scott Meyer
   10 R A Salvatore
   10 J R R Tolkien
   10 Anonymous
   7 T J Klune
   7 Robin Sloan
   7 Peter S Beagle
   7 Deepak Chopra
   7 Danielle Paige
   7 Angie Sage
   6 Sri Aurobindo
   6 Barbara Hambly
   5 Walter Isaacson
   5 John Green

1:If I find, near the end of this life, to have been a mere Wizard, it is likely due to the limits of aspiration. In my desire to Know without Being. ~ JB,

2:And channel to earth-mind the wizard ray    ~ Sri Aurobindo, Savitri, The Eternal Day The Souls Choice and the Supreme Consummation,

3:The miraculous Inconscient, A subtle wizard skilled, was at its task. ~ Sri Aurobindo, Savitri, 02.05,

4:A few can climb to an unperishing sun, Or live on the edges of the mystic moon And channel to earth-mind the wizard ray. ~ Sri Aurobindo, Savitri, The Eternal Day, The Soul's Choice and the Supreme Consummation,

5:They say an elephant never forgets. Well, you are not an elephant. Take notes, constantly. Save interesting thoughts, quotations, films, technologies...the medium doesn't matter, so long as it inspires you. When you're stumped, go to your notes like a wizard to his spellbook. Mash those thoughts together. Extend them in every direction until they meet. ~ Aaron Koblin,

6:Always the dark Adventurers seem to win; Nature they fill with evil's institutes, Turn into defeats the victories of Truth, Proclaim as falsehoods the eternal laws, And load the dice of Doom with wizard lies; The world's shrines they have occupied, usurpe ~ Sri Aurobindo, Savitri, The World of Falsehood the Mother of Evil and the Sons of Darkness,

7:In sudden scintillations of the Unknown, Inexpressive sounds became veridical, Ideas that seemed unmeaning flashed out truth; Voices that came from unseen waiting worlds Uttered the syllables of the Unmanifest To clothe the body of the mystic Word, And wizard diagrams of the occult Law Sealed some precise unreadable harmony, Or used hue and figure to reconstitute The herald blazon of Time's secret things. ~ Sri Aurobindo, Savitri, 02.06,

8:System Shock states the percentage chance a character has to survive magical effects that reshape or age his body: petrification (and reversing petrification), polymorph, magical aging, etc. It can also be used to see if the character retains consciousness in particularly difficult situations. For example, an evil wizard polymorphs his dim-witted hireling into a crow. The hireling, whose Constitution score is 13, has an 85% chance to survive the change. Assuming he survives, he must successfully roll for system shock again when he is changed back to his original form or else he will die. ~ AD&D,

9:The last thing that you remember is standing before the wizard Lakmir as he gestured wildly and chanted in an archaic tongue. Now you find yourself staring at an entryway which lies at the edge of a forest. The Druid's words still ring in your ears: "Within the walls of the Castle Shadowgate lies your quest. If the prophecies hold true, the dreaded Warlock Lord will use his dark magic to raise the Behemoth, the deadliest of the Titans, from the depths of the earth. You are the seed of prophecy, the last of the line of kings, and only you can stop the Warlock Lord from darkening our world FOREVER. Fare thee well. ~ Shadowgate,

10:Above her little finite steps she feels, Careless of knot or pause, worlds which weave out A strange perfection beyond law and rule, A universe of self-found felicity, An inexpressible rhythm of timeless beats, The many-movemented heart-beats of the One, Magic of the boundless harmonies of self, Order of the freedom of the infinite, The wonder-plastics of the Absolute. There is the All-Truth and there the timeless bliss. But hers are fragments of a star-lost gleam, Hers are but careless visits of the gods. They are a Light that fails, a Word soon hushed And nothing they mean can stay for long on earth. There are high glimpses, not the lasting sight. A few can climb to an unperishing sun, Or live on the edges of the mystic moon And channel to earth-mind the wizard ray. ~ Sri Aurobindo, Savitri, The Eternal Day,

11:Kusanagi is a leading expert in fourth-generation warfare and cyberbrain combative warfare. As the most heavily mechanized member of Section 9, she is regarded amongst her peers as the best hand-to-hand melee fighter and the most skilled "hacker and net diver." Chief Aramaki described her abilities as "...rarer than 'ESP'; the kind of person that government agencies hire to assassinate without leaving a trace." Classified as "Wizard Class" grey hat, her computer security hacking skills allow her brain-computer interface consciousness to control two-external humanoid "drone"-robots remotely with the ability to move her "ghost" from host to host. Kusanagi repeatedly demonstrates uncanny ability to hack people's wetware protected with military-grade malware protection and counter-measures, allowing her to "see through their eyes," disable their vocal systems, or even take control of their bodies altogether. As a cyborg, Kusanagi is able to perform numerous superhuman feats, such as demonstrating superhuman strength, leaping between skyscrapers, advanced acrobatics, or shooting down a bullet after it was fired at mid-range. ~ Wikipedia, Motoko Kusangi,

*** WISDOM TROVE ***

1:Man is always a wizard to man, and the social world is at first magical. ~ jean-paul-sartre, @wisdomtrove

2:A wizard is never late, nor is he early, he arrives precisely when he means to. ~ j-r-r-tolkien, @wisdomtrove

3:Speak, or I will put a dint in your hat that even a wizard will find hard to deal with! ~ j-r-r-tolkien, @wisdomtrove

4:Transcript for the Piece Audio version of A Wizard of Earthsea: A Big Read Documentary. www.prx.org. ~ ursula-k-le-guin, @wisdomtrove

5:Smell is a potent wizard that transports you across thousands of miles and all the years you have lived. ~ hellen-keller, @wisdomtrove

6:He was as noble and fair in face as an elf-lord, as strong as a warrior, as wise as a wizard, as venerable as a king of dwarves, and as kind as summer. ~ j-r-r-tolkien, @wisdomtrove

7:I am not sure if women are attracted to genius. Can you imagine the wise wizard winning the woman over the gallant swordsman? It seems rather otherworldly in more ways than one. ~ criss-jami, @wisdomtrove

8:Not our Logical, Mensurative faculty, but our Imaginative one is King over us; I might say, Priest and Prophet to lead us heavenward; or Magician and Wizard to lead us hellward. ~ thomas-carlyle, @wisdomtrove

9:The wizard [of Oz] says look inside yourself and find self. God says look inside yourself and find [the Holy Spirit]. The first will get you to Kansas. The latter will get you to heaven. Take your pick. ~ max-lucado, @wisdomtrove

10:I'm no wizard, and I don't like being thought of in that light at all. I think of a wizard as being some sort of magician or something, doing something on the sly or something, and I don't want to be thought of in that way. ~ john-wooden, @wisdomtrove

11:I would have things as they were in all the days of my life, and in the days of my longfathers before me: to be the Lord of this City in peace, and leave my chair to a son after me, who would be his own master and no wizard's pupil. ~ j-r-r-tolkien, @wisdomtrove

12:If only that dratted wizard would leave young Frodo alone, perhaps he'll settle down and grow some hobbit-sense,' they said. And to all appearance the wizard did leave Frodo alone, and he did settle down, but the growth of hobbit-sense was not very noticable. ~ j-r-r-tolkien, @wisdomtrove

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

14:But you must not change one thing, one pebble, one grain of sand, until you know what good and evil will follow on that act. The world is in balance, in Equilibrium. A wizard's power of Changing and Summoning can shake the balance of the world. It is dangerous, that power... It must follow knowledge, and serve need. ~ ursula-k-le-guin, @wisdomtrove

15:Somehow the killing of the giant spider, all alone by himself in the dark without the help of the wizard or the dwarves or of anyone else, made a great difference to Mr. Baggins. He felt a different person, and much fiercer and bolder in spite of an empty stomach, as he wiped his sword on the grass and put it back into its sheath. ~ j-r-r-tolkien, @wisdomtrove

16:Pippin glanced in some wonder at the face now close beside his own, for the sound of that laugh had been gay and merry. Yet in the wizard's face he saw at first only lines of care and sorrow; though as he looked more intently he perceived that under all there was a great joy: a fountain of mirth enough to set a kingdom laughing, were it to gush forth. ~ j-r-r-tolkien, @wisdomtrove

17:We wait all these years to find someone who understands us, I thought, someone who accepts us as we are, someone with a wizard's power to melt stone to sunlight, who can bring us happiness in spite of trials, who can face our dragons in the night, who can transform us into the soul we choose to be. Just yesterday I found that magical Someone is the face we see in the mirror: It's us and our homemade masks. ~ richard-bach, @wisdomtrove

18:Smell is a potent wizard that transports you across thousands of miles and all the years you have lived. The odors of fruits waft me to my southern home, to my childhood frolics in the peach orchard. Other odors, instantaneous and fleeting, cause my heart to dilate joyously or contract with remembered grief.  Even as I think of smells, my nose is full of scents that start awake sweet memories of summers gone and ripening fields far away. ~ hellen-keller, @wisdomtrove

*** NEWFULLDB 2.4M ***

1:Harry―yer a wizard. ~ J K Rowling,

2:IV THE HO-HO WIZARD ~ Enid Blyton,

3:Yer a wizard, Harry! ~ J K Rowling,

4:Harry — yer a wizard. ~ J K Rowling,

5:Harry -- yer a wizard. ~ J K Rowling,

6:You're a wizard Harry! ~ J K Rowling,

7:You're a wizard, Harry. ~ J K Rowling,

8:I'm a wizard and I know it. ~ Kid Cudi,

9:Weasleys’ Wizard Wheezes ~ J K Rowling,

10:So You Want To Be A Wizard? ~ Diane Duane,

11:The wand chooses the wizard, ~ J K Rowling,

12:The wand chooses the wizard. ~ J K Rowling,

13:got angry at the Wizard, and ~ L Frank Baum,

14:THE WONDERFUL WIZARD OF OZ 1. ~ L Frank Baum,

15:We're off to see the Wizard ~ Danielle Paige,

16:XXX Competent wizard should cope ~ J K Rowling,

17:said Hagrid. “Harry—yer a wizard. ~ J K Rowling,

18:And we’re off to fuck the wizard. ~ Kresley Cole,

19:When in doubt, shoot the wizard. ~ Tamora Pierce,

20:said Hagrid. “Harry — yer a wizard. ~ J K Rowling,

21:Every human can be a wizard. ~ Charlie Jane Anders,

22:OMIGOSH JONAH WIZARD!" -Amy Cahill ~ Jude Watson,

23:seeing a wizard cut loose can do that to ~ Jim Butcher,

24:To the wizard death is merely a belief. ~ Deepak Chopra,

25:Wizard's First Rule: People are stupid ~ Terry Goodkind,

26:Nature reflects the moods of the wizard. ~ Deepak Chopra,

27:Even in sleep, the wizard had an iron grip. ~ Jenny Nimmo,

28:Behold the angry wizard puttputt-putting away. ~ Anonymous,

29:Man, you look skinny. Wizard needs food badly. ~ Anonymous,

30:Don't mess with a wizard when he's wizarding! ~ Jim Butcher,

31:Don’t mess with a wizard when he’s wizarding! ~ Jim Butcher,

32:wizard crackers every few feet along the table. ~ Anonymous,

33:Ha-ha! Ah-hahahaha! I am wizard; hear me roar! ~ Jim Butcher,

34:I believe you are a wizard, Mr. Holmes. ~ Arthur Conan Doyle,

35:Nobody gets in to see the wizard. Not nobody. ~ L Frank Baum,

36:I am a wizard, not a baboon brandishing a stick. ~ J K Rowling,

37:Yo, you 14-carat gold slum computer wizard, ~ Ghostface Killah,

38:Behold the angry wizard puttputt-putting away. My ~ Jim Butcher,

39:I can't be a wizard. I'm just Harry." Harry Potter ~ J K Rowling,

40:Hagrid: Harry -- yer a wizard. Harry: I'm a what? ~ J K Rowling,

41:I love being a wizard. Every day is like Disneyland. ~ Jim Butcher,

42:As for me, I'm a gurgling wizard of calorific excess. ~ Martin Amis,

43:Once upon a time the plural of 'wizard' was 'war'. ~ Terry Pratchett,

44:Enemies,' the wizard said, 'are the price of honour. ~ Terry Goodkind,

45:He was a firm “one catastrophe at a time” kind of wizard. ~ Drew Hayes,

46:It's really the wand that chooses the wizard, of course. ~ J K Rowling,

47:it’s really the wand that chooses the wizard, of course. ~ J K Rowling,

48:I am a wizard,” he muttered. “Magicians do parlor tricks. ~ Priya Ardis,

49:The Wizard of Oz.” “No, no, no,” said Sophie. She quickly ~ Lara Bergen,

50:What twelve year old wouldn't want to play an evil wizard? ~ Tom Felton,

51:Wizard's Seventh Rule Life is the future, not the past. ~ Terry Goodkind,

52:That is most of it, being a wizard—seeing and listening. ~ Peter S Beagle,

53:Barack Obama, foreign policy wizard. I just have to laugh. ~ Rush Limbaugh,

54:Hat = wizard, wizard = hat. Everything else is frippery. ~ Terry Pratchett,

55:Wizard's Eighth Rule Talga Vassternich. (Deserve Victory) ~ Terry Goodkind,

56:XXXXX Known wizard killer/impossible to train or domesticate ~ J K Rowling,

57:Professional Wizard Incinerates Amateur Vampire. News at ten. ~ Jim Butcher,

58:Lions and tigers, and bears, oh my! - Dorothy in Wizard of Oz ~ L Frank Baum,

59:I roared at him. “Don’t mess with a wizard when he’s wizarding! ~ Jim Butcher,

60:All your troubles are due to those 'ifs'," declared the Wizard. ~ L Frank Baum,

61:If I were serious I would never have become a wizard, would I? ~ John Bellairs,

62:If the Wizard of Oz were real he would be in Hollywood. ~ Nicolas Winding Refn,

63:I don’t care if you’re the grand wizard of the Ku Klux Klan, ~ Robert Muchamore,

64:Oh, no my dear. I'm a very good man. I'm just a very bad Wizard. ~ L Frank Baum,

65:A good perfumer was part alchemist, part artist, and part wizard. ~ Lisa Kleypas,

66:Artists are magicians and I definitely think John Lennon was a Wizard. ~ Yoko Ono,

67:Let me guess: you're secretly a wizard who was raised by muggles. ~ Michael Grant,

68:Perhaps it's rude to notice when a wizard does something strange. ~ Donita K Paul,

69:Many, many mantles are worn—or discarded—on Halloween night, wizard. ~ Jim Butcher,

70:His shirt read MUGGLE IN THE STREETS, WIZARD IN THE SHEETS. ~ Jennifer L Armentrout,

71:Wizard's Third Rule Passion rules reason, For better or for worse. ~ Terry Goodkind,

72:XXXX Dangerous/requires specialist knowledge/skilled wizard may handle ~ J K Rowling,

73:Ah, go boil yer heads, both of yeh", said Hagrid. “Harry — yer a wizard. ~ J K Rowling,

74:North Korea is the country that the monkeys in the Wizard of Oz came from. ~ Lewis Black,

75:You are a creator of content, a wizard of words. They need you. Act like it. ~ Jeff Goins,

76:You be careful, Wizard. Interestingly eccentric friends aren't easy to find. ~ Dean Koontz,

77:Man is always a wizard to man, and the social world is at first magical. ~ Jean Paul Sartre,

78:The wizard didn't give anything to the Tin Man that he didn't already have. ~ Steve Chandler,

79:The Wonderful Wizard of Oz was published in 1900. The turn of the century. ~ Elizabeth Letts,

80:We have a very different idea about what disgraces the name of wizard, Malfoy. ~ J K Rowling,

81:Wizard's Second Rule The greatest harm can result from the best intentions. ~ Terry Goodkind,

82:Wizard's Sixth Rule The only sovereign you can allow to rule you is reason. ~ Terry Goodkind,

83:A wizard is never late, nor is he early, he arrives precisely when he means to. ~ J R R Tolkien,

84:C’mon, clock’s ticking. Let’s go pick a fight with an evil billionaire wizard. ~ Craig Schaefer,

85:It is quite a risk to spank a wizard for getting hysterical about his hair. ~ Diana Wynne Jones,

86:..he says, but that's wizard's talk, making things seem great by great words. ~ Ursula K Le Guin,

87:When in doubt," the mage Numair Salmalin had taught the pages, "Shoot the wizard. ~ Tamora Pierce,

88:Did you just make that up? Words mean things. And no. I’m a hacker, not a wizard. ~ Craig Schaefer,

89:He is a mysterious and captivating fellow, this wizard who can live backward in time… ~ T A Barron,

90:I’m a wizard. That means I have power, and power and responsibility go hand in hand. ~ Jim Butcher,

91:Gossip is instructive,” said the Wizard. “It tells which way the wind is blowing. ~ Gregory Maguire,

92:A stuffed animal, man!” I roared at him. “Don’t mess with a wizard when he’s wizarding! ~ Jim Butcher,

93:I wanted to work with Bert Lahr [the 'Cowardly Lion' in 'The Wizard of Oz'], and I did. ~ Norman Lear,

94:Wizard's Tenth Rule Willfully turning aside from the truth is treason to one's self. ~ Terry Goodkind,

95:If the dragons wanted an angry wizard, I would give them the angel of the Apocalypse. ~ Shayne Silvers,

96:What is merely a hypothesis to anyone else is an overwhelming temptation to a wizard. ~ Barbara Hambly,

97:Speak, or I will put a dint in your hat that even a wizard will find hard to deal with! ~ J R R Tolkien,

98:the earth under his feet, Timoken said, “I’m going for my camel.” “Your camel!” the wizard ~ Jenny Nimmo,

99:Didn’t you smash down the front door, give Dudley a pig’s tail, and tell me I was a wizard? ~ J K Rowling,

100:He’d make a great Chippendales dancer—if he weren’t already a prince. And a wizard, to boot. ~ Cate Rowan,

101:I mean, if you could have a wizard grant a wish, would you waste it on going to Kansas? ~ Michael Buckley,

102:I will not cut my film because, because, because, because of the Wonderful Wizard of Oz. ~ Emir Kusturica,

103:Wizard's Ninth Rule A contradiction can not exist in reality. Not in part, nor in whole. ~ Terry Goodkind,

104:I thought I was an actor playing a wizard. But really, I was a wizard playing an actor. ~ Daniel Radcliffe,

105:The Wizard of Oz' is my favorite movie. It was the first movie I can ever remember watching. ~ Ezra Miller,

106:Courage in the face of the unknown is an important quality in a wizard . . . very important.  ~ J K Rowling,

107:I didn’t follow her right away. She didn’t look back. Stab. Twist. God, I love being a wizard. ~ Jim Butcher,

108:I did the only thing any reasonable wizard could have done. I turned around and ran like hell. ~ Jim Butcher,

109:Oh - You're a very bad man!" Oh, no my dear. I'm a very good man. I'm just a very bad Wizard. ~ L Frank Baum,

110:Do you think there’s anything to eat in this forest?” “Yes,” said the wizard bitterly, “us. ~ Terry Pratchett,

111:It was like the Wizard of Oz had spoken, and what he said was too ludicrous to take seriously. ~ Anthony Kiedis,

112:The guesswork of a wizard is close to knowledge, though he may not know what it is he knows. ~ Ursula K Le Guin,

113:Do you think there’s anything to eat in this forest?” “Yes,” said the wizard bitterly, “us. ~ Terry Pratchett,

114:What's your specialty?" The wizard squinted. "What would you like my specialty to be? ~ Patrick Weekes,

115:He’d successfully gone from awkward and clumsy one minute, to a magical vagina wizard the next. ~ Jamie Schlosser,

116:Be careful, this is the greatest fencer since the death of the Wizard of Corsica. Do not burgle. ~ William Goldman,

117:I was playing Dorothy in The Wizard of Oz, and it was my turn to speak. Dorothy is Hamlet for girls. ~ Amy Poehler,

118:...Wizard's Fifth Rule: Mind what people do, not only what they say, for deeds will betray a lie. ~ Terry Goodkind,

119:I suggest it’s time we head off to see the Wizard. The wonderful Wizard of Jesus We Are All So Fucked. ~ Mira Grant,

120:No matter how subtle the wizard, a knife between the shoulder blades will seriously cramp his style. ~ Steven Brust,

121:That’s the true power of a wizard. I know things. Knowledge is power. With power comes responsibility. ~ Jim Butcher,

122:Her clothes still smoked from the wizard’s assault. But to him, she always smelled of flowers. ~ Cinda Williams Chima,

123:overwhelming odds, an amateur office wizard and a small town Butt Cop taking on an entire devilman army. ~ Chuck Tingle,

124:Smell is a potent wizard that transports you across thousands of miles and all the years you have lived. ~ Helen Keller,

125:The wall read: ELPHIE LIVES OZMA LIVES THE WIZARD LIVES and then EVERYONE LIVES BUT US. ~ Gregory Maguire,

126:It's over the garden wall and we're going to see the Wizard, come what may and hell to pay. -Elphaba ~ Gregory Maguire,

127:How about it, wizard? Cop? Maybe you’ve got stones enough to take it when I threaten you. I can admire that. ~ Jim Butcher,

128:That’s the great thing about being a wizard. I can always tell myself, honestly, that things could be worse. ~ Jim Butcher,

129:Mad?” said Percy airily. “He’s a genius! Best wizard in the world! But he is a bit mad, yes. Potatoes, Harry? ~ J K Rowling,

130:No harm in listening. Alexei's a child, not a wizard. We don't lose control of our brains by listening. ~ Katherine Rundell,

131:The Wizard was from a place called America, and to him, a female ruler was a strange and unsettling notion. ~ Danielle Paige,

132:It's the grapefruit. By which I mean its the pink one. -Steven Deschain Wizard and Glass (Dark Tower #4) ~ Stephen King,

133:we are like the wizard who weaves a labyrinth and is forced to wander through it till the end of his days ~ Jorge Luis Borges,

134:Professor Flitwick had dried himself off and set Seamus lines ("I am a wizard not a baboon brandishing a stick") ~ J K Rowling,

135:Did you know— then?” asked Harry. “Did I know that I had just met the most dangerous Dark wizard of all time? No. ~ J K Rowling,

136:but when you're dealing with a wizard like Black, you sometimes have to join forces with those you'd rather avoid. ~ J K Rowling,

137:Do you think I could still be a wizard? One day?' 'Perhaps,' said the Good Wizard. 'I was a princess myself once. ~ Garth Nix,

138:He tried the knob. "They locked it back up, though." "Can't you open it?" "I'm a psychic, not a wizard. ~ Juliet Blackwell,

139:Offend Dobby!” choked the elf. “Dobby has never been asked to sit down by a wizard — like an equal — ~ J K Rowling,

140:The Wizard's First Rule: People are stupid; given proper motivation almost anyone will believe almost anything. ~ Terry Goodkind,

141:The wizard!” She breathed. “But they said you were dead.”               “I got better,” I said mildly. ~ E William Brown,

142:As ExtraOrdinary Wizard I am supposed to be mean," Septimus replied with a smile. "It's part of the job description. ~ Angie Sage,

143:Advertising wizard who created Apple’s “1984” ad and worked with Jobs for three decades. DEBORAH “DEBI” COLEMAN. ~ Walter Isaacson,

144:Crookshanks?" wheezed Hermione, bent double, clutching at her chest. "Are you a wizard, or what?" "Oh--right--yeah-- ~ J K Rowling,

145:Did you know— then?” asked Harry. “Did I know that I had just met the most dangerous Dark wizard of all time? No. ~ J K Rowling,

146:Going so soon? I wouldn't hear of it. Why my little party's just beginning. ~ Wicked Witch of the West Wizard of Oz ~ L Frank Baum,

147:Wizard's Eleventh and Final Rule The "Rule Unspoken", the "Rule Unwritten", "The rule from the beginning of time. ~ Terry Goodkind,

148:But of course he knew, all of them knew. There is only one kind of a person a wizard can marry, and that is a witch. ~ Eva Ibbotson,

149:Marcia listened to the comments and wondered why people thought that wearing ExtraOrdinary Wizard robes made her deaf. ~ Angie Sage,

150:never forget Wizard Baruffio, who said ‘s’ instead of ‘f’ and found himself on the floor with a buffalo on his chest. ~ J K Rowling,

151:Republicans are calling the Bush-Cheney ticket the 'Wizard of Oz' ticket. One needs a heart and the other needs a brain. ~ Jay Leno,

152:The miraculous Inconscient, A subtle wizard skilled, was at its task. ~ Sri Aurobindo, Savitri, The Godheads of the Little Life,

153:Working with civilians, like this was that TV show about the wizard with the talking skull and the twatty name. ~ Caitlin Kittredge,

154:And channel to earth-mind the wizard ray    ~ Sri Aurobindo, Savitri, The Eternal Day The Souls Choice and the Supreme Consummation,

155:A wizard without a hat was just a sad man with a suspicious taste in clothes. A wizard without a hat wasn’t anyone. ~ Terry Pratchett,

156:Whenever a poet or preacher, chief or wizard spouts gibberish, the human race spends centuries deciphering the message. ~ Umberto Eco,

157:Because gifts must be earned, and good must triumph over evil if an adventure is to have an end,” said the Wizard. ~ John Joseph Adams,

158:I've heard of a guy in Chicago who advertises in the phone book under "Wizard",though that's probably a urban legend. ~ Benedict Jacka,

159:Crap,” I gasped. “I am not going to be known as the wizard who used his death curse thanks to a bunch of bitty nail guns. ~ Jim Butcher,

160:The wonderful wizard of Oz - when was a child I loved the movie and I read the book when I got older and made me amazing ~ L Frank Baum,

161:An actual wizard. With a staff. He's got a shop there and everything, with a brass sign on the door. It says 'Wizard'. ~ Terry Pratchett,

162:(...) “to have a hairy heart” has passed into everyday wizarding language to describe a cold or unfeeling witch or wizard. ~ J K Rowling,

163:An initial attraction, and then a mutual quest for experience, the wand learning from the wizard, the wizard from the wand. ~ J K Rowling,

164:What do I look like? The Wizard of Oz? You need a brain? You need a heart? Go ahead, take mine. Take everything I have. ~ Stephenie Meyer,

165:Every great wizard in history has started out as nothing more than what we are now, students. If they can do it, why not us? ~ J K Rowling,

166:I am the Wizard of Oz of housewives (in that I am both "Great and Terrible" and because I sometimes hide behind the curtains ~ Jenny Lawson,

167:It’s strange. I keep forgetting you don’t have hands,” Hadrian commented. “I don’t,” the wizard replied coldly. ~ Michael J Sullivan,

168:GINNY: Harry, you have one of the greatest hearts of any wizard who ever lived, and I do not believe your heart you to do this ~ J K Rowling,

169:The senior wizard in a world of magic had the same prospects of long-term employment as a pogo stick tester in a minefield ~ Terry Pratchett,

170:Welsh is an actual, currently used language and our next-door neighbors Angela and Gaenor spoke it. It sounds like Wizard. ~ Maureen Johnson,

171:Ah, yes. ‘And I’ll huff. And I’ll puff. And I’ll blow your house down.’ Good-bye, wizard.” Death by nursery tale. Hell’s bells. ~ Jim Butcher,

172:Close your eyes, tap your heels together three times, and think to yourself, There’s No Place like Home.   —THE WIZARD OF OZ ~ Melody Beattie,

173:I went to the meeting with some trepidation for, although I might have met a wizard before, I had never encountered an Irishman. ~ Iain Pears,

174:Keep him well,” the dwarf finished with a wink, and he slammed the door with a bang. “He hates my door,” the wizard lamented. ~ R A Salvatore,

175:The senior wizard in a world of magic had the same prospects of long-term employment as a pogo stick tester in a minefield. ~ Terry Pratchett,

176:White for protection. And because they’re the cheapest color at Wal-Mart. Hey, being a wizard doesn’t make money grow on trees. ~ Jim Butcher,

177:Drizzt halted before the throne and bowed low. The sight of Regis standing beside the wizard disturbed him more than a little, ~ R A Salvatore,

178:He stared at me. “Wh-what did you say?” “A stuffed animal, man!” I roared at him. “Don’t mess with a wizard when he’s wizarding! ~ Jim Butcher,

179:Imagining [The Wizard of Oz] without Judy Garland is a bit like dancing on wet cement: you can do it, but why would you want to? ~ Pauline Kael,

180:I’ve even heard of one guy in Chicago who advertises in the phone book under “Wizard,” though that’s probably an urban legend. ~ Benedict Jacka,

181:Rincewind had been generally reckoned by his tutors to be a natural wizard in the same way that fish are natural mountaineers ~ Terry Pratchett,

182:An ancient proverb summed it up when a wizard is tired of looking for broken glass in his dinner, it ran, he is tired of life. ~ Terry Pratchett,

183:In 1892, mine owner L. L. Nunn had hired the electrical wizard Nikola Tesla to build the world’s first alternating-current power ~ Clive Cussler,

184:Rincewind had been generally reckoned by his tutors to be a natural wizard in the same way that fish are natural mountaineers. ~ Terry Pratchett,

185:What is it with you and the Wizard of Oz references? Zombies and werewolves and vamps, oh my. Zombies and werewolves and... ~ Christopher Golden,

186:Ministry of Magic (M.O.M) Classification. xxxxx Known wizard killer / impossible to train or domesticate / or anything Hagrid likes ~ J K Rowling,

187:Rincewind had been generally reckoned by his tutors to be a natural wizard in the same way that fish are natural mountaineers. He ~ Terry Pratchett,

188:He wasn’t a person, he was a lord and a wizard, a strange creature on another plane entirely, as far removed as storms and pestilence. ~ Naomi Novik,

189:I like to read to my kids before bed. With my first two sons we went through every Wizard Of Oz book, every original, Frank Baum Oz book. ~ Rob Crow,

190:After Arthur sent me away for my own good, it' like my life switched from color to black and white--like the ending of The Wizard of Oz. ~ Nick Nolan,

191:but there was still no preparation for seeing him here, spread-eagled, broken: the greatest wizard Harry had ever, or would ever, meet. ~ J K Rowling,

192:There's more magic in a baby's first giggle than in any firestorm a wizard can conjure up, and don't let anyone tell you any different. ~ Jim Butcher,

193:There’s more magic in a baby’s first giggle than in any firestorm a wizard can conjure up, and don’t let anyone tell you any different. ~ Jim Butcher,

194:What happens to people who try to poison a wizard, at least in the short run, is that they have an advantage in a game of football. ~ Terry Pratchett,

195:Wizard's Fourth Rule There is magic in sincere forgiveness; in the forgiveness you give, but more so in the forgiveness you receive. ~ Terry Goodkind,

196:But I tell you what—if you come across a farm boy and an old wizard, shiv them, take their horses, and go make your own destiny. ~ Michael R Underwood,

197:Reading one book is like eating one potato chip. ~ Diane Duane, So You Want to Be a Wizard (fiction). p. 19, paperback version. Spoken by Mrs. Lesser.,

198:There are no magics or elves / Or timely godmothers to guide us. We are lost, must / Wizard a track through our own screaming weed. ~ Gwendolyn Brooks,

199:I never went to business school. I was just bumbling through a lot of my life. I was like the guy behind the curtain in The Wizard of Oz. ~ David Geffen,

200:I walked away a little disheartened, thinking, 'Oh well. I came a long way to meet the Wizard of Oz, but I guess I won't. Such is life. ~ Anthony Kiedis,

201:Ministry of Magic (M.O.M) Classification. xxxxx Known wizard killer / impossible to train or domesticate / or anything Hagrid likes ~ J K Rowling,

202:If I find, near the end of this life, to have been a mere Wizard, it is likely due to the limits of aspiration. In my desire to Know without Being. ~ JB,

203:In a way, we are magicians. We are alchemists, sorcerers and wizards. We are a very strange bunch. But there is great fun in being a wizard. ~ Billy Joel,

204:In a Wizard of Oz test, customers believe they are interacting with the actual product, but behind the scenes human beings are doing the work. ~ Eric Ries,

205:I think you are a very bad man," said Dorothy. "Oh, no, my dear; I'm really a very good man, but I'm a very bad Wizard, I must admit. ~ L Frank Baum,

206:I would say anybody who's willing to listen to Dark Side of the Moon and watch The Wizard of Oz is already a very sensitive, creative person. ~ Wayne Coyne,

207:There’s more magic in a baby’s first giggle than in any firestorm a wizard can conjure up, and don’t let anyone tell you any different. Magic ~ Jim Butcher,

208:A pair of ruby red slippers worn by Judy Garland in The Wizard of Oz have been stolen. The thief is described as being armed and fabulous. ~ David Letterman,

209:Dave, I didn’t make it to work Monday because I was helping a wizard rescue a baby Prince out someplace between Barstow and San Bernardino? ~ Barbara Hambly,

210:Sometimes a mage would just up and hug him, then walk away. Once, a wizard he was talking to just started crying. That had frightened Beak. ~ Steven Erikson,

211:Ash only had one tattoo on his body--the wizard he'd etched on himself. From whatever angle I looked, it seemed like its throat had been cut. ~ Garrett Leigh,

212:We are all vegetable, in this country. Are you not vegetable, also?" "No," answered the Wizard. "People on top of the earth are all meat. Will ~ L Frank Baum,

213:Azkaban - the wizard prison, Goyle." said Malfoy, looking at him in disbelief. "Honestly, if you were any slower, you'd be going backward. ~ J K Rowling,

214:I am the bridge between the bleeding edge and the dead center. I stand between the Wizard of Oz and the man behind the curtain. I am the curtain. ~ Peter Watts,

215:My favorite movies growing up were things like 'The Wizard of Oz,' but as I got older, I really began to admire people like Steven Soderbergh. ~ Rainey Qualley,

216:The Queen says it is an exact duplicate. It was made with the assistance of a wizard of great power called OfficeMax, of whom I know nothing. ~ Cassandra Clare,

217:They seemed happy and contented, though," remarked the Wizard, "and those who are contented have nothing to regret and nothing more to wish for. ~ L Frank Baum,

218:They seemed happy and contented, though,” remarked the Wizard, “and those who are contented have nothing to regret and nothing more to wish for. ~ L Frank Baum,

219:You know what I would do? I would remake The Wizard of Oz with Robin Williams, and that's it. Just let him do the whole dang thing by himself. ~ Frank Caliendo,

220:The hardest lesson a wizard has to learn is that even with so much power, there are some things you can’t control. No matter how much you want to. ~ Jim Butcher,

221:But Dad! It really did happen! I was transported to a Laboratory in an old stone castle and there was a wizard in blue robes with a floppy hat and... ~ L R W Lee,

222:We're on our way to rescue a queen, overthrow an evil wizard, and win back a country. Care to join us? - Wolverine (Doomwar #1) ~ Jonathan Maberry,

223:I have talent at playing myself. I don't have a very broad range, but at playing myself I am a wizard. It's more than fun; it's the best job on Earth. ~ Ben Stein,

224:I'm a powerful being... a wizard," Corny said. "So don't try anything." "Yes," said the little faery, blinking black eyes rapidly. "No. Try nothing. ~ Holly Black,

225:It's exciting to have a role in anything that's Claymation, just because you're always intrigued by what a clay wizard version of yourself would be. ~ John Oliver,

226:You guys are related to Jonah Wizard?" Jake asked, his lip curled disdainfully. "And the other guy," Dan grumbled. "Vin Diesel's stunt double. ~ Peter Lerangis,

227:Also, the wizard’s response to having a skeletal deer leap in front of him and a bruised and whimpering elf fall off its back was to say, “Oh.” That ~ T Kingfisher,

228:I am the bridge between the bleeding edge and the dead center. I stand between the Wizard of Oz and the man behind the curtain. I am the curtain. ~ Peter Watts,

229:If I become a wizard, do I have to be celibate?” This seemed to puzzle Phillip. “No, you don’t have to be celibate. You can be, if that’s your thing. ~ Scott Meyer,

230:Sure, kid. Look, there's a very old saying in my family: 'Once is happenstance. Twice is coincidence. Three times is another wizard fucking with you. ~ Scott Lynch,

231:The girls who look like they’re wearing the least are wearing the most.” I wink. “Now you’ve seen behind the curtain. There’s no wizard, it’s all fake. ~ Tara Brown,

232:You deserve the services of a great wizard,” he said to the unicorn, “but I’m afraid you’ll have to be glad of the aid of a second-rate pickpocket. ~ Peter S Beagle,

233:Give me away?” “Yes. Um. Sort of like, one free wizard with every concubine sold? Um.” “I don’t see what vegetables have got to do with it.” Conina ~ Terry Pratchett,

234:I might not have any magic available to me, but that didn't make me any less of a wizard, one of the magi, the wise. That's the true power of a wizard. ~ Jim Butcher,

235:This s - t [smoked on scenes] called Wizard Smoke. I didn't like it. [James] Franco didn't have that hard of a time with it. Franco will smoke anything. ~ Seth Rogen,

236:Being a wizard gives you more power than most, but it doesn't change your heart. We're all human. We're all of us equally naked before the jaws of pain. ~ Jim Butcher,

237:Better Hufflepuff than Slytherin,” said Hagrid darkly. “There’s not a single witch or wizard who went bad who wasn’t in Slytherin. You-Know-Who was one. ~ J K Rowling,

238:Did I know that I had just met the most dangerous Dark wizard of all time?” said Dumbledore. “No, I had no idea that he was to grow up to be what he is. ~ J K Rowling,

239:If you invited a hedge wizard to a party, he would spend half the evening talking to your potted plant. And he would spend the other half listening. ~ Terry Pratchett,

240:I'm a powerful being... a wizard," Corny said. "So don't try anything." "Yes," said the little faery, blinking black eyes rapidly. "No. Try nothing. ~ Holly Black,

241:He was as noble and fair in face as an elf-lord, as strong as a warrior, as wise as a wizard, as venerable as a king of dwarves, and as kind as summer. ~ J R R Tolkien,

242:Faith is hoping that the wizard behind the curtain will explain what the flying monkeys had to do with you realizing that there is no place like home. ~ Shannon L Alder,

243:It still feels unreal sometimes. It all happened so fast, like an explosion you know. But I am really hyped about the success of 'Animals' and 'Wizard'. ~ Martin Garrix,

244:I've always taken 'The Wizard of Oz' very seriously, you know. I believe in the idea of the rainbow. And I've spent my entire life trying to get over it. ~ Judy Garland,

245:WIZARD Lost items found. Paranormal Investigations. Consulting. Advice. Reasonable Rates. No Love Potions, Endless Purses, or Other Entertainment. ~ Jim Butcher,

246:I have never believed in the Wizard of Oz theory of consulting, that I am all-knowing and all-seeing, and that everyone around me is kind of a backbencher ~ David Axelrod,

247:You’re still a little shy, I see, the wizard noted. I think if you ignore evil, my friend, it tends to grow stronger. (Quinhelm, the wizard - from BRIGGEN) ~ Ann B Keller,

248:A glass of water, Mr. Wizard? Certainly. Still or sparkling? Ice or lukewarm? Lemon or lime? French or Italian? When Hamilton had added, Bathroom or kitchen? ~ Jude Watson,

249:Well, he’s like a wizard, right?” Mercury asked. “He’s exactly like a wizard,” Jessica said, looking over at her. “Mostly because he casts spells and shit.” “I ~ C T Phipps,

250:When people come to the only professional wizard in the Chicago phone book for help, they’re one of two things: desperate or smart. Very rarely are they both. ~ Jim Butcher,

251:I'm not the beach-going type. the thought of being crowded into an endless sea of sun worshipers was the opposite of tempting - give me wizard school any day. ~ Katie Alender,

252:A song that relates to Harry is don't tell'm . This relates to Harry because he has to keep from everyone that he is a wizard. Only he and his family knows this. ~ J K Rowling,

253:All we need is a stuffed animal.” He stared at me. “Wh-what did you say?” “A stuffed animal, man!” I roared at him. “Don’t mess with a wizard when he’s wizarding! ~ Jim Butcher,

254:[Caine] "Interesting. Me, I've always wanted to know who my real parents were." [Sam] "Let me guess: you're secretly a wizard who was raised by muggles. ~ Michael Grant,

255:My favorite movie is The Wizard of Oz. I love the fairy tale of it. And Gone With the Wind was always one of my favorites because it's so dramatic and stunning. ~ Meredith Brooks,

256:Physicists don’t believe in wizards—a fact that I, being a wizard, find highly insulting. I have taken my revenge, therefore, by refusing to believe in physicists. ~ Margaret Weis,

257:You think he is mistaken? Or that I have somehow hoodwinked him? Fooled the Dark Lord, the greatest wizard, the most accomplished Legilimens the world has ever seen? ~ J K Rowling,

258:I had the idea of a boy who was a wizard and didn't yet know what he was. I never sat down and wondered, "What shall I write about next?". It just came, fully formed. ~ J K Rowling,

259:It doesn't take a wizard to figure out the last thing a girl should do is go running hundreds of miles away from home to Vermont just because a man asks her to do so. ~ Lisa Patton,

260:I worked on smiling at her, so she’d smile back. But it was an effort for me, a trip into the unfamiliar. It made me think of the tin man in The Wizard of Oz, ~ Catherine Ryan Hyde,

261:Sumanguru was shaken by Sundiata’s self-confidence, although he was sure his magic would protect him. But Sundiata’s blacksmith was also a well-known wizard. ~ Patricia C McKissack,

262:HARRY DRESDEN—WIZARD Lost Items Found. Paranormal Investigations. Consulting. Advice. Reasonable Rates. No Love Potions, Endless Purses, Parties, or Other Entertainment ~ Jim Butcher,

263:I think probably the scariest thing, as weird as it sounds, was 'The Wizard of Oz' and the flying monkeys with the witch. I remember seeing that - it still seems freaky. ~ Rob Zombie,

264:Wizard Howl," said Wizard Suliman. "I must apologize for trying to bite you so often. In the normal way, I wouldn't dream of setting teeth in a fellow countryman. ~ Diana Wynne Jones,

265:Dorothy said nothing. Oz had not kept the promise he made her, but he had done his best. So she forgave him. As he said, he was a good man, even if he was a bad Wizard. ~ L Frank Baum,

266:Meditation on Savitri, September 25, 2018 TuesdayThere was none there to see and none to feel;Only the miraculous Inconscient,A subtle wizard skilled, was at its task. ~ Sri Aurobindo,

267:I started acting as a child in Community Theatre but I didn't do any serious stuff. It was all musicals like 'Annie' and 'Wizard of Oz.' I was always in the chorus. ~ Michelle Williams,

268:There is no doubt they intend to kill us as dead as possible in a short time." said the Wizard "As dead as poss'ble would be pretty dead, wouldn't it?" asked Dorothy. ~ L Frank Baum,

269:You,” Madeline said, her voice hollow and wheezing, “are a bad case of herpes, wizard. You’re inconvenient, embarrassing, no real threat, and you simply will not go away. ~ Jim Butcher,

270:He was reading a huge book with a picture of a wizard on the front. I wasn’t much into fantasy, but the book must’ve been good, because the guard took a while to look up. ~ Rick Riordan,

271:Not our logical faculty, but our imaginative one is king over us. I might say, priest and prophet to lead us to heaven-ward, or magician and wizard to lead us hellward. ~ Thomas Carlyle,

272:...this is exactly the kind of store that makes you want to buy a book about a teenage wizard. This is the kind of store that makes you want to be a teenage wizard. ~ Robin Sloan,

273:Well,----me,” he said. “A----ing wizard. I hate----ing wizards!” “You shouldn’t----them, then,” muttered one of his henchmen, effortlessly pronouncing a row of dashes. ~ Terry Pratchett,

274:He could be a wise man of the woods, spoken of in whispers, his words and thoughts becoming spooky action at a distance in the world beyond. A secret wizard of the future. ~ Warren Ellis,

275:I am yours by parentage and custom and by duty undertaken towards you. I am your wizard. But it is time you recalled that, tough I am a servant, I am not your servant. ~ Ursula K Le Guin,

276:He was a wizard of sorts, a magus and a grammaticus; and continually communing with his machines as he did, he seemed to find talking to actual people a confusion to him. ~ Janet E Morris,

277:Needing some way to make a living, she paid an itinerant wizard to teach her magic. Eventually, her betrothed tracked her down and tried to force her to marry him by raping her. ~ Anonymous,

278:There is no living thing that is not afraid when it faces danger. True courage is facing danger when you are afraid.” —L. Frank Baum, The Wonderful Wizard of Oz ~ Bathroom Readers Institute,

279:he’s a Parselmouth. Everyone knows that’s the mark of a Dark wizard. Have you ever heard of a decent one who could talk to snakes? They called Slytherin himself Serpent-tongue. ~ J K Rowling,

280:I am not sure if women are attracted to genius. Can you imagine the wise wizard winning the woman over the gallant swordsman? It seems rather otherworldly in more ways than one. ~ Criss Jami,

281:A mouse slid out from under his hat and scrambled down his sleeve, across his lap, and down to the floor. Nothing,' said Fenworth, 'should distract from a wizard's dignity. ~ Donita K Paul,

282:Baum (Writer of THE WONDERFUL WIZARD OF OZ) was a true educator, and those who read his Oz books are often made what they were not-imaginative , tolerant, alert to wonders, life. ~ Gore Vidal,

283:It’s sorcery,” Cade said, as if explaining things to a slow child. “That’s the explanation.” “I’m a scientist,” she said. “I need a little more than ‘a wizard did it. ~ Christopher Farnsworth,

284:Tina: Can you please tell me you took care of the No-Maj? Newt: The what? Tina: The No-Maj! No-magic — the non-wizard! Newt: Oh sorry, we call them Muggles. ~ J K Rowling,

285:I shall take the heart,” returned the Tin Woodman; “for brains do not make one happy, and happiness is the best thing in the world.” (L. Frank Baum, The Wonderful Wizard of Oz) ~ John Eldredge,

286:It came charging toward me, several hundred pounds of angry-looking monster, and I did the only thing any reasonable wizard could have done. I turned around and ran like hell. ~ Jim Butcher,

287:QUEENIE Of course – Ilvermorny! It’s only the best wizard school in the whole world! NEWT I think you’ll find the best wizarding school in the world is Hogwarts! QUEENIE HOGWASH. ~ J K Rowling,

288:Even a wizard would have a great deal of difficulty repealing the economic law that higher minimum wages reduce employment. Since politicians are not wizards, they should not try. ~ Gary Becker,

289:Another song for Harry is don't tell'm by Jeremiah it compares to Harry because he got to keep as secret from everyone that he is a wizard and only his cousin, aunt, and uncle know ~ J K Rowling,

290:Not our Logical, Mensurative faculty, but our Imaginative one is King over us; I might say, Priest and Prophet to lead us heavenward; or Magician and Wizard to lead us hellward. ~ Thomas Carlyle,

291:picturing Dumbledore, with his long silver beard, full-length wizard’s robes, and pointed hat, stretched out on a beach somewhere, rubbing suntan lotion onto his long crooked nose. ~ J K Rowling,

292:You’re a fool,” Quinhelm accused. “Any man who would allow himself to be bewitched by a woman needs a good dunking in a cold barrel of water.” (Quinhelm, the wizard, from BRIGGEN) ~ Ann B Keller,

293:All London was one grey temple of an awful rite, ring within ring of wizard stones circled about some central place, every circle was an initiation, every initiation eternal loss. ~ Arthur Machen,

294:You," Madeline said, her voice hollow and wheezing, "are like a bad case of herpes, wizard. You're inconvenient, embarassing, no real threat, and you simply will not go away. ~ Jim Butcher,

295:You’re a wizard,” he hissed. “You don’t have to do what he says!” “How old are you, lad?” said Albert, kindly. “Twenty.” “When you’re my age you’ll see your choices differently. ~ Terry Pratchett,

296:At this point in history, people didn’t know how to react to “Eddie, the mysterious wizard from the Orient.” They already had difficulty dealing with Eddie’s thick New Jersey accent. ~ Scott Meyer,

297:I don’t have time for all the relations and courting and wooing bullshit,” I said. “I’m a wizard. I have quests.” “Uh, you’re an apprentice,” Gary said. “And you’re sent on errands. ~ T J Klune,

298:I put it down to the paranoia of advancing age. It isn't like I'm all that old or anything, especially for a wizard, but age is always advancing and I'm fairly sure it's up to no good. ~ Jim Butcher,

299:One remarkable fact stands out in the history of witchcraft; and that is, its victims were chiefly women. Scarce one wizard to a hundred witches was ever burned or tortured. ~ Elizabeth Cady Stanton,

300:우리는 화폐의 역사에 대해서는 무지하다. ‘오즈의 마법사(The Wizard of Oz)’의 원제가 실은 ‘온스(=금)의 마법사(Wizard of Ounce)’였다는 사실을 아는 사람은 많지 않다. 도로시라는 소녀 주인공과 그 일행의 모험을 그린 이 동화에는 미국 독립 직후 화폐 제도를 둘러싼 남북의 깊은 정치적 갈등이 깔려 있다. ~ Anonymous,

301:You were a wizard. What caused all that?” “I think it was probably an inexplicable phenomenon,” said Windle. “There’s a lot of them about, for some reason. I wish I knew why. ~ Terry Pratchett,

302:Because for all his bravado, for all the sass and the sarcasm, he is still the greatest wizard I have ever known. He's the better part of all of us. And I am humbled to be in his presence. ~ T J Klune,

303:If I ever go looking for my heart’s desire again, I won’t look any further than my own backyard. Because if it isn’t there, I never really lost it to begin with. —Dorothy, The Wizard of Oz ~ Pico Iyer,

304:Your president only speaks for Americans. American movies speak for your world. Who hasn't seen Wizard of Oz? Or Jaws? Or Star Wars? We've seen them, and we're not even from this planet. ~ John Scalzi,

305:Be one of the crowd? It went against everything a wizard stood for, and a wizard would not stand for anything if he could sit down for it, but even sitting down, you had to stand out. ~ Terry Pratchett,

306:I WALKED INTO my house to see the knight and the wizard sitting in my kitchen, drinking coffee. If you added in Julie’s thieving skills and my sword, we almost had an adventuring party. ~ Ilona Andrews,

307:When I started, I was pretty sure I was going to be writing some goofy little wizard novels that might make me some part-time money and would hopefully lead to something I could do better. ~ Jim Butcher,

308:On a shelf over the experiment table there was the inevitable skull, which the wizard put their to remind him of death, though it usually reminded him that he needed to go to the dentist. ~ John Bellairs,

309:We plan on delivering our baby to the soundtrack of Pink Floyd’s The Wall while simultaneously watching The Wizard of Oz. If this kid works with us, we guarantee your minds will be blown! The ~ Amy Poehler,

310:You got a name?" "Uhad Ul-badir Taruk Ultani," the wizard said with a small dip of his chin. Jackal blinked. "That name is a fucking nightmare. I'm going to call you Crafty. ~ Jonathan French,

311:Knives,’ muttered Calder, ‘and threats, and bribes, and war?’ Bayaz’ eyes shone with the lamplight. ‘Yes?’ ‘What kind of a fucking wizard are you?’ ‘The kind you obey. ~ Joe Abercrombie,

312:Well, have you ever thought of bathing?' I asked, turning away. 'No one wants to hire a wizard who smells worse than their outhouse. And who knows what creatures are living in that hair? ~ Alexandra Bracken,

313:When most people lose control of their anger, someone gets hurt. Maybe someone even gets killed. When it happens to a wizard, insurance companies go broke and there’s reconstruction afterward. ~ Jim Butcher,

314:Robillard looked out the window to the late afternoon skyline. Smoke rose from several locations, adding to the gloom. “So much gray out there,” the wizard remarked. “So many shades of gray.… ~ R A Salvatore,

315:They say Los Angeles is like The Wizard of Oz. One minute it’s small-town monochrome neighborhoods and then boom—all of a sudden you’re in a sprawling Technicolor freak show, dense with midgets. ~ David Wong,

316:When it happens to a wizard, insurance companies go broke and there’s reconstruction afterward. What was stirring in me now made those previous feelings of battle rage seem like anemic kittens. ~ Jim Butcher,

317:Am I going to be able to provide a real home for her, man? An education? A real life? What's her college application going to look like: 'Raised on Spooky Island by wizard with GED, please help'? ~ Jim Butcher,

318:He had never seen a wizard work things out like this, simply by looking and touching; but Harry had long since learned that bangs and smoke were more often the marks of ineptitude than expertise. ~ J K Rowling,

319:There were more old people. The world was full of them,' said the wizard. 'Yes, I know. And now it's full of young people. Funny, really. I mean, you'd expect it to be the other way round. ~ Terry Pratchett,

320:feel like we’re taking a bad trip down a yellow brick road, but what waits for us behind that curtain is no charlatan, rather an enormously powerful, staggeringly dangerous wizard of chaos. ~ Karen Marie Moning,

321:He helped the Librarian up. There was a red glow in the ape's eyes. It had tried to steal his books. This was probably the best proof any wizard could require that the trolleys were brainless. ~ Terry Pratchett,

322:I also have a pair of ruby red slippers from the 'Wizard of Oz' and Dorothy's gingham dress...and on and on. I saved as much as I could and still do, because people are still interested in it. ~ Debbie Reynolds,

323:I think it may have pierced his heart.” “The heart is on this side,” Rose pointed out. “Is it?” The wizard frowned and placed a hand on his own breast. “Gods, you might be right. ~ Nicholas Eames,

324:I wasn't doing magic, but I was in it, surrounded on all sides by incredible, beautiful things. It made me feel like a wizard even though I wasn't one, even though I never could be one. p. 306 ~ Ruth Emmie Lang,

325:What is magic? There is the wizard's explanation... wizards talk about candles, circles, planets, stars, bananas, chants, runes and the importance of having at least four good meals every day. ~ Terry Pratchett,

326:When a mortal dreams, all kinds of strange things can happen. When a wizard dreams, it can be even weirder. Sometimes, dreams can be intense enough to create a little, temporary world of their own. ~ Jim Butcher,

327:The Wizard of Oz—over the rainbow where everything is in color and you have the power to do what you’ve always wanted and that power has always been with you if only you knew how to tap into it—came ~ Vicki Myron,

328:But why fight at all, in that case?" asked the girl. "So I may die with a clear conscience," returned the Wizard, gravely. "It's every man's duty to do the best he knows how; and I'm going to do it. ~ L Frank Baum,

329:He’s the Wizard because he’s magic. He mysteriously passes through locked doors. He seems to read minds. He’s able to refuse dessert. And he can give me a hot flash with the touch of a fingertip. ~ Janet Evanovich,

330:What is magic? There is the wizard's explanation... wizards talk about candles, circles, planets, stars, bananas, chants, runes and the importance of having at least four good meals every day. ~ Terry Pratchett,

331:You got that paper cup? Right, then. All we need is a stuffed animal.’ He stared at me. ‘Wh-what did you say?’ ‘A stuffed animal, man!’ I roared at him. ‘Don’t mess with a wizard when he’s wizarding! ~ Jim Butcher,

332:You're a wizard," I snapped. "Can't you just use magic to make your own food?" "Ah, yes," he retorted. "Because mud pies are so very delicious and the wind fills empty stomachs quite nicely. ~ Alexandra Bracken,

333:It's not like most people read anymore. Well, not unless the book has a wizard school or a hot vampire. And, as a Kari Kngsley expert, I'm absolutely certain your life has neither of those things. ~ Janette Rallison,

334:Kept what from me?’ said Harry eagerly. ‘STOP! I FORBID YOU!’ yelled Uncle Vernon in panic. Aunt Petunia gave a gasp of horror. ‘Ah, go boil yer heads, both of yeh,’ said Hagrid. ‘Harry – yer a wizard. ~ J K Rowling,

335:The wizard [of Oz] says look inside yourself and find self. God says look inside yourself and find [the Holy Spirit]. The first will get you to Kansas. The latter will get you to heaven. Take your pick. ~ Max Lucado,

336:You must be a wizard.” She took an unsteady breath. “Because you can turn a rational, intelligent woman into a lusty wench who would do anything—anything—to have you between her thighs.” “Good ~ Vicki Lewis Thompson,

337:Without communism ... our state lacks a Wizard of Oz to terrify all the people all the time. So the state looks inward, at the true enemy, who turns out to be - who else? the people of the United States. ~ Gore Vidal,

338:A few can climb to an unperishing sun, Or live on the edges of the mystic moon And channel to earth-mind the wizard ray. ~ Sri Aurobindo, Savitri, The Eternal Day, The Soul’s Choice and the Supreme Consummation,

339:Animals do not do what they have done. Animals kill to eat, to defend themselves or their own, and to protect their territory. Not for the joy of it. Not for the lust of it...Only humans do that, wizard. ~ Jim Butcher,

340:hating myself for catching a glimpse of a very hairy wizard with one leg up on the sink, using a hairdryer to blow dry the forest around his knackers—what the hell is that all about? Use a towel you freak—I ~ Al K Line,

341:Non-magic people (more commonly known as Muggles) were particularly afraid of magic in medieval times, but not very good at recognizing it. On the rare occasion that they did catch a real witch or wizard, ~ J K Rowling,

342:People who know diddly about wizards don’t like to give us their names. They’re convinced that if they give a wizard their name from their own lips it could be used against them. To be fair, they’re right. ~ Jim Butcher,

343:Yesterday in a 25 to 24 vote, Republicans welcomed back Lott back into their leadership and named him minority whip. That is great for Trent. They say minority whip is a stepping stone to Grand Wizard. ~ Stephen Colbert,

344:My dog barks some. Mentally you picture my dog, but I have not told you the type of dog which I have. Perhaps you even picture Toto, from The Wizard of Oz. But I can tell you, my dog is always with me. WOOF! ~ Jack Nance,

345:As for fairy tales, he understood that they were reflections of the people who had spun them, and were flecked with little truths - intrusions of reality into fantasy, like toast crumbs on a wizard's beard. ~ Laini Taylor,

346:As I walked back to my room, a scene from The Wizard of Oz sprung into my head in which the Wizard tells the Tin Man, “A heart is not judged by how much you love, but by how much you are loved by others.” I ~ Neil Strauss,

347:I sat and thought for four (delayed train) hours, and all the details bubbled up in my brain, and this scrawny, black-haired, bespectacled boy who didn't know he was a wizard became more and more real to me. ~ J K Rowling,

348:When you became a wizard you were expected to stop shaving and grow a beard like a gorse bush. Very senior wizards looked capable of straining nourishment out of the air via their mustaches, like whales. ~ Terry Pratchett,

349:He was my mum and dad's best friend. He's a convicted murderer, but he's broken out of wizard prison and he's on the run. He likes to keep in touch with me, though...keep up with my news...check if I'm happy. ~ J K Rowling,

350:The wizard [of Oz] says look inside yourself and find self. God says look inside yourself and find [the Holy Spirit]. The first will get you to Kansas. The latter will get you to heaven. Take your pick. ~ Max Lucado,

351:Regweld is really a fine wizard," he continued, patting the shoulder again. "And his ideas for crossbreeding a horse and a frog are not without merit; never mind the explosion! Alchemy shops can be replaced! ~ R A Salvatore,

352:And as for fairy tales, he understood that they were reflections of the people who had spun them, and were flecked with little truths—intrusions of reality into fantasy, like… toast crumbs on a wizard’s beard. ~ Laini Taylor,

353:He was my mum and dad's best friend. He's a convicted murderer, but he's broken out of wizard prison and he's on the run. He likes to keep in touch with me, though...keep up with my news...check if I'm happy... ~ J K Rowling,

354:James had, of course, heard of television and video games, but having had mostly wizard friends, he’d assumed Muggle children only engaged in those activities when there was absolutely nothing better to do ~ G Norman Lippert,

355:To make Harry Potter invisible, one would have to liquefy him, boil him to create steam, crystallize him, heat him again, and the cool him, all of which would be quite difficult to accomplish, even for a wizard ~ Michio Kaku,

356:And then I went to visit my sister in the states and all of a sudden it was just like, it's like... it's like the movie Wizard of Oz when all of a sudden it changes from Black and White to glorious Technicolor. ~ John Mahoney,

357:Harry Potter was a wizard – a wizard fresh from his first year at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. And if the Dursleys were unhappy to have him back for the holidays, it was nothing to how Harry felt. ~ J K Rowling,

358:Higher and higher he soared, hurtling through the pale light like a, like a – all right, like an elderly but powerful wizard being propelled upwards by an expertly judged thumb on the scales of the universe. ~ Terry Pratchett,

359:Can you tell me the difference between a witch and a wizard?Sure, a wizard is what they call you when they want to hire you, and a witch is what they call you when they're getting ready to run you out of town. ~ Barbara Hambly,

360:I don’t understand how the St. Clare’s library can ban so many books for being “inappropriate” when they have a whole row of Bibles. Harry Potter might be a wizard, but I’m sure he never hacked a woman to pieces. ~ Katie Henry,

361:Star and Ariel looked at each other, aghast. The coven was about to burn two kids from the Castle. What would the Queen have to say about that? It would be goodbye to their free food at Wizard Sandwiches for sure. ~ Angie Sage,

362:...then I declare you bounded for life.' The tufty-haired wizard raised his wand high over the heads of Bill and Fleur and a shower of silver stars fell upon them, spiralling around their now entwined figures. ~ J K Rowling,

363:This liberating discovery enables me to proceed without any fear that I might inadvertently influence you to abandon promising careers in business, law or politics for the giddy delights of becoming a gay wizard. ~ J K Rowling,

364:I went out of my way to make 'Immortal' sound perfect. 'Immortal,' 'Just What I Am,' and 'King Wizard,' those are perfect beats. Not a lot of people can perform on them. I say that meaning they're tailor-made for me. ~ Kid Cudi,

365:There have been rich meat and bloody wine. There have been brandies, and thick puddings. There has already been some dirty talk. Selina is in high spirits, and as for me, I'm a gurgling wizard of calorific excess. ~ Martin Amis,

366:Fred and George, however, found all this very funny. They went out of their way to march ahead of Harry down the corridors, shouting, “Make way for the Heir of Slytherin, seriously evil wizard coming through. . . . ~ J K Rowling,

367:Five white candles surrounded my summoning circle, the points of an invisible pentacle. White for protection. And because they’re the cheapest color at Wal-Mart. Hey, being a wizard doesn’t make money grow on trees. ~ Jim Butcher,

368:I want you to appreciate what you're up against. You will have to succeed where multitudes have failed. You'll have to accomplish something that the mightiest wizard in the history of Lyrian didn't dare to attempt. ~ Brandon Mull,

369:We don’t need to play her witch’s games. They always want to get you and your little dog, too." "I knew I never should have let you watch The Wizard of Oz." "Toto didn’t deserve that kind of trauma. He was so tiny. ~ Kevin Hearne,

370:Fenworth nodded. "Yes, yes. Urgent, deadly, insidious. The world is in peril and we must rise against evil." The old wizard released the general and patted him on the shoulder. "Tea and cake first, don't you think? ~ Donita K Paul,

371:But you can tell he’s a wizard, because he’s got a pointy hat with a floppy brim. It’s got the word “Wizzard” embroidered on it in big silver letters, by someone whose needlework is even worse than their spelling. ~ Terry Pratchett,

372:The road to your dreams is sometimes dark, and it sometimes magical, but The Wizard of Oz had one thing right: it's ultimately about the journey and the characters who accompany you on it, not about the destination. ~ Kelly Cutrone,

373:A wizard’s power of Changing and of Summoning can shake the balance of the world. It is dangerous, that power. It is most perilous. It must follow knowledge, and serve need. To light a candle is to cast a shadow... ~ Ursula K Le Guin,

374:I think that all women are witches, in the sense that a witch is a magical being. And a wizard, which is a male version of a witch, is kind of revered, and people respect wizards. But a witch, my god, we have to burn them. ~ Yoko Ono,

375:Can you tell me the difference between a witch and a wizard? Sure, a wizard is what they call you when they want to hire you, and a witch is what they call you when they're getting ready to run you out of town. ~ Barbara Hambly,

376:Curious indeed how these things happen. The wand chooses the wizard, remember...I think we must expect great things from you, Mr. Potter... After all, He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named did great things — terrible, yes, but great. ~ J K Rowling,

377:No matter how dreary and gray our homes are, we people of flesh and blood would rather live there than in any other country, be it ever so beautiful. There is no place like home. —L. FRANK BAUM, THE WONDERFUL WIZARD OF OZ ~ Cleo Coyle,

378:We start by sinking a barge," I decided. Then I blinked and looked at the Erlking. "Can we sink a barge?" The shadow-masked Erlking tilted his head slightly to one side, his burning eyes narrowed. "Wizard, please. ~ Jim Butcher,

379:You have an intriguing and . . . unusual perspective on things sometimes, Minalan,” he reflected, after smoking for a moment. “I’m a wizard,” I shrugged.  “Thinking up elaborate rationalizations is my bread and butter. ~ Terry Mancour,

380:Look. This has been… fun.” Lie. This had been nerve-racking and I needed to go masturbate. “But I have to go. I’ve got stuff to do before I head out again.” Masturbate. “Wizard stuff. Like… secret wizard stuff.” Masturbate. ~ T J Klune,

381:Every witch or wizard with a wand has held in his or her hands more power than we will ever know. With the right spell or potion, they can fabricate love, travel through time, change physical form and even extinguish life. ~ J K Rowling,

382:I'll not deny I am impressed by your mastery of six warrens, Quick Ben. In retrospect, you should have held back on at least half of what you command." The man made to rise. "But, Bauchelain," the wizard replied, "I did. ~ Steven Erikson,

383:Inside the world of books, she was never afraid; she could be brave as a knight or wise as a wizard. There were no voices that were too loud, no movements too jarring, no crowds that spun around her and stole her breath. ~ Daniel Arenson,

384:Now take all these qualities together: order, balance, evolution and intelligence. What you have is a description of love. It's not the popular ideal, it is the wizard's love - the force that upholds life and nurtures it. ~ Deepak Chopra,

385:We did an evil thing, father." "What do you think war is? We're men. Not boys swinging sticks at each other and pronouncing the evil wizard's defeat. We do what duty and honor demand, and often what we do is terrible. ~ Daniel Abraham,

386:Wiggly Charlie lived in a big house with his friends Audrey and Big Charlie. He liked mozzarella cheese sticks, chasing his tennis ball, and putting his purple wizard hat on his willy and pretending they were friends. ~ Christopher Moore,

387:wizard diagrams of the occult Law Sealed some precise unreadable harmony, Or used hue and figure to reconstitute The herald blazon of Time’s secret things. ~ Sri Aurobindo, Savitri, The Kingdoms and Godheads of the Greater Life,

388:I visualized myself pulling on my mental thinking cap, jamming it down around my ears as I had taught myself to do. It was a tall, conical wizard's model, covered with chemical equations and formulae: a cornucopia of ideas. ~ Alan Bradley,

389:Minerva McGonagall was one of only a handful of people who knew, or suspected, how dreadful a moment it was for Albus Dumbledore when, in 1945, he made the decision to confront and defeat the Dark wizard Gellert Grindelwald. ~ J K Rowling,

390:Why does the typical adventuring group consist of a wizard, a warrior, and a rogue, anyway? It should really be a wizard, a warrior, and a rich guy. Otherwise who's going to pay for all the swords and spells and hotel rooms? ~ Robin Sloan,

391:The basis of everything in the wizards' world rests upon the insight "All this is myself." Therefore, in accepting the world as it is, the wizard views everything in the light of self-acceptance, which is the light of love. ~ Deepak Chopra,

392:The Wizard and the Prophet is a book about the way knowledgeable people might think about the choices to come, rather than what will happen in this or that scenario. It is a book about the future that makes no predictions. ~ Charles C Mann,

393:Be still!” the Head Isle-Man said roughly, for he knew, as did most of them, that a wizard may have subtle ways of telling the truth, and may keep the truth to himself, but that if he says a thing the thing is as he says. ~ Ursula K Le Guin,

394:..."but there is no doubt they intend to kill us as dead as possible in a short time." - said the Wizard "As dead as poss'ble would be pretty dead, wouldn't it?" asked Dorothy. from "Dorothy and the Wizard of Oz ~ L Frank Baum,

395:I'll not deny I am impressed by your mastery of six warrens, Quick Ben. In retrospect, you should have held back on at least half of what you command." The man made to rise. "But, Bauchelain," the wizard replied, "I did. ~ Steven Erikson,

396:I slammed the doors open a little harder than I needed to, stalked out to the Blue Beetle, and drove away with all the raging power the ancient four-cylinder engine should muster. Behold the angry wizard puttputt-putting away. ~ Jim Butcher,

397:Religion is a wizard, a sibyl . . . She faces the wreck of worlds, and prophesies restoration. She faces a sky blood-red with sunset colours that deepen into darkness, and prophesies dawn. She faces death, and prophesies life. ~ Felix Adler,

398:Every Auror in the Ministry was – and is – trying to find him and round up his followers, but we happen to be talking about one of the most powerful wizards of all time, a wizard who has eluded capture for almost three decades! ~ J K Rowling,

399:While women were tortured, drowned and burned by the thousands, scarce one wizard to a hundred was ever condemned ... The same distinction of sex appears in our own day. One code of morals for men, another for women. ~ Elizabeth Cady Stanton,

400:I did love that scene in the movie [ "Our Brand Is Crisis"] because it's like "The Wizard of Oz." You see the backstage action of politics. You have access to see behind the curtain. You see how it's all one big advertisement. ~ Sandra Bullock,

401:listen to this: “Professor Dumbledore is particularly famous for his defeat of the Dark wizard Grindelwald in 1945, for the discovery of the twelve uses of dragon’s blood and his work on alchemy with his partner, Nicolas Flamel”! ~ J K Rowling,

402:the fact that we have arrived at a place in the life of the nation where a grand wizard of the KKK can claim, all too plausibly, that he is at one with the will of the president of the United States seems an unprecedented moment. ~ Jon Meacham,

403:Bel sipped her tea. “It’s trouble if you cross a wizard, trouble if you help a wizard, and trouble if you don’t have a wizard, for things like dragons and hurricanes.” She put down the cup. “That’s altogether too much trouble. ~ Rosemary Kirstein,

404:Every wizard needs to build rather than rent a metaphysics. And such a metaphysics needs to not only improve the success of your practical enchantments but also allow you to interrogate reality in an increasingly sophisticated way. ~ Gordon White,

405:How--how’re we going to get in?” panted Ron. “I can--see the place--if we just had--Crookshanks again--” “Crookshanks?” wheezed Hermione, bent double, clutching her chest. “Are you a wizard, or what?” “Oh--right--yeah-- ~ J K Rowling,

406:What's that?" "Jane!" Gansey said joyfully. Adam said, "It's a wizard in a box." "It will do your homework," Noah added. "And it's been dating your girlfriend," Ronan finished. Blue scowled. "Are you all drunk? ~ Maggie Stiefvater,

407:Arista," the wizard said, "sharks don't eat seafood because they like it, but because chickens don't swim. We all do the best we can with the tools we have, but at some point you have to ask yourself where the tools came from. ~ Michael J Sullivan,

408:I tried to make him a young court-wizard in my mind—he almost looked the part in his fine clothes, pursuing some lovely noblewoman—and there my imagination stumbled. He was a thing of books and alembics to me, library and laboratory. ~ Naomi Novik,

409:IWALKED INTO my house to see the knight and the wizard sitting in my kitchen, drinking coffee. If you added in Julie’s thieving skills and my sword, we almost had an adventuring party. “It’s too bad we’re missing a cleric,” I said. ~ Ilona Andrews,

410:Harry did not ask how Dumbledore knew. He had never seen a wizard work things out like this, simply by looking and touching; but Harry had long since learned that bangs and smoke were more often the marks of ineptitude than expertise. ~ J K Rowling,

411:I WALKED INTO my house to see the knight and the wizard sitting in my kitchen, drinking coffee. If you added in Julie’s thieving skills and my sword, we almost had an adventuring party. “It’s too bad we’re missing a cleric,” I said. ~ Ilona Andrews,

412:I would have things as they were in all the days of my life, and in the days of my longfathers before me: to be the Lord of this City in peace, and leave my chair to a son after me, who would be his own master and no wizard's pupil. ~ J R R Tolkien,

413:Ever thought of becoming a wizard?' - The Good Wizard 'Not before now,' said Anya. 'I've always wanted to be a sorcerer...' Her voice trailed off as the Good Wizard raised her eyebrows. 'But not so much anymore,' continued Anya. ~ Garth Nix,

414:Speaking of music, we will arrive with our own. We plan on delivering our baby to the soundtrack of Pink Floyd’s The Wall while simultaneously watching The Wizard of Oz. If this kid works with us, we guarantee your minds will be blown! ~ Amy Poehler,

415:What was a book? Not just ink and fiber and stitchery: a series of processes. To a wizard, it was not a static object--but a human thought caught and bound, made concrete through sacred technology. Magic, then, and a deep form of it. ~ Elizabeth Bear,

416:You want to fight a kiddy diddler in a dildo store parking lot, I understand that completely, I've done that myself. But are you sure you want to fight a sexual deviant that is also a wizard? That's how you wind up with a cursed asshole. ~ David Wong,

417:He bared his teeth, white against his dark skin. “How long have you been a Wiccan?” “A what?” “A pagan. A witch.” “I’m not a witch,” I said, glancing out the door. “I’m a wizard.” Sanya frowned. “What is the difference?” “Wizard has a Z. ~ Jim Butcher,

418:Welcome to the Knight Bus, emergency transport for the stranded witch or wizard. Just stick out your wand hand, step on board, and we can take you anywhere you want to go. My name is Stan Shunpike, and I will be your conductor this eve — ~ J K Rowling,

419:Working hard is important, but there's something that matters even more. Believing in yourself. Think of it this way: Every great wizard in history has started out as nothing more than we are now. Students. If they can do it, why not us? ~ J K Rowling,

420:Archibald Maximus, wizard. Nothing. Wait! Something. No, never mind. Just another porn site. I really hadn’t expected an obscure alchemist to have a web page or even a Twitter account, although that would have certainly made my job easier. I ~ J R Rain,

421:He’d always felt he had a right to exist as a wizard in the same way that you couldn’t do proper maths without the number 0, which wasn’t a number at all but, if it went away, would leave a lot of larger numbers looking bloody stupid. ~ Terry Pratchett,

422:I'm fanatical about movies: African, European, Viking, Roman. I got into witchcraft and magic from watching 'Bewitched' and 'The Wizard of Oz,' which shows in some of my outfits. I dress to reflect the whole spectrum of the universe. ~ Afrika Bambaataa,

423:Wozniak would be the gentle wizard coming up with a neat invention that he would have been happy just to give away, and Jobs would figure out how to make it user-friendly, put it together in a package, market it, and make a few bucks. ~ Walter Isaacson,

424:Establishment suggests there must be some Wizard of Oz somewhere pulling the strings. That's not the way it works. There are individuals like myself. I sat there and watched Donald Trump, and I said, look, someone has got to say something. ~ Mitt Romney,

425:Harry was particularly keen to avoid trouble with his aunt and uncle at the moment, as they were already in an especially bad mood with him, all because he’d received a telephone call from a fellow wizard one week into the school vacation. ~ J K Rowling,

426:Her face was framed by two wings of lank black hair that curled under her long, pointed chin, so she looked like the female version of the wizard who was always giving Harry Potter such a hard time in the movies. Professor Snail or something. ~ Joe Hill,

427:Harry was turning over the wizard coins and looking at them. He had just thought of something that made him feel as though the happy balloon inside him had got a puncture. “Um — Hagrid?” “Mm?” said Hagrid, who was pulling on his huge boots. ~ J K Rowling,

428:Oh, I know they’ve happened all right,” said Ridcully. “I’m the head wizard now. I’ve only got to give an order and a thousand wizards will…uh…disobey, come to think of it, or say ‘What?’, or start to argue. But they have to take notice. ~ Terry Pratchett,

429:He's a wizard with his feet and is blessed with a gift for scoring goals. His best quality is his speed while the ball is at his feet. He may be the fastest man ever to lace up a football boot. No defender in the world can keep up with him. ~ Lilian Thuram,

430:Welcome to the Knight Bus, emergency transport for the stranded witch or wizard. Just stick out your wand hand, step on board, and we can take you anywhere you want to go. My name is Stan Shunpike, and I will be your conductor this eve —” The ~ J K Rowling,

431:Either Stone Age man was a technological wizard, who carefully removed his technological achievements so as not to upset his inferior progeny, or our population dwindled from a once astronomical size to the mere three billions of today. ~ Heinz von Foerster,

432:Muggle women wear them, Archie, not the men, they wear these," said the Ministry wizard, and he brandished the pinstriped trousers. "I'm not putting them on," said old Archie in indignation. "I like a healthy breeze 'round my privates, thanks. ~ J K Rowling,

433:Muggle women wear them, Archie, not the men, they wear these,” said the Ministry wizard, and he brandished the pinstriped trousers. “I’m not putting them on,” said old Archie in indignation. “I like a healthy breeze ’round my privates, thanks. ~ J K Rowling,

434:She supposed Harry Potter would rape her. The juxtaposition of the name and the act made it seem ridiculous. To be raped by an adolescent fictional wizard. A British adolescent fictional wizard. ‘Officer, it was ’Arry Potter what done me wrong. ~ James Hayman,

435:A man does not need to be a wizard to know truth from falsehood, not if he has eyes. You need only learn to read a face. Look at the eyes. The mouth. The muscles here, at the corners of the jaw, and here, where the neck joins the shoulders. ~ George R R Martin,

436:He reached out and laid a hand against Quick Ben's brow, then grunted. 'He's on his way back. It's protective sorcery that's keeping him asleep.' 'Can you speed things up?' 'Sure.' The healer slapped the wizard. 'Quick Ben's eyes snapped open. ~ Steven Erikson,

437:Behold Akar Kessell, the Tyrant of Icewind Dale!” he cried. “People of Ten-Towns, your master has come!” “Your words are a bit premature—” Cassius began, but Kessell cut him short with a frenzied scream. “Never interrupt me!” the wizard shouted, ~ R A Salvatore,

438:How long have you been a Wiccan?' 'A what?' 'A pagan. A witch.' 'I'm not a witch,' I said, glancing out the door. 'I'm a wizard.' Sanya frowned. 'What is the difference?' 'Wizard has a Z' He looked at me blankly. 'No one appreciates me.' I muttered. ~ Jim Butcher,

439:Harry - you're a great wizard, you know." "I'm not as good as you," said Harry, very embarrassed, as she let go of him. "Me!" said Hermione. "Books! And cleverness! There are more important things - friendship and bravery and - oh Harry - be careful! ~ J K Rowling,

440:H.M.," said the Woggle-Bug, pompously, "means Highly Magnified; and T.E. means Thoroughly Educated. I am, in reality, a very big bug, and doubtless the most intelligent being in all this broad domain." "How well you disguise it," said the Wizard. ~ L Frank Baum,

441:All right Arthur?" said the wizard, nodding at Mr Weasley. "What've you got there, Bob?" asked Mr Weasley, looking that the box. "We're not sure," said the wizard seriously. "We thought it was a bog standard chicken until it started breathing fire. ~ J K Rowling,

442:I'm a what?" gasped Harry. "A wizard, o' course," said Hagrid, sitting back down on the sofa, which groaned and sank even lower, "an' a thumpin' good'un I'd say, once yeh've been trained up a bit. With a mum an' dad like yours, what else would yeh be? ~ J K Rowling,

443:Many a young wizard has tried to read a grimoire that is too strong for him, and people who’ve heard the screams have found only his pointy shoes with the classic wisp of smoke coming out of them and a book which is, perhaps, just a little fatter. ~ Terry Pratchett,

444:Muggle women wear them, Archie, not the men, they wear these,' said the Ministry wizard, and he brandished the pinstriped trousers. 'I'm not putting them on,' said old Archie in indignation. 'I like a healthy breeze 'round my privates, thanks. ~ J K Rowling,

445:Oh, no-" They weren't even on the runway, and Jonah's father was already immersed in his BlackBerry. "Remember those 'Live Large with the Wiz Generation' posters? Well, guess how that translates into Chinese- 'Jonah Wizard Makes Your Ancestors Fat'. ~ Gordon Korman,

446:She always brought something when she came on Fridays, and this time it had been a book. A Wizard of Earthsea, written by someone called Ursula K. Le Guin, and already after the first few pages I knew that this was an absolutely fantastic book. ~ Karl Ove Knausg rd,

447:Chaos, the life force of the universe, is not human-hearted. Therefore the wizard cannot be human-hearted when he seeks to tap the force of the universe. He performs monstrous and arbitrary acts to loosen the hold of human limitations upon himself. ~ Peter J Carroll,

448:There’s more magic in a baby’s first giggle than in any firestorm a wizard can conjure up, and don’t let anyone tell you any different. Magic comes from what is inside you. It is a part of you. You can’t weave together a spell that you don’t believe in. ~ Jim Butcher,

449:DOCTOR. Always preceded by 'The good'. Among men, in familiar conversation, 'Oh! balls, doctor!' Is a wizard when he enjoys your confidence, a jack-ass when you're no longer on terms. All are materialists: 'you can't probe for faith with a scalpel.' ~ Gustave Flaubert,

450:The monkeys ignored him completely as they discussed wind currents and angle of approach, and even the Lion seemed to have forgotten he was there. He might as well be back in that field tied to a post for all the good the Wizard's gifts were doing him. ~ Danielle Paige,

451:These shoes look like they're straight out of 'The Wizard of Oz,' but since I'm like the tornado that blew you into Oz, I guess you can wear Dorothy's red slippers. And if I'm gone and seem lost, maybe you can do a little click and I'll find my way home. ~ Portia Moore,

452:You must understand, wizard. Once you are my Knight, once this last quest of yours is complete, you are mine. You will destroy what I wish you to destroy. Kill whatsoever I wish you to kill. You will be mine, blood, bone, and breath. Do you understand this? ~ Anonymous,

453:Any wizard bright enough to survive for five minutes was also bright enough to realize that if there was any power in demonology, then it lay with the demons. Using it for your own purposes would be like trying to beat mice to death with a rattlesnake. ~ Terry Pratchett,

454:If there is a god, he is not only a wizard at leaving clues behind. More than anything, he's a master of concealment. And the world is not something that gives itself away. The heavens still keep their secrets. There is little gossip amongst the stars. ~ Jostein Gaarder,

455:leave wizard Henry: at his lectern where he's working on his phantasies: Disperse! and everything goes worse so the world fills with her knees, harmful & fair: a medium where 'Fuck you' comes as no curse but come as a sigh or a prayer. ~ John Berryman,

456:But I have an African or Indian approach to what I find. I like to make use of everything. I can't bear to throw things away - a nice wine bottle, a nice box. Sometimes I feel like a wizard in Toytown, transforming a bunch of carrots into pomegranates. ~ Eduardo Paolozzi,

457:Harry - you're a great wizard, you know." "I'm not as good as you," said Harry, very embarrassed, as she let go of him. "Me!" said Hermione. "Books! And cleverness! There are more important things - friendship and bravery and - oh Harry - be careful! ~ J K Rowling,

458:Pettigrew owes his life to you. You have sent Voldemort a deputy who is in your debt. When one wizard saves another wizard’s life, it creates a certain bond between them . . . and I’m much mistaken if Voldemort wants his servant in the debt of Harry Potter. ~ J K Rowling,

459:She barely hid a smile. “That’s a wizard’s answer if I ever heard one.” “Meaning that mages deal in double talk?” His grin was impish. “That’s one of our two occupational hazards.” “And what’s the other one?” He laughed. “A deplorable tendency to meddle. ~ Barbara Hambly,

460:(About a woman's funeral) Do you remember the part in The Wizard of Oz when the witch is dead and the Munchkins start singing? Think that kind of happiness. I swear every woman there was ready to break into song. Maybe a few of the men, too. (p. 80) ~ Julie Mulhern,

461:I'm a what?" gasped Harry. "A wizard, o' course," said Hagrid, sitting back down on the sofa, which groaned and sank even lower, "an' a thumpin' good'un I'd say, once yeh've been trained up a bit. With a mum an' dad like yours, what else would yeh be? ~ J K Rowling,

462:A wizard,” Long echoed, thoughtfully. “Odd word to use in connection with computers. I’ve always found there to be so much … flimflam about wizards, and I can’t see how one could get away with that in computer engineering. But perhaps that’s my own innocence. ~ R A MacAvoy,

463:Laughing, Bracken threw his sword aside and extended a hand towards the wizard. "To me," he said...The unicorn horn lept from the wizard's hand and streaked to Bracken, who caught it effortlessly. In his grasp the horn immediately transformed into a sword... ~ Brandon Mull,

464:scribbled down names and dates, and got Emeric the Evil and Uric the Oddball mixed up. Professor Flitwick, the Charms teacher, was a tiny little wizard who had to stand on a pile of books to see over his desk. At the start of their first class he took the roll ~ J K Rowling,

465:The adult was Eric "Rusty" Everett, thirty-seven, a physician's assistant working with Dr. Ron Haskell, whom Rusty often thought of as The Wonderful Wizard of Oz. Because, Rusty would have explained, he so often remains behind the curtain while I do the work. ~ Stephen King,

466:His fiancé was somewhere in Verania with a sexually aggressive dragon (which I was still offended about, by the way), and Ryan was stuck here with a malfunctioning wizard apprentice who secretly pined after him. My life was a tragic farce of epic proportions. ~ T J Klune,

467:If only that dratted wizard would leave young Frodo alone, perhaps he'll settle down and grow some hobbit-sense,' they said. And to all appearance the wizard did leave Frodo alone, and he did settle down, but the growth of hobbit-sense was not very noticable. ~ J R R Tolkien,

468:If there's someone untrustworthy around, it's supposed to light up and spin. Bill says it's rubbish sold for wizard tourists and isn't reliable, because it kept lighting up at dinner last night. But he didn't realize Fred and George had put beetles in his soup. ~ J K Rowling,

469:If there was a wizard of whom I would believe that they did not seek personal gain,' said Griphook finally, 'it would be you, Harry Potter. Goblins and elves are not used to the protection, or the respect, that you have shown this night, Not from wand-carriers. ~ J K Rowling,

470:It was a loss of identity. I was a wizard. It was more than just a job, more than just a title. Wizardry was at the core of my being. It was my relationship with my magic, the way I used it, the things it let me do that defined me, shaped me, gave me purpose. I ~ Jim Butcher,

471:When you're playing a character for 10 years, it can challenge you less than it did at the beginning, so it was exciting to take on some new shoes. Especially with Erich Blunt, because being a tech wizard wasn't something I thought I would do after Harry Potter. ~ Tom Felton,

472:She always said education didn’t belong to anyone other than the one who was willing to take it. She also said education was more than words and marks on paper. ~ Joe R. Lansdale, The Wizard of the Trees, in George R. R. Martin & Gardner Dozois (eds.) Old Venus (2015), p. 475,

473:Harry – yer a wizard.’ There was silence inside the hut. Only the sea and the whistling wind could be heard. ‘I’m a what?’ gasped Harry. ‘A wizard, o’ course,’ said Hagrid, sitting back down on the sofa, which groaned and sank even lower, ‘an’ a thumpin’ good’un, ~ J K Rowling,

474:He just stared at me, his gaze intense. I couldn’t look away any more than I could move my arm. Energy crackled between us, and I felt a strange pull to him. Moth to flame. Magnet to magnet. Stupid girl to impossible, slightly mean witch boy. Wizard. Whatever. ~ Danielle Paige,

475:My first thought was that a tornado had somehow picked me up and carried me off, like in the Wizard of Oz. No old witches pedaled by, and I didn't see any flying farm animals or chicken coops, and after a few agonizing minutes, I fell deep into unconsciousness again. ~ J R Rain,

476:The winner of the tournaments takes control of the Wizard Council, which governs the guilds. Those who have come to power through the system are unlikely to change it. Our family is an aristocracy: privileged and idle, with little to do but spin intrigue. ~ Cinda Williams Chima,

477:We know from myths and fairy tales that there are many different kinds of powers in this world. One child is given a light saber, another a wizard's education. The trick is not to amass all the different kinds of power, but to use well the kind you've been granted. ~ Susan Cain,

478:Comen out, leetle rodents,” the human called in a language that the companions could not understand. The wizard reiterated the request in another tongue, then in drow, and then in two more unknown tongues, and then in svirfneblin. He continued on for many minutes, ~ R A Salvatore,

479:You’re not,” he said, his quiet voice full of hatred. “Not what?” snapped Riddle. “Not the greatest sorcerer in the world,” said Harry, breathing fast. “Sorry to disappoint you and all that, but the greatest wizard in the world is Albus Dumbledore. Everyone says so. ~ J K Rowling,

480:Aunt Jewel, I just told you that I have superpowers. That my current boyfriend is an Oracle, and my ex-boyfriend is more or less a wizard. And you want to do a little shopping? I’d hoped you wouldn’t freak out, don’t get me wrong, but I expected some freaking out. ~ Rachel Hawkins,

481:Yes, thirteen-and-a-half inches. Yew. Curious indeed how these things happen. The wand chooses the wizard, remember. . . . I think we must expect great things from you, Mr. Potter. . . . After all, He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named did great things — terrible, yes, but great. ~ J K Rowling,

482:I had hated him, but I wouldn’t have reproached him, any more than I would have reproached a bolt of lightning for striking my house. He wasn’t a person, he was a lord and a wizard, a strange creature on another plane entirely, as far removed as storms and pestilence. ~ Naomi Novik,

483:On the American side, some of the movies that I watched when I was a kid, like E.T. or The Wizard of Oz, those are films that changed my point of view of what film could be, of what you could do. Those are the ones that I remember were incredible when I was younger. ~ Cherien Dabis,

484:She swore me and Jimmy to secrecy because a female wizard is called a witch, and the locals have something of an attitude about witches.” Heads nodded in agreement. One voice at the back said something about her weighing the same as a duck, but nobody was in the mood. ~ Scott Meyer,

485:Yesterday the Supreme Court lifted the ban on same-sex marriage in Kansas. They didn't give a reason for the ruling, but then again when a state is famous for a Judy Garland musical about a rainbow and a wizard who comes out of a closet, do you really need an excuse? ~ Jimmy Fallon,

486:Harry’s already Apparated,’ Ron told a slightly abashed Seamus, after Professor Flitwick had dried himself off with a wave of his wand and set Seamus lines (‘I am a wizard, not a baboon brandishing a stick’). ‘Dum— er – someone took him. Side-Along-Apparition, you know. ~ J K Rowling,

487:How long have you been a Wiccan?' 'A what?' 'A pagan. A witch.' 'I'm not a witch,' I said, glancing out the door. 'I'm a wizard.' Sanya frowned. 'What is the difference?' 'Wizard has a Z' He looked at me blankly. 'No one appreciates me.' I muttered. ~ Jim Butcher,

488:You totally ruined my life, you know that?' said Rincewind hotly. 'I could have really made it as a wizard if you hadn't decided to use me as a sort of portable spellbook. I can't remember any other spells, they're all too frightened to stay in the same head as you! ~ Terry Pratchett,

489:Having this thought in mind, the story of "The Wonderful Wizard of Oz" was written solely to please children of today. It aspires to being a modernized fairy tale, in which the wonderment and joy are retained and the heartaches and nightmares are left out. L. Frank Baum ~ L Frank Baum,

490:Yeah, I see what you mean, Remus,’ said a bald black wizard standing furthest back – he had a deep, slow voice and wore a single gold hoop in his ear – ‘he looks exactly like James.’ ‘Except the eyes,’ said a wheezy-voiced, silver-haired wizard at the back. ‘Lily’s eyes. ~ J K Rowling,

491:Please enter,” Kessell said with false courtesy. “Fear not for my trolls that you injured, they will surely heal!” He threw his head back and laughed. Drizzt felt a fool; to think that all of his caution and stealth had served no better purpose than to amuse the wizard! ~ R A Salvatore,

492:Harry Potter was a highly unusual boy in many ways. For one thing, he hated the summer holidays more than any other time of year. For another, he really wanted to do his homework, but was forced to do it in secret, in the dead of night. And he also happened to be a wizard. ~ J K Rowling,

493:I shivered. The story was true. The Wizard of Oz had been real. Dorothy Gale had really been swept up by a tornado and brought to the Land of Oz. True, what I was living now didn't seem like the kind of storybook tale I was used to. But it didn't mean they didn't exist. ~ Danielle Paige,

494:A gifted wizard, but an unlikely politician, McLaird was an exceptionally taciturn man who preferred to communicate in monosyllables and expressive puffs of smoke that he produced through the end of his wand. Forced from office out of sheer irritation at his eccentricities. ~ J K Rowling,

495:A wizard, o’ course,” said Hagrid, sitting back down on the sofa, which groaned and sank even lower, “an’ a thumpin’ good’un, I’d say, once yeh’ve been trained up a bit. With a mum an’ dad like yours, what else would yeh be? An’ I reckon it’s abou’ time yeh read yer letter. ~ J K Rowling,

496:Harry was suddenly reminded of how he had been unsure, when they first met, of how much he liked Ollivander. Even now, having been tortured and imprisoned by Voldemort, the idea of the Dark wizard in possession of this wand seemed to enthrall him as much as it repulsed him. ~ J K Rowling,

497:Theron had in fact written to Sophia, but his sister had not sent the letter. She did not think it would reassure his mother to be invited to witness the ceremony of his union with his wizard and lover, on the steps of the Great Hall, at the Festival of the Spring Sowing. ~ Ellen Kushner,

498:All books can be indecent books Though recent books are bolder, For filth, I'm glad to say, is in The mind of the beholder. When correctly viewed, Everything is lewd. I could tell you things about Peter Pan And the Wizard of Oz, there's a dirty old man... ~ Tom Lehrer,

499:Midday already. As if it isn't enough that I have to put up with a meddling Alchemist - any minute now there will be a meddling Princess at my door declaiming from that wretched book with its tiddly-squiddly type, which is the bane of every ExtraOrdinary Wizard's life. - Marcia ~ Angie Sage,

500:No wizard has ever made himself useful by magic, or, if they've tried, they've only made matters worse. No wizard ever stopped a war or mended a fence. It's better that they stay in their marshes, out of the way of worldly folk like farmers and soldiers and merchants and kings. ~ Kelly Link,

501:The Wizard of Oz was a humbug. He's not great and powerful. He just pretends to be great and powerful. The Wicked Witch of the West is greater and powerfuller. She's got flying monkeys. She's like a mad scientist. She even has a secret weakness. Water is like Kryptonite to her. ~ Kelly Link,

502:It never occurred to me when I was young that I could be an author. That would be like saying, "I want to be a movie star" or "I want to be a wizard." I didn't have any concept of what that path would look like. Maybe that's why I didn't publish my first book until I was 38. ~ Rainbow Rowell,

503:I do not listen when anyone uses the word immoral," said the Wizard. "In the young it is ridiculous, in the old it is sententious and reactionary and an early warning sign of apoplexy. In the middle-aged, who love and fear the idea of moral life the most, it is hypocritical. ~ Gregory Maguire,

504:Sanguine took a moment, finding it hard to process the information. "He... this guy uses a wand? For real? He actually uses a wand? Like a wizard?... Don't the other Necromancers have any sense of pride? What's he gonna do next, fly around on a broomstick? This ain't Harry Potter. ~ Derek Landy,

505:From the Young Army Fact List: Fact One: No early morning roll call: GOOD. Fact Two: Much better food. GOOD. Fact Three: Aunt Zelda nice: GOOD. Fact Four: Princess-girl friendly: GOOD. Fact Five: Have Magyk ring: GOOD. Fact Six: Extraordinary Wizard Cross: BAD. ~ Angie Sage,

506:Sometime around 1:30 in the morning, Martin learned the best thing about wizard parties, which is that because wizards can teleport, they can sleep in their own beds no matter how drunk they get or how far away the party was. Unfortunately, they still were susceptible to hangovers. ~ Scott Meyer,

507:Thank you very much, Miss Badger," she said. "I appreciate your honesty. I realise this may have put you in a difficult position here, but I trust you will not have any trouble." Marcia glared at Jillie Djinn. "However, if you do, there is always a place for you at the Wizard Tower. ~ Angie Sage,

508:The wizard stirs, opens his eyes, and looks at the reluctant boy. “Oh, you’ll get your heart broken,” he says. “Is that what you’re waiting to hear? It’ll be broken, all right. But you'll never get anything done if you walk around with an unchipped heart. That’s the way of it, boy. ~ Peter Straub,

509:Britt jerked her head up, ready to shout hysterics at the handsome wizard. When she met Merlin’s eyes, she paused. Merlin was too cute for his time. He was suspiciously cute, in fact. His hair wasn’t long either, unlike his two companions. It was short and soft, and he had no facial hair. ~ K M Shea,

510:Writing is the act of creation. Put words on a page, words to sentences, sentences to paragraphs, paragraphs to seven-book epic fantasy cycles with books so heavy you could choke a hippo. But don’t give writing too much power, either. A wizard controls his magic; it doesn’t control him. ~ Chuck Wendig,

511:Are they speaking in code?” Mom asked Dad, trying to be quiet but failing miserably. “I don’t know,” Dad said. “I don’t speak wizard.” “Neither do I. I feel like we’ve failed as parents.” “Nah,” Dad said easily. “Look at him. He’s adorable and knows how to put on his own pants. We did good. ~ T J Klune,

512:I WALKED INTO my house to see the knight and the wizard sitting in my kitchen, drinking coffee. If you added in Julie’s thieving skills and my sword, we almost had an adventuring party. “It’s too bad we’re missing a cleric,” I said. They both looked at me like I had grown a second head. ~ Ilona Andrews,

513:It's an old magical principle - it's even filtered down into RPG systems - that magic, while taking a lot of effort, can be 'stored' - in a staff, for example. No doubt a wizard spends a little time each day charging up his staff, although you go blind if you do it too much, of course. ~ Terry Pratchett,

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

515:Sex is not a wizard, whatever magical-seeming properties it might possess in its better forms. If your friend says to you, "You're being mean, you need to get laid," your problem is not sex. Your problems are that you might be acting like an asshole, and your friends are definitely idiots. ~ Katie Heaney,

516:Then love her, man!" Caramon said, dropping back to ride beside his brother. "Forget this nonsense about chasms and pits or whatever! You may be a powerful wizard and she may be a holy cleric, but, underneath those robes, you're both flesh and blood! Take her in your arms and . . . and. . . . ~ Anonymous,

517:It was a shocking breach of etiquette in any case; no wizard should even think of touching another’s staff without his express permission. But there are people who can’t quite believe that children are fully human, and think that the operation of normal good manners doesn’t apply to them. ~ Terry Pratchett,

518:Lex surfed wicked, like the devil. He wasn’t afraid of anything, seemed like. He grinned at West as the waves came up toward them like towers of green glass, an emerald city. We’re off to see the wizard, he shouted. He whooped. His body crouched ready to fly. He shone against the sun. ~ Francesca Lia Block,

519:What’s going on here? Have you turned another one then?” “Oh my God please don’t say that,” I groan. “And especially don’t say that to John.” “Why?” “Because you make me sound like a fucking wizard from Harry Potter.” He smirks. “Bet you’ve got the biggest and prettiest wand baby. ~ Lily Morton,

520:But dear, you hate to sew. I will be married soon. Lady Thiel says a woman with needlework in her hands is generally assumed to have no other thoughts in her head and can safely harbor any number of improprieties. That will come in handy, especially when I'm married to a wizard. ~ Patricia A McKillip,

521:Now, yer mum an’ dad were as good a witch an’ wizard as I ever knew. Head boy an’ girl at Hogwarts in their day! Suppose the myst’ry is why You-Know-Who never tried to get ’em on his side before . . . probably knew they were too close ter Dumbledore ter want anythin’ ter do with the Dark Side. ~ J K Rowling,

522:Men embody adventure, women embody hearth and home, and that has been pretty much it. Even as a child, I noticed that Dorothy in The Wizard of Oz spent her entire time trying to get back home to Kansas, and Alice in Wonderland dreamed her long adventure, then woke up just in time for tea. ~ Gloria Steinem,

523:Do not think that heroes cannot be broken! We are only more difficult to break, Hermione." The old wizard's eyes had grown sterner than she had ever seen. "When you have been exhausted for many hours, when pain and death is not a passing fear but a certainty, then it is harder to be a hero. ~ Eliezer Yudkowsky,

524:I just don't know when we all decided that if it doesn't fit in a Happy Meal box, it's not for kids. I remember flying monkeys in the Wizard of Oz, and I grew up watching Monty Python. I think that kids can handle a lot more than we give them credit for, especially when it comes to the absurd. ~ Gore Verbinski,

525:Ours is only a little power, seems like, next to theirs," Moss said. "But it goes down deep. It's all roots. It's like an old blackberry thicket. And a wizard's power's like a fir tree, maybe, great and tall and grand, but it'll blow right down in a storm. Nothing kills a blackberry bramble. ~ Ursula K Le Guin,

526:Life, John Lennon famously said, is what happens to you while you’re making other plans. Now that I think of it, Lennon, that wizard of words and music, probably wasn’t the first. There’s an old Yiddish proverb, “Man plans and God laughs.” Probably every culture has a virtually identical aphorism. ~ Paul Levine,

527:My name is Harry Dresden," I said. Fitz stumbled. "Holy shit," he said. "Like...that Harry Dresden? The professional wizard?" "The one and only." He recovered his pace and shook his head. "I heard you were dead." "Well, yeah," I said, "but I'm taking it in stride. ~ Jim Butcher,

528:I glance back to the battle to find a witch with skin as dark as ebony screaming at the wizard, who’s near-on seven feet tall. Here we go, I think. They may be on the same side, but wizards and witches will never be friends. “It’s like reality TV,” Laney says. “The Real Housewitches of West Virginia. ~ David Estes,

529:I knew, on some level, that what I was seeing was the real Oz. I had pulled back the curtain and stepped through it, but instead of finding a humbug wizard, I’d found the controls to the whole operation—and it turned out the whole operation was made out of what appeared to be magical silly string. ~ Danielle Paige,

530:There was silence in the room, except for the distant rushing of the sea. 'You talk about wands like they’ve got feelings,’ said Harry, ‘like they can think for themselves.’ ‘The wand chooses the wizard,’ said Ollivander. ‘That much has always been clear to those of us who have studied wandlore. ~ J K Rowling,

531:One modern-day wizard who held very similar views was, of course, Professor Albus Percival Wulfric Brian Dumbledore, Order of Merlin (First Class), Headmaster of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, Supreme Mugwump of the International Confederation of Wizards, and Chief Warlock of the Wizengamot. ~ J K Rowling,

532:I am intrigued, Geoffrey,” she said. “Why do you want to be a witch instead of a wizard, which is something traditionally thought of as a man’s job?” “I’ve never thought of myself as a man, Mistress Tiffany. I don’t think I’m anything. I’m just me,” he said quietly. Good answer! Tiffany said to herself. ~ Terry Pratchett,

533:I think most people are fascinated by chess for that reason. It's just these mystical shapes. It's almost like Harry Potteresque, like wizard's chess in a way. The pieces come alive and you're the sorcerer. You're the magician and you get to do what you want with them and hopefully you don't screw it up. ~ Maurice Ashley,

534:Harry couldn't believe what he was hearing. He had always thought of Fudge as a kindly figure, a little blustering, a little pompous, but essentially good-natured. But now a short, angry wizard stood before him, refusing, point-blank, to accept the prospect of disruption in his comfortable and ordered world. ~ J K Rowling,

535:Harry,” Bob said. “Stars and skies, you’re all right!” He hesitated for a second, and then said, “And looking grim. Even dressed in boxers with yellow duckies on them.” I glanced down, and did my best to picture a vampire wearing boxers with yellow duckies. Or a wizard wearing yellow duckies, for that matter. ~ Jim Butcher,

536:Say that we’re moving at the speed of light.… Impossible, of course, if you believe physicists. Which I don’t, by the way. Physicists don’t believe in wizards—a fact that I, being a wizard, find highly insulting. I have taken my revenge, therefore, by refusing to believe in physicists. What was the question? ~ Margaret Weis,

537:It was like The Wizard of Oz, instant beautiful color, only Quinn had been living in worse than black-and-white Kansas. He’d been trapped in a monochromatic world of beige, of nice, of going with the flow, not making waves. Eli was the whole super-sized box of crayons, with no rules about staying in the lines. ~ K A Mitchell,

538:He had to admit that this boy looked like good wizard material. In other words, he was thin, gangling, pale from reading disturbing books in unhealthy rooms, and had watery eyes like two lightly poached eggs....Wizards are martyrs to things like asthma and flat feet; it somehow seems to give them their drive. ~ Terry Pratchett,

539:My name was down for Eton, you know, I can’t tell you how glad I am I came here instead. Of course, mother was slightly disappointed, but since I made her read Lockhart’s books I think she’s begun to see how useful it’ll be to have a fully trained wizard in the family …’ After that they didn’t have much chance to ~ J K Rowling,

540:She heard Nanny say: ‘Beats me why they’re always putting invisible runes on their doors. I mean, you pays some wizard to put invisible runes on your door, and how do you know you’ve got value for money?’ She heard Granny say: ‘No problem there. If you can’t see ’em, you know you’ve got proper invisible runes. ~ Terry Pratchett,

541:As far as informing the headmaster, Harry had no idea where Dumbledore went during the summer holidays. He amused himself for a moment, picturing Dumbledore, with his long silver beard, full-length wizard's robes, and pointed hat, stretched out on a beach somewhere, rubbing suntan lotion onto his long crooked nose. ~ J K Rowling,

542:Seventeen, eh!" said Hagrid as he accepted a bucket-sized glass of wine from Fred. "Six years to the day we met, Harry, d’yeh remember it?" "Vaguely," said Harry, grinning up at him. "Didn’t you smash down the front door, give Dudley a pig’s tail, and tell me I was a wizard?" "I forge’ the details," Hagrid chortled. ~ J K Rowling,

543:This is going to sound strange, but I really feel I know Roland very well. In Wizard and Glass, I got to know the young Roland, and then as I traveled with him from Eluria (found in the story "The Little Sisters of Eluria") through Tull and the Mohaine Desert (The Gunslinger), and then all the way to the Dark Tower. ~ Robin Furth,

544:Yes, I’m a reader. Kill me. I could tell you I was raised in the library and the books were my only friends, but I didn’t do that, did I? Because I have mercy. I’m neither a genius nor a kid destined to become a wizard. I’m just me. I read stuff. Books are not my only friends, but we’re friendly. So there. ~ Maria Dahvana Headley,

545:He talks pretty big for a gutter wizard," he muttered. "You don't understand at all," said the wizard wearily. "I'm so scared of you my spine has turned to jelly, it's just that I'm suffering from an overdose of terror right now. I mean, when I've got over that then I'll have time to be decently frightened of you. ~ Terry Pratchett,

546:Six months ago he was a perfectly ordinary failed wizard. Then he met Twoflower, was employed at an outrageous salary as his guide, and has spent most of the intervening time being shot at, terrorised, chased and hanging from high places with no hope for salvation, or as is now the case, dropping from high places. ~ Terry Pratchett,

547:Yeah!" shouted Jonah, twirling the much larger Hamilton around the restaurant in a victory dance. The other diners watched in amazement. This wild display was hardly the public image of the too-cool-for-school Jonah Wizard. "What's the matter?" Hamilton challenged. "Haven't you ever seen a happy rapper before? ~ Gordon Korman,

548:My name is Harry Blackstone Copperfield Dresden. Conjure by it at your own risk. I’m a wizard. I work out of an office in midtown Chicago. As far as I know, I’m the only openly practicing professional wizard in the country. You can find me in the yellow pages, under “Wizards.” Believe it or not, I’m the only one there. ~ Jim Butcher,

549:But you must not change one thing, one pebble, one grain of sand, until you know what good and evil will follow on that act. The world is in balance, in Equilibrium. A wizard's power of Changing and Summoning can shake the balance of the world. It is dangerous, that power...It must follow knowledge, and serve need. ~ Ursula K Le Guin,

550:A moment later the wizard was standing over him, shouting, “Tell it that if it singes me I’ll let the sword go! I will! I’ll let it go! So tell it!” The tip of the black sword was hovering over K!sdra’s throat. What was odd was that the wizard was obviously struggling with it, and it appeared to be singing to itself. ~ Terry Pratchett,

551:He has hazel eyes " Nachari remarked in astonishment. He looked over at Jocelyn with approval. "Yeah well " Marquis grumbled "we can toughen him up make up for that one little...feminine mishap." Nachari feigned insult. "My eyes are green as well Marquis." Marquis shrugged. "Yeah...and you became a wizard. ~ Tessa Dawn,

552:He talks pretty big for a gutter wizard," he muttered. "You don't understand at all," said the wizard wearily. "I'm so scared of you my spine has turned to jelly, it's just that I'm suffering from an overdose of terror right now. I mean, when I've got over that then I'll have time to be decently frightened of you. ~ Terry Pratchett,

553:Psst!” said a voice, and he looked around to see a wispy little witch and the ferrety wizard from Magical Maintenance gesturing to him from over beside the statue. Harry hastened to join them. “You got in all right, then?” Hermione whispered to Harry. “No, he’s still stuck in the bog,” said Ron. “Oh, very funny… ~ J K Rowling,

554:The other suicide had been the actress Clara Blandick, who, one day in 1962, had got her hair fixed up and had carefully done her makeup and put on a formal gown and then pulled a plastic bag over her head and smothered herself. She was chiefly remembered for having played Auntie Em in the 1939 version of The Wizard of Oz. ~ Tim Powers,

555:I always loved all kinds of music. I would watch musicals a lot as a kid, on TV, watch the Fred Astaire movies. I'd watch 'The Wizard of Oz.' I was a big Jerry Lewis fan, and they'd have these big bands and someone singing - some siren, or some guy singing some gorgeous song. I was always enamored of that style of music. ~ Queen Latifah,

556:But Asha Grant isn't a hacker wizard like her cousin. She's not a kung fu expert.She's not particularly brilliant at anything. She's a ***ing pharmacy intern,chum.Just a regular person like you.An ordinary person caught up in a really **** situation.So I think,out of every person in these files, that makes her the bravest. ~ Amie Kaufman,

557:All things a wizard makes are flawed in some way. A Good Wizard, like myself, will do this intentionally. A Bad Wizard's works will have some accidental flaw, derived from their nature. All our work has some weakness. But why? To limit the object's power, said the Good Wizard softly. Power is always best limited. ~ Garth Nix,

558:Seventeen, eh!" said Hagrid as he accepted a bucket-sized glass of wine from Fred. "Six years to the day we met, Harry, d’yeh remember it?" "Vaguely," said Harry, grinning up at him. "Didn’t you smash down the front door, give Dudley a pig’s tail, and tell me I was a wizard?" "I forge’ the details," Hagrid chortled. ~ J K Rowling,

559:The Queens Of The Stone Age have teamed up with multimedia wizard brain Liam Lynch to make the video for 'Burn The Witch' , a home-made affair that's just in time for Halloween. For the band, playing both the roles of cast and crew paid ginormous dividends, in the form of a video that cuts the heads off all contemporaries . ~ Joshua Homme,

560:They never made movies about the granddaughter of the Devil, and after spending the last four months catering to her majesty’s every gurgled whim, I had begun to realize why. Even the great Wizard of Gerber couldn’t tame the wretched evil hiding within the creature’s cherubic shell. There’d be no happy ending to that flick. ~ Tim Marquitz,

561:Reminds me of the time young da Vinci dropped in for an unexpected visit,” began the man in the black T-shirt. “We had no idea where he came from. He just showed up.” Then turning to Andy he said, “Forgive me. Let me introduce myself. I am King Hercalon V, ruler of the land of Oomaldee. And this is my wizard, Mermin. And you are…? ~ L R W Lee,

562:Ray Comfort does it again! With simplicity and keen insight on the streets, he pulls back the curtain of Evolution and reveals that the Great Wizard of Darwinism is just an insecure little man with a dream of becoming a god. I highly recommend this helpful, faith-building, and inspiring video for families, teachers, and pastors! ~ Kirk Cameron,

563:You’re not going to believe this. I can barely believe it.” “Go on.” I licked my lips. “I met someone.” Her squeal was so loud I had to hold the phone away from my ear. “And?” “And I had three orgasms last night.” Silence. “Coco?” “I’m sorry, I was in shock. Did you say three?” I smiled. “Yes.” “Who is this wizard of O’s?” “His ~ Melanie Harlow,

564:Now a gigantic statue of black stone dominated the scene. It was rather frightening, this vast sculpture of a witch and a wizard sitting on ornately carved thrones, looking down at the Ministry workers toppling out of fireplaces below them. Engraved in foot-high letters at the base of the statue were the words MAGIC IS MIGHT. Harry ~ J K Rowling,

565:Those of us who do like visitors have to advertise, and it’s tricky to find a way of doing it that doesn’t make you sound crazy. The majority rely on word of mouth, though younger mages use the Internet. I’ve even heard of one guy in Chicago who advertises in the phone book under “Wizard,” though that’s probably an urban legend. ~ Benedict Jacka,

566:On this spot, on the night of 31 October 1981, Lily and James Potter lost their lives. Their son, Harry, remains the only wizard ever to have survived the Killing Curse. This house, invisible to Muggles, has been left in its ruined state as a monument to the Potters and as a reminder of the violence that tore apart their family. And ~ J K Rowling,

567:Somehow the killing of the giant spider, all alone by himself in the dark without the help of the wizard or the dwarves or of anyone else, made a great difference to Mr. Baggins. He felt a different person, and much fiercer and bolder in spite of an empty stomach, as he wiped his sword on the grass and put it back into its sheath. ~ J R R Tolkien,

568:Annie taught me that orphanages were a blast and being rich is the only thing that matters. Grease taught me being in a gang is nonstop fun and you need to dress sexier to have any chance of keeping a guy interested. But The Wizard of Oz was the ultimate. It dealt with friendship and fear and death and rainbows and sparkly red shoes. ~ Amy Poehler,

569:Those of us who do like visitors have to advertise, and it’s tricky to find a way of doing it that doesn’t make you sound crazy. The majority rely on word of mouth, though younger mages use the Internet. I’ve even heard of one guy in Chicago who advertises in the phone book under “Wizard,” though that���s probably an urban legend. ~ Benedict Jacka,

570:What I think is great about Pippin, specifically, and I wouldn't make this generalization about all musicals, is that it is about how we tell stories and the way stories are very subjective. How we tell some things and leave other things out in the way The Princess Bride is or The Wizard of Oz is, which both have a framing device. ~ James Ponsoldt,

571:You put a spell on the dog," I said as we left the house. "Just a small one," said Nightingale. "So magic is real," I said. "Which makes you a...what?" "A wizard." "Like Harry Potter?" Nightingale sighed. "No," he said. "Not like Harry Potter." "In what way?" "I'm not a fictional character," said Nightingale. ~ Ben Aaronovitch,

572:It took a qualified wizard to detect a summoning in progress. It required only a half-literate idiot with a twitch of power and a dim idea of how to use it to attempt one. Before you knew it, a three-headed Slavonic god was wreaking havoc in downtown Atlanta, the skies were raining winged snakes, and SWAT was screaming for more ammo. ~ Ilona Andrews,

573:I've never wanted to be a witch, but an alchemist, now that's a different matter. To invent this wizard world, I've learned a ridiculous amount about alchemy. Perhaps much of it I'll never use in the books, but I have to know in detail what magic can and cannot do in order to set the parameters and establish the stories' internal logic. ~ J K Rowling,

574:Every Ollivander wand has a core of a powerful magical substance, Mr. Potter. We use unicorn hairs, phoenix tail feathers, and the heartstrings of dragons. No two Ollivander wands are the same, just as no two unicorns, dragons, or phoenixes are quite the same. And of course, you will never get such good results with another wizard’s wand. ~ J K Rowling,

575:NEFARIOUS means utterly, completely wicked. The character in The Wizard of Oz could have been called the Nefarious Witch of the West but authors like to use the same beginning consonant, often. Perhaps L. Frank Baum crossed out nefarious after wicked came to his mind. Thank goodness, because Nefarious would be a terrible name for a musical. ~ Lois Lowry,

576:The Vampires have a plan to take over the world?" I asked. I felt a bit dumb, gasping in surprise at every twist to the story and incredulously repeating all the important of bits. But somehow Carter's version of things made sense. I felt like Dorothy at the end of The Wizard of Oz when the green curtain is pulled back to reveal the truth. ~ Emily McKay,

577:And I know that’s trite. Yes, I’m a reader. Kill me. I could tell you I was raised in the library and the books were my only friends, but I didn’t do that, did I? Because I have mercy. I’m neither a genius nor a kid destined to become a wizard. I’m just me. I read stuff. Books are not my only friends, but we’re friendly. So there. ~ Maria Dahvana Headley,

578:We are the nation of dreams. We are seers. We are wizards. We speak in visions. Our letters are like flocks of doves, released from under our hats. We have only to stretch out our hand and desire, and what we wish for settles like a kerchief in our palm. We are a race of sorcerers, enchanters. We are Atlantis. We are the wizard-isle of Mu. ~ M T Anderson,

579:This is nothing personal, you understand," said Charley to Nobby. "It's just a wossname. Had a wizard in here the other night talking about it. Sort of bendy educational thing, you know?" He appeared to think for a moment. "Learning curve. That was it. It's a learning curve. Detritus, get your big stony arse over here for a moment. ~ Terry Pratchett,

580:This is not to be cocky, but, I go over real well at Comic-Con. I've done quite a few Comic-Cons, and I enjoy the hell out of them. They are so much fun, and so bizarre. I've done the FX Show in Florida, Wizard-World in Chicago, Comic-Con in San Diego, Wonder-Con in San Francisco, the Comic-Con in New York, and I've done them numerous times. ~ Kristen Bell,

581:I drove my right fist into its stupid, creepy face. Man, the yahoos I scrap with never seem to anticipate that tactic. They all assume that what with me being a wizard and all, I’m going to stand back and chuck Magic Missiles at them or something, then scream and run away the second they get close enough to let me see the whites of their eyes. ~ Jim Butcher,

582:When I began going to school and learned to read, I encountered stories of other people and other lands. In one of my essays, I remember the kind of things that fascinated me. Weird things, even, about a wizard who lived in Africa and went to China to find a lamp... Fascinating to me because they were about things remote, and almost ethereal. ~ Chinua Achebe,

583:His inventory is eclectic; there's no evidence of pattern or purpose other than, I suppose, his own personal taste. So, no teenage wizards or vampire police here. That's a shame, because this is exactly the kind of store that makes you want to buy a book about a teenage wizard. This is the kind of store that makes you want to be a teenage wizard. ~ Robin Sloan,

584:In this state, the club was The Wizard of Oz made obvious: All the magic that went on here night after night, all the buzz and excitement, was really just a combination of electronics, booze, and chemicals, an illusion for the people who walked through the front doors, a fantasy that allowed them to be whatever they weren't in their day-to-day lives. ~ J R Ward,

585:What was there to be gained by fighting the most evil wizard who has ever existed?" said Black, with a terrible fury in his face. "Only innocent lives, Peter!" "You don't understand!" whined Pettigrew. "He would have killed me, Sirius!" "THEN YOU SHOULD HAVE DIED!" roared Black. "DIED RATHER THAN BETRAY YOUR FRIENDS, AS WE WOULD HAVE DONE FOR YOU! ~ J K Rowling,

586:Gringe shook his head. He'd found the last ExtraOrdinary Wizard difficult at times, but she was nothing like this one. This one was crazy. What did he think he was doing, taking three kids and two of his daft brothers dressed like wolverines into the Forest at night?... 'Get out of the blasted way, you nurdles! The bloomin' bridge is comin' down! ~ Angie Sage,

587:It was a terrible thing to undergo, but during the year I stood there I had time to think that the greatest loss I had known was the loss of my heart. While I was in love I was the happiest man on earth; but no one can love who has not a heart, and so I am resolved to ask Oz to give me one. - The Tin Woodsman, The Wonderful Wizard of Oz pgs 72-73. ~ L Frank Baum,

588:Always the dark Adventurers seem to win; Nature they fill with evil’s institutes, Turn into defeats the victories of Truth, Proclaim as falsehoods the eternal laws, And load the dice of Doom with wizard lies; The world’s shrines they have occupied, usurpe ~ Sri Aurobindo, Savitri, The World of Falsehood the Mother of Evil and the Sons of Darkness,

589:We are the nation of dreams. We are seers. We are wizards. We speak in visions. Our letters are like flocks of doves, released from under our hats. We have only to stretch out our hand and desire, and what we wish for settles like a kerchief in our palm. We are a race of sorcerers, enchanters. We are Atlantis. We are the wizard-isle of Mu. ~ Matthew Tobin Anderson,

590:They say an elephant never forgets. Well, you are not an elephant. Take notes, constantly. Save interesting thoughts, quotations, films, technologies…the medium doesn't matter, so long as it inspires you. When you're stumped, go to your notes like a wizard to his spellbook. Mash those thoughts together. Extend them in every direction until they meet. ~ Aaron Koblin,

591:Death, although of course completely eyeless, watched Rincewind disappearing with what would, had His face possessed any mobility at all, have been a frown. Death, although exceptionally busy at all times, decided that He now had a hobby. There was something about the wizard that irked Him beyond measure. He didn’t keep appointments, for one thing. ~ Terry Pratchett,

592:I nodded to her. Then I eyed Maeve. "What about you? Holding anything back?" "I want to take you to my bower, wizard," Maeve said, and licked her lips. "I want to do things to you that give you such pleasure your brain bleeds." "Uh," I said. Her foxlike smile sharpened. "Also," she said, "my people are about to attempt to kill you. ~ Jim Butcher,

593:The first recorded Basilisk was bred by Herpo the Foul, a Greek Dark wizard and Parselmouth, who discovered after much experimentation that a chicken egg hatched beneath a toad would produce a gigantic serpent possessed of extraordinarily dangerous powers. The Basilisk is a brilliant green serpent that may reach up to fifty feet in length. The male has ~ J K Rowling,

594:Pippin glanced in some wonder at the face now close beside his own, for the sound of that laugh had been gay and merry. Yet in the wizard's face he saw at first only lines of care and sorrow; though as he looked more intently he perceived that under all there was a great joy: a fountain of mirth enough to set a kingdom laughing, were it to gush forth. ~ J R R Tolkien,

595:What was there to be gained by fighting the most evil wizard who has ever existed?" said Black, with a terrible fury in his face. "Only innocent lives, Peter!" "You don't understand!" whined Pettigrew. "He would have killed me, Sirius!" "THEN YOU SHOULD HAVE DIED!" roared Black. "DIED RATHER THAN BETRAY YOUR FRIENDS, AS WE WOULD HAVE DONE FOR YOU! ~ J K Rowling,

596:They say an elephant never forgets. Well, you are not an elephant. Take notes, constantly. Save interesting thoughts, quotations, films, technologies...the medium doesn't matter, so long as it inspires you. When you're stumped, go to your notes like a wizard to his spellbook. Mash those thoughts together. Extend them in every direction until they meet. ~ Aaron Koblin,

597:I told you long ago that being a real wizard means sacrifice. It means knowing things no one else does,” he said, still growling. “I told you that it meant that you might have to act upon what you knew, and knew to be right, even though the whole world set its hand against you. Or that you might have to do horrible, necessary things. Do you remember that? ~ Jim Butcher,

598:if you are any wizard at all you will be able to channel your magic through almost any instrument. The best results, however, must always come where there is the strongest affinity between wizard and wand. These connections are complex. An initial attraction, and then a mutual quest for experience, the wand learning from the wizard, the wizard from the wand. ~ J K Rowling,

599:And now the First Wizard claimed it carried no real power at all? “Magic is not the only power in this world,” the old mage said gently, handing the horn back to its royal owner. “Griffo made an instrument so perfect that even the dead must rise to hear its call. He made it with his hands, without spells or dragon-songs. I wish that I could do the same.” With ~ Robin Sloan,

600:What are we doing here? (Delphine) Going to eat. What? You got Alzheimer’s? (Jericho) No, but I don’t see a restaurant around here. (Delphine) If I put us inside the restaurant, people might scream and freak. Not to mention, it has a Web cam there that makes it even harder to just poof inside. Damn modern people and their wizard’s tools. (Jericho) ~ Sherrilyn Kenyon,

601:The Wizard Of Oz" has secrets that are just too much. Or "Peter Pan" – the whole 'lost boys' thing is just incredible. They’re not childlike at all, they’re really, really deep; you can rule your life by them. Or say 'child-like', because children are the most brilliant people of all, that’s why they relate to those stories so well. Fairy-tales are wonderful. ~ Michael Jackson,

602:Then we will do two things," Penumbra says, nodding. "First, I will tell you just a little of our history. Then, to understand, you must see the Reading Room. There, my proposal will become clear, and I dearly hope you will accept it." Of course we'll accept it. That's what you do on a quest. You listen to the old wizard's problem and then you promise to help him. ~ Robin Sloan,

603:Deep down, Fudge knows Dumbledore’s much cleverer than he is, a much more powerful wizard, and in the early days of his Ministry he was forever asking Dumbledore for help and advice,” said Lupin. “But it seems that he’s become fond of power now, and much more confident. He loves being Minister of Magic, and he’s managed to convince himself that he’s the clever one and ~ J K Rowling,

604:It sounded like something you Brits would say." "Someday, I'd love to hear what you imagine my people are like." "Stiff. Formal. Everyone's a time traveler, a wizard, or works for MI6." She placed her plate on the table, pretending not to notice the legs wobbling a little at the weight. "That's not quite right. Only some of us are wizards. The rest are Muggles. ~ Alisha Rai,

605:Who am I? is the only question worth asking and the only one never answered. It is your destiny to play an infinity of roles, but these roles are not yourself. The spirit is non-local, but it leaves behind a fingerprint, which we call a body. A wizard does not believe himself to be a local event dreaming of a larger world. A wizard is a world dreaming of local events. ~ Deepak Chopra,

606:Listen to this dumbass question,” she groaned that afternoon in Pearl’s kitchen, fishing the printed-out application from her bag. “‘Rewrite a famous story from a different perspective. For example, retell The Wizard of Oz from the point of view of the Wicked Witch.’ This is a college app, not creative writing. I’m taking AP English. At least ask me to write a real essay. ~ Celeste Ng,

607:Leicester stared fixedly at the image before him, the color bleached from his face by its brilliance. Seph sensed the headmaster's mind questing out, trying to discover and destroy the wizard behind the image, but finding nothing, no trail of magic, no stone, no flesh and blood to focus on. Jason Haley, the puppeteer, was safely ensconced in the gallery above. ~ Cinda Williams Chima,

608:Marilynn...passed out black cases to everyone. I opened mine to find an iPad inside. Several candidates whistled. Despite my agitated state, it impressed me too. Maybe wizard school wasn’t going to be as lame as I had thought. “All of your schedules and assignments will be done on these,” Marilynn explained. “The whole school is on these. We’ve had them for awhile now. ~ Priya Ardis,

609:Kessell tried to goad the sweat out of him. The wizard swayed the deadly candle tantalizingly about, causing the rays to shift back and forth. When he finally realized that he would not hear any whimpering or begging out of the proud ranger, Kessell grew tired of the game. “Farewell, fool,” he growled and puckered his lips to puff on the flame. Regis blew out the candle. ~ R A Salvatore,

610:Get out of the way, Mavra. Or don’t get out of the way. If you try to stop us from leaving, if you try to hurt anyone under my protection, you’ll be dealing with a Wizard of the Council, a Knight of the Sword and a girl with a basket full of garlic and holy water. I don’t care how big, bad, and ugly you are, there won’t be anything left of you but a greasy spot on the floor. ~ Jim Butcher,

611:That woman’s got it in for the Ministry of Magic!” said Percy furiously. “Last week she was saying we’re wasting our time quibbling about cauldron thickness, when we should be stamping out vampires! As if it wasn’t specifically stated in paragraph twelve of the Guidelines for the Treatment of Non-Wizard Part-Humans —” “Do us a favor, Perce,” said Bill, yawning, “and shut up. ~ J K Rowling,

612:Those who deal in magic learn to see the world in a slightly differnt light than everybody else.you gain a perspective you had considered before. A way of thinking that would never have occurred to you with out exposure to the things a wizard sees and hears.When you look in to some ones eyes you see them in that other light and for just a second they see you in the same way. ~ Jim Butcher,

613:Courage~ What makes the flag on the mast to wave? What makes the elephant charge his tusk in the misty mist, or the dusky dusk? What makes the muskrat guard his musk? Courage! What makes the sphinx the seventh wonder? Courage! What makes the dawn come up like thunder? Courage! What makes the Hottentot so hot? What puts the "ape" in apricot?~Cowardly Lion from the Wizard of Oz ~ L Frank Baum,

614:ALBUS DUMBLEDORE  CURRENTLY  HEADMASTER  OF  HOGWARTS Considered by many the greatest wizard of modern times, Dumbledore is particularly famous for his defeat of the Dark wizard Grindelwald in 1945, for the discovery of the twelve uses of dragon’s blood, and his work on alchemy with his partner, Nicolas Flamel. Professor Dumbledore enjoys chamber music and tenpin bowling. Harry ~ J K Rowling,

615:I most certainly will not surrender!' said Wish. 'You CHEATED!' 'Wizards don't play by Warrior rules,' said Xar. 'Cheat of a Wizard!' 'Wickedness of a Warrior!' 'Curse-Maker!' 'Forest-poisoner!' 'Child-eater!' 'Magic-destroyer! May you be ground by the teeth of the Giant Grey ogre into pieces that are smaller than the eyes of lice on a fly!' cursed Xar. ~ Cressida Cowell,

616:In the early years of the show, I had earned a reputation as the prankster who planted stink bombs under the audience seats, greased doorknobs and hid crew members’ cars in bushes. I initiated practical jokes, laughter, ribbing and the sarcastic comments that flew around stage like the evil monkeys on The Wizard of Oz. My fellow cast members affectionately named me “Devil Boy. ~ Kirk Cameron,

617:Why was it that when she heard Granny ramble on about witchcraft she longed for the cutting magic of wizardry, but whenever she heard Treatle speak in his high-pitched voice she would fight to the death for witchcraft? She’d be both, or none at all. And the more they intended to stop her, the more she wanted it. She’d be a witch and a wizard too. And she would show them. ~ Terry Pratchett,

618:who became Jobs’s spiritual teacher. LEE CLOW. Advertising wizard who created Apple’s “1984” ad and worked with Jobs for three decades. DEBORAH “DEBI” COLEMAN. Early Mac team manager who took over Apple manufacturing. TIM COOK. Steady, calm, chief operating officer hired by Jobs in 1998; replaced Jobs as Apple CEO in August 2011. EDDY CUE. Chief of Internet services at Apple, ~ Walter Isaacson,

619:Nobody got me out," Nellie replied. "They just let me go. They think I'm a deranged Jonah Wizard fan. Apparently, the hotel's full of them. A couple of idiots actually jumped off the front balcony. Can you picture that?" "In Technicolor," Amy said bitterly. "That low-down KGB reject!" Dan fumed. "I can't believe she cheated me–right when I was in the middle of cheating her! ~ Gordon Korman,

620:Mission motto, sir," said Carrot cheerfully. "Morituri Nolumus Mori. Rincewind suggested it." "I imagine he did," said Lord Vetinari, observing the wizard coldly. "And would you care to give us a colloquial translation, Mr Rincewind?" "Er..." Rincewind hesitated, but there really was no escape. "Er... roughly speaking, it means, 'We who are about to die don't want to', sir. ~ Terry Pratchett,

621:Golden tongues of fire licked the night-sky, lighting up Brenna’s ancient sky-line in terrible beauty. The wizard and his young companion watched the flames devour the city like a hungry beast. The knowledge they had only barely escaped from the Morg’s clutches did not fill them with relief but a sense of burgeoning panic – the sacking of Brenna was only a taste of what was to come. ~ Sam J Charlton,

622:You are impressive, I must say, and in so many ways,” he admitted. “I find it truly lamentable that you are wound up in your nonsensical notions of fidelity, and to a pathetic warrior no less! And I am disappointed that one of your accomplishments—a chosen priestess, I am told, and a wizard of no small measure—clings to some ridiculous peasant superstition of entwining honor and sex. ~ R A Salvatore,

623:What must strike any intelligent witch or wizard on studying the so-called history of the Elder Wand is that every man who claims to have owned it has insisted that it is "unbeatable," when the known facts of its passage through many owners' hands demonstrate that has it not only been beaten hundreds of times, but that it also attracts trouble as Grumble the Grubby Goat attracted flies. ~ J K Rowling,

624:It's no surprise that the droll and (seemingly) all-knowing wizard behind the Chicago Style Q&A puts it all together-entertainingly-for manuscript editors in this real-world guide to job success and survival. The surprise is how urgent it is for every author, client, and boss who works with editors to embrace Carol Fisher Saller's 'subversiveness'-or suffer the next outcome from hell. ~ Arthur Plotnik,

625:I'm..." I felt a little ill. "You're saying... I'm pregnant?" My double threw up his arms. "Finally, he gets it." In years and years and years of experience as a wizard, I'd dealt with concepts, formulae, and mental models that ranged from bizarre to downright insanity-inducing. None of them had, in any way whatsoever, ever prepared my head to wrap around this. At all. Ever. ~ Jim Butcher,

626:Radar revs the engine as to say hustle, and we are running through the parking lot, Ben's robe flowing in the wind so that he looks vaguely like a dark wizard, except that his pale skinny legs are visible, and his arms hug plastic bags. I can see the back of Lacey's legs beneath her dress, her calves tight in midstride. I don't know how I look, but I know how I feel: Young. Goofy. Infinite. ~ John Green,

627:It didn't work," said the King. "The cloak of invisibility didn't work." "Yes, it did," said the Royal Wizard. "No, it didn't," said the King. "I kept bumping into things, the same as ever." "The cloak is supposed to make you invisible," said the Royal Wizard. "It is not supposed to keep you from bumping into things." "All I know is, I kept bumping into things," said the King. ~ James Thurber,

628:What he really wanted (and it felt almost shameful to admit it to himself) was someone like — someone like a parent: an adult wizard whose advice he could ask without feeling stupid, someone who cared about him, who had had experience of Dark Magic... And then the solution came to him. It was so simple, and so obvious, that he couldn't believe it had taken so long — Sirius. ~ J K Rowling,

629:didn’t know about the wizard power, but she was right about being cute. I was sort of cute in a girl-next-door kind of way that didn’t seem to encourage dates. Glo was cute in a quirky, fun way that was obviously more approachable. Truth is, I wish I was more like Glo, but I’d feel like an idiot if I tried to wear a pink ballet tutu with green-and-black striped tights and motorcycle boots. ~ Janet Evanovich,

630:The natives of British Columbia live largely upon the fish which abound in their seas and rivers. If the fish do not come in due season, and the Indians are hungry, A Nootka wizard will make an image of a swimming fish and put it into the water in the direction from which the fish generally appear. This ceremony, accompanied by a prayer to the fish to come, will cause them to arrive at once. ~ James G Frazer,

631:The parallels between Borlaug and Vogt are inexact. Borlaug never wrote a manifesto and mostly declined the roles of theorist and exponent. Instead he became, by the example of his life, the emblem of a way of thought—the Wizard’s way. His success would show, at least to Wizards, that science and technology, properly applied, could allow humankind to produce its way into a prosperous future. ~ Charles C Mann,

632:After an hour of blather, I started to understand Tyler Durden. Human interaction to him was a program. Behavior was determined by frames and congruence and state and validation and other big-chunk psychological principles. And he wanted to be the Wizard of Oz: the little guy behind the curtain, pulling the strings that made everyone around him think he was a big and powerful master of the realm. I ~ Neil Strauss,

633:And though at nine I wasn’t sure what an “agent” was, I knew she must be extremely important to make even my parents nervous. Besides, I was afraid of anyone I didn’t know, let alone someone hiding behind a shroud of smoke. My imagination began to get the best of me. It was like we were in the presence of the Wizard. Instead of “I am the Great and Terrible Oz,” she was the Great and Terrible Agent. ~ Kirk Cameron,

634:Clearly, invisibility is a property that arises at the atomic level, via Maxwell's equations, and hence would be exceedingly difficult, if not impossible, to duplicate using ordinary means. To make Harry Potter invisible, one would have to liquefy him, boil him to create steam, crystallize him, heat him again, and then cool him, all of which would be quite difficult to accomplish, even for a wizard. ~ Michio Kaku,

635:God’s unrivaled goodness undergirds everything else we can say about prayer. If he is like us, only slightly stronger, then why pray? If he grows weary, then why pray? If he has limitations, questions, and hesitations, then you might as well pray to the Wizard of Oz. However, if God is at once Father and Creator, holy—unlike us—and high above us, then we at any point are only a prayer away from help. ~ Max Lucado,

636:Once Once, oh once, there was, was not, A girl, princess, mermaid, widow, witch, queen, wife, A boy, king, soldier, wizard, troll, giants, Magic Life. The tale turns, returns, confuses, confesses, And all the hardships, spells, and stresses, End well in happy laughter And we hope- ever after. Believe me, friend- because would I, A storyteller, ever lie? ~ Jane Yolen,

637:I always hated those fantasy books where, at the end, all the kids had to go home. At the end of a Narnia book, you always got shown the door. Same with The Wizard Of Oz and The Phantom Tollbooth. You get kicked out of your magic land. It's like, "By the way, here's your next surprise: You get to go home!" And the kids are all like, "Yay, we get to go home!" I never bought that. Did anybody buy that? ~ Lev Grossman,

638:I went to see a wizard today,” Adonis added. “And a necromancer. I don’t know why, the idea just came into my head this morning and I went. Asked perfect strangers if they could help me—help me not have to need sex—and told them about a situation that was none of their business.” He crossed his arms. “I’ll bet Kirill is twitching somewhere in Dacia and he has no idea why.” - Adonis to Ivy. ~ Jennifer Blackstream,

639:A mouse was always depressed because he was afraid of cats. A great wizard took pity on him and turned him into a cat. Then he started to be afraid of dogs, and so the wizard turned him into a dog. Then he began to fear tigers. The wizard, who was very patient, used his powers to turn him into a tiger. Then he was afraid of hunters. Finally, the wizard gave up and turned him back into a mouse, saying: ~ Paulo Coelho,

640:Courage~ L Frank Baum What makes the flag on the mast to wave? What makes the elephant charge his tusk in the misty mist, or the dusky dusk? What makes the muskrat guard his musk? Courage! What makes the sphinx the seventh wonder? Courage! What makes the dawn come up like thunder? Courage! What makes the Hottentot so hot? What puts the "ape" in apricot?~ L Frank BaumCowardly Lion from the Wizard of Oz ~ L Frank Baum,

641: No, she knows you're here. She can see through the camouflage. But I think she's hiding something from me, and I'm waiting for the other shoe to drop. Never mind. Just listen. Once she drinks the tea, she will try ot surprise me with something. She is waiting for the contrast to be fully in effect before she says anything. I knew I never should have let you watch The Wizard of Oz. ~ Kevin Hearne,

642:Dystopia is just someone’s failed attempt at utopia. In a dystopian novel or movie, society is the bad guy, or at least one of the antagonists. In real life Nazi society was as much to blame as Hitler. There is usually a “shift” that  initiates this change, this shift can be anything from hunger (“Soylent Green”), to a tornado (the “Wizard of Oz”) to a deadly virus (my story, “Apocalypse Conspiracy). ~ Michael Bunker,

643:You’re not by any chance writing out a new order form, are you?” said Mrs. Weasley shrewdly. “You wouldn’t be thinking of restarting Weasleys’ Wizard Wheezes, by any chance?” “Now, Mum,” said Fred, looking up at her, a pained look on his face. “If the Hogwarts Express crashed tomorrow, and George and I died, how would you feel to know that the last thing we ever heard from you was an unfounded accusation? ~ J K Rowling,

644:In Tolkien’s Lord of the Rings trilogy, the wizard Saruman turns from wisdom to rapacity in his taste for power. He rips out the ancient trees and flattens the land to make room for the industries of war. The lesson is simple: All technology, along with its blessings, also carries a temptation—an appetite for control, a willingness to flatten the world (if needed) to make space for the human will. And ~ Charles J Chaput,

645:We wait all these years to find someone who understands us, I thought, someone who accepts us as we are, someone with a wizard's power to melt stone to sunlight, who can bring us happiness in spite of trials, who can face our dragons in the night, who can transform us into the soul we choose to be. Just yesterday I found that magical Someone is the face we see in the mirror: It's us and our homemade masks. ~ Richard Bach,

646:In a dreadful storm that the supposedly wizard De Danann raised up against them, when they attempted to land in Ireland, five of the sons of Milesius, with great numbers of their followers, were lost, their fleet was dispersed and it seemed for a time as if none of them would ever enjoy the Isle of Destiny. Ancient manuscripts preserve the prayer that, it is said, their poet, Amergin, now prayed for them ~ Seumas MacManus,

647:In many ways, I think I'm a good person for it. I mean, I'm not a musical theater dude. Or rather, I don't watch everything, and love everything, and have every album. The ones that I love - like I've seen The Wizard of Oz a hundred times. West Side Story I love. I love Singing in the Rain, I love White Christmas. I love the Dennis Potter ones like Singing Detective and Pennies from Heaven. I love Sondheim. ~ James Ponsoldt,

648:When one wizard saves another wizard’s life, it creates a certain bond between them. And I’m much mistaken if Voldemort wants his servant in the debt of Harry Potter.” “I don’t want a connection with Pettigrew!” said Harry. “He betrayed my parents!” “This is magic at its deepest, its most impenetrable, Harry. But trust me, the time may come when you will be very glad you saved Pettigrew’s life. ~ J K Rowling,

649:When friends couldn't be found, the books were always waiting with something new to tell. Life that was getting too much the same could be shaken up in a few minutes by the pictures in a book of some ancient temple newly discovered deep in a rain-forest, a fuzzy photo of Uranus with it's up-and-down rings, or a prismed picture taken through the faceted eye of a bee. -Nita Callahan- -So You Want To Be A Wizard- ~ Diane Duane,

650:I've spoken about this completely independent of this movie prior to ever being attached to this film that as a kid the first movie that I remember seeing that resonated with me was the Wizard of Oz. I think just visually the color, the spectrum of it and how fantastical it was and how much you wanted to live in that world, for a nine-year old was so magical and so grand so I have the greatest, fondest memories of it. ~ Mila Kunis,

651:You’re not his mentor,” Ryan said. “Morgan is. Why would you need to teach him anything?” Randall cocked his head at Ryan. Ryan blanched. “Uh. Why would you need to teach him anything, my lord head wizard Randall. Please don’t melt my face off.” “Kiss-ass,” I muttered. “I like you,” Randall said. “For now.” “Eep,” Ryan said. “You’re a knight commander,” I hissed at him. “Find your balls, Foxheart! ~ T J Klune,

652:I found a Cairn Terrier online. It’s perfect.” “A what?” “Pidge is from Kansas. It’s the same kind of dog Dorothy had in the Wizard of Oz.” Shepley’s face was blank. “The Wizard of Oz.” “What? I liked the scarecrow when I was a little kid, shut the fuck up.” “It’s going to crap every where, Travis. It’ll bark and whine and … I don’t know.” “So does America … minus the crapping. ~ Jamie McGuire,

653:Joe and I started dancing. It was strange, because we weren’t touching, we were each kinda in our own little space. But the way Joe held my gaze the entire time, it was almost like there was an invisible thread pulling us toward each other. And I couldn’t help but wonder if I wasn’t a little like Dorothy from The Wizard of Oz, searching far and wide for something that had been in my backyard the entire time. ~ Rachel Hawthorne,

654:Stuart's a wizard with those kinds of things," she said. "What kinds of things?" "Oh, he can find anything online." Debbie was obviously one of those parents who still hadn't quite grasped that using the Internet was not exactly wizardry, and that we could all find anything online. I didn't say this, because you don't want people to feel that they've missed something really obvious, even when they have. ~ Maureen Johnson,

655:Beloved, gaze in thine own heart, The holy tree is growing there; From joy the holy branches start, And all the trembling flowers they bear. The changing colours of its fruit Have dowered the stars with metry light; The surety of its hidden root Has planted quiet in the night; The shaking of its leafy head Has given the waves their melody, And made my lips and music wed, Murmuring a wizard song for thee. ~ William Butler Yeats,

656:I'm getting my ass kicked by tiny faeries!" I shouted back, fumbling to start the car. "They've got my freaking number!" "Run away!" Bob giggled. "Run away! Tiny faeries!" growled in frustration and popped the Redcap's hat down over Bob. "Stop being a jerk. This is serious." Bob's voice was only barely muffled. It sounded like he couldn't breathe. "Serious! Tiny! Faeries! The m-m- mighty wizard Dresden! ~ Jim Butcher,

657:Oh, I love astronomy. I’m a Pisces. What sign are you?” Which had made Mac laugh again, and he started to explain the difference between astronomy and astrology. Tiffany was apparently absolutely fascinated…and fascinating. His gaze--and Jason’s--was riveted on her. I gave another little shrug, feeling a need to defend my sister, who might be in need of a trip down the yellow brick road to ask the wizard for some brains. ~ Rachel Hawthorne,

658:Any true wizard, faced with a sign like 'Do not open this door. Really. We mean it. We're not kidding. Opening this door will mean the end of the universe,' would automatically open the door in order to see what all the fuss is about. This made signs rather a waste of time, but at least it meant that when you handed what was left of the wizard to his grieving relatives you could say, as they grasped the jar, 'We told him not to. ~ Terry Pratchett,

659:Any true wizard, faced with a sign like 'Do not open this door. Really. We mean it. We're not kidding. Opening this door will mean the end of the universe,' would automatically open the door in order to see what all the fuss is about. This made signs rather a waste of time, but at least it meant that when you handed what was left of the wizard to his grieving relatives you could say, as they grasped the jar, 'We told him not to." ~ Terry Pratchett,

660:Crackers!” said Dumbledore enthusiastically, offering the end of a large silver noisemaker to Snape, who took it reluctantly and tugged. With a bang like a gunshot, the cracker flew apart to reveal a large, pointed witch’s hat topped with a stuffed vulture. Harry, remembering the boggart, caught Ron’s eye and they both grinned; Snape’s mouth thinned and he pushed the hat toward Dumbledore, who swapped it for his wizard’s hat at once. ~ J K Rowling,

661:So what should I call you now?” he said when we had our breath back. “Savior of Thorvaldor? Soon-to-Be-Master Wizard? Chief Councillor of Wise Words? My own love?” “Sinda,” I said, without the slightest twinge of old memories, or something lost, or regret. “Just Sinda. Though I like that last one almost as much.” Kiernan reached out and tucked a strand of escaping hair behind my ear. “I think I like Sinda best myself,” he said. ~ Eilis O Neal,

662:Smell is a potent wizard that transports you across thousands of miles and all the years you have lived. The odors of fruits waft me to my southern home, to my childhood frolics in the peach orchard. Other odors, instantaneous and fleeting, cause my heart to dilate joyously or contract with remembered grief. Even as I think of smells, my nose is full of scents that start awake sweet memories of summers gone and ripening fields far away. ~ Helen Keller,

663:I turned to Grey again. “The point is, killing someone is almost never the smart move, long term. Sometimes it’s got to be done if you want to survive—but the more you do it, the more you risk creating more enemies and buying yourself even more trouble.” Grey seemed to consider that for a moment, and then shrugged. “The argument is not entirely without merit. Tell me, wizard, does it give you some sort of satisfaction to protect this man? ~ Jim Butcher,

664:Smell is a potent wizard that transports you across thousands of miles and all the years you have lived. The odors of fruits waft me to my southern home, to my childhood frolics in the peach orchard. Other odors, instantaneous and fleeting, cause my heart to dilate joyously or contract with remembered grief. Even as I think of smells, my nose is full of scents that start awake sweet memories of summers gone and ripening fields far away. ~ Helen Keller,

665:You have two hands, Mr Felix. I understand that's all a lonely single man needs." She clamped her lips together and forced herself to remain calm until the door closed behind her. She blinked in the late afternoon sunlight, feeling like she'd been inside a surreal film and the real world was definitely a relief. Sunset tinted the path as she followed the yellow brick road away from the rock star the newspapers called the Wizard of Aus. ~ Demelza Carlton,

666:You want to give it a look, Xeno is printing all the stuff the Prophet’s ignoring, not a single mention of Crumple-Horned Snorkacks in the last issue. How long they’ll let him get away with it, mind, I don’t know. But Xeno says, front page of every issue, that any wizard who’s against You-Know-Who ought to make helping Harry Potter their number-one priority.” “Hard to help a boy who’s vanished off the face of the earth,” said Dirk. ~ J K Rowling,

667:. . . when the nature of mind is introduced by a master, it is just too simple for us to believe. Our ordinary mind tells us this cannot be, there must be something more to it than this. It must surely be more "glorious", with light blazing in space around us, angels with flowing golden hair swooping down to meet us, and a deep Wizard of Oz voice announcing, "Now you have been introduced to the nature of your mind." There is no such drama. ~ Sogyal Rinpoche,

668:Ig knew her, of course. It was the same woman who had served him and Merrin drinks on their last night together. Her face was framed by two wings of lank black hair that curled under her long, pointed chin, so she looked like the female version of the wizard who was always giving Harry Potter such a hard time in the movies. Professor Snail or something. Ig had been waiting to read the books with the children he and Merrin planned to have together. ~ Joe Hill,

669:Virtue," he said. "The real thing. It's not some kind of cuddly teddy bear you can keep on the shelf until you need a hug. It's dangerous, which is why it makes people so nervous. Virtue has its own agenda, and believe me, it's not always yours. The word itself means strength, power. And when it gets loose, you'd better watch out." Something bad might happen..." Impossible. But possibly something painful" -A Wizard Alone by Diane Duane ~ Diane Duane,

670:The apple blossoms were in full bloom, and the orchard looked as if it had been dusted in pink snow. Every few seconds, a gusty, warm wind bellowed down the hillside and into the bay, a roar followed by a brief silence in which another sound would emerge: the hum of bees on the blossoms. "Reminds me of The Wizard of Oz when the movie turned into Technicolor," Willo said, pushing up the sleeves on her long-sleeved T-shirt. "Feels like May. ~ Viola Shipman,

671:It was, however, very angry. The moment it saw Moog the treant began thrashing against the cords binding it to the table. The branches too small to serve as limbs all strained toward the wizard, seeking to grasp hold of him. Though this creature looked far too frail to threaten a full-grown man, Clay was reminded again of Hollow Hill. The treants there had been huge and hale, capable of swallowing men whole or snapping them, ironically, like twigs. ~ Nicholas Eames,

672:Once upon a time there was a king, and the king commissioned his favorite wizard to create a magic mirror. This mirror didn’t show you your reflection. It showed you your soul—it showed you who you really were. The wizard couldn’t look at it without turning away. The king couldn’t look at it. The courtiers couldn’t look at it. A chestful of treasure was offered to anyone who could look at it for sixty seconds without turning away. And no one could. ~ Martin Amis,

673:Well, look who's on my front porch," he said, speaking Empire with this odd hissing accent. "A murderer and a cross-dressing pirate." I looked down at my clothes, ripped and shredded and covered in mud and sand and dried blood. I'd forgotten I was dressed like a boy. "So are you here to kill me or to rob me?" the man said. "I generally don't find it useful to glow when undertaking acts of subterfuge, but then, I'm just a wizard ~ Cassandra Rose Clarke,

674:NOLAN BUSHNELL. Founder of Atari and entrepreneurial role model for Jobs. BILL CAMPBELL. Apple marketing chief during Jobs’s first stint at Apple and board member and confidant after Jobs’s return in 1997. EDWIN CATMULL. A cofounder of Pixar and later a Disney executive. KOBUN CHINO. A Sōtō Zen master in California who became Jobs’s spiritual teacher. LEE CLOW. Advertising wizard who created Apple’s “1984” ad and worked with Jobs for three decades. ~ Walter Isaacson,

675:Ivan Lankowski,” said Petra. “The name I’d like to hear is the name of the one who sent you.” “One’s superior officer is never named. It is a basic rule of security.” Petra sighed. “I suppose this proves I’m not in Kansas anymore.” “I don’t believe,” said Lankowski, “that you have ever been in Kansas, Mrs. Delphiki.” “It was a reference to—” “I have seen The Wizard of Oz,” said Lankowski. “I am, after all, an educated man. And…I have been in Kansas. ~ Orson Scott Card,

676:You are the Chosen One?” “Of course I am,” said Harry calmly. “But then . . . my dear boy . . . you’re asking a great deal . . .you’re asking me, in fact, to aid you in your attempt to destroy —” “You don’t want to get rid of the wizard who killed Lily Evans?” “Harry, Harry, of course I do, but —” “You’re scared he’ll find out you helped me?” Slughorn said nothing; he looked terrified. “Be brave like my mother, Professor. . . . ~ J K Rowling,

677:Anyway, my office is small - one room, but on the corner, with a couple of windows. The sign on the door reads, simply, HARRY DRESDEN, WIZARD. Just inside the door is a table, covered with pamphlets with titles like: Magic and You, and Why Witches Don't Sink Any Faster Than Anyone Else - a Wizard's Perspective. I wrote most of them. I think it's important for we practitioners of the Art to keep up a good public image. Anything to avoid another Inquisition. ~ Jim Butcher,

678:So if you care to find me/ Look to the western sky/ As someone told me lately/ Everyone deserves the chance to fly!/ And if I'm flying solo/ At least I'm flying free/ Tell those who'd ground me/ Take a message back from me/ Tell them how I am defying gravity!/ I'm flying high defying gravity/ And soon I'll match them in renown./ And nobody in all of Oz/ No Wizard that there is or was/ Is ever gonna bring me down!/ ~ Stephen Schwartz,

679:he drew from his pocket a tiny instrument which he placed against his ear. Ozma, observing this action in her Magic Picture, at once caught up a similar instrument from a table beside her and held it to her own ear. The two instruments recorded the same delicate vibrations of sound and formed a wireless telephone, an invention of the Wizard. Those separated by any distance were thus enabled to converse together with perfect ease and without any wire connection. ~ L Frank Baum,

680:Somewhere in the distance he could hear a wireless playing Judy Garland's 'Over the Rainbow.' Wolf had seen the film but, had he been the one swept up to the magical land of Oz, he would have raised an army of flying monkeys, stuck the witches in a concentration camp, razed the Emerald City to the ground and executed the wizard for communist sympathies, being a Jew, a homosexual, intellectually retarded, or all of the above. He did like the tune, though. ~ Lavie Tidhar,

681:And then he - Tchaikovsky - turned towards the little lectern that was on the stage, picked up his baton and held it in the air. He paused a moment. It was like watching an old wizard with a wand, summoning the energy needed to cast the spell. The hall fell silent. I had never heard a silence like it. The whole hall seemed to be holding its breath. It felt civilised and modern. It felt refined and tantalising all at once, like a polite collective pre-orgasm. ~ Matt Haig,

682:And whenever any one informs us that he has found a man who knows all the arts, and all things else that anybody knows, and every single thing with a higher degree of accuracy than any other man –whoever tells us this, I think that we can only imagine him to be a simple creature who is likely to have been deceived by some wizard or actor whom he met, and whom he thought all-knowing, because he himself was unable to analyze the nature of knowledge and ignorance and imitation. ~ Plato,

683:Whenever any one informs us that he has found a man who knows all the arts, and all things else that anybody knows, and every single thing with a higher degree of accuracy than any other man - whoever tells us this, I think that we can only imagine him to be a simple creature who is likely to have been deceived by some wizard or actor whom he met, and whom he thought all-knowing, because he himself was unable to analyse the nature of knowledge and ignorance and imitation. ~ Socrates,

684:Where am I?” I ask. “Where are my parents and my brother? Where’s my home? And who are you?” He blinks a couple of times before smiling faintly as though something has just amused him. “I’m afraid you’re not in Kansas anymore, Dorothy.” Wizard of Oz references? I’m somewhere, I don’t know where, and that’s the best I get? Well, I’m not some dumb little girl willing to put up with that, and he certainly isn’t any kind of wizard. - Celestra Caine, FADE by Kailin Gow ~ Kailin Gow,

685:I’m not trying to con kids into optimism or false confidence. I really believe this stuff. My view of violence and victory in children’s stories hinges entirely on my faith. Samson lost his eyes and died … but he has new eyes in the resurrection. Israel was enslaved in Egypt, but God sent a wizard far more powerful than Gandalf to save His people. Christ took the world’s darkness on his shoulders and died in agony. But then … Easter. In the end, good wins. Always. ~ N D Wilson,

686:It broke her heart that they had come to this: if one knew the future, all the unexpected glimpses of the beloved, one might have trouble finding the courage to go on. This was probably the reason nine-tenths of the human brain had been rendered useless: to make you stupidly intrepid. One was working with only the animal brain, the Pringle brain. The wizard-god brain, the one that could see the future and move objects without touching them, was asleep. Fucking bastard. ~ Lorrie Moore,

687:But the worst enemy thou canst meet, wilt thou thyself always be; thou waylayest thyself in caverns and forests. Thou lonesome one, thou goest the way to thyself! And past thyself and thy seven devils leadeth thy way! A heretic wilt thou be to thyself, and a wizard and a sooth-sayer, and a fool, and a doubter, and a reprobate, and a villain. Ready must thou be to burn thyself in thine own flame; how couldst thou become new if thou have not first become ashes! Thou ~ Friedrich Nietzsche,

688:Now, what is forbidden to the summoner, or any wizard, is to call a living spirit. We can call to them, yes. We can send to them a voice or a presentment, a seeming, of ourself. But we do not summon them, in spirit or in flesh, to come to us. Only the dead may we summon. Only the shadows. You can see why this must be. To summon a living man is to have entire power over him, body and mind. No one, no matter how strong or wise or great, can rightly own and use another. ~ Ursula K Le Guin,

689:KOBUN CHINO. A St Zen master in California who became Jobs’s spiritual teacher. LEE CLOW. Advertising wizard who created Apple’s “1984” ad and worked with Jobs for three decades. DEBORAH “DEBI” COLEMAN. Early Mac team manager who took over Apple manufacturing. TIM COOK. Steady, calm, chief operating officer hired by Jobs in 1998; replaced Jobs as Apple CEO in August 2011. EDDY CUE. Chief of Internet services at Apple, Jobs’s wingman in dealing with content companies. A ~ Walter Isaacson,

690:Witten's result showed that much as the Wizard of Oz's frightening visage was produced by an ordinary man, a rapacious black hole is the holographic projection of something equally ordinary: a bath of hot particles in the boundary theory (Figure 9.6). Like a real hologram and the image it generates, the two theories-a black hole in the interior and a hot quantum field theory on the boundary-bear no apparent resemblance to each other, and yet they embody identical information. ~ Brian Greene,

691:A man's magic demonstrates what sort of person he is, what is held most deeply inside of him. There is no truer gauge of a man's character than the way in which he employs his strength, his power. I was not a murderer. I was not like Victor Sells. I was Harry Blackstone Copperfield Dresden. I was a wizard. Wizards control their power. They don't let it control them. And wizards don't use magic to kill people. They use it to discover, to protect, to mend, to help. Not to destroy. ~ Jim Butcher,

692:You can't be just a scribe, or a wizard. Nameless God," he cried, raking a hand through his hair. "I wish they had never found you, never made you think you were the princess. Nothing else, will ever be good enough, not now. You'll never be happy. You'll throw yourself into danger, take it all on yourself, just to prove that they were all wrong about you. And I just-I just-" And without warning, he stepped on front of me, grabbed my shoulders to stop my pacing, and kissed me. ~ Eilis O Neal,

693:Wulfgar did smile. Then, all at once, he jerked back his head and roared, throwing away all of his anger and prejudice, so that he might take the halfling’s advice and view Longsaddle with an open mind. Even the musical wizard stopped his playing to observe the spectacle of the barbarian’s soul-cleansing scream. And when he had finished, Wulfgar laughed. Not an amused chuckle, but a thunderous roll of laughter that flowed up from his belly and exploded out his wide-thrown mouth. ~ R A Salvatore,

694:Pettigrew owes his life to you. You have sent Voldemort a deputy who is in your debt. When one wizard saves another wizard’s life, it creates a certain bond between them . . . and I’m much mistaken if Voldemort wants his servant in the debt of Harry Potter.” “I don’t want a bond with Pettigrew!” said Harry. “He betrayed my parents!” “This is magic at its deepest, its most impenetrable, Harry. But trust me . . . the time may come when you will be very glad you saved Pettigrew’s life. ~ J K Rowling,

695:The Temple dedicated to the pantheon of gods, constructed by the magical Order of the Dawn over a thousand years ago, gleamed in the morning sunlight as Talis sauntered up the cobblestone street. Today he would study with Master Viridian, the leading wizard of the Order, for a chance at breaking his many year long failing streak, his inability at casting magic. Not that Talis was optimistic today. Especially since every time he’d tried in the past the results had proved disastrous. ~ John Forrester,

696:The Hottentot Venus was well known in her time and even after. In the 1939 cinematic version of The Wizard of Oz, Bert Lahr as the Cowardly Lion asks in song, “What makes the Hottentot so hot?” He answers his own question with the word courage. The correct answer, though it is not said in the film, would most logically be: her derrière. Or perhaps Wizard of Oz songwriters Yip Harburg and Harold Arlen meant that it took a certain measure of courage to live through such degradation. ~ Rion Amilcar Scott,

697:Oh, lady bright! can it be right- The window open to the night? The wanton airs, from the tree-top, Laughingly through the lattice drop - The bodiless airs, a wizard rout, Flit through thy chamber in and out, And wave the curtain canopy So fitfully - so fearfully - Above the closed and fringéd lid 'Neath which thy slumb'ring soul lies hid, That, o'er the floor and down the wall, Like ghosts the shadows rise and fall! Oh, lady dear, hast thou no fear? ~ Edgar Allan Poe,

698:It may merely be apocryphal that when the Wizard saw the glass bottle he gasped, and clutched his heart. The story is told in so many ways, depending on who is doing the telling, and what needs to be heard at the time. It is a matter of history, however, that shortly thereafter, the Wizard absconded from the Palace. He left in the way he had first arrived-- a hot-air balloon-- just a few hours before seditious ministers were to lead a Palace revolt and to hold an execution without trial. ~ Gregory Maguire,

699:One thing that’s essential is absolute honesty on the team. Everyone needs to know the other’s strengths and weaknesses in order to play to those strengths in a life or death situation. You’ve seen what I can do, well, some of it. I’m a wizard. I can harness, control, and manipulate energy to my will, but I’m no archangel. I use magic.” I shrugged. “Like you use a gun. It’s just a part of me. I was born into it. But it can be dangerous to be around me.” I waited for her to run screaming, but ~ Shayne Silvers,

700:Change is the only constant. Your ability to navigate and tolerate change and its painful uncomfortableness directly correlates to your happiness and general well-being. See what I just did there? I saved you thousands of dollars on self-help books. If you can surf your life rather than plant your feet, you will be happier. Maybe I should have called this book Surf Your Life. The cover could feature a picture of me on a giant wave wearing a wizard hat. I wonder if it’s too late. I’ll make a call. ~ Amy Poehler,

701:If there is a god, he is not only a wizard at leaving clues behind. More than anything, he's a master of concealment. And the world is not something that gives itself away. The heavens still keep their secrets. There is little gossip amongst the stars. But no one has forgotten the Big Bang yet. Since then, silence has reigned supreme, and every thing there is moving away. One can still come across a moon. Or a comet. Just don't expect friendly greetings. No visiting cards are printed in space. ~ Jostein Gaarder,

702:Trained in combat?" repeated Harry incredulously. "What does he think we're doing here, forming some sort of wizard army?" "That's exactly what he thinks you're doing," said Sirius, "or rather, that's exactly what he's afraid of Dumbledore's doing -- forming his own private army, with which he will be able to take on the Ministry of Magic." There was a pause in this, then Ron said, "That's the stupidest thing I've ever heard, including all the stuff that Luna Lovegood comes out with. ~ J K Rowling,

703:You’re too arrogant for your own good,” Galien accused him defensively. “The man is an imperial wizard. What he is capable of is beyond your comprehension. For all we know, he may have been visiting her in the form of a butterfly in the garden or a moth that entered her bedroom window each night. We had to be sure.” “A butterfly?” Saldur said, genuinely amazed. “He’s a wizard. Damn you. That’s what they do.” “I highly doubt—” “The point is we didn’t know for sure. ~ Michael J Sullivan,

704:Tell me about this Wizard Howl of yours." "He's the best wizard in Ingary or anywhere else. If he'd only had time, he would have defeated that djinn. And he's sly and selfish and vain as a peacock and cowardly, and you can't pin him down to anything." "Indeed? Strange that you should speak so proudly such a list of vices, most loving of ladies." "What do you mean, vices? I was just describing Howl. He comes from another world entirely, you know, called Wales, and I refuse to believe he's dead! ~ Diana Wynne Jones,

705:Children being children, however, the grotesque Hopping Pot had taken hold of their imaginations. The solution was to jettison the pro-Muggle moral but keep the warty cauldron, so by the middle of the sixteenth century a different version of the tale was in wide circulation among wizarding families. In the revised story, the Hopping Pot protects an innocent wizard from his torch-bearing, pitchfork-toting neighbours by chasing them away from the wizard's cottage, catching them and swallowing them whole. ~ J K Rowling,

706:They say that a little knowledge is a dangerous thing, but it is not one half so bad as a lot of ignorance. There are some situations where the correct response is to display the sort of ignorance which happily and wilfully flies in the face of the facts. In this case, the birth of a baby girl, born a wizard – by mistake. Everybody knows that there’s no such thing as a female wizard. But now it’s gone and happened, there’s nothing much anyone can do about it. Let the battle of the sexes begin . . . ~ Terry Pratchett,

707:The door was suddenly thrown open, and there was Moog. He was wearing what looked to Clay like one-piece pyjamas: tiny moons and stars scattered across a dark blue sky. He was skinny as ever, and his long beard was white as cotton. He’d gone bald up top, but the fringe that remained was long and wisp thin. His eyes were the same startling blue beneath bushy white brows. “Gabriel! Clay!” The wizard cackled delightedly and did a little dance that only reinforced the fact that he was dressed like a child, ~ Nicholas Eames,

708:I was not prepared to hear over and over from men how the women—the mothers, sisters, girlfriends, wives—in their lives are constantly criticizing them for not being open and vulnerable and intimate, all the while they are standing in front of that cramped wizard closet where their men are huddled inside, adjusting the curtain and making sure no one sees in and no one gets out. There was a moment when I was driving home from an interview with a small group of men and thought, Holy shit. I am the patriarchy. ~ Bren Brown,

709:Maybe she's got a Facebook page, like every other kid in America. We could put something on her wall." Her eyes lit up very briefly before she slumped. "No, she's far too paranoid for that." "I was joking." "Yes, but you know how kids are about Facebook." "But she's hiding from an eight-foot-tall sociopathic werewolf wizard who can call down lightning bolts." "We're also talking about Facebook." Tristan contemplated her. "I think I need to feed you. Your blood sugar must be getting low. ~ Angela Knight,

710:At that moment, Harry fully understood for the first time why people said Dumbledore was the only wizard Voldemort had ever feared. The look upon Dumbledore's face as he stared down at the unconscious form of Mad-Eye moody was more terrible than Harry could have ever imagined. There was no benign smile upon Dumbledore's face, no twinkle in the eyes behind the spectacles. There was cold fury in every line of the ancient face; a sense of power radiated from Dumbledore as though he were giving off burning heat. ~ J K Rowling,

711:Ryban… what do people call you when they don’t want to toss out the full four syllables?” “What, Mister Hessler?” “For short, lad. What do they call you for short?” “They, er… they call me Dairy, Mister Hessler. Since I was found as a baby in the barn where the cows sleep.” “That’s adorable, lad.” “Mister Hessler?” “Yes, Dairy?” “Are you a good wizard?” Hessler was not given to long conversations unless he had someone interesting to argue with. “Do you mean good as in ethical or good as in capable, Dairy? ~ Patrick Weekes,

712:A horn honks.I look up, expecting to see the white Audi. But there’s a sleek black four-door with shiny silver rims instead. e driver side opens and a tall, dark figure in a trendy fall leather jacket and aviator sunglasses steps out and stalks around the car to open the passenger door. “Irish! Get in.” And I decide that Dr. Stayner is an evil wizard with a crystal ball and puppet strings attached to his fingers. He has somehow masterminded this entire situation. He’s definitely cackling in his office right now. ~ K A Tucker,

713:Humans are no different, Margulis believed. The implication of evolutionary theory is that Homo sapiens is just one creature among many, no different at base than P. vulgaris. We and they are controlled by the same forces, produced by the same processes, subject to the same fate. When Borlaug and Vogt stood on the tract of bad land, looking at the city, they were on the edge of the petri dish. Wizard or Prophet, it didn’t matter. Homo sapiens, in Margulis’s eyes, was just another briefly successful species. ~ Charles C Mann,

714:He’d found her, one rainy night, in an arcade. Under bright ghosts burning through a blue haze of cigarette smoke, holograms of Wizard’s Castle, Tank War Europa, the New York skyline . . . And now he remembered her that way, her face bathed in restless laser light, features reduced to a code: her cheekbones flaring scarlet as Wizard’s Castle burned, forehead drenched with azure when Munich fell to the Tank War, mouth touched with hot gold as a gliding cursor struck sparks from the wall of a skyscraper canyon. ~ William Gibson,

715:mouse was always depressed because he was afraid of cats. A great wizard took pity on him and turned him into a cat. Then he started to be afraid of dogs, and so the wizard turned him into a dog. Then he began to fear tigers. The wizard, who was very patient, used his powers to turn him into a tiger. Then he was afraid of hunters. Finally, the wizard gave up and turned him back into a mouse, saying: “Nothing I do will help you, because you never understood your growth. You are better being what you always were. ~ Paulo Coelho,

716:Let's get something clear up front. I'm not Harry Dresden. Harry's a wizard. A genuine, honest-to-goodness wizard. He's Gandalf on crack and an IV of Red Bull, with a big leather coat and a .44 revolver in his pocket. He'll spit in the eye of gods and demons alike if he thinks it needs to be done, and to hell with the consequences -- and yet somehow my little brother manages to remain a decent human being. I'll be damned if I know how. But then, I'll be damned regardless. My name is Thomas Raith, and I'm a monster. ~ Jim Butcher,

717:people (more commonly known as Muggles) were particularly afraid of magic in medieval times, but not very good at recognizing it. On the rare occasion that they did catch a real witch or wizard, burning had no effect whatsoever. The witch or wizard would perform a basic Flame-Freezing Charm and then pretend to shriek with pain while enjoying a gentle, tickling sensation. Indeed, Wendelin the Weird enjoyed being burned so much that she allowed herself to be caught no less than forty-seven times in various disguises. ~ J K Rowling,

718:Mad-Eye Moody?” said George thoughtfully, spreading marmalade on his toast. “Isn’t he that nutter —” “Your father thinks very highly of Mad-Eye Moody,” said Mrs. Weasley sternly. “Yeah, well, Dad collects plugs, doesn’t he?” said Fred quietly as Mrs. Weasley left the room. “Birds of a feather …” “Moody was a great wizard in his time,” said Bill. “He’s an old friend of Dumbledore’s, isn’t he?” said Charlie. “Dumbledore’s not what you’d call normal, though, is he?” said Fred. “I mean, I know he’s a genius and everything... ~ J K Rowling,

719:Here and there and not just in books we catch glimpses of a world of once upon a time and they lived happily ever after, of a world where there is a wizard to give courage and a heart, an angel with a white stone that has written on it our true and secret name, and it is so easy to dismiss it all that it is hardly worth bothering to do. ... But if the world of the fairy tale and our glimpses of it here and there are only a dream, they are one of the most haunting and powerful dreams that the world has ever dreamed. ~ Frederick Buechner,

720:Panting and gasping, Harry slowed down, skirting the Willow’s swiping branches, peering through the darkness toward its thick trunk, trying to see the single knot in the bark of the old tree that would paralyze it. Ron and Hermione caught up, Hermione so out of breath she could not speak. “How — how’re we going to get in?” panted Ron. “I can — see the place — if we just had — Crookshanks again —” “Crookshanks?” wheezed Hermione, bent double, clutching her chest. “Are you a wizard, or what?” “Oh — right — yeah — ~ J K Rowling,

721:Here and there and not just in books we catch glimpses of a world of once upon a time and they lived happily ever after, of a world where there is a wizard to give courage and a heart, an angel with a white stone that has written on it our true and secret name, and it is so easy to dismiss it all that it is hardly worth bothering to do. ... But if the world of the fairy tale and our glimpses of it here and there are only a dream, they are one of the most haunting and powerful dreams that the world has ever dreamed... ~ Frederick Buechner,

722:Non-magic people (more commonly known as Muggles) were particularly afraid of magic in medieval times, but not very good at recognizing it. On the rare occasion that they did catch a real witch or wizard, burning had no effect whatsoever. The witch or wizard would perform a basic Flame-Freezing Charm and then pretend to shriek with pain while enjoying a gentle, tickling sensation. Indeed, Wendelin the Weird enjoyed being burned so much that she allowed herself to be caught no less than forty-seven times in various disguises. ~ J K Rowling,

723:The city breathing, burning, living the life thy had preserved. Ten million lives and more. If something should happen to all that life- how terrible! Nita gulped for control as she remembered Fred's word of just this morning, an eternity ago. And this was what being a wizard was about. Keeping terrible things from happening, even when it hurts. Not just power, or control of what ordinary people couldn't control, or delight in being able to make strange things happen. Those were the side effects- not the reason, the purpose. ~ Diane Duane,

724:The city breathing, burning, living the life thy had preserved. Ten million lives and more. If something should happen to all that life - how terrible! Nita gulped for control as she remembered Fred's word of just this morning, an eternity ago. And this was what being a wizard was about. Keeping terrible things from happening, even when it hurts. Not just power, or control of what ordinary people couldn't control, or delight in being able to make strange things happen. Those were the side effects - not the reason, the purpose. ~ Diane Duane,

725:Everyone has talent. What is rare is the courage to follow that talent to the dark place where it leads. Erica Jong To Cowardly Lion:"As for you my fine friend, you are a victim of disorganized thinking. You are under the unfortunate delusion that simply because you run away from danger, you have no courage. You're confusing courage with wisdom.Frank Morgan as the Wizard of Oz "Courage faces fear and thereby masters it."Martin Luther King, Jr. "These days I'm feeling all right'cept I can't tell my courage from my desperation ~ Bruce Springsteen,

726:Non-magic people (more commonly known as Muggles) were particularly afraid of magic in medieval times, but not very good at recognizing it. On the rare occasion that they did catch a real witch or wizard, burning had no effect whatsoever. The witch or wizard would perform a basic Flame-Freezing Charm and then pretend to shriek with pain while enjoying a gentle, tickling sensation. Indeed, Wendelin the Weird enjoyed being burned so much that she allowed herself to be caught no less than forty-seven times in various disguises. Harry ~ J K Rowling,

727:Yes. I was looking for Lettie. They were both very kind to me,” Percival said, “Even though they’d never seen me before. And Wizard Howl kept visiting to court Lettie. Lettie didn’t want him, and she asked me to bite him to get rid of him, until Howl suddenly began asking her about you and—“ “what?” he said, “ I know someone called sophie who looks a little like you.. And Lettie said, that’s my sister,’ without thinking,” Percival said. “ And she got terribly worried then, particularly as Howl went on asking about her sister. ~ Diana Wynne Jones,

728:I feel any time you enter a dream world it's like you're working out things, it's all inside your mind and you're working it out, be it Dorothy in The Wizard of Oz, or the kids in Narnia, they go through this weird journey that's not real, and they're going through this journey psychologically. It's that journey of discovery, of getting onself together, that fantasy and fairy tales are so good at. And while some people still look upon them as completely unrealistic, for me they're more real than most things that are perceived as real. ~ Tim Burton,

729:Wizardry is all about thinking ahead, about being prepared. Wizards aren’t really superhuman. We just have a leg up on seeing things more clearly than other people, and being able to use the extra information we have for our benefit. Hell, the word wizard comes from the same root as wise. We know things. We aren’t any stronger or faster than anyone else. We don’t even have all that much more going in the mental department. But we’re god-awful sneaky, and if we get the chance to get set for something, we can do some impressive things. ~ Jim Butcher,

730:What's that?' he snarled, staring at the envelope Harry was still clutching in his hand. 'If it's another form for me to sign, you've got another-' 'It's not,' said Harry cheerfully. 'It's a letter from my godfather.' 'Godfather?' spluttered Uncle Vernon. 'You haven't got a godfather!' 'Yes, I have,' said Harry brightly. 'He was my mum and dad's best friend. He's a convicted murderer, but he's broken out of wizard prison and he's on the run. He likes to keep in touch with me, though...keep up with my news...check I'm happy... ~ J K Rowling,

731:Wizards, she thought, when she gained her composure. What good were they if they couldn't tell you how to do stuff, if they were always talking in riddles and saying they knew everything before it even happened? It wasn't very helpful. If she were a wizard, she'd write reports for people. She'd make sure everything was very clear. She'd write, Looking for a magical sword? No problem. Go to the fifth floor, turn left, open a large wooden chest, et cetera, et cetera. She'd have check boxes. Found your magical sword? Place X here. ~ Karen Foxlee,

732:L. Frank Baum, a Dakota Territory settler later famous for writing The Wonderful Wizard of Oz, edited the Aberdeen Saturday Pioneer at the time. Five days after the sickening event at Wounded Knee, on January 3, 1891, he wrote, “The Pioneer [sic] has before declared that our only safety depends upon the total extermination of the Indians. Having wronged them for centuries we had better, in order to protect our civilization, follow it up by one more wrong and wipe these untamed and untamable creatures from the face of the earth. ~ Roxanne Dunbar Ortiz,

733:What's that?" he snarled, staring at the envelope Harry was still clutching in his hand. "If it's another form for me to sign, you've got another -" "It's not," said Harry cheerfully. "It's a letter from my godfather." "Godfather?" sputtered Uncle Vernon. "You haven't got a godfather!" "Yes, I have," said Harry brightly. "He was my mum and dad's best friend. He's a convicted murderer, but he's broken out of wizard prison and he's on the run. He likes to keep in touch with me, though...keep up with my news...check if I'm happy.... ~ J K Rowling,

734:L. Frank Baum, a Dakota Territory settler later famous for writing The Wonderful Wizard of Oz, edited the Aberdeen Saturday Pioneer at the time. Five days after the sickening event at Wounded Knee, on January 3, 1891, he wrote, “The Pioneer [sic] has before declared that our only safety depends upon the total extermination of the Indians. Having wronged them for centuries we had better, in order to protect our civilization, follow it up by one more wrong and wipe these untamed and untamable creatures from the face of the earth.”39 ~ Roxanne Dunbar Ortiz,

735:Gryffindor house is home to Nearly Headless Nick, who in life was Sir Nicholas de Mimsy-Porpington. Something of a snob, and a less accomplished wizard than he believed, Sir Nicholas lounged around the court of Henry VII in life, until his foolish attempt to beautify a lady-in-waiting by magic caused the unfortunate woman to sprout tusks. Sir Nicholas was stripped of his wand and inexpertly executed, leaving his head hanging off by a single flap of skin and sinew. He retains a feeling of inadequacy with regard to truly headless ghosts. Another ~ J K Rowling,

736:Then again: from the critic's point of view, one of the truly wonderful things about the Star Wars universe is that the territory is so sprawling and borrows from so many sources that it's possible to find just about anything here, if you look hard enough. For example, the story of the original movie can also be summarized as, "A restless young boy chafes at life on the dusty old family farm, until he meets a wizard and is swept away to a wondrous land where he meets some munchkins, a tin man, a cowardly lion and Harrison Ford as the scarecrow. ~ David Brin,

737:He chose the boy he thought most likely to be a danger to him," said Dumbledore. And notice this, Harry. He chose, not the pureblood (which, according to his creed, is the only kind of wizard worth being or knowing), but the half-blood, like himself. He saw himself in you before he had ever seen you, and in marking you with that scar, he did not kill you, as he intended, but gave you powers, and a future, which have fitted you to escape him not once, but four times so far — something that neither your parents, nor Neville’s parents, ever achieved. ~ J K Rowling,

738:I had worried that he might think of me differently, once he learned about my new powers. That the thought of being accidentally roasted alive if I got angry with him might send him running back to the palace. I shouldn’t have bothered. Kiernan’s tongue was poking between his lips. I had seen that look a hundred times, usually just before a stunt that would have him, or both of us, in trouble. “Magic,” he murmured. “You, a wizard. A dangerous one.” His eyes swept over me, then landed on my face. “Do you have any idea how much fun this could be? ~ Eilis O Neal,

739:All of us are navigating our own personal yellow brick roads. Some of us are still asleep in the poppy field; some of us remain content with the material pleasures of the Emerald City. Some of us still think that the Wizard is great and powerful and follow his arbitrary commands to curry favor, while others have seen the man behind the curtain and have become disillusioned or feel betrayed. For the rest of us, once we acknowledge that our hearts’ desires lie in our own backyard—inside of us—we’ll be closer to home. And there’s no place like home. ~ James Van Praagh,

740:Bidding the wizard farewell, he turned to his daughter, who held up her finger and said, “Daddy, look — one of the gnomes actually bit me!” “How wonderful! Gnome saliva is enormously beneficial!” said Mr. Lovegood, seizing Luna’s outstretched finger and examining the bleeding puncture marks. “Luna, my love, if you should feel any burgeoning talent today — perhaps an unexpected urge to sing opera or to declaim in Mermish — do not repress it! You may have been gifted by the Gernumblies!” Ron, passing them in the opposite direction, let out a loud snort. ~ J K Rowling,

741:Fine, if you see no reason to worry about bisonbecks who do the bidding of Risto'-- he sat down on a log and pulled out his lunch--'or mordakleeps who team up with anything nasty and currently have a wonderful working relationship with that same evil wizard Risto, then why should I worry? Why should we warn Kale?' Leetu's scowl turned darker. Dar lifted his sandwich to his mouth, but had one more thing to say before he bit into it. 'Actually, I agree with you. Worrying now over an encounter that might occur later would only ruin our digestion. ~ Donita K Paul,

742:You mean I'm going to have to do a spell in front of a bunch of toffs?" Kim said, outraged that no one had mentioned this before she had agreed to this come-out. "Yes, exactly", Lady Wendall said serenely. "You and Richard have plenty of time to design something that will reflect your unique background, as well as demonstrating your abilities as a wizard. I am looking forward to seeing what you decide upon." "I could pick everyone's pockets at once with magic, "Kim said, still disgruntled. "That'd 'reflect my unique background', all right". ~ Patricia C Wrede,

743:Bidding the wizard farewell, he turned to his daughter, who held up her finger and said, “Daddy, look — one of the gnomes actually bit me!” “How wonderful! Gnome saliva is enormously beneficial!” said Mr. Lovegood, seizing Luna’s outstretched finger and examining the bleeding puncture marks. “Luna, my love, if you should feel any burgeoning talent today — perhaps an unexpected urge to sing opera or to declaim in Mermish — do not repress it! You may have been gifted by the Gernumblies!” Ron, passing them in the opposite direction, let out a loud snort. ~ J K Rowling,

744:It’s a letter from my godfather.” “Godfather?” spluttered Uncle Vernon. “You haven’t got a godfather!” “Yes, I have,” said Harry brightly. “He was my mum and dad’s best friend. He’s a convicted murderer, but he’s broken out of Wizard prison and he’s on the run. He likes to keep in touch with me, though . . . keep up with my news . . . check if I’m happy. . . .” And, grinning broadly at the look of horror on Uncle Vernon’s face, Harry set off toward the station exit, Hedwig rattling along in front of him, for what looked like a much better summer than the last. ~ J K Rowling,

745:Southwest,” he murmured. “A kindly wind, but sometimes wet.” Turning to Timoken, he said, “I don’t have an answer for you, but perhaps I’ll try and dream one if we get some peace.” “Thank you.” Timoken knew that Eri was a great wizard. Answers were a favor and he shouldn’t ask for too many. Yet there was someone he hadn’t mentioned, someone he hadn’t seen for a while, but whose memory was as fresh as though she were sitting before him at that very moment. The wizard bunched the top of his cloak around his neck and rubbed his hands. He gave Timoken a thoughtful ~ Jenny Nimmo,

746:A capacity for interiority in the growing adult is threatened by the temptation to squander that capacity ruthlessly, to revel in hollowness. The syndrome especially plagues anyone who lives behind a mask. An Elephant in her disguise as a human princess, a Scarecrow with painted features, a glittering tiara under which to glow and glide in anonymous glamour. A witch’s hat, a Wizard’s showbiz display, a cleric’s stole, a scholar’s gown, a soldier’s dress sartorials. A hundred ways to duck the question: how will I live with myself now that I know what I know? ~ Gregory Maguire,

747:I think that all women are witches, in the sense that a witch is a magical being. And a wizard, which is a male version of a witch, is kind of revered, and people respect wizards. But a witch, my god, we have to burn them. It's the male chauvinistic society that we're living in for the longest time, 3,000 years or whatever. And so I just wanted to point out the fact that men and women are magical beings. We are very blessed that way, so I'm just bringing that out. Don't be scared of witches, because we are good witches, and you should appreciate our magical power. ~ Yoko Ono,

748:I think that all women are witches, in the sense that a witch is a magical being. And a wizard, which is a male version of a witch, is kind of revered, and people respect wizards. But a witch, my god, we have to burn them. It’s the male chauvinistic society that we’re living in for the longest time, 3,000 years or whatever. And so I just wanted to point out the fact that men and women are magical beings. We are very blessed that way, so I’m just bringing that out. Don’t be scared of witches, because we are good witches, and you should appreciate our magical power. ~ Yoko Ono,

749:It will all become clear to you when you grow up,’ he said, 'It’s an amusing idea, of course, a nice play on words. A female wizard! You might as well invent a male witch!’ 'Warlocks,’ said Esk. 'Pardon me?’ 'My granny says men can’t be witches,’ said Esk. 'She says if men tried to be witches they’d be wizards.’ 'She sounds a very wise woman,’ said Treatle. 'She says women should stick to what they’re good at,’ Esk went on. 'Very sensible of her.’ 'She says if women were as good as men they’d be a lot better. ~ Terry Pratchett,

750:The mind may succeed in making you intelligent, but it is poorly equipped to make you happy, fulfilled, at peace with yourself. Merlin doesn’t argue with the mind. All debates are generated by thinking, and the wizard doesn’t think. He sees. And that is the key to the miraculous, for whatever you can see in your inner world you will bring into existence in the outer world. Live with this first lesson, let the water of wisdom begin to seep into the secret passages inside your being, and observe. The wizard is inside you, and he wants only one thing: to be born. ~ Deepak Chopra,

751:When you begin to care too much about what everyone else says, your confidence shrinks and you start to feel like insignificant, little Jack in a strange land of intimidating giants. But when you come to realize that opinions are as diverse and plentiful as dried beans, you might reach the conclusion that your own is of the greatest worth. That's when your confidence grows, and soon you find yourself striding like Gandalf the wondrous wizard among common hobbits in the shire. Respecting your own opinion is the magic that transforms both you and your world. ~ Richelle E Goodrich,

752:Yes, yes, I know what you’re thinking! ‘It’s all right for him, he’s an internationally famous wizard already!’ But when I was twelve, I was just as much of a nobody as you are now. In fact, I’d say I was even more of a nobody! I mean, a few people have heard of you, haven’t they? All that business with He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named!” He glanced at the lightning scar on Harry’s forehead. “I know, I know — it’s not quite as good as winning Witch Weekly’s Most-Charming-Smile Award five times in a row, as I have — but it’s a start, Harry, it’s a start. ~ J K Rowling,

753:production.” They had created a device with a little circuit board that could control billions of dollars’ worth of infrastructure. “You cannot believe how much confidence that gave us.” Woz came to the same conclusion: “It was probably a bad idea selling them, but it gave us a taste of what we could do with my engineering skills and his vision.” The Blue Box adventure established a template for a partnership that would soon be born. Wozniak would be the gentle wizard coming up with a neat invention that he would have been happy just to give away, and Jobs would ~ Walter Isaacson,

754:Delivering a commencement address is a great responsibility; or so I thought until I cast my mind back to my own graduation. The commencement speaker that day was the distinguished British philosopher Baroness Mary Warnock. Reflecting on her speech has helped me enormously in writing this one, because it turns out that I can’t remember a single word she said. This liberating discovery enables me to proceed without any fear that I might inadvertently influence you to abandon promising careers in business, the law or politics for the giddy delights of becoming a gay wizard. ~ J K Rowling,

755:Besides, when you found me, I was a much different person.” “I remember,” the wizard said thoughtfully. “You were like a rabid dog, snapping at everything and everyone. Clearly, my genius in matching you up with Hadrian worked wonders. I knew his noble heart would eventually soften yours.” “Yeah, well, travel with a guy long enough and you start picking up his bad habits. You have no idea how many times I almost killed him when we first started. I never bothered, because I expected the jobs would take care of that for me, but somehow he kept surviving. ~ Michael J Sullivan,

756:Once upon a time there was a Scottish SAS soldier in Kabul. He met a Soviet Spetsnaz soldier. They were enemies first, then shagged for nine years, fell in love at some stage. Dragons, battles, and damsels in distress in between, until an evil wizard took the Spetsnaz away. The Scot and the damsel battled the vile foes, until the Russian returned, but the evil spell still hat him in its claws. More dragons, battles, knights in not-so shiny armour later, the spell got broken, the Princes got reunited, and our Russian and Scotsman kind of lived happily ever after." (Dan) ~ Aleksandr Voinov,

757:You are a white. The Imperial Wizard. Now, if you don't think this is logic you can burn me on the fiery cross. This is the logic: You have the choice of spending fifteen years married to a woman, a black woman or a white woman. Fifteen years kissing and hugging and sleeping real close on hot nights. With a black, black woman or a white, white woman. The white woman is Kate Smith. And the black woman is Lena Horne. So you're not concerned with black or white anymore, are you? You are concerned with how cute or how pretty. Then let's really get basic and persecute ugly people! ~ Lenny Bruce,

758:Magic wasn’t something you needed God, a god, or gods to help you with, but a lot of people felt differently than I did. Even some wizards of the Council held deep religious convictions, and felt that they were bound intricately to their magic. Of course, if they believed it, it was as good as true. Magic is closely interwoven with a wizard’s confidence. Some would say that it is bound up with a wizard’s faith, and it would mean practically the same thing. You have to believe in the magic for it to work—not just that it will happen, but that it should happen. That’s what makes ~ Jim Butcher,

759:My friendly, card-carrying cupids!” beamed Lockhart. “They will be roving around the school today delivering your valentines! And the fun doesn’t stop here! I’m sure my colleagues will want to enter into the spirit of the occasion! Why not ask Professor Snape to show you how to whip up a Love Potion! And while you’re at it, Professor Flitwick knows more about Entrancing Enchantments than any wizard I’ve ever met, the sly old dog!” Professor Flitwick buried his face in his hands. Snape was looking as though the first person to ask him for a Love Potion would be force-fed poison. ~ J K Rowling,

760:My name is Harry Blackstone Copperfield Dresden. Conjure by it at your own risk. I'm a wizard. I work out of an office in midtown Chicago. As far as I know, I'm the only openly practicing professional wizard in the country. You can find me in the yellow pages, under "Wizards." Believe it or not, I'm the only one there. My ad looks like this: HARRY DRESDEN — WIZARD Lost Items Found. Paranormal Investigations. Consulting. Advice. Reasonable Rates. No Love Potions, Endless Purses, Parties, or Other Entertainment You'd be surprised how many people call just to ask me if I'm serious. ~ Jim Butcher,

761:A man does not need to be a wizard to know truth from falsehood, not if he has eyes. You need only learn to read a face. Look at the eyes. The mouth. The muscles here, at the corners of the jaw, and here, where the neck joins the shoulders." He touched her lightly with two fingers. "Some liars blink. Some stare. Some look away. Some lick their lips. Many coer their mouths just before they tell a lie, as if to hide their deceit. Other signs may be more subtle, but they are always there. A false smile and a true one may look alike, but they are as different as dusk from dawn. ~ George R R Martin,

762:System Shock states the percentage chance a character has to survive magical effects that reshape or age his body: petrification (and reversing petrification), polymorph, magical aging, etc. It can also be used to see if the character retains consciousness in particularly difficult situations. For example, an evil wizard polymorphs his dim-witted hireling into a crow. The hireling, whose Constitution score is 13, has an 85% chance to survive the change. Assuming he survives, he must successfully roll for system shock again when he is changed back to his original form or else he will die. ~ AD&D,

763:The obvious differences apart, Karl Marx was no more a reliable prophet than was the Reverend Jim Jones. Karl Marx was a genius, an uncannily resourceful manipulator of world history who shoved everything he knew, thought, and devised into a Ouija board from whose movements he decocted universal laws. He had his following, during the late phases of the Industrial Revolution. But he was discredited by historical experience longer ago than the Wizard of Oz: and still, great grown people sit around, declare themselves to be Marxists, and make excuses for Gulag and Afghanistan. ~ William F Buckley Jr,

764:You’ve been doing a great job, and I know that what with the consciousness-changing discoveries, police chases, time travel, and wizard training, it’s been a stressful couple of weeks for you, so I figured it was time to have some fun.” Martin tried to picture what fun might be for someone with the kind of powers the wizards have. “Are we going to go flying, or teleport to a historical event?” “We could do those things if you want. I was thinking we’d just meet a couple of my friends and spend the evening eating unhealthy food and playing board games.” “Let’s do it!” Martin blurted. ~ Scott Meyer,

765:By third grade, I was writing Timmy McBrown: Boy Detective stories on narrow-lined paper and secretly handing them around the classroom. In fourth grade, I typed out my first science fiction story on old Underwood upright. In fifth grade, I wrote and circulated an elaborate sequel to The Wizard of Oz. Occasionally these stories were intercepted by the teacher and I was scolded for wasting time. Thank God for that response! Writing, I'm convinced, should be a subversive activity -- frowned on by the authorities -- and not one cooed over and praised beyond common sense by some teacher. ~ Dan Simmons,

766:For they were alone, and he was one of the seven persons in the world who knew the Archmage's name. The others were the Master Namer of Roke; and Ogion the Silent, the wizard of Re Albi, who long ago on the mountain of Gont had given Ged that name; and the White Lady of Gont, Tenar of the Ring; and a village wizard in Iffish called Vetch; and in Iffish again, a house-carpenter's wife, mother of three girls, ignorant of all sorcery but wise in other things, who was called Yarrow; and finally, on the other side of Earthsea, in the farthest west, two dragons: Orm Embar and Kalessin. ~ Ursula K Le Guin,

767:He selected one of these incantations and began to chant in a loud, wailing voice. All the clocks in the house suddenly went off at once, though it was only three-twenty; the copper pots hanging in the kitchen clanged and whanged against each other; and a couple of the wizard’s books fell off their shelves with a clump. But nothing else happened. Prospero slammed the magic book shut and slumped into an overstuffed chair. He fumbled in his smoking stand for his pipe and tobacco. “I learned that spell fifty years ago,” he mumbled as he lit his pipe. “And I still don’t know what it’s for. ~ John Bellairs,

768:When I was young I longed to write a great novel that should win me fame. Now that I am getting old my first book is written to amuse children. For aside from my evident inability to do anything "great," I have learned to regard fame as a will-o-the-wisp which, when caught, is not worth the possession; but to please a child is a sweet and lovely thing that warms one's heart and brings its own reward. ~ L. Frank Baum, in a personal inscription on a copy of Mother Goose in Prose which he gave to his sister, Mary Louise Baum Brewster, quoted in The Making of the Wizard of Oz (1998) by Aljean Harmetz, p. 317.,

769:Afterglow A magic wrought of dying dreams A wizard light that creeps and glows; Painting grey hills and sluggish streams In tints of gold and rose Staining with fire the cherry-snow Lighting our hearts with sudden flame As if the love of long ago Back from its ashes came Rose-flushed and radiant everything And joy and hope are born anew; Even the darting swallow's wing Has caught its glowing hue Ah! swift it dies from hill and plain... Be wise dear heart and let me go; Not love that lit our hearts again Only it's afterglow! ~ Alice Guerin Crist,

770:Once upon a time, when I was a child reading fairy tales, I'd ached to have my own adventures. Not that I'd wanted to be some dippy heroine languishing in a tower, awaiting rescue. No, I'd wanted to be the knight, charging into battle against overwhelming odds, or the plucky country lass who gets taken on as an apprentice to a great wizard. As I got older, I'd found out the hard way that adventures are rarely anything like the books say. Half the time you are scared out of your mind, and the rest you're bored and your feet hurt. I was beginning to believe that maybe I wasn't the adventurous type. ~ Karen Chance,

771:My name is Harry Blackstone Copperfield Dresden. Conjure by it at your own risk. I'm a wizard. I work out of an office in midtown Chicago. As far as I know, I'm the only openly practicing professional wizard in the country. You can find me in the yellow pages, under "Wizards." Believe it or not, I'm the only one there. My ad looks like this: HARRY DRESDEN — WIZARD Lost Items Found. Paranormal Investigations. Consulting. Advice. Reasonable Rates. No Love Potions, Endless Purses, Parties, or Other Entertainment You'd be surprised how many people call just to ask me if I'm serious. ~ Jim Butcher,

772:Beli, who'd been waiting for something exactly like her body her whole life, was sent over the moon by what she now knew. By the undeniable concreteness of her desirability which was, in its own way, Power. Like the accidental discovery of the One Ring. Like stumbling into the wizard Shazam's cave or finding the crashed ship of the Green Lantern! Hypatia Belicia Cabral finally had power and a true sense of self. Started pinching her shoulders back, wearing the tightest clothes she had. Dios mío, La Inca said every time the girl headed out. Why would God give you that burden in this country of all places! ~ Junot D az,

773:I just wouldn’t be safe from myself. I wouldn’t be safe from the loathing I would feel, using a tool made of life’s essence, its energy, to bring an end to life. Magic was more than just an energy source, like electricity or petroleum. It was power, true, but it was a lot of other things as well. It was all that was deepest and most powerful in nature, in the human heart and soul. The ways in which I applied it were crude and clumsy in comparison to magic in its pure form. There’s more magic in a baby’s first giggle than in any firestorm a wizard can conjure up, and don’t let anyone tell you any different. ~ Jim Butcher,

774:Albus Dumbledore had gotten to his feet. He was beaming at the students, his arms opened wide, as if nothing could have pleased him more than to see them all there. "Welcome!" he said. "Welcome to a new year at Hogwarts! Before we begin our banquet, I would like to say a few words. And here they are: Nitwit! Blubber! Oddment! Tweak!" "Thank you!" He sat back down. Everybody clapped and cheered. Harry didn't know whether to laugh or not. “Is he — a bit mad?” he asked Percy uncertainly. "Mad?" said Percy airily. "He's a genius! Best wizard in the world! But he is a bit mad, yes. Potatoes, Harry? ~ J K Rowling,

775:Peasants brought up on a tradition of superstitious magic could hardly be expected to distinguish between such ostensibly Christian rituals and the mumbled incantations of the local wizard. And so, to the discomfort of the priests, many came to regard elements of Christian devotion as simple magical spells. The Latin Mass was, after all, incomprehensible to the common people, so it already had the aspect of an occult formula. It came to be seen, like magic, as an essentially mechanical rite through which absolution was achieved by observing the correct procedures. In that case, there was no real need for faith. ~ Philip Ball,

776:The last thing that you remember is standing before the wizard Lakmir as he gestured wildly and chanted in an archaic tongue. Now you find yourself staring at an entryway which lies at the edge of a forest. The Druid's words still ring in your ears: "Within the walls of the Castle Shadowgate lies your quest. If the prophecies hold true, the dreaded Warlock Lord will use his dark magic to raise the Behemoth, the deadliest of the Titans, from the depths of the earth. You are the seed of prophecy, the last of the line of kings, and only you can stop the Warlock Lord from darkening our world FOREVER. Fare thee well. ~ Shadowgate,

777:They watched each other, staring across the green. Royce walked forward, crossing the distance between them in silence. Two ghosts meeting at a crossroad. “It’s been a while—Esra is it? Or should I call you Mr. Haddon?” The man tilted his head, lifting his eyes. “I am delighted to see you as well, Royce.” “How do you know my name?” “I’m a wizard, or did you miss that from our last meeting?” Royce paused and smiled. “You know, you’re right; I might have. Perhaps you should write it down for me lest I forget again.” Esrahaddon raised an eyebrow. “That’s a bit harsh. ~ Michael J Sullivan,

778:Why?” breathed Boy 412. “Why me?” “You have astonishing Magykal power. I told you before. Maybe now you’ll believe me.” She smiled. “I—I thought the power came from the ring.” “No. It comes from you. Don’t forget, the Dragon Boat recognized you even without the ring. She knew. Remember, it was last worn by Hotep-Ra, the first ExtraOrdinary Wizard. It’s been waiting a long time to find someone like him.” “But that’s because it’s been stuck in a secret tunnel for hundreds of years.” “Not necessarily,” said Marcia mysteriously. “Things have a habit of working out, you know. Eventually. ~ Angie Sage,

779:Agatha Chubb, expert in ancient wizarding artefacts, has identified no fewer than twelve lead Bludgers dating from this period, discovered both in Irish peat bogs and English marshes. "They are undoubtedly Bludgers rather than cannonballs," she writes. The faint indentations of magically reinforced Beaters' bats are visible and one can see the distinctive hallmarks of manufacture by a wizard (as opposed to a Muggle) - the smoothness of line, the perfect symmetry. A final clue was the fact that each and every one of them whizzed around my study and attempted to knock me to the floor when released from its case, ~ J K Rowling,

780:"Heard you choking, are you all right?" "You're beautiful, a good kisser, this is our first date, my bed is in the room, I'm nervous as all heck and I just thought I was going to die choking after spitting out gum so no, I'm not all right." Yes, that's what I blurted, word for word. Chace stared at me. I stared back both wondering if I could will myself to melt like the Wicked Witch in The Wizard of Oz and if that was what Laurie meant by honesty or if it was a tad over the top. (...) Then his tongue was in my mouth. (...) "Still nervous?" "No," I whispered. "Good," he muttered. ~ Kristen Ashley,

781:Nature is what we know. We do not know the gods of religions. And nature is not kind, or merciful, or loving. If God made me — the fabled God of the three qualities of which I spoke: mercy, kindness, love — He also made the fish I catch and eat. And where do His mercy, kindness, and love for that fish come in? No; nature made us — nature did it all — not the gods of the religions ~ Thomas Edison, ""No Immortality of the Soul" says Thomas A. Edison. In Fact, He Doesn't Believe There Is a Soul — Human Beings Only an Aggregate of Cells and the Brain Only a Wonderful Machine, Says Wizard of Electricity". New York Times. October 2, 1910,

782:It’s a stereotype,” he hissed. “It’s a damn stereotype and it’s harmful. If this catches on, we’ll have all sorts of sorcerers running around, waving wands and chanting spells. Do you know how ridiculous we’d look?” Tanith shrugged. “I liked Harry Potter.” “This ain’t about Harry Potter!” “You liked Harry Potter as well.” “They’re good books,” he snapped, “but I do not agree with this wand business. All those guys down there, criminals and mobsters and gangsters, and who are they taking orders from? A wizard with a wand. How can they take him seriously? How are they going to take us seriously when we attack? ~ Derek Landy,

783:The difference between my darkness and your darkness is that I can look at my own badness in the face and accept its existence while you are busy covering your mirror with a white linen sheet. The difference between my sins and your sins is that when I sin I know I'm sinning while you have actually fallen prey to your own fabricated illusions. I am a siren, a mermaid; I know that I am beautiful while basking on the ocean's waves and I know that I can eat flesh and bones at the bottom of the sea. You are a white witch, a wizard; your spells are manipulations and your cauldron from hell yet you wrap yourself in white and wear a silver wig. ~ C JoyBell C,

784:The Primrose Dance Skirts like the amber petals of a flower, A primrose dancing for delight In some enchantment of a bower That rose to wizard music in the night; A rhythmic flower whose petals pirouette In delicate circles, fain to follow The vague aerial minuet, The mazy dancing of the swallow; A flower's caprice, a bird's command Of all the airy ways that lie In light along the wonder-land, The wonder-haunted loneliness of sky: So, in the smoke-polluted place, Where bird or flower might never be, With glimmering feet, with flower-like face, She dances at the Tivoli. ~ Arthur Symons,

785:I snorted, completely unsurprised. “Fair folk are impossible.” “That’s irregular, coming from a human who can’t even eat a raw hare.” Hastening along behind him, trying to keep up with his long strides, I decided not to argue about the hare. I was coming to realize that the Craft was so enigmatic to fair folk I might as well have refused to eat meat unless it had been bathed in widow’s tears under a new moon. Realizing that your own magic held more mystery to fair folk than theirs did to you was a peculiar experience. I felt like some sort of wizard with delicate and arcane indispositions, not an artist and a perfectly ordinary person ~ Margaret Rogerson,

786:Adultery: A Novel (Paulo Coelho) - Your Highlight on page 100 | Location 1522-1526 | Added on Saturday, September 20, 2014 2:28:07 PM A mouse was always depressed because he was afraid of cats. A great wizard took pity on him and turned him into a cat. Then he started to be afraid of dogs, and so the wizard turned him into a dog. Then he began to fear tigers. The wizard, who was very patient, used his powers to turn him into a tiger. Then he was afraid of hunters. Finally, the wizard gave up and turned him back into a mouse, saying: “Nothing I do will help you, because you never understood your growth. You are better being what you always were. ~ Anonymous,

787:Light is a power. A great power, by which we exist, but which exists beyond our needs, in itself. Sunlight and starlight are time, and time is light. In the sunlight, in the days and years, life is. In a dark place life may call upon the light, naming it. But usually when you see a wizard name or call upon some thing, some object to appear, that is not the same, he calls upon no power greater than himself, and what appears is an illusion only. To summon a thing that is not there at all, to call it by speaking its true name, that is a great mastery, not lightly used. Not for mere hunger’s sake. Yarrow, your little dragon has stolen a cake. ~ Ursula K Le Guin,

788:But when the wizard is onstage as the main character, you have to adopt what I call the Jack Vance Rule. I call it this because Jack Vance is the first author successfully and adroitly to have applied this rule in his The Dying Earth. The Jack Vance Rule is: (1) The wizard has to be able to do something unusual, or else he is not a wizard, (2) he cannot do everything, or else there is no drama; therefore (3) the story teller has to communicate to the reader whatever the dividing line is that separates what the wizard can do from what he cannot do, so that the reader can have a reasonable expectation of knowing what the wizard can and cannot do. ~ John C Wright,

789:Just put them on, Archie, there’s a good chap, you can’t walk around like that, the Muggle on the gate’s already getting suspicious –’ ‘I bought this in a Muggle shop,’ said the old wizard stubbornly. ‘Muggles wear them.’ ‘Muggle women wear them, Archie, not the men, they wear these,’ said the Ministry wizard, and he brandished the pinstriped trousers. ‘I’m not putting them on,’ said old Archie in indignation. ‘I like a healthy breeze round my privates, thanks.’ Hermione was overcome with such a strong fit of the giggles at this point that she had to duck out of the queue, and only returned when Archie had collected his water and moved away again. ~ J K Rowling,

790:Some other facts I picked up: Welsh is an actual, currently used language and our next-door neighbours Angela and Gaenor spoke it. It sounds like Wizard. Baked beans are very popular in England. For breakfast. On toast. On baked potatoes. They can't get enough. "American History" is not a subject everywhere. England and Britain and the United Kingdom are not the same thing. England is the country. Britain is the island containing England, Scotland, and Wales. The United Kingdom is the formal designation of England, Scotland, Wales and Northern Ireland as a political entity. If you mess this up, you will be corrected. Repeatedly. ~ Maureen Johnson,

791:[T]he incomparable Diana Wynne Jones, one of the finest mythic fiction writers of our age, who left us too early (due to cancer) two days ago. I'm so grateful to her for the extraordinary books she has left behind, which have inspired a whole generation of younger writers. She was writing brilliant YA fantasy before the genre (as we know it now) even existed; she was writing enchanting "wizard school" books long before Harry Potter was a gleam in Rowling's eye; and her knowledge of how to weave mythic/folkloric themes into contemporary fiction was second to no one's. Diana will be terribly missed, but through her magical stories, her light will stay on. ~ Terri Windling,

792:The only question that got any traction was when he asked Martin what he did. Martin tersely replied that he was a wizard and was met with a blank stare. “You know, a wizard,” Martin said. “I do magic.” Martin had expected that this would at least impress Ampyx. Martin was wrong. “Why?” Ampyx asked. “Why what? Why do I do magic?” “Yes, why do you do magic?” Ampyx asked, as if it were the most obvious question in the world. Martin looked at Phillip, who shrugged. Finally, Martin answered, “Why wouldn’t I do magic? Wouldn’t you do magic if you could?” “Never,” Ampyx said. “Well, why not?” Ampyx scrunched his face and said, “Magic . . . it is . . . woman’s work. ~ Scott Meyer,

793:Well – I don’ like sayin’ the name if I can help it. No one does.’ ‘Why not?’ ‘Gulpin’ gargoyles, Harry, people are still scared. Blimey, this is difficult. See, there was this wizard who went … bad. As bad as you could go. Worse. Worse than worse. His name was …’ Hagrid gulped, but no words came out. ‘Could you write it down?’ Harry suggested. ‘Nah – can’t spell it. All right – Voldemort.’ Hagrid shuddered. ‘Don’ make me say it again. Anyway, this – this wizard, about twenty years ago now, started lookin’ fer followers. Got ’em, too – some were afraid, some just wanted a bit o’ his power, ’cause he was gettin’ himself power, all right. Dark days, Harry. Didn ~ J K Rowling,

794:One of them was a very old wizard who was wearing a long flowery nightgown. The other was clearly a Ministry wizard; he was holding out a pair of pinstriped trousers and almost crying with exasperation. “Just put them on, Archie, there’s a good chap. You can’t walk around like that, the Muggle at the gate’s already getting suspicious —” “I bought this in a Muggle shop,” said the old wizard stubbornly. “Muggles wear them.” “Muggle women wear them, Archie, not the men, they wear these,” said the Ministry wizard, and he brandished the pinstriped trousers. “I’m not putting them on,” said old Archie in indignation. “I like a healthy breeze ’round my privates, thanks. ~ J K Rowling,

795:Caput Mortuum Not even if with a wizard force I might Have summoned whomsoever I would name, Should anyone else have come than he who came, Uncalled, to share with me my fire that night; For though I should have said that all was right, Or right enough, nothing had been the same As when I found him there before the flame, Always a welcome and a useful sight. Unfailing and exuberant all the time, Having no gold he paid with golden rhyme, Of older coinage than his old defeat, A debt that like himself was obsolete In Art’s long hazard, where no man may choose Whether he play to win or toil to lose. ~ Edwin Arlington Robinson,

796:So Jobs and Markkula enlisted Gerry Roche, a gregarious corporate headhunter, to find someone else. They decided not to focus on technology executives; what they needed was a consumer marketer who knew advertising and had the corporate polish that would play well on Wall Street. Roche set his sights on the hottest consumer marketing wizard of the moment, John Sculley, president of the Pepsi- Cola division of PepsiCo, whose Pepsi Challenge campaign had been an advertising and publicity triumph. When Jobs gave a talk to Stanford business students, he heard good things about Sculley, who had spoken to the class earlier. So he told Roche he would be happy to meet him. ~ Walter Isaacson,

797:With that, I hurled the slipper at him, not caring if I caused his decapitation. (I did not.) Marshaling what little dignity I yet possessed, I stomped down the corridor - challenging indeed with one shoe - and around the corner. I lay awake for hours. The prince had no right, not one, to indict me so, and if I had held the slightest hope of the book's assistance, I would have climbed at once to my wizard room for a spell with which to punish him. Death, perhaps, or humiliation. A croaking frog would be nice, particularly a frog that retained Florian's dark eyes. I should keep it in a box and poke it occasionally with a stick; that would be satisfying indeed. ~ Catherine Gilbert Murdock,

798:What in Hood's name are you doing down here?' 'Hiding, what's it look like? That's always been your problem, Kal, your lack of subtlety. Sooner or later it's going to get you into trouble. Is it dark yet?' 'No. Listen, what's with this damned gale up top? It's all wrong-' 'You just noticed?' Kalam scowled in the gloom. Well, at least he'd found the wizard. The High Mage of the Fourteenth, hiding between crates and casks and bales. Oh, how bloody encouraging is that? ... Quick Ben moved further into the narrow space between cargo. 'Here, there's room.' After a moment, Kalam joined him. 'You got anything to eat? Drink?' 'Naturally.' 'Good. ~ Steven Erikson,

799:You talk about wands like they’ve got feelings,’ said Harry, ‘like they can think for themselves.’ ‘The wand chooses the wizard,’ said Ollivander. ‘That much has always been clear to those of us who have studied wandlore.’ ‘A person can still use a wand that hasn’t chosen them, though?’ asked Harry. ‘Oh yes, if you are any wizard at all you will be able to channel your magic through almost any instrument. The best results, however, must always come where there is the strongest affinity between wizard and wand. These connections are complex. An initial attraction, and then a mutual quest for experience, the wand learning from the wizard, the wizard from the wand.’ The sea gushed ~ J K Rowling,

800:Hawthorne ROMANCER, far more coy than that coy sex! Perchance some stroke of magic thee befell, Ere thy baronial keep the Muse did vex, Nor grant deliverance from enchanted spell, But tease thee all the while and sore perplex, Till thou that wizard tale shouldst fairly tell, Better than poets in thy own clear prose. Painter of sin in its deep scarlet dyes, Thy doomsday pencil Justice doth expose, Hearing and judging at the dread assize; New England’s guilt blazoning before all eyes, No other chronicler than thee she chose. Magician deathless! dost thou vigil keep, Whilst ’neath our pines thou feignest deathlike sleep? ~ Amos Bronson Alcott,

801:Once your focus was pinpointed on your breathing, you began running your own personal mantra through your head. Something that guided you, brought pleasant memories. Something that would take you to the next state of being. For Aunt Sue, it was The Wizard of Oz. Go figure. That morning, mine was something that would bring me a great deal of satisfaction: Break a leg. Break a leg. Break a leg. I was directing it toward Cynthia, which really isn’t how meditation works. It’s not like voodoo or something, where you try to throw a curse on someone, and, okay, it was a mean thought that I didn’t really want to come true. And it wasn’t exactly releasing negative energy . . . ~ Rachel Hawthorne,

802:You look concerned,” Roshaun said from behind her. Dairine scowled over her shoulder at him. “The whole universe is in danger,” she said, “and we’re not sure how to save it, assuming it can be saved. One of the Powers That Be has stuffed secret messages into my brain without telling me. And a friend of mine who happens to be my wizard’s manual is being reprogrammed with software that even these guys haven’t had time to beta test! Wow, Roshaun, why would I need to be concerned?” Roshaun glanced at the ground. Another chair appeared for him, a slight distance from Dairine’s. He lowered himself into it, stretching out his legs with a sigh. “Sarcasm,” he said, “Amusing, if ineffective. ~ Diane Duane,

803:Every witch or wizard with a wand has held in his or her hands more power than we will ever know. With the right spell or potion, they can fabricate love, travel through time, change physical form and even extinguish life. In the wrong hands, power and magic can be dark, lethal, and consuming. Lord Voldemort showed us that; he sought power so viciously that he tore apart the fabric of his soul and lost everything that made him human. He is the ultimate villain, motivated by an ice-cold desire for power and destruction. Obviously few people could match Voldemort in general evil intent (though Bellatrix Lestrange and Dolores Umbridge indeed try), but there are certainly other characters attracted to power. ~ J K Rowling,

804:In this state, the club was The Wizard of Oz made obvious: All the magic that went on here night after night, all the buzz and excitement, was really just a combination of electronics, booze, and chemicals, an illusion for the people who walked through the front doors, a fantasy that allowed them to be whatever they weren’t in their day-to-day lives. Maybe they jonesed to be powerful because they felt weak, or sexual because they felt ugly, or chic and rich when they weren’t, or young when they were gaining speed on middle age. Maybe they wanted to burn off the pain of a failed relationship or get revenge over being jilted or pretend they weren’t searching for a mate when actually they were desperate for one. ~ J R Ward,

805:The Sea Ere Greece soared, showering sovranties of light, Ere Rome shook earth with her tremendous tread, Ere yon blue-feasting sun-god burst blood-red, Beneath thee slept thy prodigy, O Night! Aeons have ta'en like dreams their strange, slow flight, And vastest, tiniest, creatures paved her bed, E'en cities sapped by the usurping spread Of her imperious waves have sunk from sight Since she first chanted her colossal psalms That swell and sink beneath the listening stars; Oft, as with myriad drums beating to arms, She thunders out the grandeur of her wars; Then shifts through moaning moods her wizard charms Of slow flutes and caressing, gay guitars. ~ Arthur Bayldon,

806:In the story, there'd been a magical salmon who would confer happiness on the person who ate it. Or perhaps it was wisdom, not happiness. In any case, the old man had been too lazy or busy or on a business trip to spend the time to trying to catch the salmon, and so he had set the boy on catching it for him. When the boy caught it, he was to cook it and bring it to the old man. The boy did as he was told, since he was just as clever as the old wizard, but as he'd cooked up the salmon, he'd burned himself. Before he thought about it, he put his burned finger in his mouth and thus got the salmon's magic for himself. Ronan felt that he had caught the happiness without meaning to. He could do anything. ~ Maggie Stiefvater,

807:Half An Hour I never had you, nor will I ever have you I suppose. A few words, an approach as in the bar yesterday, and nothing more. It is, undeniably, a pity. But we who serve Art sometimes with intensity of mind, and of course only for a short while, we create pleasure which almost seems real. So in the bar the day before yesterday -- the merciful alcohol was also helping much -I had a perfectly erotic half-hour. And it seems to me that you understood, and stayed somewhat longer on purpose. This was very necessary. Because for all the imagination and the wizard alcohol, I needed to see your lips as well, I needed to have your body close. ~ Constantine P. Cavafy,

808:After all, we're currently living in a Bizarro society where teenagers are technology-obsessed, where the biggest sellers in every bookstores are fantasy novels about a boy wizard, and the blockbuster hit movies are all full of hobbits and elves or 1960s spandex superheroes. You don't have to go to a Star Trek convention to find geeks anymore. Today, almost everyone is an obsessive, well-informed aficionado of something. Pick your cult: there are food geeks and fashion geeks and Desperate Housewives geeks and David Mamet geeks and fantasy sports geeks. The list is endless. And since everyone today is some kind of trivia geek or other, there's not even a stigma anymore. Trivia is mainstream. "Nerd" is the new "cool. ~ Ken Jennings,

809:You're a model? Never would have guessed," Jonah said in a lazy, teasing voice that caused Hamilton's head to swivel. He'd never seen Jonah flirt before. The girl tilted her head. The glossy hair spilled down one bare shoulder. "Un moment...you look familiar." Jonah grinned. "Yeah?" "'Ave we met? Are you an 'airdresser?" "A hairdresser?" Jonah choked out. "Guys, we'd better get going," Hamilton said. "The name is Jonah," Jonah said, pronuncing his name carefully. He waited for a sign of recognition. "Nicole." "Jonah Wizard." Nicole squinted at him. "You are a wee-zhard? Like the Harry Potter, non?" "I'm Hamilton," Hamilton said, even though nobody asked. ~ Jude Watson,

810:All Harry’s spellbooks, his wand, robes, cauldron and top- of- the- range Nimbus Two Thousand broomstick had been locked in a cupboard under the stairs by Uncle Vernon the instant Harry had come home. What did the Dursleys care if Harry lost his place in the house Quidditch team because he hadn’t practised all summer? What was it to the Dursleys if Harry went back to school without any of his homework done? The Dursleys were what wizards called Muggles (not a drop of magical blood in their veins) and as far as they were concerned, having a wizard in the family was a matter of deepest shame. Uncle Vernon had even padlocked Harry’s owl, Hedwig, inside her cage, to stop her carrying messages to anyone in the wizarding world. ~ J K Rowling,

811:Let me get back to the fact that the universe speaks to us constantly. And this little puppy barks loudly. Guard this with your life because in the right hands, it is your life and your death. You’ve bled in this book, and it is the most personal of possessions you’ll ever have. A master wizard, witch, upper-level demon, or any number of other entities can use it to control or destroy you. In fact, guard every possession you have. Every stray hair. Every particle of skin and clothing. Let no one near anything you have ever owned or will own. You’re special, kid. In ways you can’t conceive, and you will have to guard your back every second you want to keep breathing.” – Death “Aren’t you just Mary Sunshine?” – Nick ~ Sherrilyn Kenyon,

812:DANTE ALIGHIERI TO GUIDO CAVALCANTI: Guido, I would that Lapo, thou, and I, Led by some strong enchantment, might ascend A magic ship, whose charmed sails should fly With winds at will whereer our thoughts might wend, So that no change, nor any evil chance Should mar our joyous voyage; but it might be, That even satiety should still enhance Between our hearts their strict community: And that the bounteous wizard then would place Vanna and Bice and my gentle love, Companions of our wandering, and would grace With passionate talk, wherever we might rove, Our time, and each were as content and free As I believe that thou and I should be. ~ Percy Bysshe Shelley, Sonnet - From The Italian Of Dante ,

813:Delivering a commencement address is a great responsibility, or so I thought until I cast my mind back to my own graduation. The commencement speaker that day was the distinguished British philosopher Baroness Mary Warnock. Reflecting on her speech has helped me enormously in writing this one, because it turns out that I can't remember a single word she said. This liberating discovery enables me to proceed without any fear that I might inadvertently influence you to abandon promising careers in business, the law, or politics for the giddy delights of becoming a gay wizard. You see? If all you remember in years to come is the 'gay wizard' joke, I've come out ahead of Baroness Mary Warnock. Achievable goals: the first step to self-improvement. ~ J K Rowling,

814:(T)his world is pure illusion. It looks real but the first step of knowledge that the wizard must learn is not to trust his senses... The cycle of life and death continues forever, but only to the senses... (P)erhaps you were always alive, and birth was simply a moment of forgetting.... Light! It is all light.... The light is all, and in the light there is only one thing -- eternal life. It cannot be created or destroyed. The wizard is not afraid to walk in the darkness -- indeed he must -- because that is where illusion dies... (Wizards) dabble in eternity. The wizard looks around him and finds the eternal in all directions. His only choice is what to do with it.... It is also joy to pierce the illusion and find the wellspring of creative power. ~ Deepak Chopra,

815:Fred and George, however, found all this very funny. They went out of their way to march ahead of Harry down the corridors, shouting, "Make way for the Heir of Slytherin, seriously evil wizard coming through ...... Percy was deeply disapproving of this behavior. "It is not a laughing matter," he said coldly. "Oh, get out of the way, Percy," said Fred. "Harry's in a hurry." "Yeah, he's off to the Chamber of Secrets for a cup of tea with his fanged servant," said George, chortling. Ginny didn't find it amusing either. "Oh, don't," she wailed every time Fred asked Harry loudly who he was planning to attack next, or when George pretended to ward Harry off with a large clove of garlic when they met. ~ J K Rowling,

816:Rincewind agreed moodily. He tried to explain that magic had indeed once been wild and lawless, but had been tamed back in the mists of time by the Olden Ones, who had bound it to obey among other things the Law of Conservation of Reality; this demanded that the effort needed to achieve a goal should be the same regardless of the means used. In practical terms this meant that, say, creating the illusion of a glass of wine was relatively easy, since it involved merely the subtle shifting of light patterns. On the other hand, lifting a genuine wineglass a few feet in the air by sheer mental energy required several hours of systematic preparation if the wizard wished to prevent the simple principle of leverage flicking his brain out through his ears. ~ Terry Pratchett,

817:no one defined my role as a Pigeon more eloquently that President Reagan during the course of Operation Carrier Pigeon. The cryptic "pigeon language" utilized by all participants in the operation was intermixed with Wizard of Oz, Alice in Wonderland, and “Genie in the Bottle” cryptic programming themes. While Pigeon meant messenger, "Carrier Pigeon" referred to the U.S. Air Force aircraft that actually transported the arms and drugs. "Pigeon Droppings" included the sometimes multi-national dispersal of the arms and drugs after they reached their destination. "Pigeon Holing" meant covering up the criminal activity. These definitions, as I understood them then and understand them now, may well include deeper, more diverse meanings than I have perceived. ~ Cathy O Brien,

818:Her constant orders for beheading are shocking to those modern critics of children's literature who feel that juvenile fiction should be free of all violence and especially violence with Freudian undertones. Even the Oz books of L. Frank Baum, so singularly free of the horrors to be found in Grimm and Andersen, contain many scenes of decapitation. As far as I know, there have been no empirical studies of how children react to such scenes and what harm if any is done to their psyche. My guess is that the normal child finds it all very amusing and is not damaged in the least, but that books like Alice's Adventures in Wonderland and The Wizard of Oz should not be allowed to circulate indiscriminately among adults who are undergoing analysis. ~ Martin Gardner,

819:I'm sorry for you." "Why?" asked Tiktok. "Because you have no brains, as I have," said the Scarecrow. "Oh, yes, I have," returned Tiktok. "I am fit-ted with Smith & Tin-ker's Im-proved Com-bi-na-tion Steel Brains. They are what make me think. What sort of brains are you fit-ted with?" "I don't know," admitted the Scarecrow. "They were given to me by the great Wizard of Oz, and I didn't get a chance to examine them before he put them in. But they work splendidly and my conscience is very active. Have you a conscience?" "No," said Tiktok. "And no heart, I suppose?" added the Tin Woodman, who had been listening with interest to this conversation. "No," said Tiktok. "Then," continued the Tin Woodman, "I regret to say that you are greatly inferior to my friend ~ L Frank Baum,

820:What exactly was Jesus’ take on violent capitalism? I also have some big ideas for changing the way we think about literary morals as they pertain to legislation. Rather than suffer another attempt by the religious right to base our legalese upon the Bible, I would vote that we found it squarely upon the writings of J. R. R. Tolkien. The citizens of Middle Earth had much more tolerant policies in their governing bodies. For example, Elrond was chosen to lead the elves at Rivendell not only despite his androgynous nature but most likely because of the magical leadership inherent in a well-appointed bisexual elf wizard. That’s the person you want picking shit out for your community. That’s the guy you want in charge. David Bowie or a Mormon? Not a difficult equation. ~ Nick Offerman,

821:between the ink mage and the wizard, his mouth falling open at the sight. The hulk had nearly let her go after Talbun’s shock attack, but he recovered quickly and took her head in his meaty hands. Don’t. With appalling ease, the ink mage twisted. The snap was so loud, it made Brasley flinch even from across the chamber. His mouth fell open to scream. “No!” The brute’s mouth twisted into a contemptuous grin as he let the limp body fall from his hands. Brasley watched it happen in slow motion, almost like she was floating, eyes closed, face peaceful, hair floating up around her. It was as if life had been some tremendous weight, and now that it was gone, her shell drifted down to the floor like a dry leaf. Talbun’s body hit with a dull thud that brought Brasley back to reality. ~ Victor Gischler,

822:Now then, Mr. Crab," said the zebra, "here are the people I told you about; and they know more than you do, who live in a pool, and more than I do, who live in a forest. For they have been travelers all over the world, and know every part of it." "There's more of the world than Oz," declared the crab, in a stubborn voice. "That is true," said Dorothy; "but I used to live in Kansas, in the United States, and I've been to California and to Australia--and so has Uncle Henry." "For my part," added the Shaggy Man, "I've been to Mexico and Boston and many other foreign countries." "And I," said the Wizard, "have been to Europe and Ireland." "So you see," continued the zebra, addressing the crab, "here are people of real consequence, who know what they are talking about. ~ L Frank Baum,

823:I did not buy a book called Lord Foul's Bane by Stephen Donaldson, which has the temerity to compare itself, on the front cover, to 'Tolkien at his best.' The back cover attributes the quote to the Washington Post, a newspaper whose quotations will always damn a book for me from now on. How dare they? And how dare the publishers? It isn't a comparison anyone could make, except to say 'Compared to Tolkien at his best, this is dross.' I mean you could say that even about really brilliant books like A Wizard of Earthsea. I expect Lord Foul's Bane (horrible title, sounds like a Conan book) is more like Tolkien at his worst, which would be the beginning of The Simarillion. The thing about Tolkien, about The Lord of the Rings, is that it's perfect. ~ Jo Walton,

824:Picker studied Quick Ben as they trudged up yet another grass-backed hillside. 'You want us to get someone to carry you, Mage?' Quick Ben wiped the sweat from his brow, shook his head. 'No, it's getting better. The Barghast spirits are thick here, and getting thicker. They're resisting the infection. I'll be all right, Corporal.' 'If you say so, only you're looking pretty rough to me.' And ain't that an understatement. 'Hood's warren is never a fun place.' 'That's bad news, Mage. What have we all got to look forward to, then?' Quick Ben said nothing. Picker scowled. 'That bad, huh? Well, that's just great. Wait till Antsy hears.' The wizard managed a smile. 'You tell him news only to see him squirm, don't you?' 'Sure. The squad needs its entertainment, right? ~ Steven Erikson,

825:He stared up at me, and I stared back, panting. I hadn’t even known those words were in me to be spoken; I hadn’t known they were in me to be felt. I would never have thought of speaking so to my lord, the Dragon: I had hated him, but I wouldn’t have reproached him, any more than I would have reproached a bolt of lightning for striking my house. He wasn’t a person, he was a lord and a wizard, a strange creature on another plane entirely, as far removed as storms and pestilence. But he had stepped down from that plane; he had given me real kindness. He’d let his magic mingle with my own again, that strange breathtaking intimacy, all to save Kasia with me. I suppose it might seem strange that I should thank him by shouting at him, but it meant more than thanks: I wanted him to be human. ~ Naomi Novik,

826:Ah, the Hand of Glory!” said Mr. Borgin, abandoning Mr. Malfoy’s list and scurrying over to Draco. “Insert a candle and it gives light only to the holder! Best friend of thieves and plunderers! Your son has fine taste, sir.” “I hope my son will amount to more than a thief or a plunderer, Borgin,” said Mr. Malfoy coldly, and Mr. Borgin said quickly, “No offense, sir, no offense meant —” “Though if his grades don’t pick up,” said Mr. Malfoy, more coldly still, “that may indeed be all he is fit for —” “It’s not my fault,” retorted Draco. “The teachers all have favorites, that Hermione Granger —” “I would have thought you’d be ashamed that a girl of no wizard family beat you in every exam,” snapped Mr. Malfoy. “Ha!” said Harry under his breath, pleased to see Draco looking both abashed and angry. ~ J K Rowling,

827:VISION OF A WISARD How many of you wish to be Wizards when you grow old? How many of you want to fly? I wished to become a dragon – he said And he looked at us with eyes filled with fire The Wizard of Earth’s Sea Descended to tell us a secret of ABRACADABRA Get to know – he said - God’s true name The word will initiate Power Gate keepers of Ancient Knowledge Will open their doors Mythological Archetypes will start their dance Leading you to your tribal clout Skeletons scattered over the burial grounds Ancestors with their weapons and spears Saints and Demons Doctors and Gypsies Healers and Witches Will join you to celebrate The Birth of Self Power of Mind over Body The Vision of the Dominion of Light ~ Nata a Nuit Pantovi,

828:Well, thought Harry, as he crossed Magnolia Crescent, turned into Magnolia Road and headed towards the darkening play park, he had (by and large) done as Sirius advised. He had at least resisted the temptation to tie his trunk to his broomstick and set off for The Burrow by himself. In fact, Harry thought his behaviour had been very good considering how frustrated and angry he felt at being stuck in Privet Drive so long, reduced to hiding in flowerbeds in the hope of hearing something that might point to what Lord Voldemort was doing. Nevertheless, it was quite galling to be told not to be rash by a man who had served twelve years in the wizard prison, Azkaban, escaped, attempted to commit the murder he had been convicted for in the first place, then gone on the run with a stolen Hippogriff. Harry ~ J K Rowling,

829:But you know, a wizard with black hair and a thick mustache put a curse on Moscow, and Petrograd, too, so that no one would be able to tell the truth without lying. If a novelist wrote a true story about how things really happened, no one would believe him, and he might even be punished for spreading propaganda. But if he wrote a book full of lies about things that could never really happen, with only a few true things hidden in it, well, he would be hailed as a hero of the People, given a seat at a writers' café, served wine and ukha, and not have to pay for any of it. He'd get a salaried summer on the dacha, and be feted. Even given a medal by the wizard with the thick mustache." The waiter whistled. "That's a good curse. I should like to shake that wizard's hand and buy him a vodka or two. ~ Catherynne M Valente,

830:NEWT withdraws his head, still leaning against the wall of the dark alleyway, to find a single black glove hanging in the air in front of him. He looks at it, expressionless. It gives a little wave, then points into the far distance. NEWT looks to where it is pointing. High on the dome of St. Paul’s Cathedral, a tiny human figure raises its arm. NEWT looks back at the glove, which makes as though to shake hands. NEWT takes it, and he and the glove Disapparate. EXT. DOME OF ST. PAUL’S—EVENING Apparating beside a dandyesque forty-five-year-old wizard with graying auburn hair and beard. NEWT hands back his glove. NEWT: Dumbledore. (amused) Were the less conspicuous rooftops full, then? DUMBLEDORE (looking out over city): I do enjoy a view. Nebulus. A swirling fog descends over London. They Disapparate. ~ J K Rowling,

831:There was already a small queue for the tap in the corner of the field. Harry, Ron and Hermione joined it, right behind a pair of men who were having a heated argument. One of them was a very old wizard who was wearing a long flowery nightgown. The other was clearly a Ministry wizard; he was holding out a pair of pinstriped trousers and almost crying with exasperation. ‘Just put them on, Archie, there’s a good chap, you can’t walk around like that, the Muggle on the gate’s already getting suspicious –’ ‘I bought this in a Muggle shop,’ said the old wizard stubbornly. ‘Muggles wear them.’ ‘Muggle women wear them, Archie, not the men, they wear these,’ said the Ministry wizard, and he brandished the pinstriped trousers. ‘I’m not putting them on,’ said old Archie in indignation. ‘I like a healthy breeze round my privates, thanks. ~ J K Rowling,

832:Fifteen years ago, when I went to a park at the edge of the Hudson, I couldn’t step into the river—the sharp edges of open mussel shells were too thick underfoot. Nowadays at the park the creatures are mostly gone. Children splash happily in the shallows. Crumbled shells lie in the sediment, testament to the mussel’s collapse. Humans are no different, Margulis believed. The implication of evolutionary theory is that Homo sapiens is just one creature among many, no different at base than P. vulgaris. We and they are controlled by the same forces, produced by the same processes, subject to the same fate. When Borlaug and Vogt stood on the tract of bad land, looking at the city, they were on the edge of the petri dish. Wizard or Prophet, it didn’t matter. Homo sapiens, in Margulis’s eyes, was just another briefly successful species. ~ Charles C Mann,

833:As a boy, Ogion like all boys had thought it would be a very pleasant game to take by art-magic whatever shape one liked, man or beast, tree or cloud, and so to play at a thousand beings. But as a wizard he had learned the price of the game, which is the peril of losing one's self, playing away the truth. The longer a man stays in a form not his own, the greater this peril. Every prentice-sorcerer learns the tale of the wizard Bordger of Way, who delighted in taking bear's shape, and did so more and more often until the bear grew in him and the man died away, and he became a bear, and killed his own little son in the forests, and was hunted down and slain. And no one knows how many of the dolphins that leap in the waters of the Inmost Sea were men once, wise men, who forgot their wisdom and their name in the joy of the restless sea. ~ Ursula K Le Guin,

834:One day a man's son was run over by a car and he was killed and all mangled up. The father couldn't go on living, he felt ill, he cried all day, he went to a wizard and gave him all his money to bring his son back to life. The wizard said: "Go home and wait. Your son will return tonight." The father waited, but the son did not come home, so in the end he went to bed. He was just falling asleep when he heard footsteps in the kitchen. He got up feeling very happy and saw his son, he was all mangle up and had one arm missing and his head was split open, with the brains running out and he said he hated him because he'd left him in the middle of the road to go with women and it was his fault he was dead.' 'So?' 'So the father got some petrol and set fire to him.' 'I don't blame him.' I threw and finally hit the target. 'Point!' 'Four-two. ~ Niccol Ammaniti,

835:On this spot, on the night of 31 October 1981, Lily and James Potter lost their lives. Their son, Harry, remains the only wizard ever to have survived the Killing Curse. This house, invisible to Muggles, has been left in its ruined state as a monument to the Potters and as a reminder of the violence that tore apart their family. And all around these neatly lettered words, scribbles had been added by other witches and wizards who had come to see the place where the Boy Who Lived had escaped. Some had merely signed their names in Everlasting Ink; others had carved their initials into the wood, still others had left messages. The most recent of these, shining brightly over sixteen years’ worth of magical graffiti, all said similar things. Good luck, Harry, wherever you are. If you read this, Harry, we’re all behind you! Long live Harry Potter. ~ J K Rowling,

836:Kessell tried to goad the sweat out of him. The wizard swayed the deadly candle tantalizingly about, causing the rays to shift back and forth. When he finally realized that he would not hear any whimpering or begging out of the proud ranger, Kessell grew tired of the game. “Farewell, fool,” he growled and puckered his lips to puff on the flame. Regis blew out the candle. Everything seemed to come to a complete halt for several seconds. The wizard looked down at the halfling, whom he thought to be his slave, in horrified amazement. Regis merely shrugged his shoulders, as if he was as surprised by his uncharacteristically brave act as Kessell. Relying on instinct, the wizard threw the silver plate that held the candle through the glass of the mirror and ran screaming toward the back corner of the room to a small ladder hidden in the shadows. ~ R A Salvatore,

837:Above her little finite steps she feels, Careless of knot or pause, worlds which weave out A strange perfection beyond law and rule, A universe of self-found felicity, An inexpressible rhythm of timeless beats, The many-movemented heart-beats of the One, Magic of the boundless harmonies of self, Order of the freedom of the infinite, The wonder-plastics of the Absolute. There is the All-Truth and there the timeless bliss. But hers are fragments of a star-lost gleam, Hers are but careless visits of the gods. They are a Light that fails, a Word soon hushed And nothing they mean can stay for long on earth. There are high glimpses, not the lasting sight. A few can climb to an unperishing sun, Or live on the edges of the mystic moon And channel to earth-mind the wizard ray. ~ Sri Aurobindo, Savitri, The Eternal Day,

838:HE WHO MUST NOT BE NAMED RETURNS ‘In a brief statement on Friday night, Minister for Magic Cornelius Fudge confirmed that He Who Must Not Be Named has returned to this country and is once more active. ‘“It is with great regret that I must confirm that the wizard styling himself Lord – well, you know who I mean – is alive and among us again,” said Fudge, looking tired and flustered as he addressed reporters. “It is with almost equal regret that we report the mass revolt of the Dementors of Azkaban, who have shown themselves averse to continuing in the Ministry’s employ. We believe the Dementors are currently taking direction from Lord – Thingy. ‘“We urge the magical population to remain vigilant. The Ministry is currently publishing guides to elementary home and personal defence which will be delivered free to all wizarding homes within the coming month. ~ J K Rowling,

839:Then Hedge asked, ‘Can you do it, Quick? Some place with…with eternal torment. Can you do that, wizard? I asked if you can do that!’ Quick Ben faced Fiddler, a question in his eyes. Oh no, Quick, this one isn’t for me to say— ‘Fiddler, help me decide. Please.’ Gods, even Quick Ben’s grieving. Who was this warrior? ‘You’re High Mage, Quick Ben. Do what needs doing.’ The wizard turned back to Hedge. ‘Hood owes me, Hedge.’ ‘What kind of answer is that?’ But Quick Ben turned, gestured, and a dark blur rose round the Letherii, closed entirely about the man’s body, then shrank, as if down into the sand, until nothing remained. There was a faint scream as whatever awaited the Letherii had reached out to take hold of him. Then the wizard snapped out a hand and pulled Fiddler close, and his face was pale with rage. ‘Don’t you pity him, Fid. You understand me? ~ Steven Erikson,

840:LAST FALL UNIVERSITY OF MERIT The music was loud enough to shake the pictures on the walls. An angel and a wizard made out on the stairs. Two naughty cats tugged a vampire between them, a guy with yellow contacts howled, and someone spilled a Solo cup of cheap beer near Eli’s feet. He snagged the horns from a devil by the front door, and set them on top of his head. He’d seen the girl walk in, flanked by a Barbie and a Catholic schoolgirl flaunting numerous uniform infractions, but she was in jeans and a polo, blond hair loose, falling over her shoulders. He’d lost sight of her for only a moment, and now her friends were there, weaving through the crowd with interlocking fingers held over their heads, but she was gone. She should have stood out, the lack of costume conspicuous at a Halloween party, but she was nowhere to be found. ~ Victoria Schwab,

841:A Something In A Summer's Day 122 A something in a summer's Day As slow her flambeaux burn away Which solemnizes me. A something in a summer's noon— A depth—an Azure—a perfume— Transcending ecstasy. And still within a summer's night A something so transporting bright I clap my hands to see— Then veil my too inspecting face Lets such a subtle—shimmering grace Flutter too far for me— The wizard fingers never rest— The purple brook within the breast Still chafes it narrow bed— Still rears the East her amber Flag— Guides still the sun along the Crag His Caravan of Red— So looking on—the night—the morn Conclude the wonder gay— And I meet, coming thro' the dews Another summer's Day! ~ Emily Dickinson,

842:The rainbow comes and goes. Enjoy it while it lasts. Don’t be surprised by its departure, and rejoice when it returns. There is so much to be joyful about, so many different kinds of rainbows in one’s life: making love is an incredible rainbow, as is falling in love; knowing friendship; being able to really talk with someone who has a problem and say something that will help; waking up in the morning, looking out, and seeing a tree that has suddenly blossomed, like the one I have outside my window—what joy that brings. It may seem a small thing, but rainbows come in all sizes. I think about Dorothy in The Wizard of Oz singing, about where “bluebirds fly,” and Jan Peerce singing about “a bluebird of happiness.” Well, they may never find it, they may never reach it, and that’s okay. The searching, that’s what I think life is really all about. Don’t you? I ~ Anderson Cooper,

843:All day, the colours had been those of dusk, mist moving like a water creature across the great flanks of mountains possessed of ocean shadows and depths. Briefly visible above the vapour, Kanchenjunga was a far peak whittled out of ice, gathering the last of the night, a plume of snow blown high by the storms at its summit. Sai, sitting on the veranda, was reading an article about giant squid in an old National Geographic. Every now and then she looked up at Kanchenjunga, observed its wizard phosphorescence with a shiver. The judge sat at the far corner with his chessboard, playing against himself. Stuffed under his chair where she felt safe was Mutt the dog, snoring gently in her sleep. A single bald lightbulb dangled on a wire above. It was cold, but inside the house, it was still colder, the dark, the freeze, contained by stone walls several feet deep. ~ Kiran Desai,

844:As they climbed it, the various Healers called out to them, diagnosing odd complaints and suggesting horrible remedies. Ron was seriously affronted when a medieval wizard called out that he clearly had a bad case of spattergroit. “And what’s that supposed to be?” he asked angrily, as the Healer pursued him through six more portraits, shoving the occupants out of the way. “ ’Tis a most grievous affliction of the skin, young master, that will leave you pockmarked and more gruesome even than you are now —” “Watch who you’re calling gruesome!” said Ron, his ears turning red. “The only remedy is to take the liver of a toad, bind it tight about your throat, stand naked by the full moon in a barrel of eels’ eyes —” “I have not got spattergroit!” “But the unsightly blemishes upon your visage, young master —” “They’re freckles!” said Ron furiously. ~ J K Rowling,

845:Harry had never in all his life had such a Christmas dinner. A hundred fat, roast turkeys; mountains of roast and boiled potatoes; platters of chipolatas; tureens of buttered peas, silver boats of thick, rich gravy and cranberry sauce — and stacks of wizard crackers every few feet along the table. These fantastic party favors were nothing like the feeble Muggle ones the Dursleys usually bought, with their little plastic toys and their flimsy paper hats inside. Harry pulled a wizard cracker with Fred and it didn’t just bang, it went off with a blast like a cannon and engulfed them all in a cloud of blue smoke, while from the inside exploded a rear admiral’s hat and several live, white mice. Up at the High Table, Dumbledore had swapped his pointed wizard’s hat for a flowered bonnet, and was chuckling merrily at a joke Professor Flitwick had just read him. Flaming ~ J K Rowling,

846:What’s up, Albert?” said the same balding wizard who had followed Harry out of the fireplace earlier. He looked nervous. “This lot need to leave before you seal the exits,” said Harry with all the authority he could muster. The group of wizards in front of him looked at one another. “We’ve been told to seal all exits and not let anyone--” “Are you contradicting me?” Harry blustered. “Would you like me to have your family tree examined, like I had Dirk Cresswell’s?” “Sorry!” gasped the balding wizard, backing away. “I didn’t mean nothing, Albert, but I thought…I thought they were in for questioning and…” “Their blood is pure,” said Harry, and his deep voice echoed impressively through the hall. “Purer than many of yours, I daresay. Off you go,” he boomed to the Muggle-borns, who scurried forward into the fireplaces and began to vanish in pairs. ~ J K Rowling,

847:Magic is a kind of energy. It is given shape by human thoughts and emotions, by imagination. Thoughts define that shape—and words help to define those thoughts. That’s why wizards usually use words to help them with their spells. Words provide a sort of insulation as the energy of magic burns through a spell caster’s mind. If you use words that you’re too familiar with, words that are so close to your thoughts that you have trouble separating thought from word, that insulation is very thin. So most wizards use words from ancient languages they don’t know very well, or else they make up nonsense words and mentally attach their meanings to a particular effect. That way, a wizard’s mind has an extra layer of protection against magical energies coursing through it. But you can work magic without words, without insulation for your mind. If you’re not afraid of it hurting a little. ~ Jim Butcher,

848:You know from the repeated declarations in the Law that the principal purpose of the whole Law was the removal and utter destruction of idolatry, and all that is connected therewith, even its name, and everything that might lead to any such practices, e.g., acting as a consulter with familiar spirits, or as a wizard, passing children through the fire, divining, observing the clouds, enchanting, charming, or inquiring of the dead. The law prohibits us to imitate the heathen in any of these deeds, and a fortiori to adopt them entirely. It is distinctly said in the Law that everything which idolaters consider as service to their gods, and a means of approaching them, is rejected and despised by God... Thus all precepts cautioning against idolatry, or against that which is connected therewith, leads to it, or is related to it, are evidently useful. ~ Maimonides, Guide for the Perplexed (c. 1190),

849:GLINDA: Well,I'm a public figure now! People expect me to-- ELPHABA: Lie? GLINDA: (fiercely) Be encouraging! And what exactly have you been doing? Besides riding on around on that filthy thing! ELPHABA: Well, we can't all come and go by bubble. Whose invention was that, the Wizard's? Of course, even if it wasn't, I'm sure he'd still take credit for it. GLINDA: Yes, well, a lot of us are taking things that don't belong to us, aren't we? Uh oh! The two stare daggers at each other, then... ELPHABA: Now, wait just a clock-tick. I know it's difficult for that blissful blonde brain of yours to comprehend that someone like him could actually choose someone like me!But it's happened. It's real. And you can wave that ridiculous wand all you want, you can't change it! He never belonged to you -- he doesn't love you, he never did! He loves me! ~ Stephen Schwartz,

850:Do you know what an inciting incident is?' Noah says as he turns off the engine. I shake my head. 'It's the point at the start of a movie where something happens to the hero that changes their live forever. You've seen Harry Potter, right?' I nod. 'Well, the inciting incident in that movie is when Hagrid tells Harry Potter he'll be a great wizard someday and gives him the invite to Hogwarts.' 'Oh right.' Noah looks down in his lap, like he's embarassed. 'I think that's what you might be to me.' 'What? A wizard?' 'No! My inciting incident.' I glance at him. In half-light of the car park, his cheekbones look even more chiselled than ever. 'What do you mean?' I ask, hardly daring to believe what I think he means. 'I mean, Ithink this might be the start of something.' We sat in silence. 'I think you might be my inciting incident too,' I say with a small smile. ~ Zoe Sugg,

851:I smell guilt. There is a stench of guilt upon the air. I see you all, whole and healthy, with your powers intact — such prompt appearances! — and I ask myself . . . why did this band of wizards never come to the aid of their master, to whom they swore eternal loyalty? And I answer myself, they must have believed me broken, they thought I was gone. They slipped back among my enemies, and they pleaded innocence, and ignorance, and bewitchment. . . . And then I ask myself, but how could they have believed I would not rise again? They, who knew the steps I took, long ago, to guard myself against mortal death? They, who had seen proofs of the immensity of my power in the times when I was mightier than any wizard living? And I answer myself, perhaps they believed a still greater power could exist, one that could vanquish even Lord Voldemort . . . perhaps they now pay allegiance to another. . . ~ J K Rowling,

852:Morning, Reg!” called another wizard in navy blue robes as he let himself into a cubicle by inserting his golden token into a slot in the door. “Blooming pain in the bum, this, eh? Forcing us all to get to work this way! Who are they expecting to turn up, Harry Potter?” The wizard roared with laughter at his own wit. Ron gave a forced chuckle. “Yeah,” he said, “stupid, isn’t it?” And he and Harry let themselves into adjoining cubicles. To Harry’s left and right came the sound of flushing. He crouched down and peered through the gap at the bottom of the cubicle, just in time to see a pair of booted feet climbing into the toilet next door. He looked left and saw Ron blinking at him. “We have to flush ourselves in?” he whispered. “Looks like it,” Harry whispered back; his voice came out deep and gravelly. They both stood up. Feeling exceptionally foolish, Harry clambered into the toilet. ~ J K Rowling,

853:Asleep was the way Harry liked the Dursleys best; it wasn’t as though they were ever any help to him awake. Uncle Vernon, Aunt Petunia, and Dudley were Harry’s only living relatives. They were Muggles who hated and despised magic in any form, which meant that Harry was about as welcome in their house as dry rot. They had explained away Harry’s long absences at Hogwarts over the last three years by telling everyone that he went to St. Brutus’s Secure Center for Incurably Criminal Boys. They knew perfectly well that, as an underage wizard, Harry wasn’t allowed to use magic outside Hogwarts, but they were still apt to blame him for anything that went wrong about the house. Harry had never been able to confide in them or tell them anything about his life in the Wizarding world. The very idea of going to them when they awoke, and telling them about his scar hurting him, and about his worries about Voldemort, was laughable. ~ J K Rowling,

854:You want to give it a look, Xeno is printing all the stuff the Prophet’s ignoring, not a single mention of Crumple-Horned Snorkacks in the last issue. How long they’ll let him get away with it, mind, I don’t know. But Xeno says, front page of every issue, that any wizard who’s against You-Know-Who ought to make helping Harry Potter their number-one priority.” “Hard to help a boy who’s vanished off the face of the earth,” said Dirk. “Listen, the fact that they haven’t caught him yet’s one hell of an achievement,” said Ted. “I’d take tips from him gladly; it’s what we’re trying to do, stay free, isn’t it?” “Yeah, well, you’ve got a point there,” said Dirk heavily. “With the whole of the Ministry and all their informers looking for him I’d have expected him to be caught by now. Mind, who’s to say they haven’t already caught and killed him without publicizing it?” “Ah, don’t say that, Dirk,” murmured Ted. ~ J K Rowling,

855:The small eyes, buried in epicanthic folds, shifted. A low, reverberating voice rumbled from the flesh and blood warrior. ‘Trull Sengar. Is this… is this mortality?’ The Tiste Edur drew a step closer. ‘You don’t remember? How it feels to be alive?’ ‘I-I… yes.’ A sudden look of wonder in that heavy, broadly featured face. ‘Yes.’ Another deep breath, then a gust that was nearly savage in its exultation. The strange gaze fixed on Quick Ben once more. ‘Wizard, is this illusion? Dream? A journey of my spirit?’ ‘I don’t think so. I mean, I think it’s real enough.’ ‘Then… this realm. It is Tellann.’ ‘Maybe. I’m not sure.’ Trull Sengar was suddenly on his knees, and Quick Ben saw tears streaming down the Tiste Edur’s lean, dusky face. The burly, muscled warrior before them, still wearing the rotted remnants of fur, slowly looked round at the withered landscape of open tundra. ‘Tellann,’ he whispered. ‘Tellann. ~ Steven Erikson,

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

857:A thief and worse', you say, but slander's cheap, and a woman's tongue worse than any thief. You come up here to make bad blood among the field hands, casting calumny and lies, the dragonseed every witch sows behind her. Did you think I did not know you for a witch? When I saw that foul imp that clings to you, do you think I did not know how it was begotten, and for what purposes? The man did well who tried to destroy that creature, but the job should be completed. You defied me once, across the body of the old wizard, and I forbore to punish you then, for his sake and in the presence of others. But now you've come too far, and I warn you, woman! I will not have you set foot on this domain. And if you cross my will or dare so much as to speak to me again, I will have you driven from Re Albi, and off the Overfell, with the dogs at your heels. Have you understood me?" "No," Tenar said. "I have never understood men like you. ~ Ursula K Le Guin,

858:It’s like they’re introducing the child to a tribe. There's a ritual. You hold your child above your head, bring him toward some Wizard of Oz like set up, place him down as an offering and say, ‘watch this!’ Then, you watch him, watching Star Wars, trying to figure out just what you have in common with your kid, see which character he’ll identify with, who he’ll root for...If you can find a common language that runs from 5 to 85 you’ve got yourself something. And Star Wars fans have something. In a way it’s as if they know they have this great gift to bestow and they want to bestow it as perfectly as possible: the perfect time, the perfect place, the perfect situation for passing on this life-defining experience. And the kids will always remember for their entire lives how they first felt when they first saw their now favorite movie. And they were given this gift by their parents and can now share it together, truly a family affair. ~ Carrie Fisher,

859:Why do you wear those?" asked Lacuna. I jumped, stumbled, and shouted half of a word to a spell, but since I was only halfway done putting on my underwear, I mostly just fell on my naked ass.'' "Gah!" I said. "Don't do that!" My miniature captive came to the edge of the dresser and peered down at me. "Don't ask questions?" "Don't come in here all quiet and spooky and scare me like that!" "You're six times my height, and fifty times my weight," Lacuna said gravely. "And I've agreed to be your captive. You don't have any reason to be afraid." "Not afraid," I snapped back. "Startled. It isn't wise to startle a wizard!" "Why not?" "Because of what could happen!" "Because they might fall down on the floor?" "No!" I snarled.Lacuna frowned and said, "You aren't very good at answering questions." I started shoving myself into my clothes. "I'm starting to agree with you. ~ Jim Butcher,

860:Yes, that would be Hermione’s advice: go straight to the Headmaster of Hogwarts, and in the meantime, consult a book. Harry stared out of the window at the inky, blue-black sky. He doubted very much whether a book could help him now. As far as he knew, he was the only living person to have survived a curse like Voldemort’s; it was highly unlikely, therefore, that he would find his symptoms listed in Common Magical Ailments and Afflictions. As for informing the Headmaster, Harry had no idea where Dumbledore went during the summer holidays. He amused himself for a moment, picturing Dumbledore, with his long silver beard, full-length wizard’s robes and pointed hat, stretched out on a beach somewhere, rubbing suntan lotion into his long crooked nose. Wherever Dumbledore was, though, Harry was sure that Hedwig would be able to find him; Harry’s owl had never yet failed to deliver a letter to anyone, even without an address. But what would he write? ~ J K Rowling,

861:Extremism, racism, nativism, and isolationism, driven by fear of the unknown, tend to spike in periods of economic and social stress—a period like our own. Americans today have little trust in government; household incomes lag behind our usual middle-class expectations. The fires of fear in America have long found oxygen when broad, seemingly threatening change is afoot. Now, in the second decade of the new century, in the presidency of Donald Trump, the alienated are being mobilized afresh by changing demography, by broadening conceptions of identity, and by an economy that prizes Information Age brains over manufacturing brawn. “We are determined to take our country back,” David Duke, a former grand wizard of the Ku Klux Klan, said in Charlottesville. “We are going to fulfill the promises of Donald Trump. That’s what we believed in, that’s why we voted for Donald Trump. Because he said he’s going to take our country back. And that’s what we gotta do. ~ Jon Meacham,

862:She was a wonder junkie. In her mind, she was a hill tribesman standing slack-jawed before the real Ishtar Gate of ancient Babylon; Dorothy catching her first glimpse of the vaulted spires of the Emerald City of Oz; a small boy from darkest Brooklyn plunked down in the Corridor of Nations of the 1939 World’s Fair, the Trylon and Perisphere beckoning in the distance; she was Pocahontas sailing up the Thames estuary with London spread out before her from horizon to horizon. been voyaging between the stars when the ancestors of humans were still brachiating from branch to branch in the dappled sunlight of the forest canopy. Drumlin, like many others she had known over the years, had called her an incurable romantic; and she found herself wondering again why so many people thought it some embarrassing disability. Her romanticism had been a driving force in her life and a fount of delights. Advocate and practitioner of romance, she was off to see the Wizard. ~ Carl Sagan,

863:Tayla cursed under her breath. "I was just explaining to Eidolon that Sin is a Smurfette." Wraith swung his big body around to study Sin with blue eyes that were very different from Shade's, E's. and Lore's. Sin's, too. "Nah. Smurfette is way hotter." "What the fuck is a Smurfette?" Eidolon was seriously getting annoyed now. "There's this cartoon called The Smurfs," Tayla explained, slowly, as though Eidolon were the child here. "They're these little blue people, and they're all male. But one day a female shows up. She shouldn't exist, but she does." Eidolon considered that for a second. "How did she get there?" "An evil wizard named Gargamel made her," Tayla said. "In a lab or something." "So you're suggesting that an evil wizard made Sin?" "Of course not, silly. I'm just saying she's a Smurfette. A lone female amongst males." Eidolon frowned. "Did the Smurfette mate with the males?" "Dude." Wraith grimaced. "It's a cartoon. ~ Larissa Ione,

864:graphics for the Mac intosh. CHRISANN BRENNAN. Jobs’s girlfriend at Homestead High, mother of his daughter Lisa. LISA BRENNAN-JOBS. Daughter of Jobs and Chrisann Brennan, born in 1978; became a writer in New York City. NOLAN BUSHNELL. Founder of Atari and entrepreneurial role model for Jobs. BILL CAMPBELL. Apple marketing chief during Jobs’s first stint at Apple and board member and confidant after Jobs’s return in 1997. EDWIN CATMULL. A cofounder of Pixar and later a Disney executive. KOBUN CHINO. A St Zen master in California who became Jobs’s spiritual teacher. LEE CLOW. Advertising wizard who created Apple’s “1984” ad and worked with Jobs for three decades. DEBORAH “DEBI” COLEMAN. Early Mac team manager who took over Apple manufacturing. TIM COOK. Steady, calm, chief operating officer hired by Jobs in 1998; replaced Jobs as Apple CEO in August 2011. EDDY CUE. Chief of Internet services at Apple, Jobs’s wingman in dealing with content companies. ANDREA “ANDY” CUNNINGHAM. ~ Walter Isaacson,

865:Professor Flitwick, the Charms teacher, was a tiny little wizard who had to stand on a pile of books to see over his desk. At the start of their first lesson he took the register, and when he reached Harry’s name he gave an excited squeak and toppled out of sight. Professor McGonagall was again different. Harry had been quite right to think she wasn’t a teacher to cross. Strict and clever, she gave them a talking-to the moment they had sat down in her first class. ‘Transfiguration is some of the most complex and dangerous magic you will learn at Hogwarts,’ she said. ‘Anyone messing around in my class will leave and not come back. You have been warned.’ Then she changed her desk into a pig and back again. They were all very impressed and couldn’t wait to get started, but soon realised they weren’t going to be changing the furniture into animals for a long time. After making a lot of complicated notes, they were each given a match and started trying to turn it into a needle. By the end of the lesson, ~ J K Rowling,

866:The trouble with mimetic fiction isn’t that you can tell what’s going to happen (I defy anyone to guess what’s going to happen in Middlemarch, even from halfway through) but that you can tell what’s not going to happen. There isn’t going to be an evil wizard. The world isn’t going to be destroyed in Cultural Fugue and leave the protagonist as the only survivor. There aren’t going to be any people who happen to have one mind shared between five bodies. There are unlikely to be shape-changers. In science fiction you can have any kind of story—a romance or a mystery or a reflection of human nature, or anything at all. But as well as that, you have infinite possibility. You can tell different stories about human nature when you can compare it to android nature, or alien nature. You can examine it in different ways when you can write about people living for two hundred years, or being relativistically separated, or under a curse. You have more colours for your palette, more lights to illuminate your scene. ~ Jo Walton,

867:the dysregulation of the body’s neurobiological system, that impairs one’s ability to pay selective attention to one’s surroundings. The world becomes a land without street signs, the individual a car in bad need of a tune-up. The vastness of the attentional system partially accounts for the variation of ADD “types.” Where one individual needs an oil change, the next needs spark plugs replaced. Where one individual is withdrawn and overwhelmed by stimuli, the next is hyperactive and can’t get enough stimuli. Where one is frequently anxious, the other is depressed. To compensate, each develops his or her own coping strategies that developmentally add to, or subtract from, the brain’s various subsystems. So Mr. A becomes a stand-up comedian, and manic. Ms. B becomes an architectural wizard with obsessive-compulsive traits. Their offspring become a sculptor and a stunt pilot. None of them can balance their checkbook. And all of them wish they had more time in the day. With such diversity in the disorder, ~ Edward M Hallowell,

868:The Autumn Morning See! the pale autumn dawn Is faint, upon the lawn That lies in powdered white Of hoar-frost dight And now from tree to tree The ghostly mist we see Hung like a silver pall To hallow all. It wreathes the burdened air So strangely everywhere That I could almost fear This silence drear Where no one song-bird sings And dream that wizard things Mighty for hate or love Were close above. White as the fog and fair Drifting through the middle air In magic dances dread Over my head. Yet these should know me too Lover and bondman true, One that has honoured well The mystic spell Of earth’s most solemn hours Wherein the ancient powers Of dryad, elf, or faun Or leprechaun Oft have their faces shown To me that walked alone Seashore or haunted fen Or mountain glen 69 Wherefore I will not fear To walk the woodlands sere Into this autumn day Far, far away. ~ Clive Staples Lewis,

869:On this spot, on the night of 31 October 1981, Lily and James Potter lost their lives. Their son, Harry, remains the only wizard ever to have survived the Killing Curse. This house, invisible to Muggles, has been left in its ruined state as a monument to the Potters and as a reminder of the violence that tore apart their family. And all around these neatly lettered words, scribbles had been added by other witches and wizards who had come to see the place where the Boy Who Lived had escaped. Some had merely signed their names in Everlasting Ink; others had carved their initials into the wood, still others had left messages. The most recent of these, shining brightly over sixteen years’ worth of magical graffiti, all said similar things. Good luck, Harry, wherever you are. If you read this, Harry, we’re all behind you! Long live Harry Potter. “They shouldn’t have written on the sign!” said Hermione, indignant. But Harry beamed at her. “It’s brilliant. I’m glad they did. ~ J K Rowling,

870:The machine couldn’t be stopped and certainly shouldn’t be destroyed, the wizard said. Destroying the machine might well cause this universe to stop existing, instantly. On the other hand, the Post Office was filling up, so one day Chief Postal Inspector Rumbelow had gone into the room with a crowbar, had ordered all the wizards out, and belted the machine until things stopped whirring. The letters ceased, at least. This came as a huge relief, but nevertheless, the Post Office had its Regulations, and so the chief postal inspector was brought before Postmaster Cowerby and asked why he had decided to risk destroying the whole universe in one go. According to Post Office legend, Mr. Rumbelow had replied: “Firstly, sir, I reasoned that if I destroyed the universe all in one go, no one would know; secondly, when I walloped the thing the first time, the wizards ran away, so I surmised that unless they has another universe to run to they weren’t really certain; and lastly, sir, the bloody thing was getting on my nerves. Never could stand machinery, sir. ~ Terry Pratchett,

871:The anger faded from Hagrid’s face. He looked suddenly anxious. “I never expected this,” he said, in a low, worried voice. “I had no idea, when Dumbledore told me there might be trouble gettin’ hold of yeh, how much yeh didn’t know. Ah, Harry, I don’ know if I’m the right person ter tell yeh — but someone’s gotta — yeh can’t go off ter Hogwarts not knowin’.” He threw a dirty look at the Dursleys. “Well, it’s best yeh know as much as I can tell yeh — mind, I can’t tell yeh everythin’, it’s a great myst’ry, parts of it. . . .” He sat down, stared into the fire for a few seconds, and then said, “It begins, I suppose, with — with a person called — but it’s incredible yeh don’t know his name, everyone in our world knows —” “Who?” “Well — I don’ like sayin’ the name if I can help it. No one does.” “Why not?” “Gulpin’ gargoyles, Harry, people are still scared. Blimey, this is difficult. See, there was this wizard who went . . . bad. As bad as you could go. Worse. Worse than worse. His name was . . .” Hagrid gulped, but no words came out. “Could you write it down? ~ J K Rowling,

872:While I have the floor, here's a question that's been bothering me for some time. Why do so few writers of heroic or epic fantasy ever deal with the fundamental quandary of their novels . . . that so many of them take place in cultures that are rigid, hierarchical, stratified, and in essence oppressive? What is so appealing about feudalism, that so many free citizens of an educated commonwealth like ours love reading about and picturing life under hereditary lords? Why should the deposed prince or princess in every clichéd tale be chosen to lead the quest against the Dark Lord? Why not elect a new leader by merit, instead of clinging to the inbred scions of a failed royal line? Why not ask the pompous, patronizing, "good" wizard for something useful, such as flush toilets, movable type, or electricity for every home in the kingdom? Given half a chance, the sons and daughters of peasants would rather not grow up to be servants. It seems bizarre for modern folk to pine for a way of life our ancestors rightfully fought desperately to escape. ~ David Brin,

873:Epilogue Carol, every violet has Heaven for a looking-glass! Every little valley lies Under many-clouded skies; Every little cottage stands Girt about with boundless lands. Every little glimmering pond Claims the mighty shores beyond— Shores no seamen ever hailed, Seas no ship has ever sailed. All the shores when day is done Fade into the setting sun, So the story tries to teach More than can be told in speech. Beauty is a fading flower, Truth is but a wizard's tower, Where a solemn death-bell tolls, And a forest round it rolls. We have come by curious ways To the light that holds the days; We have sought in haunts of fear For that all-enfolding sphere: And lo! it was not far, but near. We have found, O foolish-fond, The shore that has no shore beyond. Deep in every heart it lies With its untranscended skies; For what heaven should bend above Hearts that own the heaven of love? Carol, Carol, we have come Back to heaven, back to home. 35 ~ Alfred Noyes,

874:She asks, and something in your head tells you that what she’s doing is right – and that it’s the only reason she has to live. She asked me to die defending her – knowing I didn’t even like her much. Quick, for the rest of my life, I will never forget that moment.’ ‘And you still can’t quite work out what happened.’ The assassin nodded. ‘All at once, it’s as if she’s somehow laid bare your soul and there it is, exposed, trembling, vulnerable beyond all belief – and she could take it, grasp it tight until the blood starts dripping. She could even stab it right through. But she didn’t – she didn’t do any of that, Quick. She reached down, her finger hovered, and then … gone, as if that was all she needed.’ ‘You can stop now,’ the wizard muttered. ‘What you’re talking about – between two people – it almost never happens. Maybe it’s what we all want, but Kalam, it almost never happens.’ ‘There was no respect in what Laseen offered,’ the assassin said. ‘It was a raw bribe, reaching for the worst in me. But from Tavore …’ ‘Nothing but respect. Now I see it, Kal. I see it. ~ Steven Erikson,

875:My refusal to remove the book from the library was backed by a majority of the Board of Governors. I wrote back to Mr Malfoy, explaining my decision: So-called pure-blood families maintain their alleged purity by disowning, banishing or lying about Muggles or Muggle-borns on their family trees. They then attempt to foist their hypocrisy upon the rest of us by asking us to ban works dealing with the truths they deny. There is not a witch or wizard in existence whose blood has not mingled with that of Muggles, and I should therefore consider it both illogical and immoral to remove works dealing with the subject from our students' store of knowledge.(4) This exchange marked the beginning of Mr Malfoy's long campaign to have me removed from my post as Headmaster of Hogwarts, and of mine to have him removed from his position as Lord Voldemort's Favourite Death Eater. (4)My response prompted several further letters from Mr Malfoy, but as they consisted mainly of opprobrious remarks on my sanity, parentage and hygiene, their relevance to this commentary is remote. ~ J K Rowling,

876:I said, "Mary, tell me something. Why do you have that picture from The Wizard of Oz on your wall?" Mary chuckled at my question. "Oh, that's my favorite move. I saw it the first time when I was five. But it's more than that. The story is so relevant to my life. That big, wise Wizard, you know. He's nothing. You pull back the curtain, it's just a man. I went through my whole life looking at the men at church as the Wizard, practically as God. I believed every word they said, every way they interpreted the bible, every condemning judgment on my gay son. After Bobby died, I started to study on my own, and I see the Bible through my own eyes now, not through theirs. I pulled back the curtain, and it was not God, just men. The tin man, he had a heart all along. The lion had courage all along. I knew the truth about Bobby all along, but I didn't listen inside, I listened outside. Most of us go on dancing down that yellow brick road to find the izard and be told the secret. But the secret is, the kingdom of God is within, inside every one of us. That picture, I keep it there to remind me." (49) ~ Carol Lynn Pearson,

877:It’s true, I guess, that no matter how much it sucks, you’re supposed to sacrifice things for a friend. It was a concept that he hadn’t understood earlier on in his life. In elementary school, Bernie had been assigned 'Charlotte’s Web' to read, and he’d always found it selfish how Charlotte the spider gave everything she had to Wilbur the pig, all her time and energy trying to keep this pig alive and off the farmer’s dinner plate, only to end up dying in the wispy remains of her last cobweb. "That pig was a selfish bastard who whined too much." He hadn’t understood why, in his college days watching 'The Smurfs' cartoon on TV just to pass the time, the evil wizard Gargamel had kept his bratty little apprentice, Scruple, around with him even when there was no incentive to do it and it would have been more convenient to just get rid of him. "Well, you give and you give and you give, you sacrifice things for somebody even when you normally wouldn’t, but you get back something worth having, maybe. Something worth all that sacrifice… I mean, what’s life worth if you have nobody to share it with, anyway? ~ Rebecca McNutt,

878:Time is the only magic, he said, "And Marids swim through time like the sea. Think: if you hurt yourself, and I bandage it, and after weeks and weeks it gets well and there's no scar, that's not magic at all. But if you hurt yourself and I touch you and it heals in a moment, you'd call me magic before your skin closed. It's not magic to cook a feast, roasting and baking and frying for hours, but if you blink and it's steaming in front of you, it's a spell. If you work for what you want and save for it and plan it out just as precisely as you possibly can, it's not even surprising if you get it on the other side of a month or a year. But if you snap your fingers and it happens as soon as you want t, every wizard will want to know you socially. If you life straight through a hundred years and watch yourself unfold at one second per second, one hour per hour, that's just being alive. If you go faster, you're a time traveler. If you jump over your unfolding and see how it all comes out, that's fate. But's all healing and cooking and planning and living, just the same. The only difference is time. ~ Catherynne M Valente,

879:alleviate the inferno raging on her behind, which was slowly driving her mad. Surely he was some evil wizard disguised in adorable man/boy packaging. “That almost sounds like a challenge,” she snapped. “Baby, if issuing me a challenge makes you happy, I’ll do my best to rise to it. You don’t need to get so worked up. You’re getting all flushed.” He was confident to the point of sounding condescending; self-assured to the point of being smug. She resumed the crossed-arm battle stance in her seat, fighting back tears of frustration at the whole exchange and his ability to roast her derriere without laying a hand on her. And then she caught sight of it, in the far right corner on the digital display in the center of the dashboard. A tiny icon of a car seat appearing, then disappearing, intermittently flashing, and underneath it read, 86 . . . then 87 . . . and then 88. As soon as it fully registered, Amanda dug her feet into the floor mat, heels and all, and arched her body off the seat as best she could. “What’s the big idea!” she shrieked. “Just a little reminder, angel.” He chuckled, depressing ~ Stephanie Evanovich,

880: five-year-old could have told us as much,” sneered Snape. “The Inferius is a corpse that has been reanimated by a Dark wizard’s spells. It is not alive, it is merely used like a puppet to do the wizard’s bidding. A ghost, as I trust that you are all aware by now, is the imprint of a departed soul left upon the earth . . . and of course, as Potter so wisely tells us, transparent.” “Well, what Harry said is the most useful if we’re trying to tell them apart!” said Ron. “When we come face-to-face with one down a dark alley, we’re going to be having a shufti to see if it’s solid, aren’t we, we’re not going to be asking, ‘Excuse me, are you the imprint of a departed soul?’” There was a ripple of laughter, instantly quelled by the look Snape gave the class. “Another ten points from Gryffindor,” said Snape. “I would expect nothing more sophisticated from you, Ronald Weasley, the boy so solid he cannot Apparate half an inch across a room.” “No!” whispered Hermione, grabbing Harry’s arm as he opened his mouth furiously. “There’s no point, you’ll just end up in detention again, leave it!” “Now open your books to page two hundred and ~ J K Rowling,

881:Kusanagi is a leading expert in fourth-generation warfare and cyberbrain combative warfare. As the most heavily mechanized member of Section 9, she is regarded amongst her peers as the best hand-to-hand melee fighter and the most skilled "hacker and net diver." Chief Aramaki described her abilities as "...rarer than 'ESP'; the kind of person that government agencies hire to assassinate without leaving a trace." Classified as "Wizard Class" grey hat, her computer security hacking skills allow her brain–computer interface consciousness to control two-external humanoid "drone"-robots remotely with the ability to move her "ghost" from host to host. Kusanagi repeatedly demonstrates uncanny ability to hack people's wetware protected with military-grade malware protection and counter-measures, allowing her to "see through their eyes," disable their vocal systems, or even take control of their bodies altogether. As a cyborg, Kusanagi is able to perform numerous superhuman feats, such as demonstrating superhuman strength, leaping between skyscrapers, advanced acrobatics, or shooting down a bullet after it was fired at mid-range. ~ Wikipedia, Motoko Kusangi,

882:For almost a century, the school had been home to creative geniuses, radical thinkers, and innovators. Ellingham had no application, no list of requirements, no instructions other than, "If you would like to be considered for Ellingham Academy, please get in touch." That was it. One simple sentence that drove every high-flying student frantic. What did they want? What were they looking for? This was like a riddle from a fantasy story or fairy tale - something the wizard makes you do before you are allowed into the Cave of Secrets. Applications were supposed to be rigid lists of requirements and test scores and essays and recommendations and maybe a blood sample and a few bars from a popular musical. Not Elllingham. Just knock on the door. Just knock on the door in the special, correct way they would not describe. You just had to get in touch with something. They looked for a spark. If they saw such a spark in you, you could be one of the fifty students they took each year. The program was only two years long, just the junior and senior years of high school. There were no tuition fees. If you got in, it was free. You just had to get in. ~ Maureen Johnson,

883:He removed his hat, something a wizard doesn't ordinarily do unless he's about to pull something out of it, and handed it to the Bursar. Then he tore a thin strip off the bottom of his robe, held it dramatically in both hands, and tied it around his forehead. "It's part of the ethos," he said, in answer to their penetratingly unspoken question. "That's what the warriors on the Counterweight Continent do before they go into battle. And you have to shout --" He tried to remember some far-off reading. "-er, bonsai. Yes. Bonsai!" "I thought that meant chopping bits off trees to make them small," said the Senior Wrangler. The Dean hesitated. He wasn't too sure himself, if it came to it. But a good wizard never let uncertainty stand in his way. "No, it's definitely got to be bonsai," he said. He considered it some more then brightened up. "On account of it all being part of bushido. Like...small trees. Bush-i-do. Yeah. Makes sense, when you think about it." "But you can't shout 'bonsai' here." said the Lecturer in Recent Runes. "We've got a totally different cultural background. It'd be useless. No one will know what you mean. "I'll work on it, " said the Dean.* ~ Terry Pratchett,

884:When I began going to school and learned to read, I encountered stories of other people and other lands. In one of my essays, I remember the kind of things that fascinated me. Weird things, even, about a wizard who lived in Africa and went to China to find a lamp . . . Fascinating to me because they were about things remote, and almost ethereal. Then I grew older and began to read about adventures in which I didn’t know that I was supposed to be on the side of those savages who were encountered by the good white man. I instinctively took sides with the white people. They were fine! They were excellent. They were intelligent. The others were not . . . they were stupid and ugly. That was the way I was introduced to the danger of not having your own stories. There is that great proverb—that until the lions have their own historians, the history of the hunt will always glorify the hunter. That did not come to me until much later. Once I realized that, I had to be a writer. I had to be that historian. It’s not one man’s job. It’s not one person’s job. But it is something we have to do, so that the story of the hunt will also reflect the agony, the travail—the bravery, even, of the lions.” —Chinua Achebe ~ Chinua Achebe,

885:Frank Baum’s book the Wonderful Wizard of Oz, which appeared in 1990, is widely recognized to be a parable for the Populist campaign of William Jennings Bryan, who twice ran for president on the Free Silver platform- vowing to replace the gold standard with a bimetallic system that would allow the free creation of silver money alongside gold. As with the Greenbackers, one of the main constituencies for the movement was debtors: particularly, Midwestern farm families such as Dorothy’s, who had been facing a massive wave of foreclosures during the severe recession of the 1890s. According to the Populist reading, the Wicked Witches of the East and West represent the East and West Coast bankers (promoters of and benefactors from the tight money supply), the Scarecrow represented the farmers (who didn’t have the brains to avoid the debt trap), the Tin Woodsman was the industrial proletariat (who didn’t have the heart to act in solidarity with the farmers), the Cowardly Lion represented the political class (who didn’t have the courage to intervene). The yellow brick road, silver slippers, emerald city, and hapless Wizard presumably speak for themselves. “Oz” is of course the standard abbreviation for “ounce. ~ David Graeber,

886:We won't be seeing you,' Fred told Professor Umbridge, swinging his leg over his broomstick. 'Yeah, don't bother to keep in touch,' said George, mounting his own. Fred looked around at the assembled students, and at the silent, watchful crowd. 'If anyone fancies buying a Portable Swamp, as demonstrated upstairs, come to number ninety-three, Diagon Alley — Weasleys' Wizard Wheezes,' he said in a loud voice, 'Our new premises!' 'Special discounts to Hogwarts students who swear they're going to use our products to get rid of this old bat,' added George, pointing at Professor Umbridge. 'STOP THEM!' shrieked Umbridge, but it was too late. As the Inquisitorial Squad closed in, Fred and George kicked off from the floor, shooting fifteen feet into the air, the iron peg swinging dangerously below. Fred looked across the hall at the poltergeist bobbing on his level above the crowd. 'Give her hell from us, Peeves.' And Peeves, who Harry had never seen take an order from a student before, swept his belled hat from his head and sprang to a salute as Fred and George wheeled about to tumultuous applause from the students below and sped out of the open front doors into the glorious sunset. ~ J K Rowling,

887:While up on the mountain the cause of the flap was settling down for a bit of a nap when he heard a strange sound. It was still far away And not very loud. Of course, what it was was the roar of a crowd. Now Bigpaw was certainly no mental wizard. But he was getting a feeling down deep in his gizzard that trouble was coming. So he scratched his head and started his fuzzy old noodle a-humming. And using his powerful arms and shoulders, he built a tower, a tower of boulders. If those bears were to charge up out of the valley, they’d be just like pins in a bowling alley. But those bears kept on coming, faster and faster! There was simply no way to avoid disaster! But then-- at the very last instant before the rocks fell-- there came through the din a cub’s high-pitched yell. “Wait!” It was Sister. “Wait!” Sister cried. The rock tower teetered. It started to slide. Brother and Sister, small and defiant, had positioned themselves in defense of the giant. But Brother and Sister were in terrible danger, and there was no one to help them… EXCEPT FOR THE GIANT. ~ Stan Berenstain,

888:Come out, come out, little Harry!" she called in her mock-baby voice, which echoed off the polished wooden floors. "What did you come after me for, then? I thought you were here to avenge my dear cousin!" "I am!" shouted Harry, and a score of ghostly Harrys seemed to chorus I am! I am! I am! all around the room. "Aaaaaah... did you love him, little baby Potter?" Hatred rose in Harry such as he had never known before. He flung himself out from behind the fountain and bellowed "Crucio!" Bellatrix screamed. The spell had knocked her off her feet, but she did not writhe and shriek with the pain as Neville had -- she was already on her feet again, breathless, no longer laughing. Harry dodged behind the garden fountain again -- her counterspell hit the head of the handsome wizard, which was blown off and landed twenty feet away, gouging long scratches into the wooden floor. "Never used an Unforgivable Curse before, have you, boy?" she yelled. She had abandoned her baby voice now. "You need to mean them, Potter! You need to really want to cause pain -- to enjoy it -- righteous anger won't hurt me for long -- I'll show you how it is done, shall I? I'll give you a lesson--! ~ J K Rowling,

889:Irish Nocturne Now the grey mist comes creeping up From the waste ocean’s weedy strand And fills the valley, as a cup If filled of evil drink in a wizard’s hand; And the trees fade out of sight, Like dreary ghosts unhealthily, Into the damp, pale night, Till you almost think that a clearer eye could see Some shape come up of a demon seeking apart His meat, as Grendel sought in Harte The thanes that sat by the wintry log— Grendel or the shadowy mass Of Balor, or the man with the face of clay, The grey, grey walker who used to pass Over the rock-arch nightly to his prey. But here at the dumb, slow stream where the willows hang, With never a wind to blow the mists apart, Bitter and bitter it is for thee. O my heart, Looking upon this land, where poets sang, Thus with the dreary shroud Unwholesome, over it spread, And knowing the fog and the cloud In her people’s heart and head Even as it lies for ever upon her coasts Making them dim and dreamy lest her sons should ever arise And remember all their boasts; For I know that the colourless skies And the blurred horizons breed Lonely desire and many words and brooding and never a deed. ~ Clive Staples Lewis,

890:How could he say this? How could he think that I could just walk away from this? “It matters! If we don’t find her, if then all of it--my life--” My voice broke. I could hardly breathe; my lungs felt too small to draw the air I needed. But Kiernan had curled his lips up and closed his eyes. “That’s what it really comes down to, doesn’t it? That’s why we can’t tell. This isn’t about having enough proof, or even about Philantha getting hurt. You have to find her yourself. This isn’t just about the country, or the throne. This is about you proving that you’re not nobody. If you can’t be the princess, you’ll be the savior of the princess.” Another feeling of being kicked, but this one hit harder, right in a place I had been trying to shield. “No,” I whispered, but it came out low. “You can’t be just a scribe, or a wizard. Nameless God,” he cried, raking a hand through his hair. “I wish they had never found you, never made you think you were the princess. Nothing else will ever be good enough, not now. You’ll never be happy. You’ll throw yourself into danger, take it all on yourself, just to prove that they were all wrong about you. And I just--I just--” And without warning, he stepped in front of me, grabbed my shoulders to stop my pacing, and kissed me. ~ Eilis O Neal,

891:no disease suffered by a live man can be known, for every living person has his own peculiarities and always has his own peculiar, personal, novel, complicated disease, unknown to medicine -- not a disease of the lungs, liver, skin, heart, nerves, and so on mentioned in medical books, but a disease consisting of one of the innumerable combinations of the maladies of those organs. This simple thought could not occur to the doctors (as it cannot occur to a wizard that he is unable to work his charms) because the business of their lives was to cure, and they received money for it and had spent the best years of their lives on that business. But above all that thought was kept out of their minds by the fact that they saw they were really useful [...] Their usefulness did not depend on making the patient swallow substances for the most part harmful (the harm was scarcely perceptible because they were given in small doses) but they were useful, necessary, and indispensable because they satisfied a mental need of the invalid and those who loved her -- and that is why there are, and always will be, pseudo-healers, wise women, homoeopaths, and allopaths. They satisfied that eternal human need for hope of relief, for sympathy, and that something should be done, which is felt by those who are suffering. ~ Leo Tolstoy,

892:What the fuck is this?” he roared, striding into the centre of the room, water dripping from his beard, down through the grizzled white hairs on his chest, off his slapping fruits. It was a strange sight to see. A naked old man confronting three armed Practicals of the Inquisition. Ridiculous, and yet no one was laughing. There was something strangely terrifying about him, even without his clothes and running with wet. It was the Practicals who shifted backwards, confused, scared even. “You’re coming with us,” the woman repeated, though a certain doubt seemed to have entered her voice. One of her companions stepped warily towards Bayaz. Jezal felt a strange sensation in his stomach. A tugging, a sucking, an empty, sick feeling. It was like being back on the bridge, in the shadow of the Maker’s House. Only worse. The wizard’s face had turned terribly hard. “My patience is at an end.” Like a bottle dropped from a great height, the nearest Practical burst apart. There was no thunderclap, only a gentle squelching. One moment he was moving towards the old man, sword raised, entirely whole. The next he was a thousand fragments. Some unknown part of him thudded wetly against the plaster next to Jezal’s head. His sword dropped and rattled on the boards. “You were saying?” growled the First of the Magi. ~ Joe Abercrombie,

893:The Ku Klux Klan was founded in 1866 in Pulaski, Tennessee, by a group of former Confederate soldiers; its first grand wizard was a Confederate general who was also a delegate to the Democratic National Convention. The Klan soon spread beyond the South to the Midwest and the West and became, in the words of historian Eric Foner, “the domestic terrorist arm of the Democratic Party.” The main point of the Klan’s orgy of violence was to prevent blacks from voting—voting, that is, for Republicans. Leading Democrats, including at least one president, two Supreme Court justices, and innumerable senators and congressmen, were Klan members. The last one, Robert Byrd, died in 2010 and was eulogized by President Obama and former President Bill Clinton. Hillary Clinton called him her “mentor.” The sordid history of the Democratic Party in the early twentieth century is also married to the sordid history of the progressive movement during the same period. Progressives like Margaret Sanger—founder of Planned Parenthood and a role model for Hillary Clinton—supported such causes as eugenics and social Darwinism. While abortion was not an issue in Sanger’s day, she backed forced sterilization for “unfit” people, notably minorities. Sanger’s Negro Project was specifically focused on reducing the black population. ~ Dinesh D Souza,

894:Good day to you, Harry Potter’s relatives!” said Dedalus happily, striding into the living room. The Dursleys did not look at all happy to be addressed thus; Harry half expected another change of mind. Dudley shrank nearer to his mother at the sight of the witch and wizard. “I see you are packed and ready. Excellent! The plan, as Harry has told you, is a simple one,” said Dedalus, pulling an immense pocket watch out of his waistcoat and examining it. “We shall be leaving before Harry does. Due to the danger of using magic in your house--Harry being still underage, it could provide the Ministry with an excuse to arrest him--we shall be driving, say, ten miles or so, before Disapparating to the safe location we have picked out for you. You know how to drive, I take it?” he asked Uncle Vernon politely. “Know how to--? Of course I ruddy well know how to drive!” spluttered Uncle Vernon. “Very clever of you, sir, very clever, I personally would be utterly bamboozled by all those buttons and knobs,” said Dedalus. He was clearly under the impression that he was flattering Vernon Dursley, who was visibly losing confidence in the plan with every word Dedalus spoke. “Can’t even drive,” he muttered under his breath, his mustache rippling indignantly, but fortunately neither Dedalus nor Hestia seemed to hear him. ~ J K Rowling,

895:Probably the first book that Hamilton absorbed was Malachy Postlethwayt’s Universal Dictionary of Trade and Commerce, a learned almanac of politics, economics, and geography that was crammed with articles about taxes, public debt, money, and banking. The dictionary took the form of two ponderous, folio-sized volumes, and it is touching to think of young Hamilton lugging them through the chaos of war. Hamilton would praise Postlethwayt as one of “the ablest masters of political arithmetic.” 13 A proponent of manufacturing, Postlethwayt gave the aide-de-camp a glimpse of a mixed economy in which government would both steer business activity and free individual energies. In the pay book one can see the future treasury wizard mastering the rudiments of finance. “When you can get more of foreign coin, [the] coin for your native exchange is said to be high and the reverse low,” Hamilton noted. 14 He also stocked his mind with basic information about the world: “The continent of Europe is 2600 miles long and 2800 miles broad”; 15 “Prague is the principal city of Bohemia, the principal part of the commerce of which is carried on by the Jews.” 16 He recorded tables from Postlethwayt showing infant-mortality rates, population growth, foreign-exchange rates, trade balances, and the total economic output of assorted nations. ~ Ron Chernow,

896:I put on my sunglasses and start to sing “Sixteen Going on Seventeen” from The Sound of Music. “You need someone older and wiser, telling you what to do.” I tap him on the nose for emphasis. “Hey, I’m older than you,” he objects. I run my hand along Peter’s cheek and sing, “I am seventeen going on eighteen, I-I-I’ll take care of you.” “Promise?” he says. “Sing it just once for me,” I prompt. Peter gives me a look. “Please? I love it when you sing. Your voice is so clean.” He can’t help but smile. Peter never met a compliment he didn’t smile at. “I don’t know the words,” he protests. “Yes you do.” I pretend to wave a wand in his face. “Imperio! Wait--do you know what that means?” “It’s…an unforgivable curse?” “Yes. Very impressive, Peter K. And what does it do?” “It makes you do things you don’t want to do.” “Very good, young wizard. There’s hope for you yet. Now sing!” “You little witch.” He looks around to see if anyone is listening, and then he softly sings, “I need someone older and wiser telling me what to do…You are seventeen going on eighteen…I’ll depend on you.” I clap my hands in delight. Is there anything more intoxicating than making a boy bend to your will? I roll closer to him and throw my arms around his neck. “Now you’re the one making PDAs!” he says. ~ Jenny Han,

897:The Magic Wand As an April garden Breathes the scent of rain Rain that calls her treasures Back to life again So my spirit quickens to the opening strain. In its sheath of darkness Fancy's folded wing Thrills and stirs and quivers To another spring, When the bow is drawn across the trembling string. In their grave of silence, In their husk and core, Dreams that winter buried Feel the sap once more Running warm and vital, as it ran before. Into secret chambers Where old passions sleep, Through the long-closed shutters, Lights of morning creep: Through the opening doorway airs of morning sweep. Hope resurgent, and Youth, With their dancing train, Mingled grief and glory, Blended bliss and pain, Ecstasies and agonies, come forth and live again. Wizard hand that summoned Each forgotten ghost, Plays like wind or water With the spell-bound host, Sailing seas supernal, for no earthly coast. Yet no magic music That an ear can mark Draws them winging upward 222 Through the mist and dark, As the sky at sunrise draws the mounting lark. Through the poet-spirit, Touched with heavenly fire, Heavenly voices whisper In the wood and wire. God is the musician, and my soul the lyre. ~ Ada Cambridge,

898:Frost Magic Now, in the moonrise, from a wintry sky, The frost has come to charm with elfin might This quiet room; to draw with symbols bright Faces and forms in fairest charactery Upon the casement; all the thoughts that lie Deep hidden in my heart's core he would tell, How the red shoots of fancy strike and swell, How they are watered, what soil nourished by. With eerie power he piles his atomies, Incrusted gems, star-glances overborne With lids of sleep pulled from the moth's bright eyes, And forests of frail ferns, blanched and forlorn, Where Oberon of unimagined size Might in the silver silence wind his horn. II With these alone he draws in magic lines, Faces that people dreams, and chiefly one Happy and brilliant as the northern sun, And by its darling side there gleams and shines One of God's children with the laughing signs Of dimples, and glad accents, and sweet cries, That angels are and heaven's memories: The wizard thus my soul's estate divines; All it holds dear he sets alone apart, Etches the past in likeness of dim groves Silvered in quiet rime and with rare art, In crystal spoils and fairy treasure-troves, He draws the picture of the happy heart, By those who love it most, whom most it loves. ~ Duncan Campbell Scott,

899:The whole idea of it makes me feel like I'm coming down with something, something worse than any stomach ache or the headaches I get from reading in bad light-- a kind of measles of the spirit, a mumps of the psyche, a disfiguring chicken pox of the soul. You tell me it is too early to be looking back, but that is because you have forgotten the perfect simplicity of being one and the beautiful complexity introduced by two. But I can lie on my bed and remember every digit. At four I was an Arabian wizard. I could make myself invisible by drinking a glass of milk a certain way. At seven I was a soldier, at nine a prince. But now I am mostly at the window watching the late afternoon light. Back then it never fell so solemnly against the side of my tree house, and my bicycle never leaned against the garage as it does today, all the dark blue speed drained out of it. This is the beginning of sadness, I say to myself, as I walk through the universe in my sneakers. It is time to say good-bye to my imaginary friends, time to turn the first big number. It seems only yesterday I used to believe there was nothing under my skin but light. If you cut me I could shine. But now when I fall upon the sidewalks of life, I skin my knees. I bleed. ~ Billy Collins,

900:As I make the ten-minute drive into town, I curse O’Shea for forcing this volunteer gig on me and ponder the authenticity of voodoo dolls. Eventually I decide it doesn’t matter if they’re real or not. It’d still be fun to poke needles into a teeny doll version of Frank O’Shea. Once it starts falling apart from all the holes, I can use the head as a stress ball. At a red light, I shoot a quick text to my teammate Fitzy—Hey, do u know how 2 make a voodoo doll? His response doesn’t come until I reach the small arena across the street from the school. Him: I’d think u were fcking with me, but the question is stupid enuff to feel legit. No idea how to make v-doll. Can prolly use any old doll? Challenge will be finding a voodoo witch to link it to your target. Me: That makes sense. Him: Does it?? Me: Voodoo implies magic, hexes, etc. I don’t think any doll would work. Otherwise every doll is a v-doll, right? Him: Right. Me: Anyway. Thx. Thought u might know. Him: Why the fuck would *I* know? Me: Ur into all those fantasy role-play games. U know magic. Him: I’m not Harry Potter, ffs. Me: HP is a nerd. Ur a nerd. Ergo, ur a boy wizard. He sends a middle-finger emoji, then says, Bday beers at Malone’s 2nite. U still down? Me: Yup. Him: C U ltr ~ Elle Kennedy,

901:Why are you making that face?” he asked suddenly. I blinked up at him, caught off guard. I raised my eyebrows, trying to play dumb. “What face?” It didn’t work. With a fork hanging out of his mouth, he narrowed his dark eyes just the slightest bit. “That one.” He gestured toward me with his chin. I shrugged in an ‘I don’t know what you’re talking about’ expression. “Is there something you want to say?” There were a hundred things I wanted to tell him on a regular basis, but I knew him too well. He didn’t really care if there was something I wanted to say or not. He didn’t care if my opinion was different from his or if I thought he should do something differently. He was just reminding me who the boss was. AKA not me. Asswipe. “Me?” I blinked. “Nope.” He gave me a lazy glare before his eyes lowered to focus on the hand I had hidden on the other side of the kitchen island. “Then quit flipping me off. I’m not changing my mind about the signing,” he said in a deceptively casual voice. I pressed my lips together as I dropped my hand. He was a goddamn witch. I swear on my life, he was a freaking witch. A wizard. An oracle. A person with a third eye. Every single time I had ever flipped him off, he’d been aware of it. I didn’t think I was that obvious about it either. ~ Mariana Zapata,

902:Rincewind sighed, and padded around the base of the tower toward the Library. Towards where the Library had been. There was the arch of the doorway, and most of the walls were still standing, but a lot of the roof had fallen in and everything was blackened by soot. Rincewind stood and stared for a long time. Then he dropped the carpet and ran, stumbling and sliding through the rubble that half-blocked the doorway. The stones were still warm underfoot. Here and there the wreckage of bookcase still smouldered. Anyone watching would have seen Rincewind dart backward and forward across the shimmering heaps, scrabbling desperately among them, throwing aside charred furniture, pulling aside lumps of fallen roof with less than superhuman strength. They would have seen him pause once or twice to get his breath back, then dive in again, cutting his hands on shards of half molten glass from the dome of the roof. They would have noticed that he seemed to be sobbing. Eventually his questing fingers touched something warm and soft. The frantic wizard heaved a charred roof beam aside, scrabbled through a drift of fallen tiles and peered down. There, half squashed by the beam and baked brown by the fire, was a large bunch of overripe, squashy bananas. He picked one up, very carefully, and sat and watched it for some time until the end fell off. Then he ate it. ~ Terry Pratchett,

903:On Turning Ten The whole idea of it makes me feel like I'm coming down with something, something worse than any stomach ache or the headaches I get from reading in bad light-a kind of measles of the spirit, a mumps of the psyche, a disfiguring chicken pox of the soul. You tell me it is too early to be looking back, but that is because you have forgotten the perfect simplicity of being one and the beautiful complexity introduced by two. But I can lie on my bed and remember every digit. At four I was an Arabian wizard. I could make myself invisible by drinking a glass of milk a certain way. At seven I was a soldier, at nine a prince. But now I am mostly at the window watching the late afternoon light. Back then it never fell so solemnly against the side of my tree house, and my bicycle never leaned against the garage as it does today, all the dark blue speed drained out of it. This is the beginning of sadness, I say to myself, as I walk through the universe in my sneakers. It is time to say good-bye to my imaginary friends, time to turn the first big number. It seems only yesterday I used to believe there was nothing under my skin but light. If you cut me I could shine. But now when I fall upon the sidewalks of life, I skin my knees. I bleed. ~ Billy Collins,

904:In Iowa, the American Future Fund began airing an ad created by Larry McCarthy that Geoff Garin, the Democratic pollster, described as perhaps “the most egregious of the year.” The ad accused the then congressman Bruce Braley, an Iowa Democrat and a lawyer, of supporting a proposed Islamic community center in lower Manhattan, which it misleadingly called a “mosque at Ground Zero.” As footage of the destroyed World Trade Center rolled, a narrator said, “For centuries, Muslims built mosques where they won military victories.” Now it said a mosque celebrating 9/11 was to be built on the very spot “where Islamic terrorists killed three thousand Americans”; it was, the narrator suggested, as if the Japanese were to build a triumphal monument at Pearl Harbor. The ad then accused Braley of supporting the mosque. In fact, Braley had taken no position on the issue. No surprise for a congressman from Iowa. But an unidentified video cameraman had ambushed him at the Iowa State Fair and asked him about it. Braley replied that he regarded the matter as a local zoning issue for New Yorkers to decide. Soon afterward, he says, the attack ad “dropped on me like the house in ‘The Wizard of Oz.’ ” Braley, who won his seat by a margin of 30 percent in 2008, barely held on in 2010. The American Future Fund’s effort against Braley was the most expensive campaign that year by an independent group. ~ Jane Mayer,

905:A poem by Billy Collins, poet laureate of the United States, captures the ache of loss at the end of childhood. Its title is significant: “On Turning Ten”: The whole idea of it makes me feel like I’m coming down with something, something worse than any stomach ache or the headaches I get from reading in bad light— a kind of measles of the spirit, a mumps of the psyche, a disfiguring chickenpox of the soul. You tell me it is too early to be looking back, but that is because you have forgotten the perfect simplicity of being one and the beautiful complexity introduced by two. But I can lie on my bed and remember every digit. At four I was an Arabian wizard. I could make myself invisible By drinking a glass of milk a certain way. At seven I was a soldier, at nine a prince. But now I am mostly at the window watching the late afternoon light. Back then it never fell so solemnly against the side of my tree house, and my bicycle never leaned against the garage as it does today, all the dark blue speed drained out of it. This is the beginning of sadness, I say to myself, as I walk through the universe in my sneakers. It is time to say good-bye to my imaginary friends, time to turn the first big number. It seems only yesterday I used to believe there was nothing under my skin but light. If you cut me I would shine. But now when I fall upon the sidewalks of life, I skin my knees. I bleed. ~ Marcus J Borg,

906:THE BALLAD OF NEARLY HEADLESS NICK BY J.K. ROWLING It was a mistake any wizard could make Who was tired and caught on the hop One piffling error, and then, to my terror, I found myself facing the chop. Alas for the eve when I met Lady Grieve A-strolling the park in the dusk! She was of the belief I could straighten her teeth Next moment she’d sprouted a tusk. I cried through the night that I’d soon put her right But the process of justice was lax; They’d brought out the block, though they’d mislaid the rock Where they usually sharpened the axe. Next morning at dawn, with a face most forlorn, The priest said to try not to cry, ‘You can come just like that, no, you won’t need a hat,’ And I knew that my end must be nigh. The man in the mask who would have the sad task Of cleaving my head from my neck, Said ‘Nick, if you please, will you get to your knees,’ And I turned to a gibbering wreck. ‘This may sting a bit’ said the cack-handed twit As he swung the axe up in the air, But oh the blunt blade! No difference it made, My head was still definitely there. The axeman he hacked and he whacked and he thwacked, ‘Won’t be too long’, he assured me, But quick it was not, and the bone-headed clot Took forty-five goes ’til he floored me. And so I was dead, but my faithful old head It never saw fit to desert me, It still lingers on, that’s the end of my song, And now, please applaud, or you’ll hurt me. ~ J K Rowling,

907:How Great Is Our God! And I said, O Lord God of heaven, the great and terrible God, Who keeps covenant, loving-kindness, and mercy for those who love Him and keep His commandments… NEHEMIAH 1:5 AMP When Dorothy finally met the wizard she had been searching for in The Wonderful Wizard of Oz, she was disappointed. The “Great and Terrible” magician, who had promoted himself as an all-powerful man with a short temper, turned out to be a normal person behind a curtain—albeit one who was good at special effects. Rest assured, when we finally meet God, we won’t have the same kind of letdown. The Bible notes God’s inestimable qualities—unconditional love, unending mercy, unimaginable strength—with reverence. The New Testament authors also repeatedly wrote about God’s mercy and compassion, lest we despair of ever coming near Him. Of course, we need to fear the holy Creator and Maker of all things and strive to do His will, but as the One who formed us, God knows that we will fail (and loves us anyway). His love is why He sent Jesus to die on the cross. Today, think about God’s love, mercy, and strength as you go about your day. When you face problems, ask Him to solve them, instead of trying to fix them yourself. Repeatedly and reverently surrender to Him—because He is great, but He’s certainly not terrible. Creator, Maker, Redeemer God—You are wonderful. Thank You for Your wisdom, strength, and love. Amen. ~ Anonymous,

908:In the words of Mr Thierry Coup of Warner Bros: 'We are taking the most iconic and powerful moments of the stories and putting them in an immersive environment. It is taking the theme park experience to a new level.' And of course I wish Thierry and his colleagues every possible luck, and I am sure it will be wonderful. But I cannot conceal my feelings; and the more I think of those millions of beaming kids waving their wands and scampering the Styrofoam turrets of Hogwartse_STmk, and the more I think of those millions of poor put-upon parents who must now pay to fly to Orlando and pay to buy wizard hats and wizard cloaks and wizard burgers washed down with wizard meade_STmk, the more I grind my teeth in jealous irritation. Because the fact is that Harry Potter is not American. He is British. Where is Diagon Alley, where they buy wands and stuff? It is in London, and if you want to get into the Ministry of Magic you disappear down a London telephone box. The train for Hogwarts goes from King's Cross, not Grand Central Station, and what is Harry Potter all about? It is about the ritual and intrigue and dorm-feast excitement of a British boarding school of a kind that you just don't find in America. Hogwarts is a place where children occasionally get cross with each other—not 'mad'—and where the situation is usually saved by a good old British sense of HUMOUR. WITH A U. RIGHT? NOT HUMOR. GOTTIT? ~ Boris Johnson,

909:She lifted a piece of sourdough bruschetta slathered with seafood and a light-colored sauce. She bit carefully into the creation. Her mouth exploded with flavor. Prawns and lobster swimming in the most delectable sauce. Buttery and layered, with whisky and leeks and onions and simple herbs. Sophia moaned. There was more than just one bite on this plate. Thank God. Not strictly a true amuse-bouche, but Sophia didn't care. Was it bad form to lick the plate in a cooking competition? This drab little plate had miraculously fixed her taste bud deficiency. Unbelievable. The moment had just shifted from black-and-white to color, like a scene from the Wizard of Oz. Who had created this dish? Someone with a sophisticated palate but no eye for visual presentation. The last plate beckoned, but she already knew it was a lost cause. There was no way it could best that seafood stew. It was a lovely crepe, packed with grilled eggplant and goat cheese. And now that Sophia's taste had been awakened from hibernation, she was able to enjoy every bite. But it still wasn't enough to out-shine the prawns. Those prawns sang to her, and they needed her. They demanded color and brightness. The sauce was bold and rich. That plate clamored for the balance of her garden. She could imagine a prickly little salad to offer texture and bite, to complement that exquisite sauce. Those prawns needed her. ~ Penny Watson,

910:A step further. Creationism. If you want to go in so deep as to ignore all of the advances and hard facts that SCIENCE and LEARNING have provided us in the field of biological evolution and instead profess that the creation story, written by men from their holy visions, about how the Christian deity spinning the world together out of the void in the magic of Genesis describes the true origin of the universe, that is your business. Terrific. It’s a cool story, don’t get me wrong; I love magic. Check out Madeleine L’Engle’s A Wrinkle in Time, which won a Newbery Medal. For the record, I don’t believe the book of Genesis ever won one of those. You and your fellow creationists profess belief in a magical story. You are welcome to do so. Sing and chant, and eat crackers and drink wine that you claim are magically infused with the blood and flesh of your church’s original grand wizard, the Prince of Peace. I personally think that’s just a touch squirrelly, but that’s your business, not mine. You will not be punished for those beliefs in our nation of individual freedoms. But I do think the vast majority of your fellow Americans would appreciate it, kind creationists, if you silly motherfuckers would keep that bullshit out of our schools. Your preferred fairy tales have no place in a children’s classroom or textbook that professes to be teaching our youngsters what is REAL. Jesus Christ, it’s irrefutably un-American, people! ~ Nick Offerman,

911:Foster The Light Foster the light nor veil the manshaped moon, Nor weather winds that blow not down the bone, But strip the twelve-winded marrow from his circle; Master the night nor serve the snowman's brain That shapes each bushy item of the air Into a polestar pointed on an icicle. Murmur of spring nor crush the cockerel's eggs, Nor hammer back a season in the figs, But graft these four-fruited ridings on your country; Farmer in time of frost the burning leagues, By red-eyed orchards sow the seeds of snow, In your young years the vegetable century. And father all nor fail the fly-lord's acre, Nor sprout on owl-seed like a goblin-sucker, But rail with your wizard's ribs the heart-shaped planet; Of mortal voices to the ninnies' choir, High lord esquire, speak up the singing cloud, And pluck a mandrake music from the marrowroot. Roll unmanly over this turning tuft, O ring of seas, nor sorrow as I shift From all my mortal lovers with a starboard smile; Nor when my love lies in the cross-boned drift Naked among the bow-and-arrow birds Shall you turn cockwise on a tufted axle. Who gave these seas their colour in a shape, Shaped my clayfellow, and the heaven's ark In time at flood filled with his coloured doubles; O who is glory in the shapeless maps, Now make the world of me as I have made A merry manshape of your walking circle. ~ Dylan Thomas,

912:How does she do that?” Bird asked. I didn’t have to ask who the she was. I knew it was Tiffany. Nor did I have to ask what Bird was referring to. Jason and Mac were leaning toward Tiffany, listening to whatever it was she was saying, like it was the most interesting thing in the world. “Does she wear, like, turn-’em-stupid perfume or something?” Bird asked. “I don’t know. Maybe guys like thinking they’re way smarter than girls.” “It’s gotta be an act. No one is that brainless.” She grimaced. “I don’t mean to dis your sister, but really, does anyone think the moon actually turns blue?” Yeah, Tiffany had asked, “So when does the moon turn blue?” Mac had laughed and explained that a blue moon was the second full moon in a month, that a full moon appeared every twenty-nine nights, and so it was truly rare to have two full moons in any given month. He’d said he’d taken a class in astronomy. “Oh, I love astronomy. I’m a Pisces. What sign are you?” Which had made Mac laugh again, and he started to explain the difference between astronomy and astrology. Tiffany was apparently absolutely fascinated…and fascinating. His gaze--and Jason’s--was riveted on her. I gave another little shrug, feeling a need to defend my sister, who might be in need of a trip down the yellow brick road to ask the wizard for some brains. “I wasn’t exactly sure what a blue moon was, either.” “But you know the difference between astronomy and astrology. ~ Rachel Hawthorne,

913:Assumption Two: God only cares about spiritual things. To be honest, I don't even know what this means, but those elusive spiritual things have been helping Christians cop out of true holiness for centuries. We are all like accountants with wizard-like abilities, funneling our choices and goals and actions through shell corporations and off-shore banks of unrighteousness. God only cares about spiritual things? His kingdom is a spiritual kingdom? Are you kidding me? God only cares how we emote at him? That's part of it, sure, but I was pretty sure that He made physical animals and a physical man and gave him a physical job. I was pretty sure that He made a physical tree with physical fruit and told that physical man not to eat it or he would physically die. He physically ate it anyway and now we physically go into the physical ground, physically rot, and become physical plant and physical worm food. And because of this incredibly physical problem, He made things even more clear when His own Son took on physical flesh to lead a physical life that lead to a physical cross where He physically absorbed our curse, was physically tortured, and bought you and bought me and bought this whole physical world with His physical blood. If He'd wanted a spiritual kingdom, He could have saved Himself a huge amount of trouble (to say nothing of making the Greek philosophers and medieval gnostics a lot happier), by just skipping Christmas and the Crucifixion. ~ N D Wilson,

914:Bad or good, movies nearly always have a strange diminishing effect on works of fantasy (of course there are exceptions; The Wizard of Oz is an example which springs immediately to mind). In discussions, people are willing to cast various parts endlessly. I've always thought Robert Duvall would make a splendid Randall Flagg, but I've heard people suggest such people as Clint Eastwood, Bruce Dern and Christopher Walken. They all sound good, just as Bruce Springsteen would seem to make an interesting Larry Underwood, if ever he chose to try acting (and, based on his videos, I think he would do very well ... although my personal choice would be Marshall Crenshaw). But in the end, I think it's best for Stu, Larry, Glen, Frannie, Ralph, Tom Cullen, Lloyd, and that dark fellow to belong to the reader, who will visualize them through the lens of the imagination in a vivid and constantly changing way no camera can duplicate. Movies, after all, are only an illusion of motion comprised of thousands of still photographs. The imagination, however, moves with its own tidal flow. Films, even the best of them, freeze fiction - anyone who has ever seen One Flew Over The Cuckoo's Nest and then reads Ken Kesey's novel will find it hard or impossible not to see Jack Nicholson's face on Randle Patrick McMurphy. That is not necessarily bad ... but it is limiting. The glory of a good tale is that it is limitless and fluid; a good tale belongs to each reader in its own particular way. ~ Stephen King,

915:BELOVED, gaze in thine own heart, The holy tree is growing there; From joy the holy branches start, And all the trembling flowers they bear. The changing colours of its fruit Have dowered the stars with metry light; The surety of its hidden root Has planted quiet in the night; The shaking of its leafy head Has given the waves their melody, And made my lips and music wed, Murmuring a wizard song for thee. There the Joves a circle go, The flaming circle of our days, Gyring, spiring to and fro In those great ignorant leafy ways; Remembering all that shaken hair And how the winged sandals dart, Thine eyes grow full of tender care: Beloved, gaze in thine own heart. Gaze no more in the bitter glass The demons, with their subtle guile. Lift up before us when they pass, Or only gaze a little while; For there a fatal image grows That the stormy night receives, Roots half hidden under snows, Broken boughs and blackened leaves. For ill things turn to barrenness In the dim glass the demons hold, The glass of outer weariness, Made when God slept in times of old. There, through the broken branches, go The ravens of unresting thought; Flying, crying, to and fro, Cruel claw and hungry throat, Or else they stand and sniff the wind, And shake their ragged wings; alas! Thy tender eyes grow all unkind: Gaze no more in the bitter glass. ~ William Butler Yeats, The Two Trees ,

916:Once upon a time, powerful wizard, who wanted to destroy an entire kingdom, placed a magic potion in the well from which the inhabitants drank. Whoever drank that water would go mad. The following morning, the whole population drank from the well and they all went mad, apart from the king and his family, who had a well set aside for them alone, which the magician had not managed to poison. The king was worried and tried to control the population by issuing a series of edicts governing security and public health. The policemen and the inspectors, however, had also drunk the poisoned water, and they thought the king’s decisions were absurd and resolved to take notice of them. When the inhabitants of the kingdom heard these decrees, they became convinced that the king had gone mad and was now giving nonsensical orders. The marched on the castle and called for his abdication. In despair the king prepared to step down from the throne, but the queen stopped him, saying: ‘Let us go and drink from the communal well. Then we will be the same as them.’ And that was what they did: The king and queen drank the water of madness and immediately began talking nonsense. Their subjects repented at once; now that the king was displaying such ‘wisdom’, why not allow him to rule the country? The country continued to live in peace, although its inhabitants behaved very differently from those of its neighbors. And the king was able to govern until the end of his days. ~ Paulo Coelho,

917:Perhaps nothing would have happened were it not the pit of summer, with a month and a half ahead. There is no air-conditioning in the apartment, and this year - the summer of 1969 - it seems something is happening to everyone but them. People are getting wasted at Woodstock and singing 'Pinball Wizard' and watching Midnight Cowboy, which none of the Gold children are allowed to see. They're rioting outside Stonewall, ramming the doors with uprooted parking meters, smashing windows and jukeboxes. They're being murdered in the most gruesome way imaginable, with chemical explosives and guns that can fire five hundred and fifty bullets in succession, their faces transmitted with horrifying immediacy to the television in the Gold's kitchen. 'They're walking on the motherf***ing moon,' said Daniel, who has begun to use this sort of language, but only at a safe remove from their mother. James Earl Ray is sentenced, and so is Sirhan Sirhan, and all the while the Golds play jacks or darts or rescue Zoya from an open pipe behind the oven, which she seems convinced is her rightful home. But something else created the atmosphere required for this pilgrimage: they are siblings, this summer, in a way they will never be again. Next year, Varya will go to the Catskills with her friend Aviva. Daniel will be immersed in the private rituals of the neighborhood boys, leaving Klara and Simon to their own devices. In 1969, though, they are still a unit, yoked as if it isn't possible to be anything but. ~ Chloe Benjamin,

918:BELOVED, gaze in thine own heart, The holy tree is growing there; From joy the holy branches start, And all the trembling flowers they bear. The changing colours of its fruit Have dowered the stars with merry light; The surety of its hidden root Has planted quiet in the night; The shaking of its leafy head Has given the waves their melody, And made my lips and music wed, Murmuring a wizard song for thee. There the Loves a circle go, The flaming circle of our days, Gyring, spiring to and fro In those great ignorant leafy ways; Remembering all that shaken hair And how the wingèd sandals dart, Thine eyes grow full of tender care: Beloved, gaze in thine own heart. Gaze no more in the bitter glass The demons, with their subtle guile, Lift up before us when they pass, Or only gaze a little while; For there a fatal image grows That the stormy night receives, Roots half hidden under snows, Broken boughs and blackened leaves. For all things turn to barrenness In the dim glass the demons hold, The glass of outer weariness, Made when God slept in times of old. There, through the broken branches, go The ravens of unresting thought; Flying, crying, to and fro, Cruel claw and hungry throat, Or else they stand and sniff the wind, And shake their ragged wings; alas! Thy tender eyes grow all unkind: Gaze no more in the bitter glass. - The Two Trees ~ W B Yeats,

919:LIKE CARS, FOR INSTANCE?” Mrs. Weasley had appeared, holding a long poker like a sword. Mr. Weasley’s eyes jerked open. He stared guiltily at his wife. “C-cars, Molly, dear?” “Yes, Arthur, cars,” said Mrs. Weasley, her eyes flashing. “Imagine a wizard buying a rusty old car and telling his wife all he wanted to do with it was take it apart to see how it worked, while really he was enchanting it to make it fly.” Mr. Weasley blinked. “Well, dear, I think you’ll find that he would be quite within the law to do that, even if — er — he maybe would have done better to, um, tell his wife the truth. . . . There’s a loophole in the law, you’ll find. . . . As long as he wasn’t intending to fly the car, the fact that the car could fly wouldn’t —” “Arthur Weasley, you made sure there was a loophole when you wrote that law!” shouted Mrs. Weasley. “Just so you could carry on tinkering with all that Muggle rubbish in your shed! And for your information, Harry arrived this morning in the car you weren’t intending to fly!” “Harry?” said Mr. Weasley blankly. “Harry who?” He looked around, saw Harry, and jumped. “Good lord, is it Harry Potter? Very pleased to meet you, Ron’s told us so much about —” “Your sons flew that car to Harry’s house and back last night!” shouted Mrs. Weasley. “What have you got to say about that, eh?” “Did you really?” said Mr. Weasley eagerly. “Did it go all right? I — I mean,” he faltered as sparks flew from Mrs. Weasley’s eyes, “that — that was very wrong, boys — very wrong indeed. . . . ~ J K Rowling,

920:The Dead Poet Never again shall he with wizard sleight Ensare on threshold of his soul the bright Unearthly splendors that would oft alight, And in the magic web of melody Display them flashing as when they were free. Never again shall he be inflamed by Spring Soar to the gods to hear Apollo sing Songs ah! so sweet and with so tense a lyre They seemed as nectar flowing through white fire. Never again shall he fold truths in rhyme And thrust them clinging 'neath the wings of Time, Shape a fine fancy with unfaltering taste, Fondling the colors that the sounds embraced; Or with eyes dim from dreaming watch the slow Ascending sun's plume on a fervid glow, And pinions palely spreading far away; Or hear at night, when on his couch he lay, The moaning of the moonlit toiling sea With burden of o'erwhelming memory, Seeming to carry in an undertone Rumors of dauntless heroes he had known, Who bearded even gods to glut desire And fought beneath the thunder of their ire. Lured by the glamor of translunar dreams He chased through mist the ever-fleeting gleams. Aloof from wealth's red bubbled vanities, Contented to be thought not worldly wise Since he, when flamed the mantle of the seer, In mood majestic trod the magian sphere Where nature's veil at his authentic glance Fell quivering from her fire-bright countenance, And heard, like an abysmal heaving sea, The movement of the Eternal Harmony. ~ Arthur Bayldon,

921:We have also heard within the last few hours that Rubeus Hagrid”--all three of them gasped, and so nearly missed the rest of the sentence--“well-known gamekeeper at Hogwarts School, has narrowly escaped arrest within the grounds of Hogwarts, where he is rumored to have hosted a ‘Support Harry Potter’ party in his house. However, Hagrid was not taken into custody, and is, we believe, on the run.” “I suppose it helps, when escaping from Death Eaters, if you’ve got a sixteen-foot-high half brother?” asked Lee. “It would tend to give you an edge,” agreed Lupin gravely. “May I just add that while we here at Potterwatch applaud Hagrid’s spirit, we would urge even the most devoted of Harry’s supporters against following Hagrid’s lead. ‘Support Harry Potter’ parties are unwise in the present climate.” “Indeed they are, Romulus,” said Lee, “so we suggest that you continue to show your devotion to the man with the lightning scar by listening to Potterwatch! And now let’s move to news concerning the wizard who is proving just as elusive as Harry Potter. We like to refer to him as the Chief Death Eater, and here to give his views on some of the more insane rumors circulating about him, I’d like to introduce a new correspondent: Rodent.” “‘Rodent’?” said yet another familiar voice, and Harry, Ron, and Hermione cried out together: “Fred!” “No--is it George?” “It’s Fred, I think,” said Ron, leaning in closer, as whichever twin it was said, “I’m not being ‘Rodent,’ no way, I told you I wanted to be ‘Rapier’! ~ J K Rowling,

922:Mary!” Mrs. Cattermole looked over her shoulder. The real Reg Cattermole, no longer vomiting but pale and wan, had just come running out of a lift. “R-Reg?” She looked from her husband to Ron, who swore loudly. The balding wizard gaped, his head turning ludicrously from one Reg Cattermole to the other. “Hey--what’s going on? What is this?” “Seal the exit! SEAL IT!” Yaxley had burst out of another lift and was running toward the group beside the fireplaces, into which all of the Muggle-borns but Mrs. Cattermole had now vanished. As the balding wizard lifted his wand, Harry raised an enormous fist and punched him, sending him flying through the air. “He’s been helping Muggle-borns escape, Yaxley!” Harry shouted. The balding wizard’s colleagues set up an uproar, under cover of which Ron grabbed Mrs. Cattermole, pulled her into the still-open fireplace, and disappeared. Confused, Yaxley looked from Harry to the punched wizard, while the real Reg Cattermole screamed. “My wife! Who was that with my wife? What’s going on?” Harry saw Yaxley’s head turn, saw an inkling of the truth dawn in that brutish face. “Come on!” Harry shouted at Hermione; he seized her hand and they jumped into the fireplace together as Yaxley’s curse sailed over Harry’s head. They spun for a few seconds before shooting up out of a toilet into a cubicle. Harry flung open the door; Ron was standing there beside the sinks, still wrestling with Mrs. Cattermole. “Reg, I don’t understand--” “Let go, I’m not your husband, you’ve got to go home! ~ J K Rowling,

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

924:each other and build a life together, I say more power to them. Let’s encourage solid, loving households with open-minded policy, and perhaps we’ll foster a new era of tolerance in which we can turn our attention to actual issues that need our attention, like, I don’t know, killing/bullying the citizens of other nations to maintain control of their oil? What exactly was Jesus’ take on violent capitalism? I also have some big ideas for changing the way we think about literary morals as they pertain to legislation. Rather than suffer another attempt by the religious right to base our legalese upon the Bible, I would vote that we found it squarely upon the writings of J. R. R. Tolkien. The citizens of Middle Earth had much more tolerant policies in their governing bodies. For example, Elrond was chosen to lead the elves at Rivendell not only despite his androgynous nature but most likely because of the magical leadership inherent in a well-appointed bisexual elf wizard. That’s the person you want picking shit out for your community. That’s the guy you want in charge. David Bowie or a Mormon? Not a difficult equation. Was Elrond in a gay marriage? We don’t know, because it’s none of our goddamn business. Whatever the nature of his elvish lovemaking, it didn’t affect his ability to lead his community to prosperity and provide travelers with great directions. We should be encouraging love in the home place, because that makes for happier, stronger citizens. Supporting domestic solidity can only create more satisfied, invested patriots. No matter what flavor that love takes. I like blueberry myself. ~ Nick Offerman,

925:Do you mean to tell me’, he growled a the Dursleys, ‘that this boy- this boy! - knows nothin’ abou’ - about ANYTHING?’ Harry thought this was going a bit far. He had been to school, after all, and his marks were’nt bad. ’I know some things,’ he said. ’ I can, you know, do maths and stuff.’ But Hagrid simply waved his hand and said, ‘About our world, I mean. Your world. My world. Yer’ parents world.’ ‘What world?’ Hagrid looked at though he was about to explode. ‘DURSLEY!’ he boomed. Uncle Vernon, who had gone very pale, whispered something that sounded like ’Mimblewimble’. Hagrid stared wildly at Harry. ‘But yeh must know about yer mum and dad’, he said. ’I mean, they’re famous. You’re famous. ‘What? My - my mum and dad weren’t famous, were they?’ ‘Yeh don’ know... yeh don’ know...’ Hagrid ran his fingers through his hair, fixing Harry with a bewildered stare. ‘Yeh don’ know what yeh are?’ he said finally. Uncle Vernon suddenly found his voice. ‘Stop!’ he commanded, ’stop right there, sir! I forbid you to tell the boy anything!’ A braver man than Vernon dudley would have quailed under the furious look Hagrid now gave him; when Hagrid spoke, his every syllable trembled with rage. ‘You never told him? Never told him what was in the latter Dumbledore left fer him? I was there! I saw Dumbledore leave it, Dursley! An’ you kept it from him all these years?’ ‘Kept what from me?’ said Harry eagerly. ‘STOP! I FORBID YOU!’ yelled Uncle Vernon in panic. Aunt Petunia gave a gasp of horror. ’Ah, go boil yer heads, both of yeh,’ said Hagrid. ‘Harry - yer a wizard. ~ J K Rowling,

926:Among them is a renegade king, he who sired five royal heirs without ever unzipping his pants. A man to whom time has imparted great wisdom and an even greater waistline, whose thoughtless courage is rivalled only by his unquenchable thirst. At his shoulder walks a sorcerer, a cosmic conversationalist. Enemy of the incurable rot, absent chairman of combustive sciences at the university in Oddsford, and the only living soul above the age of eight to believe in owlbears. Look here at a warrior born, a scion of power and poverty whose purpose is manifold: to shatter shackles, to murder monarchs, and to demonstrate that even the forces of good must sometimes enlist the service of big, bad motherfuckers. His is an ancient soul destined to die young. And now comes the quiet one, the gentle giant, he who fights his battles with a shield. Stout as the tree that counts its age in aeons, constant as the star that marks true north and shines most brightly on the darkest nights. A step ahead of these four: our hero. He is the candle burnt down to the stump, the cutting blade grown dull with overuse. But see now the spark in his stride. Behold the glint of steel in his gaze. Who dares to stand between a man such as this and that which he holds dear? He will kill, if he must, to protect it. He will die, if that is what it takes. “Go get the boss,” says one guardsman to another. “This bunch looks like trouble.” And they do. They do look like trouble, at least until the wizard trips on the hem of his robe. He stumbles, cursing, and fouls the steps of the others as he falls face-first onto the mud-slick hillside. ~ Nicholas Eames,

927:You can’t be just a scribe, or a wizard. Nameless God,” he cried, raking a hand through his hair. “I wish they had never found you, never made you think you were the princess. Nothing else will ever be good enough, not now. You’ll never be happy. You’ll throw yourself into danger, take it all on yourself, just to prove that they were all wrong about you. And I just--I just--” And without warning, he stepped in front of me, grabbed my shoulders to stop my pacing, and kissed me. If I thought being kissed by Tyr had been what kissing was all about, I had been wrong. This kiss trampled Tyr’s kiss, threw it to the ground, and danced on its grave. It was like being kissed by sunlight, or joy. Kiernan’s arms wrapped around me, holding me so tight that I thought his hands might leave impressions on my back. But his lips were gentle, moving with mine as if they had done it for years, warm and soft. Little tingles of pleasure licked through my body, from my lips to my toes. I felt my own arms snake up around Kiernan’s neck, and I thought I might drown in sensation. And then there was coldness as air swept between our bodies. Kiernan gave me one last graze of a kiss, and pulled away. I gasped, like a drowning woman who has just had the air snatched away from her by the waves. “I love you, Sinda,” he said, not shakily but with certainty. “I have for--oh, years--before I even knew that I did. I loved you when you were the princess, and I love you now. I just want you to be happy. And I want you to be safe. I don’t care if you’re the Queen of Thorvaldor or a pig keeper in Mossfeld.” He brushed a hand down the side of my face, his thumb running over my lips. ~ Eilis O Neal,

928:In Iowa, the American Future Fund began airing an ad created by Larry McCarthy that Geoff Garin, the Democratic pollster, described as perhaps “the most egregious of the year.” The ad accused the then congressman Bruce Braley, an Iowa Democrat and a lawyer, of supporting a proposed Islamic community center in lower Manhattan, which it misleadingly called a “mosque at Ground Zero.” As footage of the destroyed World Trade Center rolled, a narrator said, “For centuries, Muslims built mosques where they won military victories.” Now it said a mosque celebrating 9/11 was to be built on the very spot “where Islamic terrorists killed three thousand Americans”; it was, the narrator suggested, as if the Japanese were to build a triumphal monument at Pearl Harbor. The ad then accused Braley of supporting the mosque. In fact, Braley had taken no position on the issue. No surprise for a congressman from Iowa. But an unidentified video cameraman had ambushed him at the Iowa State Fair and asked him about it. Braley replied that he regarded the matter as a local zoning issue for New Yorkers to decide. Soon afterward, he says, the attack ad “dropped on me like the house in ‘The Wizard of Oz.’ ” Braley, who won his seat by a margin of 30 percent in 2008, barely held on in 2010. The American Future Fund’s effort against Braley was the most expensive campaign that year by an independent group. After the election, Braley accused McCarthy, the ad maker, of “profiting from Citizens United in the lowest way.” As for those who hired McCarthy, he said, they “are laughing all the way to the bank. It’s a good investment for them…They’re the winners. The losers are the American people, and the truth. ~ Jane Mayer,

929:Dr. Pym,” Emma huffed, “what happened back there? What’s going on?” “I told you that we are here to see a man. What I did not say was that I have been searching for this individual for nearly a decade. Only recently did I finally track him to this village. You heard me asking the signora how to find his house.” “That’s it? That’s what made her drop the plate?” “Yes, it appears that he is regarded by the locals as something of a devil. Or perhaps the Devil. The signora was a bit flustered.” “Is he dangerous?” Michael asked. Then he added, “Because I’m the oldest now, and I’m responsible for Emma’s safety.” “Oh, please,” Emma groaned. “I wouldn’t say he’s dangerous,” the wizard said. “At least, not very.” They hiked on, following a narrow, twisting trail. They could hear goats bleating in the distance, the bells around their necks clanking dully in the still air. Stalks of dry grass scratched at the children’s ankles. The light was dying, and soon Michael could no longer see the town behind them. The trail ended at a badly maintained rock wall. Affixed to the wall was a piece of wood bearing a message scrawled in black paint. “What’s it say?” Emma asked. The wizard bent forward to translate. “It says, ‘Dear Moron’—oh my, what a beginning—‘you are about to enter private property. Trespassers will be shot, hanged, beaten with clubs, shot again; their eyeballs will be pecked out by crows, their livers roasted’—dear, this is disgusting, and it goes on for quite a while.…” He skipped to the bottom. “ ‘So turn around now, you blithering idiot. Sincerely, the Devil of Castel del Monte.’ ” Dr. Pym straightened up. “Not very inviting, is it? Well, come along.” And he climbed over the wall. Michael ~ John Stephens,

930:The Master Hand looked at the jewel that glittered on Ged's palm, bright as the prize of a dragon's hoard. The old Master murmured one word, "Tolk," and there lay the pebble, no jewel but a rough grey bit of rock. The Master took it and held it out on his own hand. "This is a rock; tolk in the True Speech," he said, looking mildly up at Ged now. "A bit of the stone of which Roke Isle is made, a little bit of the dry land on which men live. It is itself. It is part of the world. By the Illusion-Change you can make it look like a diamond – or a flower or a fly or an eye or a flame – " The rock flickered from shape to shape as he named them, and returned to rock. "But that is mere seeming. Illusion fools the beholder's senses; it makes him see and hear and feel that the thing is changed. But it does not change the thing. To change this rock into a jewel, you must change its true name. And to do that, my son, even to so small a scrap of the world, is to change the world. It can be done. Indeed it can be done. It is the art of the Master Changer, and you will learn it, when you are ready to learn it. But you must not change one thing, one pebble, one grain of sand, until you know what good and evil will follow on that act. The world is in balance, in Equilibrium. A wizard's power of Changing and of Summoning can shake the balance of the world. It is dangerous, that power. It is most perilous. It must follow knowledge, and serve need. To light a candle is to cast a shadow..." He looked down at the pebble again. "A rock is a good thing, too, you know," he said, speaking less gravely. "If the Isles of Eartbsea were all made of diamond, we'd lead a hard life here. Enjoy illusions, lad, and let the rocks be rocks. ~ Ursula K Le Guin,

931:As I walked toward the front door, a little motion to the left caught my eye. Jenny Sells stood in the hallway, a silent wraith. She regarded me with luminous green eyes, like her mother’s, like the dead aunt whose namesake she was. I stopped and faced her. I’m not sure why. “You’re the wizard,” she said, quietly. “You’re Harry Dresden. I saw your picture in the newspaper, once. The Arcane.” I nodded. She studied my face for a long minute. “Are you going to help my mom?” It was a simple question. But how do you tell a child that things just aren’t that simple, that some questions don’t have simple answers—or any answer at all? I looked back into her too-knowing eyes, and then quickly away. I didn’t want her to see what sort of person I was, the things I had done. She didn’t need that. “I’m going to do everything I can to help your mom.” She nodded. “Do you promise?” I promised her. She thought that over for a moment, studying me. Then she nodded. “My daddy used to be one of the good guys, Mr. Dresden. But I don’t think that he is anymore.” Her face looked sad. It was a sweet, unaffected expression. “Are you going to kill him?” Another simple question. “I don’t want to,” I told her. “But he’s trying to kill me. I might not have any choice.” She swallowed and lifted her chin. “I loved my Aunt Jenny,” she said. Her eyes brightened with tears. “Momma won’t say, and Billy’s too little to figure it out, but I know what happened.” She turned, with more grace and dignity than I could have managed, and started to leave. Then said, quietly, “I hope you’re one of the good guys, Mr. Dresden. We really need a good guy. I hope you’ll be all right.” Then she vanished down the hall on bare, silent feet. ~ Jim Butcher,

932:John Everett Millais Now let no passing-bell be tolled, Wail now no dirge of gloom; Nor around purple pall unfold The trappings of the tomb! Dead? No, the Artist doth not die; Enduring as the air, the sky, He sees the mortal years roll by, Indifferent to their doom. With the abiding He abides, Eternally the same; From shore to shore Time's sounding tides Roll and repeat His name. Death, the kind pilot, from His home But speeds Him unto widening foam, Then leaves Him, sunk from sight, to roam The ocean of his Fame. Nor thus himself alone He lives, But, by the magic known To His ``so potent art,'' He gives Life lasting as His own. See, on the canvas, foiling Fate, With kindling gaze and flashing gait, Dead Statesmen still defend the State, And vindicate the Throne. Stayed by His hand, the loved, the lost, Still keep their wonted place; And, fondly fooled, our hearts accost The vanished form and face. Beauty, most frail of earthly shows, That fades as fleetly as it blows, By Him arrested, gleams and glows With never-waning grace. His, too, the wizard power to bring, When city-pent we be, The matron Autumn, maiden Spring, 294 Bracken and birchen-tree. Look, 'twixt gray boulders fringed with fern, The tawny torrents chafe and churn, And, lined with light, the amber burn Goes bounding to the sea. Toll then for Him no funeral knell, Nor around aisle and nave Let sorrow's farewell anthem swell, Nor solemn symbols wave. Your very brightest banners bring, Your gayest flowers! Sing, voices, sing! And let Fame's lofty joybells ring Their greeting at His grave! ~ Alfred Austin,

933:Dr. Sam TO MISS GRACE KING Down in the old French quarter, Just out of Rampart street, I wend my way At close of day Unto the quaint retreat Where lives the Voodoo Doctor By some esteemed a sham, Yet I'll declare there's none elsewhere So skilled as Doctor Sam With the claws of a deviled crawfish, The juice of the prickly prune, And the quivering dew From a yarb that grew In the light of a midnight moon! I never should have known him But for the colored folk That here obtain And ne'er in vain That wizard's art invoke; For when the Eye that's Evil Would him and his'n damn, The negro's grief gets quick relief Of Hoodoo-Doctor Sam. With the caul of an alligator, The plume of an unborn loon, And the poison wrung From a serpent's tongue By the light of a midnight moon! In all neurotic ailments I hear that he excels, And he insures Immediate cures Of weird, uncanny spells; The most unruly patient Gets docile as a lamb 118 And is freed from ill by the potent skill Of Hoodoo-Doctor Sam; Feathers of strangled chickens, Moss from the dank lagoon, And plasters wet With spider sweat In the light of a midnight moon! They say when nights are grewsome And hours are, oh! so late, Old Sam steals out And hunts about For charms that hoodoos hate! That from the moaning river And from the haunted glen He silently brings what eerie things Give peace to hoodooed men:-The tongue of a piebald 'possum, The tooth of a senile 'coon, The buzzard's breath that smells of death, And the film that lies On a lizard's eyes In the light of a midnight moon! ~ Eugene Field,

934:So Oz finally became home; the imagined world became the actual world, as it does for us all, because the truth is that once we have left our childhood places and started out to make our own lives, armed only with what we have and are, we understand that the real secret of the ruby slippers is not that "there's no place like home," but rather that there is no longer such a place as home: except, of course, for the homes we make, or the homes that are made for us, in Oz, which is anywhere and everywhere, except the place from which we began. In the place from which I began, after all, I watched the film from the child's - Dorothy's point of view. I experienced, with her, the frustration of being brushed aside by Uncle Henry and Auntie Em, busy with their dull grown-up counting. Like all adults, they couldn't focus on what was really important to Dorothy: namely, the threat to Toto. I ran away with Dorothy and then ran back. Even the shock of discovering that the Wizard was a humbug was a shock I felt as a child, a shock to the child's faith in adults. Perhaps, too, I felt something deeper, something I couldn't articulate; perhaps some half-formed suspicion about grown-ups was being confirmed. Now, as I look at the movie again, I have become the fallible adult. Now I am a member of the tribe of imperfect parents who cannot listen to their children's voices. I, who no longer have a father, have become a father instead, and now it is my fate to be unable to satisfy the longings of a child. This is the last and most terrible lesson of the film: that there is one final, unexpected rite of passage. In the end, ceasing to be children, we all become magicians without magic, exposed conjurers, with only our simply humanity to get us through. We are the humbugs now. ~ Salman Rushdie,

935:Lea stood upon a fallen log ahead of us, staring ahead. Mouse walked up to her. Gggrrrr rawf arrrgggrrrrarrrr," I said. Mouse gave me an impatient glance, and somehow--I don't know if it was something in his body language or what--I became aware that he was telling me to sit down and shut up or he'd come over and make me. I sat down. Something in me really didn't like that idea, but when I looked around, I saw that everyone else had done it too, and that made me feel better. Mouse said, again in what sounded like perfectly clear English, "Funny. Now restore them." Lea turned to look at the big dog and said, "Do you dare to give me commands, hound?" Not your hound," Mouse said. I didn't know how he was doing it. His mouth wasn't moving or anything. "Restore them before I rip your ass off. Literally rip it off." The Leanansidhe tilted her head back and let out a low laugh. "You are far from your sources of power here, my dear demon." I live with a wizard. I cheat." He took a step toward her and his lips peeled up from his fangs in unmistakable hostility. "You want to restore them? Or do I kill you and get them back that way?" Lea narrowed her eyes. Then she said, "You're bluffing." One of the big dog's huge, clawed paws dug at the ground, as if bracing him for a leap, and his growl seemed to . . . I looked down and checked. It didn't seem to shake the ground. The ground was actually shaking for several feet in every direction of the dog. Motes of blue light began to fall from his jaws, thickly enough that it looked quite a bit like he was foaming at the mouth. "Try me." The Leanansidhe shook her head slowly. Then she said, "How did Dresden ever win you?" He didn't," Mouse said. "I won him. ~ Jim Butcher,

936:You really told them you wanted to marry me?” I asked. The smile had taken over his whole face now. “I told you before: I fell under your spell before you even knew you had magic, before you saved a kingdom, back when there was no chance you would be allowed to marry me. Nothing’s really changed since then, except that now any children we have might be wizards themselves, and I’ll be hopelessly outnumbered. “So, yes, I want to marry you. Someday. If you’ll have me,” he said modestly. “Of course I will, you idiot,” I said with a shriek, and threw myself into his arms. Some things, though, never change, regardless of how many countries you save. I tripped at the last moment, and we both went down in a laughing heap. It didn’t stop me from kissing him for so long that we both were gasping by the time it ended. “So what should I call you now?” he said when we had our breath back. “Savior of Thorvaldor? Soon-to-Be-Master Wizard? Chief Councillor of Wise Words? My own love?” “Sinda,” I said, without the slightest twinge of old memories, or something lost, or regret. “Just Sinda. Though I like that last one almost as much.” Kiernan reached out and tucked a strand of escaping hair behind my ear. “I think I like Sinda best myself,” he said. We hauled ourselves up and, still laughing, brushed grass and sticks from our clothes. Then, arms around each other, we began the walk back to Philantha’s house to tell her that her scribe had just gotten a new job and become engaged in the same afternoon. I looked back up the hill once, toward the palace, and then turned away. I would go there tomorrow, but right now, it didn’t matter. Today I only had to walk with Kiernan, to visit Philantha, to finally be just myself. For once, for the first time, it was enough. ~ Eilis O Neal,

937:on. “I thought we might try and tackle them tomorrow.” “I look forward to it,” said Sirius. Harry heard the sarcasm in his voice, but he was not sure that anyone else did. Opposite Harry, Tonks was entertaining Hermione and Ginny by transforming her nose between mouthfuls. Screwing up her eyes each time with the same pained expression she had worn back in Harry’s bedroom, her nose swelled to a beaklike protuberance like Snape’s, shrank to something resembling a button mushroom, and then sprouted a great deal of hair from each nostril. Apparently this was a regular mealtime entertainment, because after a while Hermione and Ginny started requesting their favorite noses. “Do that one like a pig snout, Tonks . . .” Tonks obliged, and Harry, looking up, had the fleeting impression that a female Dudley was grinning at him from across the table. Mr. Weasley, Bill, and Lupin were having an intense discussion about goblins. “They’re not giving anything away yet,” said Bill. “I still can’t work out whether they believe he’s back or not. ’Course, they might prefer not to take sides at all. Keep out of it.” “I’m sure they’d never go over to You-Know-Who,” said Mr. Weasley, shaking his head. “They’ve suffered losses too. Remember that goblin family he murdered last time, somewhere near Nottingham?” “I think it depends what they’re offered,” said Lupin. “And I’m not talking about gold; if they’re offered freedoms we’ve been denying them for centuries they’re going to be tempted. Have you still not had any luck with Ragnok, Bill?” “He’s feeling pretty anti-wizard at the moment,” said Bill. “He hasn’t stopped raging about the Bagman business, he reckons the Ministry did a cover-up, those goblins never got their gold from him, you know —” A gale of laughter from the middle of the table drowned the rest of ~ J K Rowling,

938:HE WHO MUST NOT BE NAMED RETURNS ‘In a brief statement on Friday night, Minister for Magic Cornelius Fudge confirmed that He Who Must Not Be Named has returned to this country and is once more active. ‘“It is with great regret that I must confirm that the wizard styling himself Lord – well, you know who I mean – is alive and among us again,” said Fudge, looking tired and flustered as he addressed reporters. “It is with almost equal regret that we report the mass revolt of the Dementors of Azkaban, who have shown themselves averse to continuing in the Ministry’s employ. We believe the Dementors are currently taking direction from Lord – Thingy. ‘“We urge the magical population to remain vigilant. The Ministry is currently publishing guides to elementary home and personal defence which will be delivered free to all wizarding homes within the coming month.” ‘The Minister’s statement was met with dismay and alarm from the wizarding community, which as recently as last Wednesday was receiving Ministry assurances that there was “no truth whatsoever in these persistent rumours that You-Know-Who is operating amongst us once more”. ‘Details of the events that led to the Ministry turnaround are still hazy, though it is believed that He Who Must Not Be Named and a select band of followers (known as Death Eaters) gained entry to the Ministry of Magic itself on Thursday evening. ‘Albus Dumbledore, newly reinstated Headmaster of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, reinstated member of the International Confederation of Wizards and reinstated Chief Warlock of the Wizengamot, has so far been unavailable for comment. He has insisted over the past year that You-Know-Who is not dead, as was widely hoped and believed, but is recruiting followers once more for a fresh attempt to seize power. Meanwhile, the “Boy Who Lived” – ~ J K Rowling,

939:I will say it again," said Dumbledore as the phoenix rose into the air and resettled itself upon the perch beside the door. "You have shown bravery beyond anything I could have expected of you tonight. Harry. You have shown bravery equal to those who died fighting Voldemort at the height of his powers. You have shouldered a grown wizard's burden and found yourself equal to it - and you have now given us all we have a right to expect. You will come with me to the hospital wing. I do not want you returning to the dormitory tonight. A Sleeping Potion, and some peace . . . Sirius, would you like to stay with him?" Sirius nodded and stood up. He transformed back into the great black dog and walked with Harry and Dumbledore out of the office, accompanying them down a flight of stairs to the hospital wing. When Dumbledore pushed open the door. Harry saw Mrs. Weasley, Bill, Ron, and Hermione grouped around a harassed-looking Madam Pomfrey. They appeared to be demanding to know where Harry was and what had happened to him. All of them whipped around as Harry, Dumbledore, and the black dog entered, and Mrs. Weasley let out a kind of muffled scream. "Harry! Oh Harry!" She started to hurry toward him, but Dumbledore moved between them. "Molly," he said, holding up a hand, "please listen to me for a moment. Harry has been through a terrible ordeal tonight. He has just had to relive it for me.What he needs now is sleep, and peace, and quiet. If he would like you all to stay with him," he added, looking around at Ron, Hermione, and Bill too, "you may do so. But I do not want you questioning him until he is ready to answer, and certainly not this evening." Mrs. Weasley nodded. She was very white. She rounded on Ron, Hermione, and Bill as though they were being noisy, and hissed, "Did you hear? He needs quiet! ~ J K Rowling,

940:Prosperity Enlaced with gardened jewelry My basking villas nest Where sifted sunshine soothes the eye And cosy hillocks rest. Convention's fronds here screen from view Immodest Nature's haunt, And wizard Distance veils in blue The haggard peaks of Want. The millions fast that I may feast, And drudge that I may play; But Average, complacent priest, Condones the wrong away: Finesse, my statesman, calculates Subjection's breaking strain, And Comfort crooning mitigates The drifting moan of pain. My sages God's commandments frame From maxims of the desk: My Art, from poverty and shame, Evolves the Picturesque: By glamour haloed, leering Lust So angel-like appears That Scruple loses her distrust, And Innocence her fears. Secure I lounge upon the shore Where Anger's breakers throb, Or, high above the marsh, ignore Its ague-smitten mob. The highways to Desire I hold, And fatten on the fees; My hungry Science gathers gold From limbecks of disease. 36 Success, my sorcerer, refines My murder-tainted hoard, And hides the felon weals and lines With which my back is scored: He perfumes from my women's gowns Their tainted makers' shame; In Glory cyclic Wrong he drowns, And Treachery in Fame. Who reaches me a stream must ford Whose poppied waters dim Old dreams of wielding Freedom's sword And chanting Freedom's hymn: Must hold the claims of Discontent Mere envies of the mass; That Life's repose was only meant To dower the ruling class: Must learn that Nature weakness scorns, That God the serfs ignores, That Toil deserves its crown of thorns, And Poverty its sores; That tho' 'tis wise with Charity Torrential Need to dam, The Hope of Progress is a lie And Brotherhood a sham. ~ Bernard O'Dowd,

941:Watching the Complex Train-Track Changes To Men You put on an ornate ballgown You say "someone has to do it" You take me to where you work, The inside of a pyramid with chasms, Watching the complex train-track changes Products and objects make love to my father Two babies are born—Bruno and Daisy You take your shirt off looking boylike & lovely You get on the plane, both clown & wizard And then get off in a comedy of manners Our dates become a comedy of dinners Your name rhymes with clothes Your plane folds & flies away Without us, I'll make the next one We are enclosed in spaceless epics by breathless bricks & still we'll meet like runes or the leashes for hawks Let's go! Can we stay? Go to sleep. A tree wouldn't talk or weep if I-forget-what And you in the train's opulent rooms Switch your cock to a baby and then say "Must there (not) be a law against this?" You add, "I have been thinking of you in my head" You wear green glitter on your shirt instead of A tie, that's how I recognize you as you You are the prep cook the sous-chef you make Duplicating potato salad like the loaves & fishes You create gorgeous paper-like sculptures of foods We go down in the car through threatening snows To arrive in a second to eat in a renovated place You and I tell "what" we are at the end of a movie Our podium of soft loud feet flies by accident I take the train to your house to hear Shakespeare & Verdi Everyone applauds when you walk in. The director Holds up each actor & describes his physical being I talk to your father but only by telephone You have the royal blue 8 ? x 11 notebook with the lock on it I want one but you say you cant get them anymore I walk twice through that city I've been in before 39 All through its rooms, its streets and its Commons ~ Bernadette Mayer,

942:How Shall My Animal How shall my animal Whose wizard shape I trace in the cavernous skull, Vessel of abscesses and exultation's shell, Endure burial under the spelling wall, The invoked, shrouding veil at the cap of the face, Who should be furious, Drunk as a vineyard snail, flailed like an octopus, Roaring, crawling, quarrel With the outside weathers, The natural circle of the discovered skies Draw down to its weird eyes? How shall it magnetize, Towards the studded male in a bent, midnight blaze That melts the lionhead's heel and horseshoe of the heart A brute land in the cool top of the country days To trot with a loud mate the haybeds of a mile, Love and labour and kill In quick, sweet, cruel light till the locked ground sprout The black, burst sea rejoice, The bowels turn turtle, Claw of the crabbed veins squeeze from each red particle The parched and raging voice? Fishermen of mermen Creep and harp on the tide, sinking their charmed, bent pin With bridebait of gold bread, I with a living skein, Tongue and ear in the thread, angle the temple-bound Curl-locked and animal cavepools of spells and bone, Trace out a tentacle, Nailed with an open eye, in the bowl of wounds and weed To clasp my fury on ground And clap its great blood down; Never shall beast be born to atlas the few seas Or poise the day on a horn. Sigh long, clay cold, lie shorn, Cast high, stunned on gilled stone; sly scissors ground in frost Clack through the thicket of strength, love hewn in pillars drops 74 With carved bird, saint, and suns the wrackspiked maiden mouth Lops, as a bush plumed with flames, the rant of the fierce eye, Clips short the gesture of breath. Die in red feathers when the flying heaven's cut, And roll with the knocked earth: Lie dry, rest robbed, my beast. You have kicked from a dark den, leaped up the whinnying light, And dug your grave in my breast. ~ Dylan Thomas,

943:Béranger's "Broken Fiddle" There, there, poor dog, my faithful friend, Pay you no heed unto my sorrow: But feast to-day while yet you may,-Who knows but we shall starve to-morrow! II "Give us a tune," the foemen cried, In one of their profane caprices; I bade them "No"--they frowned, and, lo! They dashed this innocent in pieces! III This fiddle was the village pride-The mirth of every fête enhancing; Its wizard art set every heart As well as every foot to dancing. IV How well the bridegroom knew its voice, As from its strings its song went gushing! Nor long delayed the promised maid Equipped for bridal, coy and blushing. Why, it discoursed so merrily, It quickly banished all dejection; And yet, when pressed, our priest confessed I played with pious circumspection. 74 VI And though, in patriotic song, It was our guide, compatriot, teacher, I never thought the foe had wrought His fury on the helpless creature! VII But there, poor dog, my faithful friend, Pay you no heed unto my sorrow; I prithee take this paltry cake,-Who knows but we shall starve to-morrow! VIII Ah, who shall lead the Sunday choir As this old fiddle used to do it? Can vintage come, with this voice dumb That used to bid a welcome to it? IX It soothed the weary hours of toil, It brought forgetfulness to debtors; Time and again from wretched men It struck oppression's galling fetters. No man could hear its voice, and hate; It stayed the teardrop at its portal; With that dear thing I was a king As never yet was monarch mortal! XI 75 Now has the foe--the vandal foe-Struck from my hands their pride and glory; There let it lie! In vengeance, I Shall wield another weapon, gory! XII And if, O countrymen, I fall, Beside our grave let this be spoken: "No foe of France shall ever dance Above the heart and fiddle, broken!" XIII So come, poor dog, my faithful friend, I prithee do not heed my sorrow, But feast to-day while yet you may, For we are like to starve to-morrow. ~ Eugene Field,

944:I was driving home one afternoon during this period when I rolled past a woman putting household objects and furniture out in her front yard. I figured it was a garage sale or she was termite bombing. As I moved past her house an object I saw stopped me. Dragged me into the present. A chair. The chair? The orange Danish modern chair that I broke and that subsequently broke up my marriage appeared to be sitting on her front lawn. “Impossible,” I thought. That was destroyed, thrown out, gone. I stopped my car abruptly in the street, opened my car door, and ran up into her yard. She was pulling more stuff out of her house. I said, “Hi. Hey, are you selling this stuff?” “Just take whatever you want. I’m leaving,” she said, going angrily about her business. “Where did you get this chair? I used to have one exactly like it. I’ve never seen another one.” “I found it,” she said. “Take it.” I inspected the chair. It had been carefully rebuilt, put back together. It was the chair. “Did you find this on the street up on the hill around the corner?” “Yeah,” she said. “Why?” “This chair destroyed my marriage.” She looked at me with a dark, stressed gaze for a second like she was looking through me at something burning in the distance and said, “Mine, too.” I didn’t ask any questions. Synchronicity was upon us. The causality was there, it was explainable, but the meaning of the object before us was at once unique and shared. It was some kind of black magic that sent my thoughts back to the garage wizard who kept Jung’s curtains locked up. What had he unleashed on this world, my world, her world, with this chair? “We have to take it out of circulation.” “Yes,” she said, catatonically, like how I felt. Then this stranger and I proceeded to destroy the chair with our hands and our feet until it was unfixable. We took a breath and looked down at the scattered chair shards. “Thanks,” she said. A horn honked. I turned to see my car, door open, sitting in the middle of the street, running. Someone needed to get by. “Good luck with everything,” I said, then walked back to my car and drove away, strangely relieved. I glanced in my rearview mirror and saw her making a pile of culprit pieces. ~ Marc Maron,

945:The Sleeper At midnight, in the month of June, I stand beneath the mystic moon. An opiate vapor, dewy, dim, Exhales from out her golden rim, And, softly dripping, drop by drop, Upon the quiet mountain top, Steals drowsily and musically Into the universal valley. The rosemary nods upon the grave; The lily lolls upon the wave; Wrapping the fog about its breast, The ruin molders into rest; Looking like Lethe, see! the lake A conscious slumber seems to take, And would not, for the world, awake. All Beauty sleeps!- and lo! where lies Irene, with her Destinies! O, lady bright! can it be rightThis window open to the night? The wanton airs, from the tree-top, Laughingly through the lattice dropThe bodiless airs, a wizard rout, Flit through thy chamber in and out, And wave the curtain canopy So fitfully- so fearfullyAbove the closed and fringed lid 'Neath which thy slumb'ring soul lies hid, That, o'er the floor and down the wall, Like ghosts the shadows rise and fall! Oh, lady dear, hast thou no fear? Why and what art thou dreaming here? Sure thou art come O'er far-off seas, A wonder to these garden trees! Strange is thy pallor! strange thy dress, Strange, above all, thy length of tress, And this all solemn silentness! The lady sleeps! Oh, may her sleep, 97 Which is enduring, so be deep! Heaven have her in its sacred keep! This chamber changed for one more holy, This bed for one more melancholy, I pray to God that she may lie For ever with unopened eye, While the pale sheeted ghosts go by! My love, she sleeps! Oh, may her sleep As it is lasting, so be deep! Soft may the worms about her creep! Far in the forest, dim and old, For her may some tall vault unfoldSome vault that oft has flung its black And winged panels fluttering back, Triumphant, o'er the crested palls, Of her grand family funeralsSome sepulchre, remote, alone, Against whose portal she hath thrown, In childhood, many an idle stoneSome tomb from out whose sounding door She ne'er shall force an echo more, Thrilling to think, poor child of sin! It was the dead who groaned within. ~ Edgar Allan Poe,

946:And now let’s move to news concerning the wizard who is proving just as elusive as Harry Potter. We like to refer to him as the Chief Death Eater, and here to give his views on some of the more insane rumors circulating about him, I’d like to introduce a new correspondent: Rodent.” “‘Rodent’?” said yet another familiar voice, and Harry, Ron, and Hermione cried out together: “Fred!” “No—is it George?” “It’s Fred, I think,” said Ron, leaning in closer, as whichever twin it was said, “I’m not being ‘Rodent,’ no way, I told you I wanted to be ‘Rapier’!” “Oh, all right then. ‘Rapier,’ could you please give us your take on the various stories we’ve been hearing about the Chief Death Eater?” “Yes, River, I can,” said Fred. “As our listeners will know, unless they’ve taken refuse at the bottom of a garden pond or somewhere similar, You-Know-Who’s strategy of remaining in the shadows is creating a nice little climate of panic. Mind you, if all the alleged sightings of him are genuine, we must have a good nineteen You-Know-Who’s running around the place.” “Which suits him, of course,” said Kingsley. “The air of mystery is creating more terror than actually showing himself.” “Agreed,” said Fred. “So, people, let’s try and calm down a bit. Things are bad enough without inventing stuff as well. For instance, this new idea that You-Know-Who can kill with a single glance from his eyes. That’s a basilisk, listeners. One simple test: Check whether the thing that’s glaring at you has got legs. If it has, it’s safe to look into his eyes, although if it really is You-Know-Who, that’s still likely to be the last thing you ever do.” For the first time in weeks and weeks, Harry was laughing: He could feel the weight of tension leaving him. “And the rumors that he keeps being sighted abroad?” asked Lee. “Well, who wouldn’t want a nice little holiday after all the hard work he’s been putting in?” asked Fred. “Point is, people, don’t get lulled into a false sense of security, thinking he’s out of the country. Maybe he is, maybe he isn’t, but the fact remains he can move faster than Severus Snape confronted with shampoo when he wants to, so don’t count on him being a long way away if you’re planning on taking any risks. I never thought I’d hear myself say it, but safety first! ~ J K Rowling,

947: Symbol Moon Once again thou hast climbed, O moon, like a white fire on the glimmering edge, Floating up, floating up from the haunted verge of a foam-tremulous sea. Mystic-horned here crossing the grey-hued listless nights and days, Spirit-silver craft from the ports of eternity. Overhead with thy plunging and swaying prow thou fleetest, O ship of the gods, Glorifying the clouds with thy halo, but our hearts with a rose-red rapture shed from the secret breasts of love; Almost thou seemest the very bliss that floats in opaline air over heaven's golden roads, Embodied here to capture our human lives like a nectar face of light in the doubtful blue above. Dumbly blithe, shuddering, the air is filled from thy cup of pale mysterious wine: Gleam quivers to longing gleam; and the faery torches lit for Night's mysteries are set in her niches stark and deep; The inconscient gulfs stir and are vaguely thrilled, while their unheard voices cry to the Wonder-light new-seen Till descending its ray shall unlock with a wizard rod of fire the dumb recesses of sleep. Bright and alone in a white-foam-glinted delicate dim-blue ocean of sky, Ever thou runst and thou floatest as a magic drifting bowl Flung by the hand of a drunken god in the river of Time goes tossing by, O icon and chalice of spiritual light whose spots are like Nature's shadow stains on a white and immaculate soul. How like one frail and haunted thou com'st, O white moon, at my lonely call from thy deep sky-covert heights, A voyager carrying through the myriad-isled archipelago of the spear-pointed questioning stars 632 Pondicherry, c. 1927 - 1947 The circle of the occult argent Yes of the Invisible to the dim query of the yearning witness lights That burn in the dense vault of Matter's waking mind - innumerable, solitary and sparse. A disk of a greater Ray that shall come, a white-fire rapture and girdling rose of love, Timelessly thou driftest, O soundless silver boat that set out from the far Unknown, Moon-crystal of silver or gold of some spirit joy spun by Time in his dense aeonic groove, A messenger and bearer of an unembodied beauty and unseized bliss advancing over our life's wan sea - significant, bright and alone. ~ Sri Aurobindo, - Symbol Moon ,

948:Sitting in a bar for hours on end wouldn’t help matters, but Tristan Archer figured he might as well try it out. It may take him far longer to get drunk than it would if he were human, yet he figured he’d give it a go. After the hellish few months he’d had, he would try anything at this point. He ran a hand through his short, auburn hair that tended to look brown in the bar’s lighting and sighed. He shouldn’t have accepted his friend Levi’s invitation to dinner and drinks at Dante’s Circle in the human realm. He should have rejected the offer and gone back to the thousand other things he had to do within the fae realm and inside the Conclave. Tristan wasn’t just any fae. He was a nine-hundred-year-old fae prince with responsibilities that lay heavily on his shoulders. He was also a Conclave member, where he helped govern every paranormal realm in existence with another fae member and two others from each race. That was how he’d become friends with Levi, a wizard and prince in his own right. So here he was, in Dante’s Circle, a bar owned and named after a royal blue dragon; the meeting place of seven women and their mates with a history he couldn’t immediately comprehend. Of course, it was because one of those women that he’d rather be in the fae realm instead of the dark bar with oak paneling and photos on the walls that spoke of generations of memories and connections. He’d been here a few times in the past, always on the outside of the circle of lightning-struck woman and their mates, but never fully excluded. They’d welcomed Tristan into their fold, even if they didn’t understand why it hurt him so to be that close to what he couldn’t have. Or maybe they understood all too well. After all, one of their own was the reason for his confusion, his torture. The object of his desire. “If you keep glowering at her over in the corner, you’ll end up scaring her more than she already is,” Seth said from his side. Tristan closed his eyes and took a deep breath, immediately regretting the action as soon as he did. The man next to him smelled of the sea. And hope. His heart ached and his dick filled. Seth Oceanus was a merman, a friend, and his mate. His true half. Or at least one of them. Not that he or Seth could do anything about it when the other part of their triad didn’t feel the same way. ~ Carrie Ann Ryan,

949:PANOTII LOOKS PUT OUT ABOUT BEING LEFT BEHIND AND dogs my steps as I stow his tack under the deep overhang on the south side of the wizard’s hovel. There’s plenty of grass here, water at the lake, and it’s not that cold yet, despite the shift in seasons. If the rains start before we get back, the horses can take shelter under the overhang. I’m not worried about them wandering off. Not one of them has stepped outside of the large makeshift corral of God Bolt pits since we got here. “You can’t come with us,” I tell him. “It’ll be cold and slippery. And big monsters will want to eat you.” He tosses his head, snorting. “Really big monsters. There might be Dragons. And the Hydra. And I can’t vouch for the friendliness of the Ipotane toward regular horses.” I blow gently into his nose. Panotii chuffs back. “You’ll be safe here, and if anyone tries to steal you, Grandpa Zeus will throw down a thunderbolt. Boom! No more horse thief.” “Zeus may have better things to do than babysit our horses,” Flynn says, stowing his own equine gear next to mine. I glance northward toward the Gods’ mountain home and speak loudly. “In that case, I’m announcing right now that I’ll make an Olympian stink if anything happens to my horse.” Flynn looks nervous and moves away from me like he’s expecting a God Bolt to come thundering down. “She’s not kidding.” Sunlight glints off Griffin’s windblown hair. Thick black stubble darkens his jaw. He flashes me a smile that brings out the slight hook in his nose, and something tightens in my belly. I turn back to Panotii and scratch under his jaw. “You’re in charge here.” His enormous ears flick my way. “You keep the others in line.” Panotii nods. I swear to the Gods, my horse nods. Brown Horse raises his head and pins me with a gimlet stare. I roll my eyes. “Fine. You can help. You’re both in charge.” Apparently satisfied, Griffin’s horse goes back to grazing, shearing the grass around him with neat, organized efficiency. Griffin and Brown Horse were made for each other. Panotii shoves his nose into my shoulder, knocking me back a step. Taking a handful of his chestnut mane, I stretch up on my toes to whisper into one of his donkey ears. “Seriously, you’re in charge. I’ll bet you can even rhyme.” Carver and Kato chuckle as they walk past. Griffin bands his arms around my waist from behind, surprising me. “I heard that. ~ Amanda Bouchet,

950:Aladdin Aladdin poor the wizard found, Who moved from cavern’s mouth a stone; Then bade him go beneath the ground, And pace through unknown realms alone, Till from a niche he bore away A lamp—extinguishing its ray. The youth obedient instant hied, When fruits luxuriant met his sight; The white were pearls in snowy pride, Diamonds the clear—of brilliant light; For red the rubies dazzling blazed, Whereof Aladdin gathered store; Then on the lamp in rapture gazed, And from its niche the treasure bore. Regained his home, he seized anon The lamp, and cried “straight bring me food;” The Genii instantly was gone, But soon again before him stood. The youth his fear-struck mother bore, As plates of silver met his view; Of viands choice, containing store, And cups, with wine of rosy hue. Aladdin next by chance descried, The Sultan’s daughter, witching fair; Love’s high control was not denied— He sought to gain the beauty rare. Before the Sultan lowly bent His mother, and the jewels spread; The Prince, astonished, gave consent, And all Aladdin’s terrors fled. In gorgeous robes the youth arrayed, 29 Vaulted anon his prancing steed; And of the glittering, gay parade, Right joyous smiling took the lead. With loud huzzas then rang the air, Which louder pealed, as gold amain By slaves was cast, for mob to share, That glittered on the vasty plain Ne’er dreaming lamp so worn and old More worth commanded than Peru, Our Princess bartered wealth untold, For the Magician’s lamp quite new: So when this change the eunuch made In scorn the rabble ’gan to shout; Beholding such a silly trade, They deemed the wizard fool and lout. O’erwhelmed with grief, Aladdin prayed Once more the Genii life would spare; Beseeching he might be conveyed Where late had stood his palace fair. Then swift as thought, the spirit bore The youth through airy realms above; Who lighted safe on Afric’s shore, And gained the chamber of his love His foe the poison quaffed and fell— A writhing form the wizard lay; Aladdin knew how worked the spell, And tore from vest the lamps, his prey. The Princess with a panting heart, Flew to receive affection’s kiss: Thus met they, never more to part; From that hour sealed their lasting blis ~ Anonymous Americas,

951:shelves; hundreds of narrow rows. Hermione took out a list of subjects and titles she had decided to search while Ron strode off down a row of books and started pulling them off the shelves at random. Harry wandered over to the Restricted Section. He had been wondering for a while if Flamel wasn’t somewhere in there. Unfortunately, you needed a specially signed note from one of the teachers to look in any of the restricted books, and he knew he’d never get one. These were the books containing powerful Dark Magic never taught at Hogwarts, and only read by older students studying advanced Defense Against the Dark Arts. “What are you looking for, boy?” “Nothing,” said Harry. Madam Pince the librarian brandished a feather duster at him. “You’d better get out, then. Go on — out!” Wishing he’d been a bit quicker at thinking up some story, Harry left the library. He, Ron, and Hermione had already agreed they’d better not ask Madam Pince where they could find Flamel. They were sure she’d be able to tell them, but they couldn’t risk Snape hearing what they were up to. Harry waited outside in the corridor to see if the other two had found anything, but he wasn’t very hopeful. They had been looking for two weeks, after all, but as they only had odd moments between lessons it wasn’t surprising they’d found nothing. What they really needed was a nice long search without Madam Pince breathing down their necks. Five minutes later, Ron and Hermione joined him, shaking their heads. They went off to lunch. “You will keep looking while I’m away, won’t you?” said Hermione. “And send me an owl if you find anything.” “And you could ask your parents if they know who Flamel is,” said Ron. “It’d be safe to ask them.” “Very safe, as they’re both dentists,” said Hermione. Once the holidays had started, Ron and Harry were having too good a time to think much about Flamel. They had the dormitory to themselves and the common room was far emptier than usual, so they were able to get the good armchairs by the fire. They sat by the hour eating anything they could spear on a toasting fork — bread, English muffins, marshmallows — and plotting ways of getting Malfoy expelled, which were fun to talk about even if they wouldn’t work. Ron also started teaching Harry wizard chess. This was exactly like Muggle chess except that the figures were alive, which made it a lot like directing troops in battle. Ron’s set was very old and battered. Like everything else he owned, it had once belonged to someone else in his family — in this case, his grandfather. However, old chessmen weren’t a drawback at all. Ron knew them so well he never had trouble getting them to do what he wanted. Harry played with chessmen Seamus Finnigan had lent him, and they didn’t ~ J K Rowling,

952:You dare--?” said Voldemort again. “Yes, I dare,” said Harry, “because Dumbledore’s last plan hasn’t backfired on me at all. It’s backfired on you, Riddle.” Voldemort’s hand was trembling on the Elder Wand, and Harry gripped Draco’s very tightly. The moment, he knew, was seconds away. “That wand still isn’t working properly for you because you murdered the wrong person. Severus Snape was never the true master of the Elder Wand. He never defeated Dumbledore.” “He killed--” “Aren’t you listening? Snape never beat Dumbledore! Dumbledore’s death was planned between them! Dumbledore intended to die undefeated, the wand’s last true master! If all had gone as planned, the wand’s power would have died with him, because it had never been won from him!” “But then, Potter, Dumbledore as good as gave me the wand!” Voldemort’s voice shook with malicious pleasure. “I stole the wand from its last master’s tomb! I removed it against its last master’s wishes! Its power is mine!” “You still don’t get it, Riddle, do you? Possessing the wand isn’t enough! Holding it, using it, doesn’t make it really yours. Didn’t you listen to Ollivander? The wand chooses the wizard…The Elder Wand recognized a new master before Dumbledore died, someone who never even laid a hand on it. The new master removed the wand from Dumbledore against his will, never realizing exactly what he had done, or that the world’s most dangerous wand had given him its allegiance…” Voldemort’s chest rose and fell rapidly, and Harry could feel the curse coming, feel it building inside the wand pointed at his face. “The true master of the Elder Wand was Draco Malfoy.” Blank shock showed in Voldemort’s face for a moment, but then it was gone. “But what does it matter?” he said softly. “Even if you are right, Potter, it makes no difference to you and me. You no longer have the phoenix wand: We duel on skill alone…and after I have killed you, I can attend to Draco Malfoy…” “But you’re too late,” said Harry. “You’ve missed your chance. I got there first. I overpowered Draco weeks ago. I took this wand from him.” Harry twitched the hawthorn wand, and he felt the eyes of everyone in the Hall upon it. “So it all comes down to this, doesn’t it?” whispered Harry. “Does the wand in your hand know its last master was Disarmed? Because if it does…I am the true master of the Elder Wand.” A red-gold glow burst suddenly across the enchanted sky above them as an edge of dazzling sun appeared over the sill of the nearest window. The light hit both of their faces at the same time, so that Voldemort’s was suddenly a flaming blur. Harry heard the high voice shriek as he too yelled his best hope to the heavens, pointing Draco’s wand: “Avada Kedavra!” “Expelliarmus! ~ J K Rowling,

953:I once saw a woman wearing a low-cut dress; she had a glazed look in her eyes, and she was walking the streets of Ljubljana when it was five degrees below zero. I thought she must be drunk, and I went to help her, but she refused my offer to lend her my jacket. Perhaps in her world it was summer and her body was warmed by the desire of the person waiting for her. Even if that person only existed in her delirium, she had the right to live and die as she wanted, don’t you think?” Veronika didn’t know what to say, but the madwoman’s words made sense to her. Who knows; perhaps she was the woman who had been seen half-naked walking the streets of Ljubljana? “I’m going to tell you a story,” said Zedka. “A powerful wizard, who wanted to destroy an entire kingdom, placed a magic potion in the well from which all the inhabitants drank. Whoever drank that water would go mad. “The following morning, the whole population drank from the well and they all went mad, apart from the king and his family, who had a well set aside for them alone, which the magician had not managed to poison. The king was worried and tried to control the population by issuing a series of edicts governing security and public health. The policemen and the inspectors, however, had also drunk the poisoned water, and they thought the king’s decisions were absurd and resolved to take no notice of them. “When the inhabitants of the kingdom heard these decrees, they became convinced that the king had gone mad and was now giving nonsensical orders. They marched on the castle and called for his abdication. “In despair the king prepared to step down from the throne, but the queen stopped him, saying: ‘Let us go and drink from the communal well. Then we will be the same as them.’ “And that was what they did: The king and the queen drank the water of madness and immediately began talking nonsense. Their subjects repented at once; now that the king was displaying such wisdom, why not allow him to continue ruling the country? “The country continued to live in peace, although its inhabitants behaved very differently from those of its neighbors. And the king was able to govern until the end of his days.” Veronika laughed. “You don’t seem crazy at all,” she said. “But I am, although I’m undergoing treatment since my problem is that I lack a particular chemical. While I hope that the chemical gets rid of my chronic depression, I want to continue being crazy, living my life the way I dream it, and not the way other people want it to be. Do you know what exists out there, beyond the walls of Villete?” “People who have all drunk from the same well.” “Exactly,” said Zedka. “They think they’re normal, because they all do the same thing. Well, I’m going to pretend that I have drunk from the same well as them. ~ Paulo Coelho,

954:I slammed the water off hard enough to make it clack, got out of the shower, dried, and started getting dressed in a fresh set of secondhand clothes. “Why do you wear those?” asked Lacuna. I jumped, stumbled, and shouted half of a word to a spell, but since I was only halfway done putting on my underwear, I mostly just fell on my naked ass. “Gah!” I said. “Don’t do that!” My miniature captive came to the edge of the dresser and peered down at me. “Don’t ask questions?” “Don’t come in here all quiet and spooky and scare me like that!” “You’re six times my height, and fifty times my weight,” Lacuna said gravely. “And I’ve agreed to be your captive. You don’t have any reason to be afraid.” “Not afraid,” I snapped back. “Startled. It isn’t wise to startle a wizard!” “Why not?” “Because of what could happen!” “Because they might fall down on the floor?” “No!” I snarled. Lacuna frowned and said, “You aren’t very good at answering questions.” I started shoving myself into my clothes. “I’m starting to agree with you.” “So why do you wear those?” I blinked. “Clothes?” “Yes. You don’t need them unless it’s cold or raining.” “You’re wearing clothes.” “I am wearing armor. For when it is raining arrows. Your T-shirt will not stop arrows.” “No, it won’t.” I sighed. Lacuna peered at my shirt. “Aer-O-Smith. Arrowsmith. Does the shirt belong to your weapon dealer?” “No.” “Then why do you wear the shirt of someone else’s weapon dealer?” That was frustrating in so many ways that I could avoid a stroke only by refusing to engage. “Lacuna,” I said, “humans wear clothes. It’s one of the things we do. And as long as you are in my service, I expect you to do it as well.” “Why?” “Because if you don’t, I  .  .  . I  .  .  . might pull your arms out of your sockets.” At that, she frowned. “Why?” “Because I have to maintain discipline, don’t I?” “True,” she said gravely. “But I have no clothes.” I counted to ten mentally. “I’ll  .  .  . find something for you. Until then, no desocketing. Just wear the armor. Fair enough?” Lacuna bowed slightly at the waist. “I understand, my lord.” “Good.” I sighed. I flicked a comb through my wet hair, for all the good it would do, and said, “How do I look?” “Mostly human,” she said. “That’s what I was going for.” “You have a visitor, my lord.” I frowned. “What?” “That is why I came in here. You have a visitor waiting for you.” I stood up, exasperated. “Why didn’t you say so?” Lacuna looked confused. “I did. Just now. You were there.” She frowned thoughtfully. “Perhaps you have brain damage.” “It would not shock me in the least,” I said. “Would you like me to cut open your skull and check, my lord?” she asked. Someone that short should not be that disturbing. “I  .  .  . No. No, but thank you for the offer.” “It is my duty to serve,” Lacuna intoned. My life, Hell’s bells. ~ Jim Butcher,

955:Are you Countless of Tlanth?” she asked as I dismounted. I nodded, and she bustled over to a friend, handed off the horse, then beckoned me inside. “I’m to show you to the south parlor, my lady.” Muddy to the eyebrows, I squelched after her up a broad stair into a warm, good-smelling hallway. Genial noise smote me from all directions, and people came and went. But my guide threaded her way through, then indicated a stairway with a fine mosaic rail, and pointed. “Top, right, all across the back is where your party will be,” she said. “Parlor’s through the double door.” She curtsied and disappeared into the crowd. I trod up the stairs, making wet footprints on the patterned carpet at each step. The landing opened onto a spacious hallway. I turned to the double doors, which were of foreign plainwood, and paused to admire the carving round the latch, and the painted pattern of leaves and blossoms worked into it. Then I opened one, and there in the middle of a lovely parlor was Shevraeth. He knelt at a writing table with his back to a fire, his pen scratching rapidly across a paper. He glanced up inquiringly. His hair seemed damp, but it wasn’t muddy, and his clothing looked miraculously dry. I gritted my teeth, crossed my arms, and advanced on him, my cold-numbed lips poonched out below what I knew was a ferocious glare. Obviously on the verge of laughter, he raised his quill to stop me. “As the winner,” he murmured, “I choose the time and place.” “You cheated,” I said, glad enough to have the embarrassment postponed. “If you had waited, I would have shown you that shortcut,” he retorted humorously. “It was a trick,” I snarled. “And as for your wager, I might as well get it over now.” He sat back, eyeing me. “Wet as you are--and you have to be cold--it’d feel like kissing a fish. We will address this another time. Sit down and have some cider. It’s hot, just brought in. May I request your opinion of that?” He picked up a folded paper and tossed it in my direction. He added, with a faint smile, “Next time you’ll have to remember to bring extra gear.” “How come you’re not all soggy?” I asked as I set aside my sodden hat and waterlogged riding gloves. He indicated the black cloak, which was slung over a candle sconce on the wall, and the hat and gloves resting on a side table. “Water-resistant spells. Expensive, but eminently worthwhile.” “That’s what we need in Remalna,” I said, kneeling on the cushions opposite him and pouring out spicy-smelling cider into a porcelain cup painted with that same leaf-and-blossom theme. “A wizard.” Shevraeth laid his pen down. “I don’t know,” he said. “A magician is not like a tree that bears fruit for all who want it and demands nothing in return. A wizard is human and will have his or her own goals.” “And a way of getting them that we couldn’t very well stand against,” I said. “All right. No wizard. But I shall get me one of those cloaks. ~ Sherwood Smith,

956:Shepley walked out of his bedroom pulling a T-shirt over his head. His eyebrows pushed together. “Did they just leave?” “Yeah,” I said absently, rinsing my cereal bowl and dumping Abby’s leftover oatmeal in the sink. She’d barely touched it. “Well, what the hell? Mare didn’t even say goodbye.” “You knew she was going to class. Quit being a cry baby.” Shepley pointed to his chest. “I’m the cry baby? Do you remember last night?” “Shut up.” “That’s what I thought.” He sat on the couch and slipped on his sneakers. “Did you ask Abby about her birthday?” “She didn’t say much, except that she’s not into birthdays.” “So what are we doing?” “Throwing her a party.” Shepley nodded, waiting for me to explain. “I thought we’d surprise her. Invite some of our friends over and have America take her out for a while.” Shepley put on his white ball cap, pulling it down so low over his brows I couldn’t see his eyes. “She can manage that. Anything else?” “How do you feel about a puppy?” Shepley laughed once. “It’s not my birthday, bro.” I walked around the breakfast bar and leaned my hip against the stool. “I know, but she lives in the dorms. She can’t have a puppy.” “Keep it here? Seriously? What are we going to do with a dog?” “I found a Cairn Terrier online. It’s perfect.” “A what?” “Pidge is from Kansas. It’s the same kind of dog Dorothy had in the Wizard of Oz.” Shepley’s face was blank. “The Wizard of Oz.” “What? I liked the scarecrow when I was a little kid, shut the fuck up.” “It’s going to crap every where, Travis. It’ll bark and whine and … I don’t know.” “So does America … minus the crapping.” Shepley wasn’t amused. “I’ll take it out and clean up after it. I’ll keep it in my room. You won’t even know it’s here.” “You can’t keep it from barking.” “Think about it. You gotta admit it’ll win her over.” Shepley smiled. “Is that what this is all about? You’re trying to win over Abby?” My brows pulled together. “Quit it.” His smile widened. “You can get the damn dog…” I grinned with victory. “…if you admit you have feelings for Abby.” I frowned in defeat. “C’mon, man!” “Admit it,” Shepley said, crossing his arms. What a tool. He was actually going to make me say it. I looked to the floor, and everywhere else except Shepley’s smug ass smile. I fought it for a while, but the puppy was fucking brilliant. Abby would flip out (in a good way for once), and I could keep it at the apartment. She’d want to be there every day. “I like her,” I said through my teeth. Shepley held his hand to his ear. “What? I couldn’t quite hear you.” “You’re an asshole! Did you hear that?” Shepley crossed his arms. “Say it.” “I like her, okay?” “Not good enough.” “I have feelings for her. I care about her. A lot. I can’t stand it when she’s not around. Happy?” “For now,” he said, grabbing his backpack off the floor. ~ Jamie McGuire,

957:And you really are the Countess of Tlanth?” I nodded. She closed her eyes and sighed. “Emis over on Nikaru Farm is going to be soooo jealous when she finds out. She thinks she’s so very fine a lady, just because she has a cousin in service at Athanarel and her brother in the Guard. There is no news from Athanarel if she doesn’t know it first, or more of it than anyone.” “What is the news?” I asked, feeling the old fear close round me. She pursed her lips. “Maybe Mama is right about my tongue running like a fox in the wild. Are you certain you want all this now?” “Very much,” I said. “It comes to this: The Duke of Savona and the Marquis of Shevraeth have another wager, on which one can find you first. The King thinks it great sport, and they have people on all the main roads leading west to the mountains.” “Did they say anything about my escape?” She shook her head. “Luz overheard some merchants at the Harvest--that’s the inn down the road at Garval--saying they thought it was wizard work or a big conspiracy. I went with Papa when he returned to the Three Rings in Remalna-city, and everyone was talking about it.” She grinned. “Elun Kepruid--he’s the innkeeper’s son at Three Rings, and he likes me plenty--was telling me all the real gossip from the palace. The King was very angry, and at first wanted to execute all the guards who had duty the night you got out, except the ones he really wanted had disappeared, and everyone at Court thought there was a conspiracy, and they were afraid of attack. But then the lords started the wagers and turned it all into a game. Savona swore he’d fling you at the King’s feet inside of two weeks. Baron Debegri, who was just returned from the mountains, said he’d bring your head--then take it and fling it at your brother’s feet. He’s a hard one, the Baron, Emis’s brother said.” She grimaced. “Is this too terrible to hear?” “No…No. I just need…to think.” She put her chin on her hands. “Did you see the Duke?” “Which duke?” “Savona.” She sighed. “Emis has seen him--twice. She gets to visit her cousin at Winter Festival. She says he’s even more handsome than I can imagine. Four duels…Did you?” I shook my head. “All I saw was the inside of my cell. And the King. And that Shevraeth,” I added somewhat bitterly. “He’s supposed to have a head for nothing but clothes. And gambling.” Ara shrugged dismissively. “Everybody thinks it’s really Debegri who--well, got you.” “What got me was a trap. And it was my own fault.” She opened her mouth, then closed it. “Mama says I ought not to ask much about what happened. She says the less I know, the less danger there is to my family. You think that’s true?” Danger to her family. It was a warning. I nodded firmly. “Just forget it, and I’ll make you a promise. If I live through this mess, and things settle down, I’ll tell you everything. How’s that?” Ara clapped her hands and laughed. “That’s nacky! Especially if you tell me all about your palace in Tlanth. How Emis’s nose will turn purple from envy--when I can tell her, that is!” I thought of our old castle, with its broken windows and walls, the worn, shabby furnishings and overgrown garden, and sighed. ~ Sherwood Smith,

958:Larry Kudlow hosted a business talk show on CNBC and is a widely published pundit, but he got his start as an economist in the Reagan administration and later worked with Art Laffer, the economist whose theories were the cornerstone of Ronald Reagan’s economic policies. Kudlow’s one Big Idea is supply-side economics. When President George W. Bush followed the supply-side prescription by enacting substantial tax cuts, Kudlow was certain an economic boom of equal magnitude would follow. He dubbed it “the Bush boom.” Reality fell short: growth and job creation were positive but somewhat disappointing relative to the long-term average and particularly in comparison to that of the Clinton era, which began with a substantial tax hike. But Kudlow stuck to his guns and insisted, year after year, that the “Bush boom” was happening as forecast, even if commentators hadn’t noticed. He called it “the biggest story never told.” In December 2007, months after the first rumblings of the financial crisis had been felt, the economy looked shaky, and many observers worried a recession was coming, or had even arrived, Kudlow was optimistic. “There is no recession,” he wrote. “In fact, we are about to enter the seventh consecutive year of the Bush boom.”19 The National Bureau of Economic Research later designated December 2007 as the official start of the Great Recession of 2007–9. As the months passed, the economy weakened and worries grew, but Kudlow did not budge. There is no recession and there will be no recession, he insisted. When the White House said the same in April 2008, Kudlow wrote, “President George W. Bush may turn out to be the top economic forecaster in the country.”20 Through the spring and into summer, the economy worsened but Kudlow denied it. “We are in a mental recession, not an actual recession,”21 he wrote, a theme he kept repeating until September 15, when Lehman Brothers filed for bankruptcy, Wall Street was thrown into chaos, the global financial system froze, and people the world over felt like passengers in a plunging jet, eyes wide, fingers digging into armrests. How could Kudlow be so consistently wrong? Like all of us, hedgehog forecasters first see things from the tip-of-your-nose perspective. That’s natural enough. But the hedgehog also “knows one big thing,” the Big Idea he uses over and over when trying to figure out what will happen next. Think of that Big Idea like a pair of glasses that the hedgehog never takes off. The hedgehog sees everything through those glasses. And they aren’t ordinary glasses. They’re green-tinted glasses—like the glasses that visitors to the Emerald City were required to wear in L. Frank Baum’s The Wonderful Wizard of Oz. Now, wearing green-tinted glasses may sometimes be helpful, in that they accentuate something real that might otherwise be overlooked. Maybe there is just a trace of green in a tablecloth that a naked eye might miss, or a subtle shade of green in running water. But far more often, green-tinted glasses distort reality. Everywhere you look, you see green, whether it’s there or not. And very often, it’s not. The Emerald City wasn’t even emerald in the fable. People only thought it was because they were forced to wear green-tinted glasses! So the hedgehog’s one Big Idea doesn’t improve his foresight. It distorts it. And more information doesn’t help because it’s all seen through the same tinted glasses. It may increase the hedgehog’s confidence, but not his accuracy. That’s a bad combination. ~ Philip E Tetlock,

959:Proem Alice, I need not tell you that the Art That copies Nature, even at its best, Is but the echo of a splendid tone, Or like the answer of a little child To the deep question of some frosted sage. For Nature in her grand magnificence, Compared to Art, must ever raise her head Beyond the cognizance of human minds: This is the spirit merely; that, the soul. We watch her passing, like some gentle dream, And catch sweet glimpses of her perfect face; We see the flashing of her gorgeous robes, And, if her mantle ever falls at all, How few Elishas wear it sacredly, As if it were a valued gift from heaven. God has created; we but re-create, According to the temper of our minds; According to the grace He has bequeathed; According to the uses we have made Of His good-pleasure given unto us. And so I love my art; chiefly, because Through it I rev'rence Nature, and improve The tone and tenor of the mind He gave. God sends a Gift; we crown it with high Art, And make it worthy the bestower, when The talent is not hidden in the dust Of pampered negligence and venial sin, But put to studious use, that it may work The end and aim for which it was bestowed. All Good is God's; all Love and Truth are His; We are His workers; and we dare not plead But that He gave us largely of all these, Demanding a discreet return, that when The page of life is written to its close It may receive the seal and autograph Of His good pleasure-the right royal sign And signet of approval, to the end That we were worthy of the gift divine, 109 And through it praised the Great Artificer. In my long rambles through Orillian woods; Out on the ever-changing Couchiching; By the rough margin of the Lake St. John; Down the steep Severn, where the artist sun, In dainty dalliance with the blushing stream, Transcribes each tree, branch, leaf, and rock and flower, Perfect in shape and colour, clear, distinct, With all the panoramic change of skyEven as Youth's bright river, toying with The fairy craft where Inexperience dreams, And subtle Fancy builds its airy halls, In blest imagination pictures most Of bright or lovely that adorn life's banks, With the blue vault of heaven over all; On that serene and wizard afternoon, As hunters chase the wild and timid deer We chased the quiet of Medonte's shades Through the green windings of the forest road, Past Nature's venerable rank and file Of primal woods-her Old Guard, sylvan-plumedThe far-off Huron, like a silver thread, The clue to some enchanted labyrinth, Dimly perceived beyond the stretch of woods, Th' approaches tinted by a purple haze, And softened into beauty like the dream Of some rapt seer's Apocalyptic mood; And when at Rockridge we sat looking out Upon the softened shadows of the night, And the wild glory of the throbbing stars; Where'er we bent our Eden-tinted way: My brain was a weird wilderness of Thought: My heart, love's sea of passion tossed and torn, Calmed by the presence of the loving souls By whom I was surrounded. All the while They deemed me passing tame, and wondered when My dreamy castle would come toppling down. I was but driving back the aching past, And mirroring the future. And these leaves Of meditation are but perfumes from 110 The censer of my feelings; honied drops Wrung from the busy hives of heart and brain; Mere etchings of the artist; grains of sand From the calm shores of that unsounded deep Of speculation, where all thought is lost Amid the realms of Nature and of God. ~ Charles Sangster,

960:Storm Out of the gray northwest, where many a day gone by Ye tugged and howled in your tempestuous grot, And evermore the huge frost giants lie, Your wizard guards in vigilance unforgot, Out of the gray northwest, for now the bonds are riven, On wide white wings your thongless flight is driven, That lulls but resteth not. And all the gray day long, and all the dense wild night, Ye wheel and hurry with the sheeted snow, By cedared waste and many a pine-dark height, Across white rivers frozen fast below; Over the lonely forests, where the flowers yet sleeping Turn in their narrow beds with dreams of weeping In some remembered woe; Across the unfenced wide marsh levels, where the dry Brown ferns sigh out, and last year's sedges scold In some drear language, rustling haggardly Their thin dead leaves and dusky hoods of gold; Across gray beechwoods where the pallid leaves unfalling In the blind gusts like homeless ghosts are calling With voices cracked and old; Across the solitary clearings, where the low Fierce gusts howl through the blinded woods, and round The buried shanties all day long the snow Sifts and piles up in many a spectral mound; Across lone villages in eerie wildernesses Whose hidden life no living shape confesses Nor any human sound; Across the serried masses of dim cities, blown Full of the snow that ever shifts and swells, While far above them all their towers of stone Stand and beat back your fierce and tyrannous spells, And hour by hour send out, like voices torn and broken Of battling giants that have grandly spoken, The veering sound of bells; 153 So day and night, O Wind, with hiss and moan you fleet, Where once long gone on many a green-leafed day Your gentler brethren wandered with light feet And sang, with voices soft and sweet as they, The same blind thought that you with wilder might are speaking, Seeking the same strange thing that you are seeking In this your stormier way. O Wind, wild-voicèd brother, in your northern cave, My spirit also being so beset With pride and pain, I heard you beat and rave, Grinding your chains with furious howl and fret, Knowing full well that all earth's moving things inherit The same chained might and madness of the spirit, That none may quite forget. You in your cave of snows, we in our narrow girth Of need and sense, for ever chafe and pine; Only in moods of some demonic birth Our souls take fire, our flashing wings untwine; Even like you, mad Wind, above our broken prison, With streaming hair and maddened eyes uprisen, We dream ourselves divine; Mad moods that come and go in some mysterious way, That flash and fall, none knoweth how or why, O Wind, our brother, they are yours today, The stormy joy, the sweeping mastery; Deep in our narrow cells, we hear you, we awaken, With hands afret and bosoms strangely shaken, We answer to your cry. I most that love you, Wind, when you are fierce and free, In these dull fetters cannot long remain; Lo, I will rise and break my thongs and flee Forth to your drift and beating, till my brain Even for an hour grow wild in your divine embraces, And then creep back into mine earthly traces, And bind me with my chain. Nay, Wind, I hear you, desperate brother, in your might Whistle and howl; I shall not tarry long, 154 And though the day be blind and fierce, the night Be dense and wild, I still am glad and strong To meet you face to face; through all your gust and drifting With brow held high, my joyous hands uplifting, I cry you song for song. ~ Archibald Lampman,

961:Not Aladdin magian Ever such a work began; Not the wizard of the Dee Ever such a dream could see; Not St. John, in Patmos' Isle, In the passion of his toil, When he saw the churches seven, Golden aisl'd, built up in heaven, Gaz'd at such a rugged wonder. As I stood its roofing under Lo! I saw one sleeping there, On the marble cold and bare. While the surges wash'd his feet, And his garments white did beat. Drench'd about the sombre rocks, On his neck his well-grown locks, Lifted dry above the main, Were upon the curl again. "What is this? and what art thou?" Whisper'd I, and touch'd his brow; "What art thou? and what is this?" Whisper'd I, and strove to kiss The spirit's hand, to wake his eyes; Up he started in a trice: "I am Lycidas," said he, "Fam'd in funeral minstrely! This was architectur'd thus By the great Oceanus!-- Here his mighty waters play Hollow organs all the day; Here by turns his dolphins all, Finny palmers great and small, Come to pay devotion due-- Each a mouth of pearls must strew. Many a mortal of these days, Dares to pass our sacred ways, Dares to touch audaciously This Cathedral of the Sea! I have been the pontiff-priest Where the waters never rest, Where a fledgy sea-bird choir Soars for ever; holy fire I have hid from mortal man; Proteus is my Sacristan. But the dulled eye of mortal Hath pass'd beyond the rocky portal; So for ever will I leave Such a taint, and soon unweave All the magic of the place." * * * * * * So saying, with a Spirit's glance He dived! 'After a detention of a few hours at Inverary owing to Brown's suffering from sore feet, the travellers started again on the 19th of July, walked along "20 miles by the side of Loch Awe" -- southward, I suppose, for they next paused "between Loch Craignish and the sea just opposite Long Island," where Keats gives a very minute account to Tom of the locale. They then pushed on to Oban, "15 miles in a soaking rain" -- due north again. At Oban Keats finished the unpublished letter to Tom containing The Gadfly and the Stranger sonnet, and posted it, announcing that the travellers had given up the idea of Mull and Staffa on account of the expense. This was probably on the 22nd of July. On the 23rd he begins a fresh letter (Life, Letters &c.) stating that just after he had posted the other the guide to Mull came in and made a bargain with them. This latter letter is dated the 23rd of July, "Dunancullen" in the Life: "Dimancullen" is the name given in the same connexion in the New York World, where some Keats documents appeared; but probably the place indicated is Derrynaculen, which is at a situation on the walk through the southern part of the Isle of Mull corresponding with Keats's narrative. This narrative seems to show that on the 23rd of July they crossed from Oban to Kerrera by one ferry and from Kerrera to Mull by another, and walked across the south of the Island to the western extremity to cross to Iona by boat. By the 26th, Keats resumed his letter to Tom at Oban, and narrated that the thirty-seven miles of walking had been very miserable, and that he and Brown had taken a boat at a bargain to carry them from Iona to Staffa, and land them finally at the head of Loch Nakeal, whence they could return to Oban by a better route. He vividly describes Staffa, including Fingal's Cave, breaks into verse with the lines given above, and resumes prose with, "I am sorry I am so indolent as to write such stuff as this." Probably the poem should be dated the 26th of July, 1818.' ~ Poetical Works of John Keats, ed. H. Buxton Forman, Crowell publ. 1895. by owner. provided at no charge for educational purposes ~ John Keats, Staffa ,

962:I pray that the world never runs out of dragons. I say that in all sincerity, though I have played a part in the death of one great wyrm. For the dragon is the quintessential enemy, the greatest foe, the unconquerable epitome of devastation. The dragon, above all other creatures, even the demons and the devils, evokes images of dark grandeur, of the greatest beast curled asleep on the greatest treasure hoard. They are the ultimate test of the hero and the ultimate fright of the child. They are older than the elves and more akin to the earth than the dwarves. The great dragons are the preternatural beast, the basic element of the beast, that darkest part of our imagination. The wizards cannot tell you of their origin, though they believe that a great wizard, a god of wizards, must have played some role in the first spawning of the beast. The elves, with their long fables explaining the creation of every aspect of the world, have many ancient tales concerning the origin of the dragons, but they admit, privately, that they really have no idea of how the dragons came to be. My own belief is more simple, and yet, more complicated by far. I believe that dragons appeared in the world immediately after the spawning of the first reasoning race. I do not credit any god of wizards with their creation, but rather, the most basic imagination wrought of unseen fears, of those first reasoning mortals. We make the dragons as we make the gods, because we need them, because, somewhere deep in our hearts, we recognize that a world without them is a world not worth living in. There are so many people in the land who want an answer, a definitive answer, for everything in life, and even for everything after life. They study and they test, and because those few find the answers for some simple questions, they assume that there are answers to be had for every question. What was the world like before there were people? Was there nothing but darkness before the sun and the stars? Was there anything at all? What were we, each of us, before we were born? And what, most importantly of all, shall we be after we die? Out of compassion, I hope that those questioners never find that which they seek. One self-proclaimed prophet came through Ten-Towns denying the possibility of an afterlife, claiming that those people who had died and were raised by priests, had, in fact, never died, and that their claims of experiences beyond the grave were an elaborate trick played on them by their own hearts, a ruse to ease the path to nothingness. For that is all there was, he said, an emptiness, a nothingness. Never in my life have I ever heard one begging so desperately for someone to prove him wrong. This is kind of what I believe right now… although, I do not want to be proved wrong… For what are we left with if there remains no mystery? What hope might we find if we know all of the answers? What is it within us, then, that so desperately wants to deny magic and to unravel mystery? Fear, I presume, based on the many uncertainties of life and the greatest uncertainty of death. Put those fears aside, I say, and live free of them, for if we just step back and watch the truth of the world, we will find that there is indeed magic all about us, unexplainable by numbers and formulas. What is the passion evoked by the stirring speech of the commander before the desperate battle, if not magic? What is the peace that an infant might know in its mother’s arms, if not magic? What is love, if not magic? No, I would not want to live in a world without dragons, as I would not want to live in a world without magic, for that is a world without mystery, and that is a world without faith. And that, I fear, for any reasoning, conscious being, would be the cruelest trick of all. -Drizzt Do’Urden ~ R A Salvatore,

963:In my travels on the surface, I once met a man who wore his religious beliefs like a badge of honor upon the sleeves of his tunic. "I am a Gondsman!" he proudly told me as we sat beside eachother at a tavern bar, I sipping my wind, and he, I fear, partaking a bit too much of his more potent drink. He went on to explain the premise of his religion, his very reason for being, that all things were based in science, in mechanics and in discovery. He even asked if he could take a piece of my flesh, that he might study it to determine why the skin of the drow elf is black. "What element is missing," he wondered, "that makes your race different from your surface kin?" I think that the Gondsman honestly believed his claim that if he could merely find the various elements that comprised the drow skin, he might affect a change in that pigmentation to make the dark elves more akin to their surface relatives. And, given his devotion, almost fanaticism, it seemed to me as if he felt he could affect a change in more than physical appearance. Because, in his view of the world, all things could be so explained and corrected. How could i even begin to enlighten him to the complexity? How could i show him the variations between drow and surface elf in the very view of the world resulting from eons of walking widely disparate roads? To a Gondsman fanatic, everything can be broken down, taken apart and put back together. Even a wizard's magic might be no more than a way of conveying universal energies - and that, too, might one day be replicated. My Gondsman companion promised me that he and his fellow inventor priests would one day replicate every spell in any wizard's repertoire, using natural elements in the proper combinations. But there was no mention of the discipline any wizard must attain as he perfects his craft. There was no mention of the fact that powerful wizardly magic is not given to anyone, but rather, is earned, day by day, year by year and decade by decade. It is a lifelong pursuit with gradual increase in power, as mystical as it is secular. So it is with the warrior. The Gondsman spoke of some weapon called an arquebus, a tubular missile thrower with many times the power of the strongest crossbow. Such a weapon strikes terror into the heart of the true warrior, and not because he fears that he will fall victim to it, or even that he fears it will one day replace him. Such weapons offend because the true warrior understands that while one is learning how to use a sword, one should also be learning why and when to use a sword. To grant the power of a weapon master to anyone at all, without effort, without training and proof that the lessons have taken hold, is to deny the responsibility that comes with such power. Of course, there are wizards and warriors who perfect their craft without learning the level of emotional discipline to accompany it, and certainly there are those who attain great prowess in either profession to the detriment of all the world - Artemis Entreri seems a perfect example - but these individuals are, thankfully, rare, and mostly because their emotional lacking will be revealed early in their careers, and it often brings about a fairly abrupt downfall. But if the Gondsman has his way, if his errant view of paradise should come to fruition, then all the years of training will mean little. Any fool could pick up an arquebus or some other powerful weapon and summarily destroy a skilled warrior. Or any child could utilize a Gondsman's magic machine and replicate a firebal, perhaps, and burn down half a city. When I pointed out some of my fears to the Gondsman, he seemed shocked - not at the devastating possibilities, but rather, at my, as he put it, arrogance. "The inventions of the priests of Gond will make all equal!" he declared. "We will lift up the lowly peasant ~ R A Salvatore,

964:An Experiment In Translation Blest husbandmen! if they but knew their bliss! For whom, from war remote, fair-minded Earth Teems, to light toil, with ready sustenance. What though from splendid palace streams at dawn No servile train, gaping at inlaid gates, Corinthian bronzes, garments tricked with gold; What though for them no snow-white wool be stained By Eastern dyes, nor oil be smeared with nard, Secure tranquillity is theirs, a life Of rural wealth, from galling failure free, Of ample leisure amid broad domains, Cool grots, and shimmering pools, and shady groves, Lowing of kine, and, after woodland chase, Delight of slumber under noonday boughs: Hard-working hinds to homely fare inured, Fear of the Gods, and reverence for age. Justice, deserting Earth, forsook them last. For me, enamoured of the darling Muse, Whose badge I bear, may she to me reveal The secret of the stars, the sun's eclipse, Moon's endless labour, earthquake, storm, and calm, Why winter suns subside into the sea So soon, and summer twilights stay so long. But if not mine the native fire and force To find my way to Nature's very heart, Leave me green vales and irrigating rills, And soothe my lack of fame with woods and streams. Where are the braes and burns of Thessaly, And Spartan maidens wantoning in the woods! O who will hence now wizard me away To Haemus' dewy dingles, and with dense Umbrageous branches curtain my retreat! Thrice blest indeed is he that apprehends The root and real significance of things, Who tramples under foot both fear and fate, Nor dreads the roar of Acheron's yawning surge. Nor happy less, who knows the rustic gods, Pan, old Sylvanus, and the sister nymphs. 143 To menace of the mob or regal frown, To Dacian hosts and fratricidal strife, Future of Rome, and perishable realms, Insensible alike, his heart is spared Pain for the poor and envy of the rich. His wealth the harvest trunk and furrow yield, Nothing he recks of edicts cast in bronze, News of the hour, or Senate's wrangling strife. Some scour the seas in search of war, and storm The gates of Kings, put cities to the sword, To drain gemmed goblets, snore in Tyrian sheets; Some gloat upon their golden hoards, while some Are dazed by sounding rhetoric or befooled By cheers repeated from patrician lips And plebs alike; exult in brother's blood; Or in sheer lust of exile quit their home To seek a roof beneath some other sky. With his curved share the wise swain stirs the soil, Source of his constant care, and sustenance Of country, kin, sleek kine, and generous steers. Respite is none; for still the season teems With fruits, or lambing flocks; or mellow sheaves Crest the long furrows, and restock the barns. Then Winter comes; the olives must be pressed, The hogs grunt homeward gorged with mast; the grove Yields arbutus, the Autumn peach and pear, And the grapes ripen on the warm dry soil. Meanwhile his children clamber to be kissed, His honour lives unstained, the foaming pail Brims with abounding milk, and on the sward Young kids do mimic battle with their horns. 'Tis he that leads the Feast; and when his folk Have lit the altar-fire and wreathed the cup, Thee, Bacchus, with libation he invokes, and then Tests at the target his head-shepherds' skill, Or bids them strip and wrestle for the prize. Such was the life the Sabines led of old, Such Remus and his twin; and thus it was Etruria throve; thus seven-hilled Rome became One with itself, the glory of the world. Such, too, ere yet unnatural Minos reigned, And impious mortals banqueted on flesh, 144 The simple manners of the Golden Age. ~ Alfred Austin,

965:Exodus Parthenidae The Lay of the Last Squatter Draw your chair to the fire, old woman, The days are warm, but the nights are cold ; So, they've hunted our milkers off the common, And pounded them, calves and all, I'm told. Had I caught 'Long Henderson' driving 'Molly,' I'd have made him tell me 'the reason why' ; He'd scarcely have answered you so jolly, Had I turned the corner suddenly. Faith, 'tis time we laid our oars in the rullocks, We've got no right of commonage now, And the sheep are sold, and the working bullocks And the cattle, all but the strawberry cow ; I felt my heart for the moment soften When the butcher offered me three pound five For the poor old thing that you've milked so often— She sha'n't be slaughtered while I'm alive. And Robinson Brown has sent me his bill, dear, And Morton Jones has taken the lease, And the kangaroo dogs, 'Lion' and 'Kildeer,' Are sold for fifty shillings apiece ; I'm sorry to part with the red dog, truly, At fifty shillings I call him cheap, But the brindled dog is a trifle unruly— Oh ! Carrington Jackson, mind your sheep. I'm sure if Giles is satisfied, I am ; The horses averaged well, and though I'd like to have kept the colt by 'Priam,' 'Tis just as well that I let him go ; For if my creditors won't be losers, I've set them scratching their heads, mayhap, And you know that some folk mustn't be choosers, Which folk I belong to—'verbum sap.' I've had an interview with the banker, 145 And I found him civil, and even kind ; But the game's up here, we must weigh the anchor, We've the surf before, and the rocks behind ; So trim the canvas, and clear the gangways, They've got the great unwashed on their side ; It's no use sparring with 'Templar Strangways,' It's no use kicking at 'Lavendar Glyde.' And I guess it's all U P with the squatter ; The people are crying aloud for the land ; They've made it hot, and they'll find it hotter When they plough the limestone and sow the sand. 'All flesh is grass,' so saith the preacher ; 'All grass is ours,' quoth Randolph Stow ; Is the man related to Harriet Beecher ? With mobile vulgus he's all the go. And years to come, in the book of Hansard, You may read the tale of the frogs retold, How they prayed for a king, how their prayer was answered, How the king was crowned, and the frogs were sold, How they ended, the schemes whose names were 'Legion,' In the Mephisopheles laughter note, From the depths of 'the Mariner's' gastric region, That rattled up to his innocent throat. I wish you'd write me a line to Maddox (My fingers are cramped with that boring brute) ; I'll take his bid for the purchased paddocks, The sum we mentioned he won't dispute. I might have made better terms with Parker If he hadn't known I was forced to sell, But I couldn't have kept these matters darker, I didn't try to—'tis just as well. Fred Carson made an offer for Lancer— 'Twas a little less than his hide would bring ; You may guess I gave him a civil answer, Which put a stop to his huckstering ; I loosed the old nag at the sliding railing, And carried my saddle up to the hut ; His eyes, as well as his limbs, are failing, 146 He scarcely knew when the gate was shut. Aye, troubles are coming upon us thickly, 'Tis hard to leave the old place at last, And you're not strong, and the baby's sickly, And your mothers ailing and aging fast. I remember the days when credit was plenty, And years were few ; but those days are o'er ; Old Beranger sings of the joys of twenty, But I shall never see thirty more. It's no use talking, things might have been better, And then again they might well be worse— You needn't trouble about that letter, The youngster's squalling for a nurse ; And your hand is surely unsteady, That writing looks to be all askew, What ! are there tears in your eyes already ? Come, old girl, this will never do ! I might have taken Time by the forelock, I might have made my hay in the sun, I might have foreseen—but wizard or warlock Could never undo what has been done. And at least I've wantonly injured no man, Although I've lived on the people's land— Draw your chair to the fire, old woman, And mix a drop of the battle axe brand. ~ Adam Lindsay Gordon,

966:A Dream Of Sunshine I'm weary of this weather and I hanker for the ways Which people read of in the psalms and preachers paraphrase-The grassy fields, the leafy woods, the banks where I can lie And listen to the music of the brook that flutters by, Or, by the pond out yonder, hear the redwing blackbird's call Where he makes believe he has a nest, but hasn't one at all; And by my side should be a friend--a trusty, genial friend, With plenteous store of tales galore and natural leaf to lend; Oh, how I pine and hanker for the gracious boon of spring-For _then_ I'm going a-fishing with John Lyle King! How like to pigmies will appear creation, as we float Upon the bosom of the tide in a three-by-thirteen boat-Forgotten all vexations and all vanities shall be, As we cast our cares to windward and our anchor to the lee; Anon the minnow-bucket will emit batrachian sobs, And the devil's darning-needles shall come wooing of our bobs; The sun shall kiss our noses and the breezes toss our hair (This latter metaphoric--we've no fimbriae to spare!); And I--transported by the bliss--shan't do a plaguey thing But cut the bait and string the fish for John Lyle King! Or, if I angle, it will be for bullheads and the like, While he shall fish for gamey bass, for pickerel, and for pike; I really do not care a rap for all the fish that swim-But it's worth the wealth of Indies just to be along with him In grassy fields, in leafy woods, beside the water-brooks, And hear him tell of things he's seen or read of in his books-To hear the sweet philosophy that trickles in and out The while he is discoursing of the things we talk about; A fountain-head refreshing--a clear, perennial spring Is the genial conversation of John Lyle King! Should varying winds or shifting tides redound to our despite-In other words, should we return all bootless home at night, I'd back him up in anything he had a mind to say Of mighty bass he'd left behind or lost upon the way; I'd nod assent to every yarn involving piscine game-I'd cross my heart and make my affidavit to the same; For what is friendship but a scheme to help a fellow out-And what a paltry fish or two to make such bones about! Nay, Sentiment a mantle of sweet charity would fling O'er perjuries committed for John Lyle King. At night, when as the camp-fire cast a ruddy, genial flame, He'd bring his tuneful fiddle out and play upon the same; No diabolic engine this--no instrument of sin-No relative at all to that lewd toy, the violin! But a godly hoosier fiddle--a quaint archaic thing Full of all the proper melodies our grandmas used to sing; With 'Bonnie Doon,' and 'Nellie Gray,' and 'Sitting on the Stile,' 'The Heart Bowed Down,' the 'White Cockade,' and 'Charming Annie Lisle' Our hearts would echo and the sombre empyrean ring Beneath the wizard sorcery of John Lyle King. The subsequent proceedings should interest me no more-Wrapped in a woolen blanket should I calmly dream and snore; The finny game that swims by day is my supreme delight-And _not_ the scaly game that flies in darkness of the night! Let those who are so minded pursue this latter game But not repine if they should lose a boodle in the same; For an example to you all one paragon should serve-He towers a very monument to valor and to nerve; No bob-tail flush, no nine-spot high, no measly pair can wring A groan of desperation from John Lyle King! A truce to badinage--I hope far distant is the day When from these scenes terrestrial our friend shall pass away! We like to hear his cheery voice uplifted in the land, To see his calm, benignant face, to grasp his honest hand; We like him for his learning, his sincerity, his truth, His gallantry to woman and his kindliness to youth, For the lenience of his nature, for the vigor of his mind, For the fulness of that charity he bears to all mankind-That's why we folks who know him best so reverently cling (And that is why I pen these lines) to John Lyle King. And now adieu, a fond adieu to thee, O muse of rhyme-I do remand thee to the shades until that happier time When fields are green, and posies gay are budding everywhere, And there's a smell of clover bloom upon the vernal air; When by the pond out yonder the redwing blackbird calls, And distant hills are wed to Spring in veils of water-falls; When from his aqueous element the famished pickerel springs Two hundred feet into the air for butterflies and things-_Then_ come again, O gracious muse, and teach me how to sing The glory of a fishing cruise with John Lyle King! ~ Eugene Field,

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

968:The Ideal Spirit of Dreams! When many a toilsome height Shut paradise from exiled Adam’s sight, Two wedded powers were given thenceforth to stray On either hand, companions of his way; This Hope was named in heaven, whence he came, And that of Melancholy bore the name; Thy parents these—who clothed thee with a ray Snatched from Perfection as she passed away, And to their gentle child bequeathed the grace Wherewith they once adorned unfallen nature’s face. Queen-mother of Elysiums, and all fair Hesperian gardens, hear thy suppliant’s prayer! Lend me the hues with which the mortal eyes Thou dost bring back the tints of paradise— Hues drawn from all the splendours that there be In this new world, from earth and sky and sea; From nameless flowers, that wild in forests run, Up to the glories of the setting sun— From those white flickers that round fountains leap, From the phosphoric lightenings of the deep, From wave-wet sands that glisten on the shore, From blazing diamonds and rich-beaming ore; From these by thee with native art combined, And interblended with the light of mind; These hues now lend thy suppliant, for he The brilliant steps would trace of thy whole ministry. O for a golden lyre while first I sing How thou dost lovelier make the loveliest thing! Woman is beautiful!—no more—unless Thou touch her beauty with thy soft caress; Then sweeter sweets her form at once invest Than breathe in gales of Araby the blest! A thousand charms from thy fair soul are given, And she outshines the very moon of heaven. Lovely this prospect! Yet thy presence here Doubles each glory of the golden year! Breathes but thy influence o er a pasture plain, And lo! ’tis flushed with Eden-glows again. 187 This light, how glorious! A sun-woven robe Wrapping in living warmth the fruitful globe: But if thy touch lend vision to our eyes, We see celestial radiance flood the skies; The common light burns with diviner flame, “It is the light of God!” Our awestruck souls exclaim. O he whose wild heart leaps to thy wild call, Hath yet some joy whatever may befall! Hath yet some wealth where destitution reigns— Nay, even some high inviolable gains Where rapine sits enthroned, and slavery clanks her chains! Still his possessions compass whatsoe er Of good and beauteous nature treasures there! Still the lone hill, wild vale, and pathless grove Are his by the great solemn right of love; For him what gold is in the morning’s hues! What unbought jewels are the lucent dews! What regal mansions are the brookside bowers! What gay assemblies the balm-breathing flowers! Then every bird that pipes a matin lay Doth unto him unconscious tribute pay; Yea, every grace of stream and wood and sky Is vassal to his sovereign ear and eye. And when the busy coils of Mammon’s brood Fail like the voices of an ebbing flood, And from the scenes that glared with her display Pride-drunken fashion rolls fatigued away; When from mild evening’s shadowy robe the breeze Shakes cool delight and odorous messages; And when no longer the sun’s beams fire-crest The dusky hills, but round him in the west Are gathered, even like a summoned host, In gorgeous tents on the horizon’s coast, Ere to the regions of a separate day He rolls at length in purple pomp away; Whilst yet—some moments yet—withdrawing gleams Travel the air, and die along the streams; A sumptuous festival that hour shall prove To bathe his chosen soul with harmony and love! 188 When up the unclouded heaven in starry sheen Night walks like a gem-sprangled Ethiop queen, And from her solemn curtains wide unfurled Falls dense repose upon the drowsy world, No sordid appetite, no passion mean, Chains down thy votary to this mere terrene; But following thee he freely soars afar From moon to planet, and from star to star! Yea, onward still he venturous may trace Thy distant course through dimmest depths of space, Till waxing bolder from the boundless flight, He claim his kinship with the infinite. And now, though mournful he thy servant’s theme, A tale of hapless love, or faded dream Of worth, of men, whose spirits once so bright Like halcyons gemmed the rivers of delight, But fled misfortune’s wintry floods before, Never to show their shining plumage more; Still thou, thy hope-tired follower ever near, Sublim’st each sigh and hallowest every tear, Till even despair thy handmaid grows to be, Sending a lurid light by its intensity Through awful spirit depths thy foes can never see. Doth danger threaten, and doth terror scream? O’er their wild fronts a reconciling gleam Thy wings reflect! The storm that rends the sky And ploughs the ocean can, if thou art nigh, Give to the heart stern strength and lift the soul on high! Thou throw’st fierce loveliness o’er ruin’s face, And over death’s calm brow a mild entrancing grace. Nay, be thy glance but turned where devils dwell, And a sad glory lightens out of hell! Spirit of dreams! Oh, let me grateful say How thou hast brightened my lone earthly way! When most beset by troubles stern and new, When foes must triumphed, friends were most untrue, My soul’s distractions thou hast all subdued Through visions high of Love, and Liberty and Good. Or stood I like a wizard, wild and lone, On some great mountain’s cloud-frequented cone, 189 Meet altar of a universal fane, Where no fiend-rites had left their murder-strain, Thou gav’st me faith’s prophetic power, to seize High consolation out of mysteries— Those mystic terrors that low-muttering roll Through life’s dim tract, the storm-clouds of the soul. O spirit! Thus attend me to the last! Brighten the future as thou did st the past! May never aught thy splendid dreams dispel, Till the hard Real earn the heart’s applause as well. ~ Charles Harpur,

969:The Rape Of The Lock: Canto 5 She said: the pitying audience melt in tears, But Fate and Jove had stopp'd the Baron's ears. In vain Thalestris with reproach assails, For who can move when fair Belinda fails? Not half so fix'd the Trojan could remain, While Anna begg'd and Dido rag'd in vain. Then grave Clarissa graceful wav'd her fan; Silence ensu'd, and thus the nymph began. "Say, why are beauties prais'd and honour'd most, The wise man's passion, and the vain man's toast? Why deck'd with all that land and sea afford, Why angels call'd, and angel-like ador'd? Why round our coaches crowd the white-glov'd beaux, Why bows the side-box from its inmost rows? How vain are all these glories, all our pains, Unless good sense preserve what beauty gains: That men may say, when we the front-box grace: 'Behold the first in virtue, as in face!' Oh! if to dance all night, and dress all day, Charm'd the smallpox, or chas'd old age away; Who would not scorn what housewife's cares produce, Or who would learn one earthly thing of use? To patch, nay ogle, might become a saint, Nor could it sure be such a sin to paint. But since, alas! frail beauty must decay, Curl'd or uncurl'd, since locks will turn to grey, Since painted, or not painted, all shall fade, And she who scorns a man, must die a maid; What then remains but well our pow'r to use, And keep good humour still whate'er we lose? And trust me, dear! good humour can prevail, When airs, and flights, and screams, and scolding fail. Beauties in vain their pretty eyes may roll; Charms strike the sight, but merit wins the soul." So spoke the dame, but no applause ensu'd; Belinda frown'd, Thalestris call'd her prude. "To arms, to arms!" the fierce virago cries, And swift as lightning to the combat flies. 239 All side in parties, and begin th' attack; Fans clap, silks rustle, and tough whalebones crack; Heroes' and heroines' shouts confus'dly rise, And bass, and treble voices strike the skies. No common weapons in their hands are found, Like gods they fight, nor dread a mortal wound. So when bold Homer makes the gods engage, And heav'nly breasts with human passions rage; 'Gainst Pallas, Mars; Latona, Hermes arms; And all Olympus rings with loud alarms. Jove's thunder roars, heav'n trembles all around; Blue Neptune storms, the bellowing deeps resound; Earth shakes her nodding tow'rs, the ground gives way; And the pale ghosts start at the flash of day! Triumphant Umbriel on a sconce's height Clapp'd his glad wings, and sate to view the fight: Propp'd on their bodkin spears, the sprites survey The growing combat, or assist the fray. While through the press enrag'd Thalestris flies, And scatters death around from both her eyes, A beau and witling perish'd in the throng, One died in metaphor, and one in song. "O cruel nymph! a living death I bear," Cried Dapperwit, and sunk beside his chair. A mournful glance Sir Fopling upwards cast, "Those eyes are made so killing"--was his last. Thus on Mæeander's flow'ry margin lies Th' expiring swan, and as he sings he dies. When bold Sir Plume had drawn Clarissa down, Chloe stepp'd in, and kill'd him with a frown; She smil'd to see the doughty hero slain, But at her smile, the beau reviv'd again. Now Jove suspends his golden scales in air, Weighs the men's wits against the lady's hair; The doubtful beam long nods from side to side; At length the wits mount up, the hairs subside. 240 See, fierce Belinda on the baron flies, With more than usual lightning in her eyes, Nor fear'd the chief th' unequal fight to try, Who sought no more than on his foe to die. But this bold lord with manly strength endu'd, She with one finger and a thumb subdu'd: Just where the breath of life his nostrils drew, A charge of snuff the wily virgin threw; The Gnomes direct, to ev'ry atom just, The pungent grains of titillating dust. Sudden, with starting tears each eye o'erflows, And the high dome re-echoes to his nose. "Now meet thy fate", incens'd Belinda cried, And drew a deadly bodkin from her side. (The same, his ancient personage to deck, Her great great grandsire wore about his neck In three seal-rings; which after, melted down, Form'd a vast buckle for his widow's gown: Her infant grandame's whistle next it grew, The bells she jingled, and the whistle blew; Then in a bodkin grac'd her mother's hairs, Which long she wore, and now Belinda wears.) "Boast not my fall," he cried, "insulting foe! Thou by some other shalt be laid as low. Nor think, to die dejects my lofty mind; All that I dread is leaving you benind! Rather than so, ah let me still survive, And burn in Cupid's flames--but burn alive." "Restore the lock!" she cries; and all around "Restore the lock!" the vaulted roofs rebound. Not fierce Othello in so loud a strain Roar'd for the handkerchief that caus'd his pain. But see how oft ambitious aims are cross'd, The chiefs contend 'till all the prize is lost! The lock, obtain'd with guilt, and kept with pain, In ev'ry place is sought, but sought in vain: With such a prize no mortal must be blest, So Heav'n decrees! with Heav'n who can contest? 241 Some thought it mounted to the lunar sphere, Since all things lost on earth are treasur'd there. There hero's wits are kept in pond'rous vases, And beaux' in snuff boxes and tweezercases. There broken vows and deathbed alms are found, And lovers' hearts with ends of riband bound; The courtier's promises, and sick man's prayers, The smiles of harlots, and the tears of heirs, Cages for gnats, and chains to yoke a flea, Dried butterflies, and tomes of casuistry. But trust the Muse--she saw it upward rise, Though mark'd by none but quick, poetic eyes: (So Rome's great founder to the heav'ns withdrew, To Proculus alone confess'd in view) A sudden star, it shot through liquid air, And drew behind a radiant trail of hair. Not Berenice's locks first rose so bright, The heav'ns bespangling with dishevell'd light. The Sylphs behold it kindling as it flies, And pleas'd pursue its progress through the skies. This the beau monde shall from the Mall survey, And hail with music its propitious ray. This the blest lover shall for Venus take, And send up vows from Rosamonda's lake. This Partridge soon shall view in cloudless skies, When next he looks through Galileo's eyes; And hence th' egregious wizard shall foredoom The fate of Louis, and the fall of Rome. Then cease, bright nymph! to mourn thy ravish'd hair, Which adds new glory to the shining sphere! Not all the tresses that fair head can boast Shall draw such envy as the lock you lost. For, after all the murders of your eye, When, after millions slain, yourself shall die: 242 When those fair suns shall set, as set they must, And all those tresses shall be laid in dust, This lock, the Muse shall consecrate to fame And 'midst the stars inscribe Belinda's name. ~ Alexander Pope,

970:RETIRED Not long, however, after Zarathustra had got away from the magician, he again saw somebody sitting by the side of his path: a tall man in black, with a gaunt pale face; and this man displeased him exceedingly. "Alas!" he said to his heart, "there sits muffled-up melancholy, looking like the tribe of priests: what do they want in my realm? How now? I have scarcely escaped that magician; must another black artist cross 259 my way so soon-some wizard with laying-on of hands, some dark miracle worker by the grace of God, some anointed world-slanderer whom the devil should fetch? But the devil is never where he should be: he always comes too late, this damned dwarf and clubfoot!" Thus cursed Zarathustra, impatient in his heart, and he wondered how he might sneak past the black man, looking the other way. But behold, it happened otherwise. For at the same moment the seated man had already spotted him; and not unlike one on whom unexpected good fortune has been thrust, he jumped up and walked toward Zarathustra. "Whoever you may be, you wanderer," he said, "help one who has lost his way, a seeker, an old man who might easily come to grief here. This region is remote and strange to me, and I have heard wild animals howling; and he who might have offered me protection no longer exists himself. I sought the last pious man, a saint and hermit who, alone in his forest, had not yet heard what all the world knows today." "What does all the world know today?" asked Zarathustra. "Perhaps this, that the old god in whom all the world once believed no longer lives?" "As you say," replied the old man sadly. "And I served that old god until his last hour. But now I am retired, without a master, and yet not free, nor ever cheerful except in my memories. That is why I climbed these mountains, that I might again have a festival at last, as is fitting for an old pope and church father-for behold, I am the last pope-a festival of pious memories and divine services. But now he himself is dead, the most pious man, that saint in the forest who constantly praised his god with singing and humming. I did not find him when I found his cave; but there were two wolves inside, howling over his death, for all animals 260 loved him. So I ran away. Had I then come to these woods and mountains in vain? Then my heart decided that I should seek another man, the most pious of all those who do not believe in God-that I should seek Zarathustral" Thus spoke the old man, and he looked with sharp eyes at the man standing before him; but Zarathustra seized the hand of the old pope and long contemplated it with admiration. "Behold, venerable one!" he said then; "what a beautiful long hand! That is the hand of one who has always dispensed blessings. But now it holds him whom you seek, me, Zarathustra. It is I, the godless Zarathustra, who speaks: who is more godless than I, that I may enjoy his instruction?" Thus spoke Zarathustra, and with his glances he pierced the thoughts and the thoughts behind the thoughts of the old pope. At last the pope began, "He who loved and possessed him most has also lost him most now; behold, now I myself am probably the more godless of the two of us. But who could rejoice in that?" "You served him to the last?" Zarathustra asked thoughtfully after a long silence. "You know how he died? Is it true what they say, that pity strangled him, that he saw how man hung on the cross and that he could not bear it, that love of man became his hell, and in the end his death?" The old pope, however, did not answer but looked aside, shy, with a pained and gloomy expression. "Let him go!" Zarathustra said after prolonged reflection, still looking the old man straight in the eye. "Let him gol He is gone. And although it does you credit that you say only good things about him who is now dead, you know as well as I who he was, and that his ways were queer. "Speaking in the confidence of three eyes," the old 261 pope said cheerfully (for he was blind in one eye), "in what pertains to God, I am-and have the right to be -more enlightened than Zarathustra himself. My love served him many years, my will followed his will in everything. A good servant, however, knows everything, including even things that his master conceals from himself. He was a concealed god, addicted to secrecy. Verily, even a son he got himself in a sneaky way. At the door of his faith stands adultery. "Whoever praises him as a god of love does not have a high enough opinion of love itself. Did this god not want to be a judge too? But the lover loves beyond reward and retri bution. "When he was young, this god out of the Orient, he was harsh and vengeful and he built himself a hell to amuse his favorites. Eventually, however, he became old and soft and mellow and pitying, more like a grandfa ther than a father, but most like a shaky old grandmo ther. Then he sat in his nook by the hearth, wilted, grieving over his weak legs, weary of the world, weary of willing, and one day he choked on his all-too-great pity." "You old pope," Zarathustra interrupted at this point, "did you see that with your own eyes? Surely it might have happened that way-that way, and also in some other way. When gods die, they always die several kinds of death. But-well then! This way or that, this way and that-he is gone! He offended the taste of my ears and eyes; I do not want to say anything worse about him now that he is dead. "I love all that looks bright and speaks honestly. But he-you know it, you old priest, there was something of your manner about him, of the priests manner: he was equivocal. He was also indistinct. How angry he got with us, this wrath-snorter, because we understood 262 him badly! But why did he not speak more cleanly? And if it was the fault of our ears, why did he give us ears that heard him badly? If there was mud in our ears-well, who put it there? He bungled too much, this potter who had never finished his apprenticeship. But that he wreaked revenge on his pots and creations for having bungled them himself, that was a sin against good taste. There is good taste in piety too; and it was this that said in the end, 'Away with such a god! Rather no god, rather make destiny on one's own, rather be a fool, rather be a god oneselfl" "What is this I hear?" said the old pope at this point, pricking up his ears. "0 Zarathustra, with such disbelief you are more pious than you believe. Some god in you must have converted you to your godlessness. Is it not your piety itself that no longer lets you believe in a god? And your overgreat honesty will yet lead you beyond good and evil too. Behold, what remains to you? You have eyes and hands and mouth, predestined for blessing from all eternity. One does not bless with the hand alone. Near you, although you want to be the most godless, I scent a secret, sacred, pleasant scent of long blessings: it gives me gladness and grief. Let me be your guest, 0 Zarathustra, for one single night! Nowhere on earth shall I now feel better than with you." "Amen! So be it!" said Zarathustra in great astonishment. "Up there goes the way, there lies Zarathustra's cave. I should indeed like to accompany you there myself, you venerable one, for I love all who are pious. But now a cry of distress urgently calls me away from you. In my realm no one shall come to grief; my cave is a good haven. And I wish that I could put everyone who is sad back on firm land and firm legs. "But who could take your melancholy off your shoulders? For that I am too weak. Verily, we might wait 263 long before someone awakens your god again. For this old god lives no more: he is thoroughly dead." Thus spoke Zarathustra. ~ Friedrich Nietzsche, RETIRED ,

971:The Kalevala - Rune Xxxvii ILMARINEN'S BRIDE OF GOLD. Ilmarinen, metal-worker, Wept one day, and then a second, Wept the third from morn till evening, O'er the death of his companion, Once the Maiden of the Rainbow; Did not swing his heavy hammer, Did not touch its copper handle, Made no sound within his smithy, Made no blow upon his anvil, Till three months had circled over; Then the blacksmith spake as follows: 'Woe is me, unhappy hero! Do not know how I can prosper; Long the days, and cold, and dreary, Longer still the nights, and colder; I am weary in the evening, In the morning still am weary, Have no longing for the morning, And the evening is unwelcome; Have no pleasure in the future, All my pleasures gone forever, With my faithful life-companion Slaughtered by the hand of witchcraft! Often will my heart-strings quiver When I rest within my chamber, When I wake at dreamy midnight, Half-unconscious, vainly searching For my noble wife departed.' Wifeless lived the mourning blacksmith, Altered in his form and features; Wept one month and then another, Wept three months in full succession. Then the magic metal-worker Gathered gold from deeps of ocean, Gathered silver from the mountains, Gathered many heaps of birch-wood. 562 Filled with faggots thirty sledges, Burned the birch-wood into ashes, Put the ashes in the furnace, Laid the gold upon the embers, Lengthwise laid a piece of silver Of the size of lambs in autumn, Or the fleet-foot hare in winter; Places servants at the bellows, Thus to melt the magic metals. Eagerly the servants labor, Gloveless, hatless, do the workmen Fan the flames within the furnace. Ilmarinen, magic blacksmith, Works unceasing at his forging, Thus to mould a golden image, Mould a bride from gold and silver; But the workmen fail their master, Faithless stand they at the bellows. Wow the artist, Ilmarinen, Fans the flame with force of magic, Blows one day, and then a second, Blows the third from morn till even; Then he looks within the furnace, Looks around the oven-border, Hoping there to see an image Rising from the molten metals. Comes a lambkin from the furnace, Rising from the fire of magic, Wearing hair of gold and copper, Laced with many threads of silver; All rejoice but Ilmarinen At the beauty of the image. This the language of the blacksmith: 'May the wolf admire thy graces; I desire a bride of beauty Born from molten gold and silver!' Ilmarinen, the magician, To the furnace threw the lambkin; Added gold in great abundance, And increased the mass of silver, Added other magic metals, Set the workmen at the bellows; 563 Zealously the servants labor, Gloveless, hatless, do the workmen Fan the flames within the furnace. Ilmarinen, wizard-forgeman, Works unceasing with his metals, Moulding well a golden image, Wife of molten gold and silver; But the workmen fail their master, Faithless do they ply the bellows. Now the artist, Ilmarinen, Fans the flames by force of magic; Blows one day, and then a second, Blows a third from morn till evening, When he looks within the furnace, Looks around the oven-border, Hoping there, to see an image Rising from the molten metals. From the flames a colt arises, Golden-maned and silver-headed, Hoofs are formed of shining copper. All rejoice but Ilmarinen At the wonderful creation; This the language of the blacksmith; 'Let the bears admire thy graces; I desire a bride of beauty Born of many magic metals.' Thereupon the wonder-forger Drives the colt back to the furnace, Adds a greater mass of silver, And of gold the rightful measure, Sets the workmen at the bellows. Eagerly the servants labor, Gloveless, hatless, do the workmen Fan the flames within the furnace. Ilmarinen, the magician, Works unceasing at his witchcraft, Moulding well a golden maiden, Bride of molten gold and silver; But the workmen fail their master, Faithlessly they ply the bellows. Now the blacksmith, Ilmarinen, Fans the flames with magic powers, 564 Blows one day, and then a second, Blows a third from morn till even; Then he looks within his furnace, Looks around the oven-border, Trusting there to see a maiden Coming from the molten metals. From the fire a virgin rises, Golden-haired and silver-headed, Beautiful in form and feature. All are filled with awe and wonder, But the artist and magician. Ilmarinen, metal-worker, Forges nights and days unceasing, On the bride of his creation; Feet he forges for the maiden, Hands and arms, of gold and silver; But her feet are not for walking, Neither can her arms embrace him. Ears he forges for the virgin, But her ears are not for hearing; Forges her a mouth of beauty, Eyes he forges bright and sparkling; But the magic mouth is speechless, And the eyes are not for seeing. Spake the artist, Ilmarinen: 'This, indeed, a priceless maiden, Could she only speak in wisdom, Could she breathe the breath of Ukko!' Thereupon he lays the virgin On his silken couch of slumber, On his downy place of resting. Ilmarinen heats his bath-room, Makes it ready for his service, Binds together silken brushes, Brings three cans of crystal water, Wherewithal to lave the image, Lave the golden maid of beauty. When this task had been completed, Ilmarinen, hoping, trusting, Laid his golden bride to slumber, On his downy couch of resting; Ordered many silken wrappings, 565 Ordered bear-skins, three in number, Ordered seven lambs-wool blankets, Thus to keep him warm in slumber, Sleeping by the golden image Re had forged from magic metals. Warm the side of Ilmarinen That was wrapped in furs and blankets; Chill the parts beside the maiden, By his bride of gold and silver; One side warm, the other lifeless, Turning into ice from coldness. Spake the artist, Ilmarinen: 'Not for me was born this virgin From the magic molten metals; I shall take her to Wainola, Give her to old Wainamoinen, As a bride and life-companion, Comfort to him in his dotage.' Ilmarinen, much disheartened, Takes the virgin to Wainola, To the plains of Kalevala, To his brother speaks as follows: 'O, thou ancient Wainamoinen, Look with favor on this image; Make the maiden fair and lovely, Beautiful in form and feature, Suited to thy years declining!' Wainamoinen, old and truthful, Looked in wonder on the virgin, On the golden bride of beauty, Spake these words to Ilmarinen: 'Wherefore dost thou bring this maiden, Wherefore bring to Wainamoinen Bride of molten gold and silver? Spake in answer Ilmarinen: 'Wherefore should I bring this image, But for purposes the noblest? I have brought her as companion To thy life in years declining, As a joy and consolation, When thy days are full of trouble!' Spake the good, old Wainamoinen: 566 'Magic brother, wonder-forger, Throw the virgin to the furnace, To the flames, thy golden image, Forge from her a thousand trinkets. Take the image into Ehstland, Take her to the plains of Pohya, That for her the mighty powers May engage in deadly contest, Worthy trophy for the victor; Not for me this bride of wonder, Neither for my worthy people. I shall never wed an image Born from many magic metals, Never wed a silver maiden, Never wed a golden virgin.' Then the hero of the waters Called together all his people, Spake these words of ancient wisdom: 'Every child of Northland, listen, Whether poor, or fortune-favored: Never bow before an image Born of molten gold and silver: Never while the sunlight brightens, Never while the moonlight glimmers, Choose a maiden of the metals, Choose a bride from gold created Cold the lips of golden maiden, Silver breathes the breath of sorrow.' ~ Elias Lönnrot,

972:Octaves We thrill too strangely at the master’s touch; We shrink too sadly from the larger self Which for its own completeness agitates And undetermines us; we do not feel— We dare not feel it yet—the splendid shame Of uncreated failure; we forget, The while we groan, that God’s accomplishment Is always and unfailingly at hand. II Tumultously void of a clean scheme Whereon to build, whereof to formulate, The legion life that riots in mankind Goes ever plunging upward, up and down, Most like some crazy regiment at arms, Undisciplined of aught but Ignorance, And ever led resourcelessly along To brainless carnage by drunk trumpeters. III To me the groaning of world-worshippers Rings like a lonely music played in hell By one with art enough to cleave the walls Of heaven with his cadence, but without The wisdom or the will to comprehend The strangeness of his own perversity, And all without the courage to deny The profit and the pride of his defeat. IV While we are drilled in error, we are lost 202 Alike to truth and usefulness. We think We are great warriors now, and we can brag Like Titans; but the world is growing young, And we, the fools of time, are growing with it:— We do not fight to-day, we only die; We are too proud of death, and too ashamed Of God, to know enough to be alive. There is one battle-field whereon we fall Triumphant and unconquered; but, alas! We are too fleshly fearful of ourselves To fight there till our days are whirled and blurred By sorrow, and the ministering wheels Of anguish take us eastward, where the clouds Of human gloom are lost against the gleam That shines on Thought’s impenetrable mail. VI When we shall hear no more the cradle-songs Of ages—when the timeless hymns of Love Defeat them and outsound them—we shall know The rapture of that large release which all Right science comprehends; and we shall read, With unoppressed and unoffended eyes, That record of All-Soul whereon God writes In everlasting runes the truth of Him. VII The guerdon of new childhood is repose:— Once he has read the primer of right thought, A man may claim between two smithy strokes Beatitude enough to realize God’s parallel completeness in the vague And incommensurable excellence That equitably uncreates itself 203 And makes a whirlwind of the Universe. VIII There is no loneliness:—no matter where We go, nor whence we come, nor what good friends Forsake us in the seeming, we are all At one with a complete companionship; And though forlornly joyless be the ways We travel, the compensate spirit-gleams Of Wisdom shaft the darkness here and there, Like scattered lamps in unfrequented streets. IX When one that you and I had all but sworn To be the purest thing God ever made Bewilders us until at last it seems An angel has come back restigmatized,— Faith wavers, and we wonder what there is On earth to make us faithful any more, But never are quite wise enough to know The wisdom that is in that wonderment. Where does a dead man go?—The dead man dies; But the free life that would no longer feed On fagots of outburned and shattered flesh Wakes to a thrilled invisible advance, Unchained (or fettered else) of memory; And when the dead man goes it seems to me ’T were better for us all to do away With weeping, and be glad that he is gone. XI Still through the dusk of dead, blank-legended, 204 And unremunerative years we search To get where life begins, and still we groan Because we do not find the living spark Where no spark ever was; and thus we die, Still searching, like poor old astronomers Who totter off to bed and go to sleep, To dream of untriangulated stars. XII With conscious eyes not yet sincere enough To pierce the glimmered cloud that fluctuates Between me and the glorifying light That screens itself with knowledge, I discern The searching rays of wisdom that reach through The mist of shame’s infirm credulity, And infinitely wonder if hard words Like mine have any message for the dead. XIII I grant you friendship is a royal thing, But none shall ever know that royalty For what it is till he has realized His best friend in himself. ’T is then, perforce, That man’s unfettered faith indemnifies Of its own conscious freedom the old shame, And love’s revealed infinitude supplants Of its own wealth and wisdom the old scorn. XIV Though the sick beast infect us, we are fraught Forever with indissoluble Truth, Wherein redress reveals itself divine, Transitional, transcendent. Grief and loss, Disease and desolation, are the dreams Of wasted excellence; and every dream Has in it something of an ageless fact 205 That flouts deformity and laughs at years. XV We lack the courage to be where we are:— We love too much to travel on old roads, To triumph on old fields; we love too much To consecrate the magic of dead things, And yieldingly to linger by long walls Of ruin, where the ruinous moonlight That sheds a lying glory on old stones Befriends us with a wizard’s enmity. XVI Something as one with eyes that look below The battle-smoke to glimpse the foeman’s charge, We through the dust of downward years may scan The onslaught that awaits this idiot world Where blood pays blood for nothing, and where life Pays life to madness, till at last the ports Of gilded helplessness be battered through By the still crash of salvatory steel. XVII To you that sit with Sorrow like chained slaves, And wonder if the night will ever come, I would say this: The night will never come, And sorrow is not always. But my words Are not enough; your eyes are not enough; The soul itself must insulate the Real, Or ever you do cherish in this life— In this life or in any life—repose. XVIII Like a white wall whereon forever breaks 206 Unsatisfied the tumult of green seas, Man’s unconjectured godliness rebukes With its imperial silence the lost waves Of insufficient grief. This mortal surge That beats against us now is nothing else Than plangent ignorance. Truth neither shakes Nor wavers; but the world shakes, and we shriek. XIX Nor jewelled phrase nor mere mellifluous rhyme Reverberates aright, or ever shall, One cadence of that infinite plain-song Which is itself all music. Stronger notes Than any that have ever touched the world Must ring to tell it—ring like hammer-blows, Right-echoed of a chime primordial, On anvils, in the gleaming of God’s forge. XX The Prophet of dead words defeats himself: Whoever would acknowledge and include The foregleam and the glory of the real, Must work with something else than pen and ink And painful preparation: he must work With unseen implements that have no names, And he must win withal, to do that work, Good fortitude, clean wisdom, and strong skill. XXI To curse the chilled insistence of the dawn Because the free gleam lingers; to defraud The constant opportunity that lives Unchallenged in all sorrow; to forget For this large prodigality of gold That larger generosity of thought,— These are the fleshly clogs of human greed, 207 The fundamental blunders of mankind. XXII Forebodings are the fiends of Recreance; The master of the moment, the clean seer Of ages, too securely scans what is, Ever to be appalled at what is not; He sees beyond the groaning borough lines Of Hell, God’s highways gleaming, and he knows That Love’s complete communion is the end Of anguish to the liberated man. XXIII Here by the windy docks I stand alone, But yet companioned. There the vessel goes, And there my friend goes with it; but the wake That melts and ebbs between that friend and me Love’s earnest is of Life’s all-purposeful And all-triumphant sailing, when the ships Of Wisdom loose their fretful chains and swing Forever from the crumbled wharves of Time. ~ Edwin Arlington Robinson,

973: [Dedicated to General J.C.F. Fuller] Velvet soft the night-star glowed Over the untrodden road, Through the giant glades of yew Where its ray fell light as dew Lighting up the shimmering veil Maiden pure and aery frail That the spiders wove to hide Blushes of the sylvan bride Earth, that trembled with delight At the male caress of Night. Velvet soft the wizard trod To the Sabbath of his God. With his naked feet he made Starry blossoms in the glade, Softly, softly, as he went To the sombre sacrament, Stealthy stepping to the tryst In his gown of amethyst. Earlier yet his soul had come To the Hill of Martyrdom, Where the charred and crooked stake Like a black envenomed snake By the hangman's hands is thrust Through the wet and writhing dust, Never black and never dried Heart's blood of a suicide. He had plucked the hazel rod From the rude and goatish god, Even as the curved moon's waning ray Stolen from the King of Day. He had learnt the elvish sign; Given the Token of the Nine: Once to rave, and once to revel, Once to bow before the devil, Once to swing the thurible, Once to kiss the goat of hell, Once to dance the aspen spring, Once to croak, and once to sing, Once to oil the savoury thighs Of the witch with sea-green eyes With the unguents magical. Oh the honey and the gall Of that black enchanter's lips As he croons to the eclipse Mingling that most puissant spell Of the giant gods of hell With the four ingredients Of the evil elements; Ambergris from golden spar, Musk of ox from Mongol jar, Civet from a box of jade, Mixed with fat of many a maid Slain by the inchauntments cold Of the witches wild and old. He had crucified a toad In the basilisk abode, Muttering the Runes averse Mad with many a mocking curse. He had traced the serpent sigil In his ghastly virgin vigil. Sursum cor! the elfin hill, Where the wind blows deadly chill From the world that wails beneath Death's black throat and lipless teeth. There he had stood - his bosom bare - Tracing Life upon the Air With the crook and with the flail Lashing forward on the gale, Till its blade that wavereth Like the flickering of Death Sank before his subtle fence To the starless sea of sense. Now at last the man is come Haply to his halidom. Surely as he waves his rod In a circle on the sod Springs the emerald chaste and clean From the duller paler green. Surely in the circle millions Of immaculate pavilions Flash upon the trembling turf Like the sea-stars in the surf - Millions of bejewelled tents For the warrior sacraments. Vaster, vaster, vaster, vaster, Grows the stature of the master; All the ringed encampment vies With the infinite galaxies. In the midst a cubic stone With the Devil set thereon; Hath a lamb's virginal throat; Hath the body of a stoat; Hath the buttocks of a goat; Hath the sanguine face and rod Of a goddess and a god! Spell by spell and pace by pace! Mystic flashes swing and trace Velvet soft the sigils stepped By the silver-starred adept. Back and front, and to and fro, Soul and body sway and flow In vertiginous caresses To imponderable recesses, Till at last the spell is woven, And the faery veil is cloven That was Sequence, Space, and Stress Of the soul-sick consciousness. "Give thy body to the beasts! Give thy spirit to the priests! Break in twain the hazel rod On the virgin lips of God! Tear the Rosy Cross asunder! Shatter the black bolt of thunder! Suck the swart ensanguine kiss Of the resolute abyss!" Wonder-weft the wizard heard This intolerable word. Smote the blasting hazel rod On the scarlet lips of God; Trampled Cross and rosy core; Brake the thunder-tool of Thor; Meek and holy acolyte Of the priestly hells of spite, Sleek and shameless catamite Of the beasts that prowl the night! Like a star that streams from heaven Through the virgin airs light-riven, From the lift there shot and fell An admirable miracle. Carved minute and clean, a key Of purest lapis-lazuli More blue than the blind sky that aches (Wreathed with the stars, her torturing snakes), For the dead god's kiss that never wakes; Shot with golden specks of fire Like a virgin with desire. Look, the levers! fern-frail fronds Of fantastic diamonds, Glimmering with ethereal azure In each exquisite embrasure. On the shaft the letters laced, As if dryads lunar-chaste With the satyrs were embraced, Spelled the secret of the key: Sic pervenias. And he Went his wizard way, inweaving Dreams of things beyond believing. When he will, the weary world Of the senses closely curled Like a serpent round his heart Shakes herself and stands apart. So the heart's blood flames, expanding, Strenuous, urgent, and commanding; And the key unlocks the door Where his love lives evermore. She is of the faery blood; All smaragdine flows its flood. Glowing in the amber sky To ensorcelled porphyry She hath eyes of glittering flake Like a cold grey water-snake. She hath naked breasts of amber Jetting wine in her bed-chamber, Whereof whoso stoops and drinks Rees the riddle of the Sphinx. She hath naked limbs of amber Whereupon her children clamber. She hath five navels rosy-red From the five wounds of God that bled; Each wound that mothered her still bleeding, And on that blood her babes are feeding. Oh! like a rose-winged pelican She hath bred blessed babes to Pan! Oh! like a lion-hued nightingale She hath torn her breast on thorns to avail The barren rose-tree to renew Her life with that disastrous dew, Building the rose o' the world alight With music out of the pale moonlight! O She is like the river of blood That broke from the lips of the bastard god, When he saw the sacred mother smile On the ibis that flew up the foam of Nile Bearing the limbs unblessed, unborn, That the lurking beast of Nile had torn! So (for the world is weary) I These dreadful souls of sense lay by. I sacrifice these impure shoon To the cold ray of the waning moon. I take the forked hazel staff, And the rose of no terrene graff, And the lamp of no olive oil With heart's blood that alone may boil. With naked breast and feet unshod I follow the wizard way to God. Wherever he leads my foot shall follow; Over the height, into the hollow, Up to the caves of pure cold breath, Down to the deeps of foul hot death, Across the seas, through the fires, Past the palace of desires; Where he will, whether he will or no, If I go, I care not whither I go. For in me is the taint of the faery blood. Fast, fast its emerald flood Leaps within me, violent rude Like a bestial faun's beatitude. In me the faery blood runs hard: My sires were a druid, a devil, a bard, A beast, a wizard, a snake and a satyr; For - as my mother said - what does it matter? She was a fay, pure of the faery; Queen Morgan's daughter by an aery Demon that came to Orkney once To pay the Beetle his orisons. So, it is I that writhe with the twitch Of the faery blood, and the wizard itch To attain a matter one may not utter Rather than sink in the greasy splutter Of Britons munching their bread and butter; Ailing boys and coarse-grained girls Grown to sloppy women and brutal churls. So, I am off with staff in hand To the endless light of the nameless land. Darkness spreads its sombre streams, Blotting out the elfin dreams. I might haply be afraid, Were it not the Feather-maid Leads me softly by the hand, Whispers me to understand. Now (when through the world of weeping Light at last starrily creeping Steals upon my babe-new sight, Light - O light that is not light!) On my mouth the lips of her Like a stone on my sepulchre Seal my speech with ecstasy, Till a babe is born of me That is silent more than I; For its inarticulate cry Hushes as its mouth is pressed To the pearl, her honey breast; While its breath divinely ripples The rose-petals of her nipples, And the jetted milk he laps From the soft delicious paps, Sweeter than the bee-sweet showers In the chalice of the flowers, More intoxicating than All the purple grapes of Pan. Ah! my proper lips are stilled. Only, all the world is filled With the Echo, that drips over Like the honey from the clover. Passion, penitence, and pain Seek their mother's womb again, And are born the triple treasure, Peace and purity and pleasure. - Hush, my child, and come aloft Where the stars are velvet soft! ~ Aleister Crowley, The Wizard Way ,

974:The Coming Of The Rauparaha BLUE, the wreaths of smoke, like drooping banners From the flaming battlements of sunset Hung suspended; and within his whare Hipe, last of Ngatiraukawa's chieftains, Lay a-dying! Ringed about his death-bed, Like a palisade of carven figures, Stood the silent people of the village— Warriors and women of his hapu— Waiting. Then a sudden spilth of sunlight Splashed upon the mountain-peak above them, And it blossomed redly like a rata. With his people and the twilight pausing; Withering to death in regal patience, Taciturn and grim, lay Hipe dying. Shuddering and green, a little lizard Made a ripple through the whare's darkness, Writhing close to Hipe! Then a whisper On the women's dry lips hesitated As the ring of figures fluttered backwards; “ 'T is the Spirit-Thing that comes to carry Hipe's tardy soul across the waters To the world of stars!” And Hipe, grimly, Felt its hungry eyes a-glitter on him; Then he knew the spirit-world had called him; Knew the lizard-messenger must hasten, And would carry back a soul for answer. Twenty days in silence he had listened, Dumb with thoughts of death, and sorely troubled For his tribe left leaderless and lonely. Now like sullen thunder from the blackness Of the whare swept a voice untinctured With a stain of sickness; and the women, Breaking backwards, shrieked in sudden terror, “ 'T is the weird Thing's voice, the greenish lizard, All-impatient for the soul of Hipe!” But the warriors in the shadow straightened Drooping shoulders, gripped their greenstone meres, And the rhythmic tumult of the war-dance 77 Swept the great pah with its throbbing thunder: While their glad throats chanted, “E, 't is Hipe! Hipe's voice that led us in the battle; Hipe, young, come back to lead us ever!” “Warriors and women of my hapu,” Whirled the voice of Hipe from the darkness, “I have had communion with the spirits; Listen while I chant the song they taught me! “I have seen the coming end of all things, Seen the Maori shattered 'neath the onrush Of the white-faced strangers. Like the flashing Of the Sun-God through the ranks of darkness, Like the Fire-God rippling through the forest, Like the winter's silent blight of snowflakes— Lo, the strange outbreak of pallid blossoms!— Sweeps this surging wave of stranger-faces, Frothing irresistibly upon us. “Lo, the Pakeha shall come and conquer; We have failed; the Gods are angry with us. See, the withered autumn of our greatness! “Old ancestral myths and sacred legends That we deemed immortal—(priest and wizard Died, and yet their stories, like a river, Through the long years ran on, ever changeless!)— Shall be buried; and the names long given To each hill, and stream, and path and gully, Shall be like a yesterday forgotten, Blown like trembling froth before the sea-breeze. “And the gods that people all our islands— This great sea of presences immortal, Living, real, alert for charm or evil, Hurrying in every breeze, and haunting, Heavy-winged, the vistas of the forest, Deluging the daylight with their presence, Teeming, flooding, brimming in the shadows— Shall be banished to their spirit-regions, And the world be lorn of gods and lonely. “And the Maori shall no long time linger Ere, a tardy exile, he shall journey To the under-world. Yet he shall never Break before this influx, but shall fight on 78 Till, a mangled thing, the tide o'erwhelm him. And my tribe, the mighty Ngatiraukawa, Had they left one worthy chieftain only Who could lead my people on to victory, Who could follow where my feet have trodden, Might yet rear their name into a pillar Carved with fame, until their stubborn story From the mists of legend broke tremendous. Flaming through the chilly years to follow With a sunset-splendour, huge, heroic! “Yes, the time is yours to rear a nation From one conquering tribe, the Ngatiraukawa; But my pah is leaderless and lonely; I am left, the last of Maori chieftains; And the gods have called me now to lead them In their mighty battles! There is no one Worthy now to wield my dying mana!” So he ceased, and tremulous the silence Sighed to voice in one long wail of sorrow. So; it was the truth that Hipe taught them: None was left to lead them on to victory; None could follow where his feet had trodden. Then by name old Hipe called the chieftains— Weakling sons of that gaunt wrinkled giant, Stunted saplings blanching in the shadow Of the old tree's overarching greatness. One by one he called them, and they shivered, For they knew no answer to his question, “Can you lead my people on to victory? Can you follow where my feet have trodden?” One by one a great hope burned within them, And their feeble hearts beat fast and proudly; One by one a chill of terror took them, And the challenge on their lips was frozen. Then the old chief in his anger chaunted Frenziedly a song of scorn of all things, And the frightened people of the village— Warriors and women of his hapu— Quavered into murmurs 'neath the whirlwind Of his lashing words; and then he fretted 79 Into gusts of anger; and the lizard Made a greenish ripple in the darkness, Shuddering closer to him. And the people Bending heard a whisper pass above them, “Is there none to lead you on to victory, None to follow where my feet have trodden?” Lo, a sudden rumour from the edges Of the silent concourse, where the humblest Of the village crouched in utter baseness— There among the outcasts one leapt upright, Clean-limbed, straight and comely as a sunbeam. Eager muscles clad in tawny velvet, Eyes aflash with prescience of his power, Yet a boy, untried in warriors' warfare, Virgin to the battle! And untroubled Rang a daring voice across the darkness, “Yes, my people, one there is to lead you; I dare point you on to fame and victory, I dare tread where Hipe's feet have trodden. Yea,” and prouder sang the voice above them, “I can promise mightier fame unending; I shall lead where Hipe dared not tempt you; I shall make new footprints through the future— I, the youth Te Rauparaha, have spoken!” On the boy who braved them stormed the people, Swept with fear and anger, and they clamoured, “Who so proudly speaks, though not a chieftain? Rank and name and fame he has none; how then Dare he lead when sons of chieftains falter?” But the boy leapt forward to the whare, Clean-limbed, straight and comely as a sunbeam, Eager muscles clad in tawny velvet, Eyes aflash with prescience of his power, Swinging high the mere he had fashioned Out of wood, and carven like a chieftain's— Aye, and with the toy had slain a foeman! Flinging fiery speech out like a hailstorm, “If ye choose me chieftain I shall lead you Down to meet the white one on the sea-coast, Where his hordes shall break like scattered billows From our wall of meres. Him o'erwhelming, 80 I shall wrest his flaming weapons from him, Fortify for pah the rugged island Kapiti; then like a black-hawk swooping I shall whirl upon the Southern Island, Sweep it with my name as with a tempest, Overrun it like the play of sunlight, Sigh across it like a flame, till Terror Runs before me shrieking! And our pathway Shall be sullen red with flames and bloodshed, And shall moan with massacre and battle! “Quenching every foe, beneath my mana Tribe shall stand with tribe, till all my nation Like a harsh impassive wall of forest Imperturbably shall front the strangers; And with frown inscrutable shall wither All this buzz and stir of stinging insects That persist about us; then our islands Garlanded with peace are ours for ever! “Then the name of me, Te Rauparaha, And the tribe I lead, the Ngatitoa, Shall be shrined in sacred myth and legend With the glamour of our oft-told prowess Wreathed about them! Think, we shall be saviours Of a race, a nation! And this island We have sown so thick with names—each hillock, Glen and gully, stream and tribal limit— Shall for ever blossom like a garden With the liquid softness of their music! And the flute shall still across the evening Lilt and waver, brimming with love's yearning! And the exiled gods and banished spirits Shall steal back to people all our islands With their sea of presences immortal, Living, real, alert for charm or evil, Hurrying in every breeze and haunting, Heavy-winged, the vistas of the forest, Deluging the daylight with their presence, Teeming, flooding, brimming in the shadows, Till the world, a tawny world of gladness, Shall no more of gods be lorn and lonely! 81 I, the youth Te Rauparaha, have spoken!” Hipe heard, and, dying, cried in triumph, “Warriors and women of my hapu, He shall lead you, he, Te Rauparaha! He shall do the things that he has promised. He may fail; but think how grand his failure! He alone can lift against the tempest That proud head of his, and hugely daring, God-like, hugely fail, or hugely conquer!” Still he spoke, but suddenly the lizard Made a greenish ripple through the darkness, And was gone! Upon the long lone journey To Te Reinga and the world of spirits It had started with the soul of Hipe! Then the plaintive wailing of the women Quavered through the darkness, and a shudder Took the slaves that in a horror waited For the mercy of the blow to send them— Ah! the sombre, slowly-stepping phalanx— To the twilight world with Hipe's spirit. ~ Arthur Henry Adams,

975:The Kalevala - Rune Xxxiii KULLERVO AND THE CHEAT-CAKE. Thereupon the lad, Kullervo, Laid his luncheon in his basket, Drove the herd to mountain-pastures, O'er the hills and through the marshes, To their grazings in the woodlands, Speaking as he careless wandered: 'Of the youth am I the poorest, Hapless lad and full of trouble, Evil luck to me befallen! I alas! must idly wander O'er the hills and through the valleys, As a watch-dog for the cattle!' Then she sat upon the greensward, In a sunny spot selected, Singing, chanting words as follow: 'Shine, O shine, thou Sun of heaven, Cast thy rays, thou fire of Ukko, On the herdsman of the blacksmith, On the head of Kullerwoinen, On this poor and luckless shepherd, Not in Ilmarinen's smithy, Nor the dwellings of his people; Good the table of the hostess, Cuts the best of wheaten biscuit, Honey-cakes she cuts in slices, Spreading each with golden butter; Only dry bread has the herdsman, Eats with pain the oaten bread-crusts,' Filled with chaff his and biscuit, Feeds upon the worst of straw-bread, Pine-tree bark, the broad he feeds on, Sipping water from the birch-bark, Drinking from the tips of grasses I Go, O Sun, and go, O barley, Haste away, thou light of Ukko, Hide within the mountain pine-trees, 521 Go, O wheat, to yonder thickets, To the trees of purple berries, To the junipers and alders, Safely lead the herdsman homeward To the biscuit golden-buttered, To the honeyed cakes and viands!' While the shepherd lad was singing Kullerwoinen's song and echo, Ilmarinen's wife was feasting On the sweetest bread of Northland, On the toothsome cakes of barley, On the richest of provisions; Only laid aside some cabbage, For the herdsman, Kullerwoinen; Set apart some wasted fragments, Leavings of the dogs at dinner, For the shepherd, home returning. From the woods a bird came flying, Sang this song to Kullerwoinen: ''Tis the time for forest-dinners, For the fatherless companion Of the herds to eat his viands, Eat the good things from his basket!' Kullerwoinen heard the songster, Looked upon the Sun's long shadow, Straightway spake the words that follow: 'True, the singing of the song-bird, It is time indeed for feasting, Time to eat my basket-dinner.' Thereupon young Kullerwoinen Called his herd to rest in safety, Sat upon a grassy hillock, Took his basket from his shoulders, Took therefrom the and oat-loaf, Turned it over in his fingers, Carefully the loaf inspected, Spake these words of ancient wisdom: 'Many loaves are fine to look on, On the outside seem delicious, On the inside, chaff and tan-bark!' Then the shepherd, Kullerwoinen, Drew his knife to cut his oat-loaf, 522 Cut the hard and arid biscuit; Cuts against a stone imprisoned, Well imbedded in the centre, Breaks his ancient knife in pieces; When the shepherd youth, Kullervo, Saw his magic knife had broken, Weeping sore, he spake as follows: 'This, the blade that I bold sacred, This the one thing that I honor, Relic of my mother's people! On the stone within this oat-loaf, On this cheat-cake of the hostess, I my precious knife have broken. How shall I repay this insult, How avenge this woman's malice, What the wages for deception?' From a tree the raven answered: 'O thou little silver buckle, Only son of old Kalervo, Why art thou in evil humor, Wherefore sad in thy demeanor? Take a young shoot from the thicket, Take a birch-rod from the valley, Drive thy herd across the lowlands, Through the quicksands of the marshes; To the wolves let one half wander, To the bear-dens, lead the other; Sing the forest wolves together, Sing the bears down from the mountains, Call the wolves thy little children, And the bears thy standard-bearers; Drive them like a cow-herd homeward, Drive them home like spotted cattle, Drive them to thy master's milk-yards; Thus thou wilt repay the hostess For her malice and derision.' Thereupon the wizard answered, These the words of Kullerwoinen: 'Wait, yea wait, thou bride of Hisi! Do I mourn my mother's relic, Mourn the keep-sake thou hast broken? Thou thyself shalt mourn as sorely 523 When thy, cows come home at evening!' From the tree he cuts a birch-wand, From the juniper a whip-stick, Drives the herd across the lowlands, Through the quicksands of the marshes, To the wolves lets one half wander, To the bear-dens leads the other; Calls the wolves his little children, Calls the bears his standard-bearers, Changes all his herd of cattle Into wolves and bears by magic. In the west the Sun is shining, Telling that the night is coming. Quick the wizard, Kullerwoinen, Wanders o'er the pine-tree mountain, Hastens through the forest homeward, Drives the wolves and bears before him Toward the milk-yards of the hostess; To the herd he speaks as follows, As they journey on together: 'Tear and kill the wicked hostess, Tear her guilty flesh in pieces, When she comes to view her cattle, When she stoops to do her milking!' Then the wizard, Kullerwoinen, From an ox-bone makes a bugle, Makes it from Tuonikki's cow-horn, Makes a flute from Kiryo's shin-bone, Plays a song upon his bugle, Plays upon his flute of magic, Thrice upon the home-land hill-tops, Six times near the coming gate-ways. Ilmarinen's wife and hostess Long had waited for the coming Of her herd with Kullerwoinen, Waited for the milk at evening, Waited for the new-made butter, Heard the footsteps in the cow-path, On the heath she beard the bustle, Spake these joyous words of welcome: 'Be thou praised, O gracious Ukko, That my herd is home returning! 524 But I hear a bugle sounding, 'Tis the playing of my herdsman, Playing on a magic cow-horn, Bursting all our ears with music!' Kullerwoinen, drawing nearer, To the hostess spake as follows: 'Found the bugle in the woodlands, And the flute among the rushes; All thy herd are in the passage, All thy cows within the hurdles, This the time to build the camp-fire, This the time to do the milking!' Ilmarinen's wife, the hostess, Thus addressed an aged servant: 'Go, thou old one, to the milking, Have the care of all my cattle, Do not ask for mine assistance, Since I have to knead the biscuit.' Kullerwoinen spake as follows: 'Always does the worthy hostess, Ever does the wisdom-mother Go herself and do the milking, Tend the cows within the hurdles!' Then the wife of Ilmarinen Built a field-fire in the passage, Went to milk her cows awaiting, Looked upon her herd in wonder, Spake these happy words of greeting: 'Beautiful, my herd of cattle, Glistening like the skins of lynxes, Hair as soft as fur of ermine, Peaceful waiting for the milk-pail!' On the milk-stool sits the hostess, Milks one moment, then a second, Then a third time milks and ceases; When the bloody wolves disguising, Quick attack the hostess milking, And the bears lend their assistance, Tear and mutilate her body With their teeth and sharpened fingers. Kullerwoinen, cruel wizard, Thus repaid the wicked hostess, 525 Thus repaid her evil treatment. Quick the wife of Ilmarinen Cried aloud in bitter anguish, Thus addressed the youth, Kullervo: 'Evil son, thou bloody herdsman, Thou hast brought me wolves in malice, Driven bears within my hurdles! These the words of Kullerwoinen: 'Have I evil done as shepherd, Worse the conduct of the hostess; Baked a stone inside my oat-cake, On the inside, rock and tan-bark, On the stone my knife, was broken, Treasure of my mother's household, Broken virtue of my people!' Ilmarinen's wife made answer: 'Noble herdsman, Kullerwoinen, Change, I pray thee, thine opinion, Take away thine incantations, From the bears and wolves release me, Save me from this spell of torture I will give thee better raiment, Give the best of milk and butter, Set for thee the sweetest table; Thou shalt live with me in welcome, Need not labor for thy keeping. If thou dost not free me quickly, Dost not break this spell of magic, I shall sink into the Death-land, Shall return to Tuonela.' This is Kullerwoinen's answer: 'It is best that thou shouldst perish, Let destruction overtake thee, There is ample room in Mana, Room for all the dead in Kalma, There the worthiest must slumber, There must rest the good and evil.' Ilmarinen's wife made answer: 'Ukko, thou O God in heaven, Span the strongest of thy cross-bows, Test the weapon by thy wisdom, Lay an arrow forged from copper, 526 On the cross-bow of thy forging; Rightly aim thy flaming arrow, With thy magic hurl the missile, Shoot this wizard through the vitals, Pierce the heart of Kullerwoinen With the lightning of the heavens, With thine arrows tipped with copper.' Kullerwoinen prays as follows: 'Ukko, God of truth and justice. Do not slay thy magic servant, Slay the wife of Ilmarinen, Kill in her the worst of women, In these hurdles let her perish, Lest she wander hence in freedom, To perform some other mischief, Do some greater deed of malice!' Quick as lightning fell the hostess, Quick the wife of Ilmarinen Fell and perished in the hurdles, On the ground before her cottage Thus the death of Northland's hostess, Cherished wife of Ilmarinen, Once the Maiden of the Rainbow, Wooed and watched for many summers, Pride and joy of Kalevala! ~ Elias Lönnrot,

976:The Enchanted Ring A Tale of Halloween You ask me for a tale of Halloween? 'Tis well. I lately read a treasure tome Within whose legend-haunted lone demesne The free, wild Fancy finds herself at home. Now, while the night wind wings the starlit dome, And while the dead leaves eerie converse hold, Through the rich Conjurer's Kingdom with me roam; And, wandering there, the story shall be told Of what befell in Leinster in the days of old. II In Leinster in the days of old, I wis, There was no maiden of the countryside But on All Hallows (such a night as this!) In Love's dim chancery her fortune tried. The bursting nut upon the hearth she plied; Or, while a lighted candle she would bear, Gazed in her glass with eyes intent and wide; Or, with weird mutterings, like a witch's prayer, She sowed three rows of nothing on the empty air! III All rites had little Barbara performed, Yet nothing did she see, and nothing hear; Her busy thoughts soon into dreamland swarmed. The rosy apple lay, untasted, near For him who, ere another rounded year, Should taste Love's feast with her. And now the wind (As on this very night) with sighings drear, Spake close beneath her latticed window-blind Such dreamwise things as it hath spoke time out of mind. IV 16 Why moans our little sister? 'Rest thee, rest! Fear naught.' Soon careful arms have clasp'd her round, And a soft cheek against her own is pressed. For thus, since childhood, Barbara hath found In mother-love with sister's love upbound, Swift respite from the terrors of the night. But now, what sleep so restless, yet so sound, That not for touch or tone will take its flight, Or aught at all except the broadcast morning light! 'My precious one, such troubled dreams were thine; Yet, though I strove, I could not waken thee.' 'Dear mother-sister- dearest sister mineMethought an unknown guide did beckon me Far, far from here. My will I could not free; I needs must follow through weald and waste. Outworn I reached a manor fair to see; Outworn, alone, through a long hall I paced, That was with many a speaking, stately portrait graced. VI 'Then, stilly as a spirit loosed from earth, I climbed a stair, and to a chamber came, Rich hung with broidered cloths. Upon the hearth Dull embers held a little fitful flame. A sudden trembling ran through all my frame, When, from amidst those silken hangings rare, A voice pronounced: 'Reveal thy face and name, I conjure thee! At least, some token spare That I may trace thee when thou goest I know not where!' VII 'It was a grievous and a sinful thingBut over me was sovereign, stern command I must obey. Thy gift, the birthday ring, With my own name engraved within the bandThe ring, alas! I drew it from my hand, 17 And laid it on the marble mantel high. Then died the flame from out the falling brand, Then were the four walls darkling earth and sky; And, once again, till dawn a wanderer was I. VIII 'But, Agatha, thou art not vexed at me? Thou dost not mourn the ring? 'Twas mine last eve, This morning it is gone, as thou canst see!' 'Nay, darling, thou no reason hast to grieve: I may not tell thee why, but I believe That ere another wingèd year is flown Some brightest threads for thee will Fortune weave.' So spake her sister, sage of look and tone, And held the little, fevered hand within her own. IX The Winter long is over in the land, And mellow is the furrowed soil, and quick With hopeful promise to the toiler's hand. He, too, that toils not, leaning on his stick, Is cheered to see the bean-flowers set so thick, And thick the blossoms on the orchard bough. How sweet the air! Hath any soul been sick? Oh, let that soul drink health from beauty now; Stand forth beneath the sky; unknit the careworn brow! 'Say, children, if ye guess, what aileth himThe stranger who oft leans beyond the hedge To see our budding roses? Yet so dim His eye, he knows them not from ragged sedge! The black ox's hoof hath trod on him, I pledge My hopes beyond the grave, he seeketh aye For that which flees him to the world's far edge! Come, children, tell me what the gossips say: Your grandsire nothing hears- the old at home must stay!' XI 18 Good Agatha replies with playful look: 'Let Barbara speak. And if she be the rose (To us the sweetest flower in any nookOr tame or wild- that in our Leinster grows) Hath drawn the stranger to our garden-close, With what true eye hath he the best discerned.' (A blush-rose, on the moment, springs and blows!) 'Ay, sister, grandsire, all that I have learned, I freely tell you; since deceit I always spurned. XII 'But twice have I had speech with him- no more, First time he asked a rose, and spake me fair, I gave it him, so sad a look he wore; And on he passed, as one who doth not care. Again, as I was searching everywhere My bracelet that had fallen to the ground, He leaped the hedge-row ere I was aware; And he it was that, searching, quickly found My bracelet. Surely, I to courtesy was bound.' XIII 'Ay, surely, child. Your grandsire taught you that, What said you then?' 'I bade him stay and rest; And down upon the old oak bench we sat. He spake of losses- how another's quest 'Twas ever his to aid, for he was blest With wizard sight, save for the thing he soughtA thing not lost, since never yet possessed; He had but dreamed of it! I answered naught; But much, in truth, since then of what he said have thought.' XIV By this time closed are the ears of age, And lid-fast are the eyes. And now, alone, Spake carelessly good Agatha the sage: 'Great prudence, little Barbe, thou hast shown; But I have heard the stranger well is known, 19 That gentle is his birth, and the estate Is broad and fair, which singly he doth own. 'Tis said his health hath suffered much of late; Wholesome this air; so he prolongs his visit's date.' XV Then subtly did fond Agatha contrive: 'Thou dost but a charitable deed, If from his soul this withering gloom thou drive. Lightly along the self-same channel lead Thy talk. Say that thou gav'st his words good heed; Since back to thee thy bracelet he could bring, Thou would'st, once more, consult his wizard rede, For thou hast lost a yet more precious thingThy sister's gift to thee- the name, too, on the ring!' XVI 'That dare I not- !' broke in the little maid; 'For well thou knowest how the ring was lost, And all the tricks at Halloween I played. Alas, those charms were wrought at heavy cost, To be, as I have been, a homeless ghostA shadow of myself- of self bereft!' 'Then, child, tell only what importeth mostA ring of thine was somewhere lost, or left; And thou, once more, art fain to seek his counsel deft.' XVII The Rose sends challenge to the flower-world all: What bloom like mint- at once both proud and sweet? Unstored to the Rose's burning accents fall Upon the twain within the garden-seat. Yet, what can make the Rose's color fleet From a young maiden's cheek- what sudden stress? What words are these a young man may repeat, While light springs up in eyes long lustreless? But come, let us o'erhear- 'twere idle, still to guess? XVIII 20 It thus had chanced: when came the moment fit, Full simply little Barbara broached the theme Directed by her sister's subtler wit: Since he had found her bracelet, it would seem A yet mor precious loss he might redeem: A ring of hers had vanished- left no trace. So great a wizard might some potent scheme Devise, to bring it from its hiding-place.' She lightly spake. Intent, her comrade scanned her face. XIX 'Speak thou the truth, no word from me withhold; Lift up thine eyes, and they the truth shall speak, For it must be that slender ring of gold Bounds the whole world of happiness I seek. Tell me when thou this ring didst lose, and eke All circumstance that did the time attend.' 'Twas then the Rose's color fled her cheek; But since her tongue to guile she could not lend, She told straightforwardly her story to the end. XX 'As thou hast spoken truth, and naught beside' He said, 'I'll speak the living truth to thee. That night some charms of Halloween I tried, Dared thus to do by a blithe company In mine old hall, far in the West Country. The charms performed, I thought of them no more; Yet deemed it strange that sleep came not to me; And as the rising wind shook blind and door, I watched with half-shut eyes the firelight on the floor. XXI 'Then glidingly, and noiseless as a dream, A figure stoled in white, with floating hair, Touched faintly by the embers' fitful gleam, Approached the fireplace and stood wavering thereStood piteously, with tender feet all bare, 21 And tender palms reached out above the coals (As they had borne too long the frosty air). Then, I remembered me the time- All Souls, When visions vanish as the hour of midnight tolls! XXII 'Already was the clock upon the stroke, Already had the vision turned to go When, in a voice I scarcely knew, I spoke, Desiring that the presence should bestow Some sign, or constant pledge of truth, to show When daylight should to disbelief incline. The vision faded. On the mantel, lo! This ring I found. And surely, it is thine, And surely, maiden, both the ring and thou art mine!' XXIII Needs not to say what afterwards befellHow smiled the mother-sister sage and dear, When came the fine confession, guessed full well; Or how, before the rounding of the year, She saw- through many a rainbow-lighted tearHer darling pace the aisle, a happy bride! Nay!- rather must I counsel all who hear Leave juggling wiles of Halloween untried, Lest no such powers benign your doubtful venture guide! ~ Edith Matilda Thomas,

977:The Kalevala - Rune Xxxviii ILMARINEN'S FRUITLESS WOOING. Ilmarinen, the magician, The eternal metal-artist, Lays aside the golden image, Beauteous maid of magic metals; Throws the harness on his courser, Binds him to his sledge of birch-wood, Seats himself upon the cross-bench, Snaps the whip above the racer, Thinking once again to journey To the mansions of Pohyola, There to woo a bride in honor, Second daughter of the Northland. On he journeyed, restless, northward, Journeyed one day, then a second, So the third from morn till evening, When he reached a Northland-village On the plains of Sariola. Louhi, hostess of Pohyola, Standing in the open court-yard, Spied the hero, Ilmarinen, Thus addressed the metal-worker: 'Tell me how my child is living, How the Bride of Beauty prospers, As a daughter to thy mother.' Then the blacksmith, Ilmarinen, Head bent down and brow dejected, Thus addressed the Northland hostess: 'O, thou dame of Sariola, Do not ask me of thy daughter, Since, alas I in Tuonela Sleeps the Maiden of the Rainbow, Sleeps in death the Bride, of Beauty, Underneath the fragrant heather, In the kingdom of Manala. Come I for a second daughter, For the fairest of thy virgins. 568 Beauteous hostess of Pohyola, Give to me thy youngest maiden, For my former wife's compartments, For the chambers of her sister.' Louhi, hostess of the Northland, Spake these words to Ilmarinen: 'Foolish was the Northland-hostess, When she gave her fairest virgin, In the bloom of youth and beauty To the blacksmith of Wainola, Only to be led to Mana, Like a lambkin to the slaughter! I shall never give my daughter, Shall not give my youngest maiden Bride of thine to be hereafter, Life-companion at thy fireside. Sooner would I give the fair one To the cataract and whirlpool, To the river of Manala, To the waters of Tuoni!' Then the blacksmith, Ilmarinen, Drew away his head, disdainful, Shook his sable locks in anger, Entered to the inner court-room, Where the maiden sat in waiting, Spake these measures to the daughter: 'Come with me, thou bright-eyed maiden, To the cottage where thy sister Lived and lingered in contentment, Baked for me the toothsome biscuit, Brewed for me the beer of barley, Kept my dwelling-place in order.' On the floor a babe was lying, Thus he sang to Ilmarinen: 'Uninvited, leave this mansion, Go, thou stranger, from this dwelling; Once before thou camest hither, Only bringing pain and trouble, Filling all our hearts with sorrow. Fairest daughter of my mother, Do not give this suitor welcome, Look not on his eyes with pleasure, 569 Nor admire his form and features. In his mouth are only wolf-teeth, Cunning fox-claws in his mittens, In his shoes art only bear-claws, In his belt a hungry dagger; Weapons these of blood and murder, Only worn by the unworthy.' Then the daughter spake as follows To the blacksmith, Ilmarinen: 'Follow thee this maid will never, Never heed unworthy suitors; Thou hast slain the Bride of Beauty, Once the Maiden of the Rainbow, Thou wouldst also slay her sister. I deserve a better suitor, Wish a truer, nobler husband, Wish to ride in richer sledges, Have a better home-protection; Never will I sweep the cottage And the coal-place of a blacksmith.' Then the hero, Ilmarinen, The eternal metal-artist, Turned his head away, disdainful, Shook his sable locks in anger, Quickly seized the trembling maiden, Held her in his grasp of iron, Hastened from the court of Louhi To his sledge upon the highway. In his sleigh he seats the virgin, Snugly wraps her in his far-robes, Snaps his whip above the racer, Gallops on the high-road homeward; With one hand the reins be tightens, With the other holds the maiden. Speaks the virgin-daughter, weeping: We have reached the lowland-berries, Here the herbs of water-borders; Leave me here to sink and perish As a child of cold misfortune. Wicked Ilmarinen, Iisten! If thou dost not quickly free me, I will break thy sledge to pieces, 570 Throw thy fur-robes to the north-winds.' Ilmarinen makes this answer: 'When the blacksmith builds his snow-sledge, All the parts are hooped with iron; Therefore will the beauteous maiden Never beat my sledge to fragments.' Then the silver-tinselled daughter Wept and wailed in bitter accents, Wrung her hands in desperation, Spake again to Ilmarinen: 'If thou dost not quickly free me, I shall change to ocean-salmon, Be a whiting of the waters.' 'Thou wilt never thus escape me, As a pike I'll fleetly follow.' Then the maiden of Pohyola Wept and wailed in bitter accents, Wrung her hands in desperation, Spake again to Ilmarinen; 'If thou dost not quickly free me, I shall hasten to the forest, Mid the rocks become an ermine!' 'Thou wilt never thus escape me, As a serpent I will follow.' Then the beauty of the Northland, Wailed and wept in bitter accents, Wrung her hands in desperation, Spake once more to Ilmarinen: 'Surely, if thou dost not free me, As a lark I'll fly the ether, Hide myself within the storm-clouds.' 'Neither wilt thou thus escape me, As an eagle I will follow.' They had gone but little distance, When the courser shied and halted, Frighted at some passing object; And the maiden looked in wonder, In the snow beheld some foot-prints, Spake these words to Ilmarinen: Who has run across our highway?' ''Tis the timid hare', he answered. Thereupon the stolen maiden 571 Sobbed, and moaned, in deeps of sorrow, Heavy-hearted, spake these measures: 'Woe is me, ill-fated virgin! Happier far my life hereafter, If the hare I could but follow To his burrow in the woodlands! Crook-leg's fur to me is finer Than the robes of Ilmarinen.' Ilmarinen, the magician, Tossed his head in full resentment, Galloped on the highway homeward, Travelled but a little distance, When again his courser halted, Frighted at some passing stranger. Quick the maiden looked and wondered, In the snow beheld some foot-prints, Spake these measures to the blacksmith: Who has crossed our snowy pathway?' ''Tis a fox', replied the minstrel. Thereupon the beauteous virgin Moaned again in depths of anguish, Sang these accents, heavy-hearted: 'Woe is me, ill-fated maiden! Happier far my life hereafter, With the cunning fox to wander, Than with this ill-mannered suitor; Reynard's fur to me is finer Than the robes of Ilmarinen.' Thereupon the metal-worker Shut his lips in sore displeasure, Hastened on the highway homeward; Travelled but a little distance, When again his courser halted. Quick the maiden looked in wonder, in the snow beheld some foot-prints, Spake these words to the magician: Who again has crossed our pathway?' ''Tis the wolf', said Ilmarinen. Thereupon the fated daughter Fell again to bitter weeping, And Intoned these words of sorrow: 'Woe is me, a hapless maiden! 572 Happier far my life hereafter, Brighter far would be my future, If these tracks I could but follow; On the wolf the hair is finer Than the furs of Ilmarinen, Faithless suitor of the Northland.' Then the minstrel of Wainola Closed his lips again in anger, Shook his sable locks, resentful, Snapped the whip above the racer, And the steed flew onward swiftly, O'er the way to Kalevala, To the village of the blacksmith. Sad and weary from his journey, Ilmarinen, home-returning, Fell upon his couch in slumber, And the maiden laughed derision. In the morning, slowly waking, Head confused, and locks dishevelled, Spake the wizard, words as follow: 'Shall I set myself to singing Magic songs and incantations? Shall I now enchant this maiden To a black-wolf on the mountains, To a salmon of the ocean? Shall not send her to the woodlands, All the forest would be frighted; Shall not send her to the waters, All the fish would flee in terror; This my sword shall drink her life-blood, End her reign of scorn and hatred.' Quick the sword feels his intention, Quick divines his evil purpose, Speaks these words to Ilmarinen: 'Was not born to drink the life-blood Of a maiden pure and lovely, Of a fair but helpless virgin.' Thereupon the magic minstrel, Filled with rage, began his singing; Sang the very rocks asunder, Till the distant hills re-echoed; Sang the maiden to a sea-gull, 573 Croaking from the ocean-ledges, Calling from the ocean-islands, Screeching on the sandy sea-coast, Flying to the winds opposing. When his conjuring had ended, Ilmarinen joined his snow-sledge, Whipped his steed upon a gallop, Hastened to his ancient smithy, To his home in Kalevala. Wainamoinen, old and truthful, Comes to meet him on the highway, Speaks these words to the magician: 'Ilmarinen, worthy brother, Wherefore comest heavy-hearted From the dismal Sariola? Does Pohyola live and prosper? Spake the minstrel, Ilmarinen: 'Why should not Pohyola prosper? There the Sampo grinds unceasing, Noisy rocks the lid in colors; Grinds one day the flour for eating, Grinds the second flour for selling, Grinds the third day flour for keeping; Thus it is Pohyola prospers. While the Sampo is in Northland, There is plowing, there is sowing, There is growth of every virtue, There is welfare never-ending.' Spake the ancient Wainamoinen: 'Ilmarinen, artist-brother, Where then is the Northland-daughter, Far renowned and beauteous maiden, For whose hand thou hast been absent? These the words of Ilmarinen: 'I have changed the hateful virgin To a sea-gull on the ocean; Now she calls above the waters, Screeches from the ocean-islands; On the rocks she calls and murmurs Vainly calling for a suitor.' 574 ~ Elias Lönnrot,

978:The Kalevala - Rune Xxviii THE MOTHER'S COUNSEL. Ahti, hero of the Islands, Wild magician, Lemminkainen, Also known as Kaukomieli, Hastened from the great carousal, From the banquet-halls of Louhi, From the ever-darksome Northland, From the dismal Sariola. Stormful strode he from the mansion, Hastened like the smoke of battle, From the court-yard of Pohyola, Left his crimes and misdemeanors In the halls of ancient Louhi. Then he looked in all directions, Seeking for his tethered courser, Anxious looked in field and stable, But he did not find his racer; Found a black thing in the fallow, Proved to be a clump of willows. Who will well advise the hero, Who will give him wise directions, Guide the wizard out of trouble, Give his hero-locks protection, Keep his magic head from danger From the warriors of Northland? Noise is beard within the village, And a din from other homesteads, From the battle-hosts of Louhi, Streaming from the doors and window, Of the homesteads of Pohyola. Thereupon young Lemminkainen, Handsome Islander and hero, Changing both his form and features, Clad himself in other raiment, Changing to another body, Quick became a mighty eagle, Soared aloft on wings of magic, 479 Tried to fly to highest heaven, But the moonlight burned his temples, And the sunshine singed his feathers. Then entreating, Lemminkainen, Island-hero, turned to Ukko, This the prayer that Ahti uttered: 'Ukko, God of love and mercy, Thou the Wisdom of the heavens, Wise Director of the lightning, Thou the Author of the thunder, Thou the Guide of all the cloudlets, Give to me thy cloak of vapor, Throw a silver cloud around me, That I may in its protection Hasten to my native country, To my mother's Island-dwelling, Fly to her that waits my coming, With a mother's grave forebodings.' Farther, farther, Lemminkainen Flew and soared on eagle-pinions, Looked about him, backwards, forwards, Spied a gray-hawk soaring near him, In his eyes the fire of splendor, Like the eyes of Pohyalanders, Like the eyes of Pohya's spearmen, And the gray-hawk thus addressed him: 'Ho! There! hero, Lemminkainen, Art thou thinking of our combat With the, hero-heads of Northland?' Thus the Islander made answer, These the words of Kaukomieli: 'O thou gray-hawk, bird of beauty, Fly direct to Sariola, Fly as fast as wings can bear thee; When thou hast arrived in safety, On the plains of darksome Northland, Tell the archers and the spearmen, They will never catch the eagle, In his journey from Pohyola, To his Island-borne and fortress.' Then the Ahti-eagle hastened Straightway to his mother's cottage, 480 In his face the look of trouble, In his heart the pangs of sorrow. Ahti's mother ran to meet him, When she spied him in the pathway, Walking toward her island-dwelling; These the words the mother uttered: 'Of my sons thou art the bravest, Art the strongest of my children; Wherefore then comes thine annoyance, On returning from Pohyola? Wert thou worsted at the banquet, At the feast and great carousal? At thy cups, if thou wert injured, Thou shalt here have better treatment Thou shalt have the cup thy father Brought me from the hero-castle.' Spake the reckless Lemminkainen: 'Worthy mother, thou that nursed me, If I had been maimed at drinking, I the landlord would have worsted, Would have slain a thousand heroes, Would have taught them useful lessons.' Lemminkainen's mother answered: 'Wherefore then art thou indignant, Didst thou meet disgrace and insult, Did they rob thee of thy courser? Buy thou then a better courser With the riches of thy mother, With thy father's horded treasures.' Spake the hero, Lemminkainen: 'Faithful mother of my being, If my steed had been insulted, If for him my heart was injured, I the landlord would have punished, Would have punished all the horsemen, All of Pohya's strongest riders.' Lemminkainen's mother answered: 'Tell me then thy dire misfortune, What has happened to my hero, On his journey to Pohyola? Have the Northland maidens scorned thee, Have the women ridiculed thee? 481 If the maidens scorned thy presence. If the women gave derision, There are others thou canst laugh at, Thou canst scorn a thousand women.' Said the reckless Lemminkainen: 'Honored mother, fond and faithful, If the Northland dames had scorned me Or the maidens laughed derision, I the maidens would have punished, Would have scorned a thousand women.' Lemminkainen's mother answered: 'Wherefore then are thou indignant, Thus annoyed, and heavy-hearted, On returning from Pohyola? Was thy feasting out of season, Was the banquet-beer unworthy, Were thy dreams of evil import When asleep in darksome Northland?' This is Lemminkainen's answer: 'Aged women may remember What they dream on beds of trouble; I have seen some wondrous visions, Since I left my Island-cottage. My beloved, helpful mother, Fill my bag with good provisions, Flour and salt in great abundance, Farther must thy hero wander, He must leave his home behind him, Leave his pleasant Island-dwelling, Journey from this home of ages; Men are sharpening their broadswords, Sharpening their spears and lances, For the death of Lemminkainen.' Then again the mother questioned, Hurriedly she asked the reason: 'Why the men their swords were whetting, Why their spears are being sharpened.' Spake the reckless Lemminkainen, Handsome hero, Kaukomieli: 'Therefore do they whet their broadswords, Therefore sharpen they their lances: It is for thy son's destruction, 482 At his heart are aimed their lances. In the court-yard of Pohyola, There arose a great contention, Fierce the battle waged against me; But I slew the Northland hero, Killed the host of Sariola; Quick to arms rose Louhi's people, All the spears and swords of Northland Were directed at thy hero; All of Pohya turned against me, Turned against a single foeman.' This the answer of the mother: 'I had told thee this beforehand, I had warned thee of this danger, And forbidden thee to journey To the hostile fields of Northland. Here my hero could have lingered, Passed his life in full contentment, Lived forever with his mother, With his mother for protection, In the court-yard with his kindred; Here no war would have arisen, No contention would have followed. Whither wilt thou go, my hero, Whither will my loved one hasten, To escape thy fierce pursuers, To escape from thy misdoings, From thy sins to bide in safety, From thy crimes and misdemeanors, That thy head be not endangered, That thy body be not mangled, That thy locks be not outrooted?' Spake the reckless Lemminkainen: 'Know I not a spot befitting, Do not know a place of safety, Where to hide from my pursuers, That will give me sure protection From the crimes by me committed. Helpful mother of my being, Where to flee wilt thou advise me?' This the answer of the mother: 'I do not know where I can send thee; 483 Be a pine-tree on the mountain, Or a juniper in lowlands? Then misfortune may befall thee; Often is the mountain pine-tree Cut in splints for candle-lighters; And the juniper is often Peeled for fence-posts for the pastures. Go a birch-tree to the valleys, Or an elm-tree to the glenwood? Even then may trouble find thee, Misery may overtake thee; Often is the lowland birch-tree Cut to pieces in the ware-house; Often is the elm-wood forest Cleared away for other plantings. Be a berry on the highlands, Cranberry upon the heather, Strawberry upon the mountains, Blackberry along the fences? Even there will trouble find thee, There misfortune overtake thee, For the berry-maids would pluck thee, Silver-tinselled girls would get thee. Be a pike then in the ocean, Or a troutlet in the rivers? Then would trouble overtake thee, Would become thy life-companion; Then the fisherman would catch thee, Catch thee in his net of flax-thread, Catch thee with his cruel fish-hook. Be a wolf then in the forest, Or a black-bear in the thickets? Even then would trouble find thee, And disaster cross thy pathway; Sable hunters of the Northland Have their spears and cross-bows ready To destroy the wolf and black-bear.' Spake the reckless Lemminkainen: 'Know I well the worst of places, Know where Death will surely follow, Where misfortune's eye would find me; Since thou gavest me existence, 484 Gavest nourishment in childhood, Whither shall I flee for safety, Whither hide from death and danger? In my view is fell destruction, Dire misfortune 'hovers o'er me; On the morrow come the spearmen, Countless warriors from Pohya, Ahti's head their satisfaction.' This the answer of the mother: 'I can name a goodly refuge, Name a land of small dimensions, Name a distant ocean-island, Where my son may live in safety. Thither archers never wander, There thy head cannot be severed; But an oath as strong as heaven, Thou must swear before thy mother; Thou wilt not for sixty summers Join in war or deadly combat, Even though thou wishest silver, Wishest gold and silver treasures.' Spake the grateful Lemminkainen: 'I will swear an oath of honor, That I'll not in sixty summers Draw my sword in the arena, Test the warrior in battle; I have wounds upon my shoulders, On my breast two scars of broadsword, Of my former battles, relies, Relies of my last encounters, On the battle-fields of Northland, In the wars with men and heroes.' Lemminkainen's mother answered: 'Go thou, take thy father's vessel, Go and bide thyself in safety, Travel far across nine oceans; In the tenth, sail to the centre, To the island, forest-covered, To the cliffs above the waters, Where thy father went before thee, Where he hid from his pursuers, In the times of summer conquests, 485 In the darksome days of battle; Good the isle for thee to dwell in, Goodly place to live and linger; Hide one year, and then a second, In the third return in safety To thy mother's island dwelling, To thy father's ancient mansion, To my hero's place of resting.' ~ Elias Lönnrot,

979:Alma Venus! [excerpt] Trembling Creation's omnipresent sun, Immanent Harmonist, Whose rhythms run. Alike where midge pursues his swift romance, Or grave stars cluster for their midnight dance 1 Bringer of fire, from what far fane despoiled? Potter of grace, by what fell finger soiled? In temple throned of old, or here in shame Lurking, to Deathless YOU, of many a namePaphia, Freya, Aphrodite, Fand, Cabiri vague, or in the fairy band Titania, Niamh, or that Morgan fay Our simpler eyes in. Sicily to-day Catch at her sorcery-to YOU, whose breath To a rippling rapture stirs the pool of Death, I bring this coronal of rose and rue, With golden wattle twined-and she-oak too. The living wheels we call Creation roll Whither and while You lead. Who are their soul! Wheels within wheels, and whose the whirl of eyes But Love's, Who was. Who is. Who never dies? Wheels within wheels, but ever at the nave Venus Pandemos, She for Whom we crave! Wheels within wheels, but glowing from the tires Venus Immaculate's Uranian fires! If lovelight played not round the misty bourn Could Life her marshy perils thread unworn? Were Heaven's many mansions built to hold Women and men seraphically cold? Or does annihilation mean but this'Tristram no more desires Isolda's kiss'? Fountains of Art that keep this old Earth fresh Ascend to God from cisterns of the flesh: Angel and phoenix flowered from the fires Of virgin Ishtar's ravenous desires: In good Nile mud incestuous Isis set Many a tree of knowledge bearing yet: Austere Mohammed meets at Heaven's door Fond phantoms of his desert dreams of yore: The shrine, the song, the picture and the bust Are diamonds doubles of the charcoal, lust. . . Your ruby billows floated to our ken Many a rite that soothes the souls of men; Swastik of Ind as once Egyptian Tau In shining symbol utters yet Your law: And coldest fanes for eunuch gods designed Reveal Your girdle with their chaplets twined. Around the Maypole, aeon-old, they dance, Maiden and youth of Britain and of France, Obedient to the law, forgot to-day, That fertile gods, unshackled by their play, From winter death will duly be reborn And with their foison fill the ears of corn: Or where, horizonward, Australian sand Billows monotonous, behold Your band Of leaf-clad lubras, swaying to the hum Of droning wizard and barbaric drum, In strange Unthippa dance to conjure there, With warm wild posturing and coy despair, Some dream-time god of golden ages dim, That with the drama of their love for him The waste in sympathy will fertile grow, Emu be plentiful, the dry creeks flow, And all the wild be rich with nut and plant, Witchetty grub and root and honey-ant: Virgins and boys, who with the bridal pair And hymeneal chant through Athens bear That casket strange, unknowing that inside The mysteries of Aphrodite hide, Ye will acknowledge too, in turn, ere long, Omnipotent the goddess of my song: And, childless ones of Ind, with prayer ye pour Oil on that shrine to-day, as wives of yore On wayside Jahv or god of boundary, For benison of grudged fertility. . . . Let pale usurpers of Your old domain In crumbling book and vapid hymn maintain That You, great Queen, are dead, that nevermore Shall devotee Your majesty adore, Or sad Meander wail as long ago For torn Adonis and Your helpless woe: We hear in beating hearts another rune, In hymn of man and maid another tune: On every road Your living creatures draw, Whither You list, the Tables of Your Law: Wherever tree hath sap or being breath, Ubiquitous, You bruise the head of Death: Here, pallid cuckoo's great crescendos call His coy companion to Your festival: There, magpie warbles to the morning star The advent of the rapture that You are: And desolate the spirit unaware Of quivering enchantment in the air When August struggles from his gaoler's power, And gleaming envoys from each wooing flower Cajole the bees to waft his tender dues To some dear tabernacle's secret cruse; When listening almonds weary of the night Hearing You coming blossom into white; When wattle waking from her torpor cold Knowing You near her trembles into gold; When, ancient symbols realizing here, Gabriel Spring announces every year To expectant Nature's myriad maidenhood, In rolling plain or solitary wood, The miracle that maketh Life complete, The brooding Presence of the Paraclete. * Magi profounder than the Eastern Three Followed the Star of Your Epiphany: Isis had hidden with a sullen pall The secret of the Universe from all, Until Lucretius wondering found a fold, It swayed to Goethe's eyes, and, growing bold, Darwin stooped down and groping patiently Out of the dust lifted the hem, till we Staggering saw against the eternal blue The secret Builder of Creation-You I ... 'When Love was driven from the world by stark And sexless mattoids of the Ages Dark, Disgusted lore to Moorish havens fled, The Muses nine with eunuch monks were wed: Primordial terror to the day returned, The witch in hordes and great Servetus burned: Celibate piety with thumb uncouth Plastered a fig-leaf over Plato's truth: Aquinas thinned, to make a draught divine, With holy water, Aristotle's wine; Round every comer eft or devil stares, And very Dante mumbles craven prayers; The childish painter daubs his maudlin fears, And song forgets to sing a thousand years. Yet You had lingered cunningly concealed Now in an altar-piece, now in a field With shards of pillared grandeur buried deep, Until the nightmare passed. Yea, did You peep A moment now and then, ere rose the sun, Under the hood of a rose-hearted nun At Abelard, or told the tale so well Of Launcelot that even glowering hell Drove not Francesca from her lover's wraith; Yea, visored chivalry unhorsed his faith, And far Jerusalem and Paynim tryst Forgot, for victory in a gender list Where with the provocation of a smile Your ambushed omnipresence would beguile Crusader sullen to a softer creed, Knight errant to an errant knight indeed.... As what strange god did You entice the King Through brave Uriah's comely wife to fling Harp and the psaltery aside to plan As mean a deed as had polluted man Till Sextus lusted, or her father's knife Rescued Virginia from the hell of life? Yea, there is that in You man dare not face: A dark star dogs Your limpid planet's grace: Jetsam from old pollution stales Your shore: Lewd gargoyles grin above Your temple door. ... Wormwood is waiter at Your choicest feast, Your Beauty shadowed ever by the Beast. Yon feudal lord of mediaeval France, Your devotee of many a Rose Romance, Hath on his peasants' daughters' bridal nights Exacted to the full his shameful rights: Your cuckoo calling Spring into the wood Was stark nest-brother to a robin's brood: And, tragi-comedy of humble life, That doting husband of the buxom wife Is fondling (while You laugh) the child she gave At Your still altar to some passing knave. . .. Was it a glimpse of phases fell that mar The radiant round of Your auspicious star, That drove the hermit to the wilderness From demons lurking in Your least caress, And bade the nun, as once the vestal too, Renounce Your works and all Your pomps-and You? Yea, those whose eyes can pierce the dazzling veil Of Light that is Your mask have told a tale Of how we in the world were once expelled From Paradise, and now, in prison held, On moaning treadmills of repeated lives Work out our crimes, until the hour arrives For life to cease on earth and You to fade With all the woe Your temptress wiles have made. You are the gaoler of that prison, Who (For so they say) inveigle all to woo, Be won, that so by our own ardours we Keep lit Your hell, yea, for eternity, Unless, until, ignoring all You say, As monk, as nun, we dare to disobey. If so it be, then were the barren one Blest of all women underneath the sun, An angel of the Lord sent here to ray The midnight of the soul with coming day; The tower impregnable that masters Fate Is not the Caesar but the celibate; And he at whom no woman ever smiled Is everlasting Heaven's favoured child Ordained (who knows?) in what benignant star As Baptist of some glorious Avatar, Whose Word shall cause all flesh to cease to be And man be one again with Deity!. . . Or when the veil we call Reality Rifts, and the meaning of it all we see, Will Good and Evil kiss and understand? God walk with brother Satan hand in hand? The cool-haired Night repose beside the Sun? Pandemos prove with Love Uranian one? The Tree of Life mature its golden fruits From bark so sinister and those wan roots? Slowly our interrogating eyes Sobered with long deception recognize, 'Mid older clues dissolved to flecks, at last One signal flashing from the Outer Vast, Fell or benign (as falls or rises faith), Comet or guiding star-Your rosy wraith! Your rosy wraith that both in man and weed 'Writes deep and undeniable Your creed'Beget or hear, though ye to-morrow die, Beget or bear, nor ask the reason why 1 Though sun and earth shall duly pass away, Though all the gods shall ripen and decay, It is Their Will Who bade the world exist: And woe to him or her who doth not list The sole clear mandate from the Otherwhere Flushed through the Universe-Beget or bear 1' Love we or dread we may not all ignore The single beacon on the circling shore Where Being laps upon the caverned steep Wherefrom we drifted and whereto we creep. Beacon 1 although You lead us but to gloom! A guiding star, it may be, to the tomb! Comet flung from the Void through trackless Light! Yet is Your rosy flame in ion mite And great pathetic man the only trace Of something more than chance in Time and Space, That purpose dimly threads the crazy web, That tides of anguish ultimately ebb, That green hope signals underground a Nile, That faith is wiser than an ostrich wile, That there is something in us will elude The withering fingers of vicissitude, And man's ripe earth by a guttering sun betrayed Will not in cold and useless ruin fade. Question the sibyl grottoes near or far Whither or whence we sail or why we are! Listen at Nature's beating heart for clue, And every oracle we know or knew! From Zodiac round of older destiny, From tiny orbit of an atomy, From Pythoness or oak or Magian fire, Augur antique or wizard new inquire, Austral churinga or the crystal ball, 'Wherefore does anything exist at all?' Of star or fungus seek, of life or death, Whence Being came and whither wandereth! 10 Ask of the gloom that locks the secret in, Ask of the light that saw the world begin! The day, the night, and death and life are dumb: From fungus, star or ball no answers come: Silent, churinga, table, passing bird: From fire or Druid oak no guiding word: The Pythoness ambiguously sighs: Orbit minute nor Zodiac house replies: But dim the beating heart amid its sobs With 'Alma Venus!' 'Alma Venus!' throbs; While on two sibyl leaves, by a world-wind strange Blown to our shore across the gulf of Change, 'Increase and multiply' on one is scrolled In ochre crude, on one, in glowing gold Around the pearly nimbus of a dove, The script imperishable-'God is Love.' ~ Bernard O'Dowd,

980:The Kalevala - Rune Xxxvi KULLERWOINEN'S VICTORY AND DEATH. Kullerwionen, wicked wizard, In his purple-colored stockings, Now prepares himself for battle; Grinds a long time on his broadsword, Sharpens well his trusty weapon, And his mother speaks as follows: 'Do not go, my son beloved, Go not to the wars, my hero, Struggle not with hostile spearsmen. Whoso goes to war for nothing, Undertakes a fearful combat, Undertakes a fatal issue; Those that war without a reason Will be slaughtered for their folly, Easy prey to bows and arrows. Go thou with a goat to battle, Shouldst thou go to fight the roebuck, 'Tis the goat that will be vanquished, And the roebuck will be slaughtered; With a frog thou'lt journey homeward, Victor, with but little honor!' These the words of Kullerwoinen: 'Shall not journey through the marshes, Shall not sink upon the heather, On the home-land of the raven, Where the eagles scream at day-break. When I yield my life forever, Bravely will I fall in battle, Fall upon the field of glory, Beautiful to die in armor, And the clang and clash of armies, Beautiful the strife for conquest! Thus Kullervo soon will hasten To the kingdom of Tuoni, To the realm of the departed, Undeformed by wasting sickness.' 553 This the answer of the mother: 'If thou diest in the conflict, Who will stay to guard thy father, Who will give thy sire protection?' These the words of Kullerwoinen: 'Let him die upon the court-yard, Sleeping out his life of sorrow!' 'Who then will protect thy mother, Be her shield in times of danger?' 'Let her die within the stable, Or the cabin where she lingers!' 'Who then will defend thy brother, Give him aid in times of trouble?' 'Let him die within the forest, Sleep his life away unheeded!' 'Who will comfort then thy sister, Who will aid her in affliction?' 'Let her sink beneath the waters, Perish in the crystal fountain, Where the brook flows on in beauty, Like a silver serpent winding Through the valley to the ocean!' Thereupon the wild Kullervo Hastens from his home to battle, To his father speaks, departing: 'Fare thou well, my aged father! Wilt thou weep for me, thy hero, When thou hearest I have perished, Fallen from thy tribe forever, Perished on the field of glory?' Thus the father speaks in answer: 'I shall never mourn the downfall Of my evil son, Kullervo; Shall not weep when thou hast perished; Shall beget a second hero That will do me better service, That will think and act in wisdom.' Kullerwoinen gives this answer: 'Neither shall I mourn thy downfall, Shall not weep when thou hast perished; I shall make a second father, Make the head from loam and sandstone, 554 Make the eyes from swamp-land berries, Make the beard from withered sea-grass, Make the feet from roots of willow, Make the form from birch-wood fungus.' Thereupon the youth, Kullervo, To his brother speaks as follows: 'Fare thou well, beloved brother! Wilt thou weep for me departed, Shouldst thou hear that I have perished, Fallen on the field of battle?' This the answer of the brother: 'I shall never mourn the downfall Of my brother, Kullerwoinen, Shall not weep when thou hast perished; I shall find a second brother ' Find one worthier and wiser!' This is Kullerwoinen's answer: 'Neither shall I mourn thy downfall, Shall not weep when thou hast perished; I shall form a second brother, Make the head from dust and ashes, Make the eyes from pearls of ocean, Make the beard from withered verdure, Make the form from pulp of birch-wood.' To his sister speaks Kullervo: 'Fare thou well, beloved sister! Surely thou wilt mourn my downfall, Weep for me when I have perished, When thou hearest I have fallen In the heat and din of battle, Fallen from thy race forever!' But the sister makes this answer: 'Never shall I mourn thy downfall, Shall not weep when thou hast perished; I shall seek a second brother, Seek a brother, purer, better, One that will not shame his sister!' Kullerwoinen thus makes answer: 'Neither shall I mourn thee fallen, Shall not weep when thou hast perished; I shall form a second sister, Make the head from whitened marble, 555 Make the eyes from golden moonbeams, Make the tresses from the rainbow, Make the ears from ocean-flowers, And her form from gold and silver. 'Fare thou well, beloved mother, Mother, beautiful and faithful! Wilt thou weep when I have perished, Fallen on the field of glory, Fallen from thy race forever?' Thus the mother speaks in answer: 'Canst not fathom love maternal, Canst not smother her affection; Bitterly I'll mourn thy downfall, I would weep if thou shouldst perish, Shouldst thou leave my race forever; I would weep in court or cabin, Sprinkle all these fields with tear-drops, Weep great rivers to the ocean, Weep to melt the snows of Northland, Make the hillocks green with weeping, Weep at morning, weep at evening, Weep three years in bitter sorrow O'er the death of Kullerwoinen!' Thereupon the wicked wizard Went rejoicing to the combat; In delight to war he hastened O'er the fields, and fens, and fallows, Shouting loudly on the heather, Singing o'er the hills and mountains, Rushing through the glens and forests, Blowing war upon his bugle. Time had gone but little distance, When a messenger appearing, Spake these words to Kullerwoinen: 'Lo! thine aged sire has perished, Fallen from thy race forever; Hasten home and do him honor, Lay him in the lap of Kalma.' Kullerwoinen inade this answer: 'Has my aged father perished, There is home a sable stallion That will take him to his slumber, 556 Lay him in the lap of Kalma.' Then Kullervo journeyed onward, Calling war upon his bugle, Till a messenger appearing, Brought this word to Kullerwoinen: 'Lo! thy brother too has perished, Dead he lies within the forest, Manalainen's trumpet called him; Home return and do him honor, Lay him in the lap of Kalma.' Kullerwoinen thus replying: 'Has my hero-brother perished, There is home a sable stallion That will take him' to his slumber, Lay him in the lap of Kalma.' Young Kullervo journeyed onward Over vale and over mountain, Playing on his reed of battle, Till a messenger appearing Brought the warrior these tidings: 'Lo! thy sister too has perished, Perished in the crystal fountain, Where the waters flow in beauty, Like a silver serpent winding Through the valley to the ocean; Home return and do her honor, Lay her in the lap of Kalma.' These the words of Kullerwoinen: 'Has my beauteous sister perished, Fallen from my race forever, There is home a sable filly That will take her to her resting, Lay her in the lap of Kalma.' Still Kullervo journeyed onward, Through the fens he went rejoicing, Sounding war upon his bugle, Till a messenger appearing Brought to him these words of sorrow: 'Lo! thy mother too has perished, Died in anguish, broken-hearted; Home return and do her honor, Lay her in the lap of Kalma.' 557 These the measures of Kullervo: 'Woe is me, my life hard-fated, That my mother too has perished, She that nursed me in my cradle, Made my couch a golden cover, Twirled for me the spool and spindle! Lo! Kullervo was not present When his mother's life departed; May have died upon the mountains, Perished there from cold and hunger. Lave the dead form of my mother In the crystal waters flowing; Wrap her in the robes of ermine, Tie her hands with silken ribbon, Take her to the grave of ages, Lay her in the lap of Kalma. Bury her with songs of mourning, Let the singers chant my sorrow; Cannot leave the fields of battle While Untamo goes unpunished, Fell destroyer of my people.' Kullerwoinen journeyed onward, Still rejoicing, to the combat, Sang these songs in supplication: 'Ukko, mightiest of rulers, Loan to me thy sword of battle, Grant to me thy matchless weapon, And against a thousand armies I will war and ever conquer.' Ukko, gave the youth his broadsword, Gave his blade of magic powers To the wizard, Kullerwoinen. Thus equipped, the mighty hero Slew the people of Untamo, Burned their villages to ashes; Only left the stones and ovens, And the chimneys of their hamlets. Then the conqueror, Kullervo, Turned his footsteps to his home-land, To the cabin of his father ' To his ancient fields and forests. Empty did he find the cabin, 558 And the forests were deserted; No one came to give him greeting, None to give the hand of welcome; Laid his fingers on the oven, But he found it cold and lifeless; Then he knew to satisfaction That his mother lived no longer; Laid his hand upon the fire-place, Cold and lifeless were the hearth-stones; Then he knew to satisfaction That his sister too had perished; Then he sought the landing-places, Found no boats upon the rollers; Then he knew to satisfaction That his brother too had perished; Then he looked upon the fish-nets, And he found them torn and tangled; And he knew to satisfaction That his father too had perished. Bitterly he wept and murmured, Wept one day, and then a second, On the third day spake as follows: 'Faithful mother, fond and tender, Why hast left me here to sorrow In this wilderness of trouble? But thou dost not hear my calling, Though I sing in magic accents, Though my tear-drops speak lamenting, Though my heart bemoans thine absence. From her grave awakes the mother, To Kullervo speaks these measures: 'Thou has still the dog remaining, He will lead thee to the forest; Follow thou the faithful watcher, Let him lead thee to the woodlands, To the farthest woodland border, To the caverns of the wood-nymphs; Kullerwoinen's Victory and Death There the forest maidens linger, They will give thee food and shelter, Give my hero joyful greetings.' Kullerwoinen, with his watch-dog, 559 Hastens onward through the forest, Journeys on through fields and fallows; Journeys but a little distance, Till be comes upon the summit Where he met his long-lost sister; Finds the turf itself is weeping, Finds the glen-wood filled with sorrow, Finds the heather shedding tear-drops, Weeping are the meadow-flowers, O'er the ruin of his sister. Kullerwoinen, wicked wizard, Grasps the handle of his broadsword, Asks the blade this simple question: 'Tell me, O my blade of honor, Dost thou wish to drink my life-blood, Drink the blood of Kullerwoinen?' Thus his trusty sword makes answer, Well divining his intentions: Why should I not drink thy life-blood, Blood of guilty Kullerwoinen, Since I feast upon the worthy, Drink the life-blood of the righteous?' Thereupon the youth, Kullervo, Wicked wizard of the Northland, Lifts the mighty sword of Ukko, Bids adieu to earth and heaven; Firmly thrusts the hilt in heather, To his heart he points the weapon, Throws his weight upon his broadsword, Pouring out his wicked life-blood, Ere be journeys to Manala. Thus the wizard finds destruction, This the end of Kullerwoinen, Born in sin, and nursed in folly. Wainamoinen, ancient minstrel, As he hears the joyful tidings, Learns the death of fell Kullervo, Speaks these words of ancient wisdom: 'O, ye many unborn nations, Never evil nurse your children, Never give them out to strangers, Never trust them to the foolish! 560 If the child is not well nurtured, Is not rocked and led uprightly, Though he grow to years of manhood, Bear a strong and shapely body, He will never know discretion, Never eat. the bread of honor, Never drink the cup of wisdom.' ~ Elias Lönnrot,

981:The Kalevala - Rune Xxxv KULLERVO'S EVIL DEEDS. Kullerwionen, youthful wizard, In his blue and scarlet stockings, Henceforth lingered with his parents; But he could not change his nature, Could not gain a higher wisdom, Could not win a better judgment; As a child he was ill-nurtured, Early rocked in stupid cradles, By a nurse of many follies, By a minister of evil. To his work went Kullerwoinen, Strove to make his labors worthy; First, Kullervo went a-fishing, Set his fishing-nets in ocean; With his hands upon the row-locks, Kullerwoinen spake as follows: 'Shall I pull with all my forces, Pull with strength of youthful heroes, Or with weakness of the aged?' From the stern arose a gray-beard, And he answered thus Kullervo: 'Pull with all thy youthful vigor; Shouldst thou row with magic power, Thou couldst not destroy this vessel, Couldst not row this boat to fragments.' Thereupon the youth, Kullervo, Rowed with all his youthful vigor, With the mighty force of magic, Rowed the bindings from the vessel, Ribs of juniper he shattered, Rowed the aspen-oars to pieces. When the aged sire, Kalervo, Saw the work of Kullerwoinen, He addressed his son as follows: 'Dost not understand the rowing; Thou hast burst the bands asunder, 544 Bands of juniper and willow, Rowed my aspen-boat to pieces; To the fish-nets drive the salmon, This, perchance, will suit thee better.' Thereupon the son, Kullervo, Hastened to his work as bidden, Drove the salmon to the fish-nets, Spake in innocence as follows: 'Shall I with my youthful vigor Scare the salmon to the fish-nets, Or with little magic vigor Shall I drive them to their capture? Spake the master of the fish-nets: 'That would be but work of women, Shouldst thou use but little power In the frighting of the salmon!' Kullerwoinen does as bidden, Scares the salmon with the forces Of his mighty arms and shoulders, With the strength of youth and magic, Stirs the water thick with black-earth, Beats the scare-net into pieces, Into pulp he beats the salmon. When the aged sire, Kalervo, Saw the work of Kullerwoinen, To his son these words he uttered: 'Dost not understand this labor, For this work thou art not suited, Canst not scare the perch and salmon To the fish-nets of thy father; Thou hast ruined all my fish-nets, Torn my scare-net into tatters, Beaten into pulp the whiting, Torn my net-props into fragments, Beaten into bits my wedges. Leave the fishing to another; See if thou canst pay the tribute, Pay my yearly contribution; See if thou canst better travel, On the way show better judgment!' Thereupon the son, Kullervo, Hapless youth in purple vestments, 545 In his magic shoes of deer-skin, In his locks of golden color, Sallied forth to pay the taxes, Pay the tribute for his people. When the youth had paid the tribute, Paid the yearly contribution, He returned to join the snow-sledge, Took his place upon the cross-bench, Snapped his whip above the courser, And began his journey homeward; Rattled on along the highway, Measured as he galloped onward Wainamoinen's hills and valleys, And his fields in cultivation. Came a golden maid to meet him, On her snow-shoes came a virgin, O'er the hills of Wainamoinen, O'er his cultivated lowlands. Quick the wizard-son, Kullervo, Checked the motion of his racer, Thus addressed the charming maiden 'Come, sweet maiden, to my snow-sledge, In my fur-robes rest and linger!' As she ran, the maiden answered: 'Let the Death-maid sit beside thee, Rest and linger in thy fur-robes!' Thereupon the youth, Kullervo, Snapped his whip above the courser; Fleet as wind he gallops homeward, Dashes down along the highway; With the roar of falling waters, Gallops onward, onward, onward, O'er the broad-back of the ocean, O'er the icy plains of Lapland. Comes a winsome maid to meet him, Golden-haired, and wearing snow-shoes, On the far outstretching ice-plains; Quick the wizard checks his racer, Charmingly accosts the maiden, Chanting carefully these measures: 'Come, thou beauty, to my snow-sledge, Hither come, and rest, and linger! 546 Tauntingly the maiden answered: 'Take Tuoni to thy snow-sledge, At thy side let Manalainen Sit with thee, and rest, and linger!' Quick the wizard, Kullerwoinen, Struck his fiery, prancing racer, With the birch-whip of his father. Like the lightning flew the fleet-foot, Galloped on the highway homeward; O'er the hills the snow-sledge bounded, And the coming mountains trembled. Kullerwoinen, wild magician, Measures, on his journey homeward, Northland's far-extending borders, And the fertile plains of Pohya. Comes a beauteous maid to meet him, With a tin-pin on her bosom, On the heather of Pohyola, O'er the Pohya-hills and moorlands. Quick the wizard son, Kullervo, Holds the bridle of his courser, Charmingly intones these measures: 'Come, fair maiden, to my snow-sledge, In these fur-robes rest, and linger; Eat with me the golden apples, Eat the hazel-nut in joyance, Drink with me the beer delicious, Eat the dainties that I give thee.' This the answer of the maiden With the tin-pin on her bosom: 'I have scorn to give thy snow-sledge, Scorn for thee, thou wicked wizard; Cold is it beneath thy fur-robes, And thy sledge is chill and cheerless. Thereupon the youth, Kullervo, Wicked wizard of the Northland, Drew the maiden to his snow-sledge, Drew her to a seat beside him, Quickly in his furs enwrapped her; And the tin-adorned made answer, These the accents of the maiden: 'Loose me from thy magic power, 547 Let me leave at once thy presence, Lest I speak in wicked accents, Lest I say the prayer of evil; Free me now as I command thee, Or I'll tear thy sledge to pieces, Throw these fur-robes to the north-winds.' Straightway wicked Kullerwoinen, Evil wizard and magician, Opens all his treasure-boxes, Shows the maiden gold and silver, Shows her silken wraps of beauty, Silken hose with golden borders, Golden belts with silver buckles, Jewelry that dims the vision, Blunts the conscience of the virgin. Silver leads one to destruction, Gold entices from uprightness. Kullerwoinen, wicked wizard, Flatters lovingly the maiden, One hand on the reins of leather, One upon the maiden's shoulder; Thus they journey through the evening, Pass the night in merry-making. When the day-star led the morning, When the second day was dawning, Then the maid addressed Kullervo, Questioned thus the wicked wizard: 'Of what tribe art thou descended, Of what race thy hero-father? Tell thy lineage and kindred.` This, Kullervo's truthful answer: 'Am not from a mighty nation, Not the greatest, nor the smallest, But my lineage is worthy: Am Kalervo's son of folly, Am a child of contradictions, Hapless son of cold misfortune. Tell me of thy race of heroes, Tell thine origin and kindred.' This the answer of the maiden: 'Came not from a race primeval, Not the largest, nor the smallest, 548 But my lineage is worthy; Am Kalervo's wretched daughter, Am his long-lost child of error, Am a maid of contradictions, Hapless daughter of misfortune. 'When a child I lived in plenty In the dwellings of my mother; To the woods I went for berries, Went for raspberries to uplands, Gathered strawberries on mountains, Gathered one day then a second; But, alas! upon the third day, Could not find the pathway homeward, Forestward the highways led me, All the footpaths, to the woodlands. Long I sat in bitter weeping, Wept one day and then a second, Wept the third from morn till even. Then I climbed a. lofty mountain, There I called in wailing accents, And the woodlands gave this answer, Thus the distant hills re-echoed: 'Call no longer, foolish virgin, All thy calls and tears are useless; There is none to give thee answer, Far away, thy home and people.' 'On the third and on the fourth days, On the fifth, and sixth, and seventh, Constantly I sought to perish; But in vain were all my efforts, Could not die upon the mountains. If this wretched maid had perished, In the summer of the third year, She had fed earth's vegetation, She had blossomed as a flower, Knowing neither pain nor sorrow.' Scarcely had the maiden spoken, When she bounded from the snow-sledge, Rushed upon the rolling river, To the cataract's commotion, To the fiery stream and whirlpool. Thus Kullervo's lovely sister 549 Hastened to her own destruction, To her death by fire and water, Found her peace in Tuonela, In the sacred stream of Mana. Then the wicked Kullerwoinen Fell to weeping, sorely troubled, Wailed, and wept, and heavy-hearted, Spake these words in bitter sorrow: 'Woe is me, my life hard-fated! I have slain my virgin-sister, Shamed the daughter of my mother; Woe to thee, my ancient father! Woe to thee, my gray-haired mother! Wherefore was I born and nurtured, Why this hapless child's existence? Better fate to Kullerwoinen, Had he never seen the daylight, Or, if born, had never thriven In these mournful days of evil! Death has failed to do his duty, Sickness sinned in passing by me, Should have slain me in the cradle, When the seventh day had ended!' Thereupon he slips the collar Of his prancing royal racer, Mounts the silver-headed fleet-foot, Gallops like the lightning homeward; Gallops only for a moment, When he halts his foaming courser At the cabin of his father. In the court-yard stood the mother, Thus the wicked son addressed her: 'Faithful mother, fond and tender, Hadst thou slain me when an infant, Smoked my life out in the chamber, In a winding-sheet hadst thrown me To the cataract and whirlpool, In the fire hadst set my cradle, After seven nights had ended, Worthy would have been thy service. Had the village-maidens asked thee: 'Where is now the little cradle, 550 Wherefore is the bath-room empty?' This had been a worthy answer: 'I have burned the wizard's cradle, Cast the infant to the fire-dogs; In the bath-room corn is sprouting, From the barley malt is brewing.'' Thereupon the aged mother Asks her wizard-son these questions: 'What has happened to my hero, What new fate has overcome thee? Comest thou as from Tuoni, From the castles of Manala?' This, Kullervo's frank confession: 'Infamous the tale I bring thee, My confession is dishonor: On the way I met a maiden, Met thy long-lost, wayward daughter, Did not recognize my sister, Fatal was the sin committed! When the taxes had been settled, When the tribute had been gathered, Came a matchless maid to meet me, Whom I witless led to sorrow, This my mother's long-lost daughter. When she saw in me her brother, Quick she bounded from the snow-sledge, Hastened to the roaring waters, To the cataract's commotion, To the fiery stream and whirlpool, Hastened to her full destruction. 'Now, alas! must I determine, Now must find a spot befitting, Where thy sinful son may perish; Tell me, all-forgiving mother, Where to end my life of trouble; Let me stop the black-wolf's howling, Let me satisfy the hunger Of the vicious bear of Northland; Let the shark or hungry sea-dog Be my dwelling-place hereafter!' This the answer of the mother: 'Do not go to stop the howling 551 Of the hungry wolf of Northland; Do not haste to still the black-bear Growling in his forest-cavern; Let not shark, nor vicious sea-dog Be thy dwelling-place hereafter. Spacious are the rooms of Suomi, Limitless the Sawa-borders, Large enough to hide transgression, Man's misdeeds to hide for ages, With his sins and evil actions. Six long years man's sins lie hidden In the border-land of Kalma, Even nine for magic heroes, Till the years bring consolation, Till they quiet all his mourning.' Kullerwoinen, wicked wizard, Answers thus his grieving mother: 'I can never hide from sorrow, Cannot flee from my misconduct; To the jaws of death I hasten, To the open courts of Kalma, To the hunting-grounds of Pohya, To the battle-fields of heroes. Untamoinen still is living, Unmolested roams the wicked, Unavenged my father's grievance, Unavenged my mother's tortures, Unavenged the wrongs I suffer!' ~ Elias Lönnrot,

982:The Kalevala - Rune Xlvii LOUHI STEALS SUN, MOON, AND FIRE. Wainamoinen, ancient minstrel, Touched again his magic harp-strings, Sang in miracles of concord, Filled the north with joy and gladness. Melodies arose to heaven, Songs arose to Luna's chambers, Echoed through the Sun's bright windows And the Moon has left her station, Drops and settles in the birch-tree; And the Sun comes from his castle, Settles in the fir-tree branches, Comes to share the common pleasure, Comes to listen to the singing, To the harp of Wainamoinen. Louhi, hostess of Pohyola, Northland's old and toothless wizard, Makes the Sun and Moon her captives; In her arms she takes fair Luna From her cradle in the birch-tree, Calls the Sun down from his station, From the fir-tree's bending branches, Carries them to upper Northland, To the darksome Sariola; Hides the Moon, no more to glimmer, In a rock of many colors; Hides the Sun, to shine no longer, In the iron-banded mountain; Thereupon these words she utters: 'Moon of gold and Sun of silver, Hide your faces in the caverns Of Pohyola's dismal mountain; Shine no more to gladden Northland, Till I come to give ye freedom, Drawn by coursers nine in number, Sable coursers of one mother!' When the golden Moon had vanished, 256 And the silver Sun had hidden In the iron-banded caverns, Louhi stole the fire from Northland, From the regions of Wainola, Left the mansions cold and cheerless, And the cabins full of darkness. Night was king and reigned unbroken, Darkness ruled in Kalevala, Darkness in the home of Ukko. Hard to live without the moonlight, Harder still without the sunshine; Ukko's life is dark and dismal, When the Sun and Moon desert him. Ukko, first of all creators, Lived in wonder at the darkness; Long reflected, well considered, Why this miracle in heaven, What this accident in nature To the Moon upon her journey; Why the Sun no more is shining, Why has disappeared the moonlight. Then great Ukko walked the heavens, To the border of the cloudlets, In his purple-colored vestments, In his silver-tinselled sandals, Seeking for the golden moonlight, Looking for the silver sunshine. Lightning Ukko struck in darkness From the edges of his fire-sword; Shot the flames in all directions, From his blade of golden color, Into heaven's upper spaces, Into Ether's starry pastures. When a little fire had kindled, Ukko hid it in the cloud-space, In a box of gold and silver, In a case adorned with silver, Gave it to the ether-maidens, Called a virgin then to rock it, That it might become a new-moon, That a second sun might follow. On the long-cloud rocked the virgin, 257 On the blue-edge of the ether, Rocked the fire of the Creator, In her copper-colored cradle, With her ribbons silver-studded. Lowly bend the bands of silver, Loud the golden cradle echoes, And the clouds of Northland thunder, Low descends the dome of heaven, At the rocking of the lightning, Rocking of the fire of Ukko. Thus the flame was gently cradled By the virgin of the ether. Long the fair and faithful maiden Stroked the Fire-child with her fingers, Tended it with care and pleasure, Till in an unguarded moment It escaped the Ether-virgin, Slipped the hands of her that nursed it. Quick the heavens are burst asunder, Quick the vault of Ukko opens, Downward drops the wayward Fire-child, Downward quick the red-ball rushes, Shoots across the arch of heaven, Hisses through the startled cloudlets, Flashes through the troubled welkin, Through nine starry vaults of ether. Then the ancient Wainamoinen Spake and these the words he uttered: 'Blacksmith brother, Ilmarinen, Let us haste and look together, What the kind of fire that falleth, What the form of light that shineth From the upper vault of heaven, From the lower earth and ocean. Has a second moon arisen, Can it be a ball of sunlight? Thereupon the heroes wandered, Onward journeyed and reflected, How to gain the spot illumined, How to find the sacred Fire-child. Came a river rushing by them, Broad and stately as an ocean. 258 Straightway ancient Wainamoinen There began to build a vessel, Build a boat to cross the river. With the aid of Ilmarinen, From the oak he cut the row-locks, From the pine the oars be fashioned, From the aspen shapes the rudder. When the vessel they had finished, Quick they rolled it to the current, Hard they rowed and ever forward, On the Nawa-stream and waters, At the head of Nawa-river. Ilmatar, the ether-daughter, Foremost daughter of creation, Came to meet them on their journey, Thus addressed the coming strangers: 'Who are ye of Northland heroes, Rowing on the Nawa-waters?' Wainamoinen gave this answer: 'This the blacksmith, Ilmarinen, I the ancient Wainamoinen. Tell us now thy name and station, Whither going, whence thou comest, Where thy tribe-folk live and linger? Spake the daughter of the Ether: 'I the oldest of the women, Am the first of Ether's daughters, Am the first of ancient mothers; Seven times have I been wedded. To the heroes of creation. Whither do ye strangers journey? Answered thus old Wainamoinen: 'Fire has left Wainola's hearth-stones, Light has disappeared from Northland; Have been sitting long in darkness, Cold and darkness our companions; Now we journey to discover What the fire that fell from heaven, Falling from the cloud's red lining, To the deeps of earth and ocean.' Ilmatar returned this answer: 'Hard the flame is to discover, 259 Hard indeed to find the Fire-child; Has committed many mischiefs, Nothing good has he accomplished; Quick the fire-ball fell from ether, From the red rims of the cloudlets, From the plains of the Creator, Through the ever-moving heavens, Through the purple ether-spaces, Through the blackened flues of Turi, To Palwoinen's rooms uncovered. When the fire had reached the chambers Of Palwoinen, son of evil, He began his wicked workings, He engaged in lawless actions, Raged against the blushing maidens, Fired the youth to evil conduct, Singed the beards of men and heroes. 'Where the mother nursed her baby, In the cold and cheerless cradle, Thither flew the wicked Fire-child, There to perpetrate some mischief; In the cradle burned the infant, By the infant burned the mother, That the babe might visit Mana, In the kingdom of Tuoni; Said the child was born for dying, Only destined for destruction, Through the tortures of the Fire-child. Greater knowledge had the mother, Did not journey to Manala, Knew the word to check the red-flame, How to banish the intruder Through the eyelet of a needle, Through the death-hole of the hatchet.' Then the ancient Wainamoinen Questioned Ilmatar as follows: 'Whither did the Fire-child wander, Whither did the red-flame hasten, From the border-fields of Turi, To the woods, or to the waters? Straightway Ilmatar thus answers: 'When the fire had fled from Turi, 260 From the castles of Palwoinen, Through the eyelet of the needle, Through the death-hole of the hatchet, First it burned the fields, and forests, Burned the lowlands, and the heather; Then it sought the mighty waters, Sought the Alue-sea and river, And the waters hissed and sputtered In their anger at the Fire-child, Fiery red the boiling Alue! 'Three times in the nights of, summer, Nine times in the nights of autumn, Boil the waters to the tree-tops, Roll and tumble to the mountain, Through the red-ball's force and fury; Hurls the pike upon the pastures, To the mountain-cliffs, the salmon, Where the ocean-dwellers wonder, Long reflect and well consider How to still the angry waters. Wept the salmon for his grotto, Mourned the whiting for his cavern, And the lake-trout for his dwelling, Quick the crook-necked salmon darted, Tried to catch the fire-intruder, But the red-ball quick escaped him; Darted then the daring whiting, Swallowed quick the wicked Fire-child, Swallowed quick the flame of evil. Quiet grow the Alue-waters, Slowly settle to their shore-lines, To their long-accustomed places, In the long and dismal evening. 'Time had gone but little distance, When the whiting grow affrighted, Fear befel the fire-devourer; Burning pain and writhing tortures Seized the eater of the Fire-child; Swam the fish in all directions, Called, and moaned, and swam, and circled, Swam one day, and then a second, Swam the third from morn till even; 261 Swam she to the whiting-island, To the caverns of the salmon, Where a hundred islands cluster; And the islands there assembled Thus addressed the fire-devourer: 'There is none within these waters, In this narrow Alue-lakelet, That will eat the fated Fire-fish That will swallow thee in trouble, In thine agonies and torture From the Fire-child thou hast eaten.' 'Hearing this a trout forth darting, Swallowed quick as light the whiting, Quickly ate the fire-devourer. Time had gone but little distance, When the trout became affrighted, Fear befel the whiting-eater; Burning pain and writhing torment Seized the eater of the Fire-fish. Swam the trout in all directions, Called, and moaned, and swam, and circled, Swam one day, and then a second, Swain the third from morn till even; Swam she to the salmon-island, Swam she to the whiting-grottoes, Where a thousand islands cluster, And the islands there assembled Thus addressed the tortured lake-trout: 'There is none within this river, In these narrow Alue-waters, That will eat the wicked Fire-fish, That will swallow thee in trouble, In thine agonies and tortures, From the Fire-fish thou hast eaten.' Hearing this the gray-pike darted, Swallowed quick as light the lake-trout, Quickly ate the tortured Fire-fish. 'Time had gone but little distance, When the gray-pike grew affrighted, Fear befel the lake-trout-eater; Burning pain and writhing torment Seized the reckless trout-devourer; 262 Swam the pike in all directions, Called, and moaned, and swam, and circled, Swam one day, and then a second, Swam the third from morn till even, To the cave of ocean-swallows, To the sand-hills of the sea-gull, Where a hundred islands cluster; And the islands there assembled Thus addressed the fire-devourer: 'There is none within this lakelet, In these narrow Alue-waters, That will eat the fated Fire-fish, That will swallow thee in trouble, In thine agonies and tortures, From the Fire-fish thou hast eaten.'' Wainamoinen, wise and ancient, With the aid of Ilmarinen, Weaves with skill a mighty fish-net From the juniper and sea-grass; Dyes the net with alder-water, Ties it well with thongs of willow. Straightway ancient Wainamoinen Called the maidens to the fish-net, And the sisters came as bidden. With the netting rowed they onward, Rowed they to the hundred islands, To the grottoes of the salmon, To the caverns of the whiting, To the reeds of sable color, Where the gray-pike rests and watches. On they hasten to the fishing, Drag the net in all directions, Drag it lengthwise, sidewise, crosswise, And diagonally zigzag; But they did not catch the Fire-fish. Then the brothers went a-fishing, Dragged the net in all directions, Backwards, forwards, lengthwise, sidewise, Through the homes of ocean-dwellers, Through the grottoes of the salmon, Through the dwellings of the whiting, Through the reed-beds of the lake-trout, 263 Where the gray-pike lies in ambush; But the fated Fire-fish came not, Came not from the lake's abysses, Came not from the Alue-waters. Little fish could not be captured In the large nets of the masters; Murmured then the deep-sea-dwellers, Spake the salmon to the lake-trout, And the lake-trout to the whiting, And the whiting to the gray-pike: Have the heroes of Wainola Died, or have they all departed From these fertile shores and waters? Where then are the ancient weavers, Weavers of the nets of flax-thread, Those that frighten us with fish-poles, Drag us from our homes unwilling?' Hearing this wise Wainamoinen Answered thus the deep-sea-dwellers: 'Neither have Wainola's heroes Died, nor have they all departed From these fertile shores and waters, Two are born where one has perished; Longer poles and finer fish-nets Have the sons of Kalevala!' ~ Elias Lönnrot,

983:Yet, Freedom, yet, thy banner, torn but flying, Streams like a thunder-storm against the wind.--BYRON. I. A glorious people vibrated again The lightning of the nations: Liberty From heart to heart, from tower to tower, o'er Spain, Scattering contagious fire into the sky, Gleamed. My soul spurned the chains of its dismay, And in the rapid plumes of song Clothed itself, sublime and strong; As a young eagle soars the morning clouds among, Hovering inverse o'er its accustomed prey; Till from its station in the Heaven of fame The Spirit's whirlwind rapped it, and the ray Of the remotest sphere of living flame Which paves the void was from behind it flung, As foam from a ship's swiftness, when there came A voice out of the deep: I will record the same. II. The Sun and the serenest Moon sprang forth: The burning stars of the abyss were hurled Into the depths of Heaven. The daedal earth, That island in the ocean of the world, Hung in its cloud of all-sustaining air: But this divinest universe Was yet a chaos and a curse, For thou wert not: but, power from worst producing worse, The spirit of the beasts was kindled there, And of the birds, and of the watery forms, And there was war among them, and despair Within them, raging without truce or terms: The bosom of their violated nurse Groaned, for beasts warred on beasts, and worms on worms, And men on men; each heart was as a hell of storms. III. Man, the imperial shape, then multiplied His generations under the pavilion Of the Suns throne: palace and pyramid, Temple and prison, to many a swarming million Were, as to mountain-wolves their ragged caves. This human living multitude Was savage, cunning, blind, and rude, For thou wert not; but oer the populous solitude, Like one fierce cloud over a waste of waves, Hung Tyranny; beneath, sate deified The sister-pest, congregator of slaves; Into the shadow of her pinions wide Anarchs and priests, who feed on gold and blood Till with the stain their inmost souls are dyed, Drove the astonished herds of men from every side. IV. The nodding promontories, and blue isles, And cloud-like mountains, and dividuous waves Of Greece, basked glorious in the open smiles Of favouring Heaven: from their enchanted caves Prophetic echoes flung dim melody. On the unapprehensive wild The vine, the corn, the olive mild, Grew savage yet, to human use unreconciled; And, like unfolded flowers beneath the sea, Like the mans thought dark in the infants brain, Like aught that is which wraps what is to be, Arts deathless dreams lay veiled by many a vein Of Parian stone; and, yet a speechless child, Verse murmured, and Philosophy did strain Her lidless eyes for thee; when oer the Aegean main. V. Athens arose: a city such as vision Builds from the purple crags and silver towers Of battlemented cloud, as in derision Of kingliest masonry: the ocean-floors Pave it; the evening sky pavilions it; Its portals are inhabited By thunder-zoned winds, each head Within its cloudy wings with sun-fire garlanded,-- A divine work! Athens, diviner yet, Gleamed with its crest of columns, on the will Of man, as on a mount of diamond, set; For thou wert, and thine all-creative skill Peopled, with forms that mock the eternal dead In marble immortality, that hill Which was thine earliest throne and latest oracle. VI. Within the surface of Times fleeting river Its wrinkled image lies, as then it lay Immovably unquiet, and for ever It trembles, but it cannot pass away! The voices of thy bards and sages thunder With an earth-awakening blast Through the caverns of the past: (Religion veils her eyes; Oppression shrinks aghast): A winged sound of joy, and love, and wonder, Which soars where Expectation never flew, Rending the veil of space and time asunder! One ocean feeds the clouds, and streams, and dew; One Sun illumines Heaven; one Spirit vast With life and love makes chaos ever new, As Athens doth the world with thy delight renew. VII. Then Rome was, and from thy deep bosom fairest, Like a wolf-cub from a Cadmaean Maenad, She drew the milk of greatness, though thy dearest From that Elysian food was yet unweaned; And many a deed of terrible uprightness By thy sweet love was sanctified; And in thy smile, and by thy side, Saintly Camillus lived, and firm Atilius died. But when tears stained thy robe of vestal-whiteness, And gold profaned thy Capitolian throne, 100 Thou didst desert, with spirit-winged lightness, The senate of the tyrants: they sunk prone Slaves of one tyrant: Palatinus sighed Faint echoes of Ionian song; that tone Thou didst delay to hear, lamenting to disown VIII. From what Hyrcanian glen or frozen hill, Or piny promontory of the Arctic main, Or utmost islet inaccessible, Didst thou lament the ruin of thy reign, Teaching the woods and waves, and desert rocks, And every Naiads ice-cold urn, To talk in echoes sad and stern Of that sublimest lore which man had dared unlearn? For neither didst thou watch the wizard flocks Of the Scald's dreams, nor haunt the Druid's sleep. What if the tears rained through thy shattered locks Were quickly dried? for thou didst groan, not weep, When from its sea of death, to kill and burn, The Galilean serpent forth did creep, And made thy world an undistinguishable heap. IX. A thousand years the Earth cried, 'Where art thou?' And then the shadow of thy coming fell On Saxon Alfreds olive-cinctured brow: And many a warrior-peopled citadel. Like rocks which fire lifts out of the flat deep, Arose in sacred Italy, Frowning o'er the tempestuous sea Of kings, and priests, and slaves, in tower-crowned majesty; That multitudinous anarchy did sweep And burst around their walls, like idle foam, Whilst from the human spirits deepest deep Strange melody with love and awe struck dumb Dissonant arms; and Art, which cannot die, With divine wand traced on our earthly home Fit imagery to pave Heavens everlasting dome. X. Thou huntress swifter than the Moon! thou terror Of the worlds wolves! thou bearer of the quiver, Whose sunlike shafts pierce tempest-winged Error, As light may pierce the clouds when they dissever In the calm regions of the orient day! Luther caught thy wakening glance; Like lightning, from his leaden lance Reflected, it dissolved the visions of the trance In which, as in a tomb, the nations lay; And Englands prophets hailed thee as their queen, In songs whose music cannot pass away, Though it must flow forever: not unseen Before the spirit-sighted countenance Of Milton didst thou pass, from the sad scene Beyond whose night he saw, with a dejected mien. XI. The eager hours and unreluctant years As on a dawn-illumined mountain stood. Trampling to silence their loud hopes and fears, Darkening each other with their multitude, And cried aloud, 'Liberty!' Indignation Answered Pity from her cave; Death grew pale within the grave, And Desolation howled to the destroyer, Save! When like Heavens Sun girt by the exhalation Of its own glorious light, thou didst arise. Chasing thy foes from nation unto nation Like shadows: as if day had cloven the skies At dreaming midnight oer the western wave, Men started, staggering with a glad surprise, Under the lightnings of thine unfamiliar eyes. XII. Thou Heaven of earth! what spells could pall thee then In ominous eclipse? a thousand years Bred from the slime of deep Oppressions den. Dyed all thy liquid light with blood and tears. Till thy sweet stars could weep the stain away; How like Bacchanals of blood Round France, the ghastly vintage, stood Destruction's sceptred slaves, and Follys mitred brood! When one, like them, but mightier far than they, The Anarch of thine own bewildered powers, Rose: armies mingled in obscure array, Like clouds with clouds, darkening the sacred bowers Of serene Heaven. He, by the past pursued, Rests with those dead, but unforgotten hours, Whose ghosts scare victor kings in their ancestral towers. XIII. England yet sleeps: was she not called of old? Spain calls her now, as with its thrilling thunder Vesuvius wakens Aetna, and the cold Snow-crags by its reply are cloven in sunder: Oer the lit waves every Aeolian isle 185 From Pithecusa to Pelorus Howls, and leaps, and glares in chorus: They cry, 'Be dim; ye lamps of Heaven suspended o'er us!' Her chains are threads of gold, she need but smile And they dissolve; but Spains were links of steel, Till bit to dust by virtues keenest file. Twins of a single destiny! appeal To the eternal years enthroned before us In the dim West; impress us from a seal, All ye have thought and done! Time cannot dare conceal. XIV. Tomb of Arminius! render up thy dead Till, like a standard from a watch-towers staff, His soul may stream over the tyrants head; Thy victory shall be his epitaph, Wild Bacchanal of truths mysterious wine, King-deluded Germany, His dead spirit lives in thee. Why do we fear or hope? thou art already free! And thou, lost Paradise of this divine And glorious world! thou flowery wilderness! Thou island of eternity! thou shrine Where Desolation, clothed with loveliness, Worships the thing thou wert! O Italy, Gather thy blood into thy heart; repress The beasts who make their dens thy sacred palaces. XV. Oh, that the free would stamp the impious name Of KING into the dust! or write it there, So that this blot upon the page of fame Were as a serpents path, which the light air Erases, and the flat sands close behind! Ye the oracle have heard: Lift the victory-flashing sword. And cut the snaky knots of this foul gordian word, Which, weak itself as stubble, yet can bind Into a mass, irrefragably firm, The axes and the rods which awe mankind; The sound has poison in it, tis the sperm Of what makes life foul, cankerous, and abhorred; Disdain not thou, at thine appointed term, To set thine armed heel on this reluctant worm. XVI. Oh, that the wise from their bright minds would kindle Such lamps within the dome of this dim world, That the pale name of PRIEST might shrink and dwindle Into the hell from which it first was hurled, A scoff of impious pride from fiends impure; Till human thoughts might kneel alone, Each before the judgement-throne Of its own aweless soul, or of the Power unknown! Oh, that the words which make the thoughts obscure From which they spring, as clouds of glimmering dew From a white lake blot Heavens blue portraiture, Were stripped of their thin masks and various hue And frowns and smiles and splendours not their own, Till in the nakedness of false and true They stand before their Lord, each to receive its due! XVII. He who taught man to vanquish whatsoever Can be between the cradle and the grave Crowned him the King of Life. Oh, vain endeavour! If on his own high will, a willing slave, He has enthroned the oppression and the oppressor What if earth can clothe and feed Amplest millions at their need, And power in thought be as the tree within the seed? Or what if Art, an ardent intercessor, Driving on fiery wings to Natures throne, Checks the great mother stooping to caress her, And cries: Give me, thy child, dominion Over all height and depth? if Life can breed New wants, and wealth from those who toil and groan, Rend of thy gifts and hers a thousandfold for one! XVIII. Come thou, but lead out of the inmost cave Of mans deep spirit, as the morning-star Beckons the Sun from the Eoan wave, Wisdom. I hear the pennons of her car Self-moving, like cloud charioted by flame; Comes she not, and come ye not, Rulers of eternal thought, To judge, with solemn truth, lifes ill-apportioned lot? Blind Love, and equal Justice, and the Fame Of what has been, the Hope of what will be? O Liberty! if such could be thy name Wert thou disjoined from these, or they from thee: If thine or theirs were treasures to be bought By blood or tears, have not the wise and free Wept tears, and blood like tears?The solemn harmony XIX. Paused, and the Spirit of that mighty singing To its abyss was suddenly withdrawn; Then, as a wild swan, when sublimely winging Its path athwart the thunder-smoke of dawn, Sinks headlong through the aereal golden light On the heavy-sounding plain, When the bolt has pierced its brain; As summer clouds dissolve, unburthened of their rain; As a far taper fades with fading night, As a brief insect dies with dying day,-- My song, its pinions disarrayed of might, Drooped; oer it closed the echoes far away Of the great voice which did its flight sustain, As waves which lately paved his watery way Hiss round a drowners head in their tempestuous play. Composed early in 1820, and published, with Prometheus Unbound, in the same year. A transcript in Shelley's hand of lines 1-21 is included in the Harvard manuscript book, and amongst the Boscombe manuscripts there is a fragment of a rough draft (Garnett). ~ Percy Bysshe Shelley, Ode To Liberty ,

984:The Kalevala - Rune Xxxi KULLERWOINEN SON OF EVIL. In the ancient times a mother Hatched and raised some swans and chickens, Placed the chickens in the brushwood, Placed her swans upon the river; Came an eagle, hawk, and falcon, Scattered all her swans and chickens, One was carried to Karyala, And a second into Ehstland, Left a third at home in Pohya. And the one to Ehstland taken Soon became a thriving merchant; He that journeyed to Karyala Flourished and was called Kalervo; He that hid away in Pohya Took the name of Untamoinen, Flourished to his father's sorrow, To the heart-pain of his mother. Untamoinen sets his fish-nets In the waters of Kalervo; Kullerwoinen sees the fish-nets, Takes the fish home in his basket. Then Untamo, evil-minded, Angry grew and sighed for vengeance, Clutched his fingers for the combat, Bared his mighty arms for battle, For the stealing of his salmon, For the robbing of his fish-nets. Long they battled, fierce the struggle, Neither one could prove the victor; Should one beat the other fiercely, He himself was fiercely beaten. Then arose a second trouble; On the second and the third days, Kalerwoinen sowed some barley Near the barns of Untamoinen; Untamoinen's sheep in hunger 499 Ate the crop of Kullerwoinen; Kullerwoinen's dog in malice Tore Untamo's sheep in pieces; Then Untamo sorely threatened To annihilate the people Of his brother, Kalerwoinen, To exterminate his tribe-folk, To destroy the young and aged, To out-root his race and kingdom; Conjures men with broadswords girded, For the war he fashions heroes, Fashions youth with spears adjusted, Bearing axes on their shoulders , Conjures thus a mighty army, Hastens to begin a battle, Bring a war upon his brother. Kalerwoinen's wife in beauty Sat beside her chamber-window, Looking out along the highway, Spake these words in wonder guessing: 'Do I see some smoke arising, Or perchance a heavy storm-cloud, Near the border of the forest, Near the ending of the prairie?' It was not some smoke arising, Nor indeed a heavy storm-cloud, It was Untamoinen's soldiers Marching to the place of battle. Warriors of Untamoinen Came equipped with spears and arrows, Killed the people of Kalervo, Slew his tribe and all his kindred, Burned to ashes many dwellings, Levelled many courts and cabins, Only, left Kalervo's daughter, With her unborn child, survivors Of the slaughter of Untamo; And she led the hostile army To her father's halls and mansion, Swept the rooms and made them cheery, Gave the heroes home-attentions. Time had gone but little distance, 500 Ere a boy was born in magic Of the virgin, Untamala, Of a mother, trouble-laden, Him the mother named Kullervo, 'Pearl of Combat,' said Untamo. Then they laid the child of wonder, Fatherless, the magic infant, In the cradle of attention, To be rocked, and fed, and guarded; But he rocked himself at pleasure, Rocked until his locks stood endwise; Rocked one day, and then a second, Rocked the third from morn till noontide; But before the third day ended, Kicks the boy with might of magic, Forwards, backwards, upwards, downwards, Kicks in miracles of power, Bursts with might his swaddling garments Creeping from beneath his blankets, Knocks his cradle into fragments, Tears to tatters all his raiment, Seemed that he would grow a hero, And his mother, Untamala, Thought that be, when full of stature, When he found his strength and reason, Would become a great magician, First among a thousand heroes. When. three months the boy had thriven, He began to speak as follows: 'When my form is full of stature, When these arms grow strong and hardy, Then will I avenge the murder Of Kalervo and his people!' Untamoinen bears the saying, Speaks these words to those about him; 'To my tribe he brings destruction, In him grows a new Kalervo!' Then the heroes well considered, And the women gave their counsel, How to kill the magic infant, That their tribe may live in safety. It appeared the boy would prosper; 501 Finally, they all consenting, He was placed within a basket, And with willows firmly fastened, Taken to the reeds and rushes, Lowered to the deepest waters, In his basket there to perish. When three nights had circled over, Messengers of Untamoinen Went to see if be had perished In his basket in the waters; But the prodigy, was living, Had not perished in the rushes; He had left his willow-basket, Sat in triumph on a billow, In his hand a rod of copper, On the rod a golden fish-line, Fishing for the silver whiting, Measuring the deeps beneath him; In the sea was little water, Scarcely would it fill three measures. Untamoinen then reflected, This the language of the wizard: 'Whither shall we take this wonder, Lay this prodigy of evil, That destruction may o'ertake him, Where the boy will sink and perish?' Then his messengers he ordered To collect dried poles of brushwood, Birch-trees with their hundred branches, Pine-trees full of pitch and resin, Ordered that a pyre be builded, That the boy might be cremated, That Kullervo thus might perish. High they piled the and branches, Dried limbs from the sacred birch-tree, Branches from a hundred fir-trees, Knots and branches full of resign; Filled with bark a thousand sledges, Seasoned oak, a hundred measures; Piled the brushwood to the tree-tops, Set the boy upon the summit, Set on fire the pile of brushwood, 502 Burned one day, and then a second, Burned the third from morn till evening. When Untamo sent his heralds To inspect the pyre and wizard, There to learn if young Kullervo Had been burned to dust and ashes, There they saw the young boy sitting On a pyramid of embers, In his band a rod of copper, Raking coals of fire about him, To increase their heat and power; Not a hair was burned nor injured, Not a ringlet singed nor shrivelled. Then Untamo, evil-humored, Thus addressed his trusted heralds: 'Whither shall the boy be taken, To what place this thing of evil, That destruction may o'ertake him. That the boy may sink and perish?' Then they hung him to an oak-tree, Crucified him in the branches, That the wizard there might perish. When three days and nights had ended, Untamoinen spake as follows: 'It is time to send my heralds To inspect the mighty oak-tree, There to learn if young Kullervo Lives or dies among the branches.' Thereupon he sent his servants, And the heralds brought this message: 'Young Kullervo has not perished, Has not died among the branches Of the oak-tree where we hung him. In the oak he maketh pictures With a wand between his fingers; Pictures hang from all the branches, Carved and painted by Kullervo; And the heroes, thick as acorns, With their swords and spears adjuste4 Fill the branches of the oak-tree, Every leaf becomes a soldier.' Who can help the grave Untamo 503 Kill the boy that threatens evil To Untamo's tribe and country, Since he will not die by water, Nor by fire, nor crucifixion? Finally it was decided That his body was immortal, Could not suffer death nor torture. In despair grave Untamoinen Thus addressed the boy, Kullervo: 'Wilt thou live a life becoming, Always do my people honor, Should I keep thee in my dwelling? Shouldst thou render servant's duty, Then thou wilt receive thy wages, Reaping whatsoe'er thou sowest; Thou canst wear the golden girdle, Or endure the tongue of censure.' When the boy had grown a little, Had increased in strength and stature, He was given occupation, He was made to tend an infant, Made to rock the infant's cradle. These the words of Untamoinen: 'Often look upon the young child, Feed him well and guard from danger, Wash his linen in the river, Give the infant good attention.' Young Kullervo, wicked wizard, Nurses one day then a second; On the morning of the third day, Gives the infant cruel treatment, Blinds its eyes and breaks its fingers; And when evening shadows gather, Kills the young child while it slumbers, Throws its body to the waters, Breaks and burns the infant's cradle. Untamoinen thus reflected: 'Never will this fell Kullervo Be a worthy nurse for children, Cannot rock a babe in safety; Do not know how I can use him, What employment I can give him!' 504 Then he told the young magician He must fell the standing forest, And Kullervo gave this answer: 'Only will I be a hero, When I wield the magic hatchet; I am young, and fair, and mighty, Far more beautiful than others, Have the skill of six magicians.' Thereupon he sought the blacksmith, This the order of Kullervo: 'Listen, O thou metal-artist, Forge for me an axe of copper, Forge the mighty axe of heroes, Wherewith I may fell the forest, Fell the birch, and oak, and aspen.' This behest the blacksmith honors, Forges him an axe of copper, Wonderful the blade he forges. Kullerwoinen grinds his hatchet, Grinds his blade from morn till evening, And the next day makes the handle; Then he hastens to the forest, To the upward-sloping mountain, To the tallest of the birches, To the mightiest of oak-trees; There he swings his axe of copper, Swings his blade with might of magic, Cuts with sharpened edge the aspen, With one blow he fells the oak-tree, With a second blow, the linden; Many trees have quickly fallen, By the hatchet of Kullervo. Then the wizard spake as follows: 'This the proper work of Lempo, Let dire Hisi fell the forest!' In the birch he sank his hatchet, Made an uproar in the woodlands, Called aloud in tones, of thunder, Whistled to the distant mountains, Till they echoed to his calling, When Kullervo spake as follows: 'May the forest, in the circle 505 Where my voice rings, fall and perish, In the earth be lost forever! May no tree remain unlevelled, May no saplings grow in spring-time, Never while the moonlight glimmers, Where Kullervo's voice has echoed, Where the forest hears my calling; Where the ground with seed is planted, And the grain shall sprout and flourish, May it never come to ripeness, Mar the ears of corn be blasted!' When the strong man, Untamoinen, Went to look at early evening, How Kullervo was progressing, In his labors in the forest; Little was the work accomplished, Was not worthy of a here; Untamoinen thus reflected: 'Young Kullervo is not fitted For the work of clearing forests, Wastes the best of all the timber, To my lands he brings destruction; I shall set him making fences.' Then the youth began the building Of a fence for Untamoinen; Took the trunks of stately fir-trees, Trimmed them with his blade for fence-posts, Cut the tallest in the woodlands, For the railing of his fences; Made the smaller poles and cross-bars From the longest of the lindens; Made the fence without a pass-way, Made no wicket in his fences, And Kullervo spake these measures. 'He that does not rise as eagles, Does not sail on wings through ether, Cannot cross Kullervo's pickets, Nor the fences he has builded.' Untamoinen left his mansion To inspect the young boy's labors, View the fences of Kullervo; Saw the fence without a pass-way, 506 Not a wicket in his fences; From the earth the fence extended To the highest clouds of heaven. These the words of Untamoinen: 'For this work be is not fitted, Useless is the fence thus builded; Is so high that none can cross it, And there is no passage through it: He shall thresh the rye and barley.' Young Kullervo, quick preparing Made an oaken flail for threshing, Threshed the rye to finest powder, Threshed the barley into atoms, And the straw to worthless fragments. Untamoinen went at evening, Went to see Kullervo's threshing, View the work of Kullerwoinen; Found the rye was ground to powder, Grains of barley crushed to atoms, And the straw to worthless rubbish. Untamoinen then grew angry, Spake these words in bitter accents: 'Kullerwoinen as a workman Is a miserable failure; Whatsoever work he touches Is but ruined by his witchcraft; I shall carry him to Ehstland, In Karyala I shall sell him To the blacksmith, Ilmarinen, There to swing the heavy hammer.' Untamoinen sells Kullervo, Trades him off in far Karyala, To the blacksmith, Ilmarinen, To the master of the metals, This the sum received in payment: Seven worn and worthless sickles, Three old caldrons worse than useless, Three old scythes, and hoes, and axes, Recompense, indeed, sufficient For a boy that will not labor For the good of his employer. 507 ~ Elias Lönnrot,

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

986: III - THE STUDY FAUST (Entering, with the poodle.) Behind me, field and meadow sleeping, I leave in deep, prophetic night, Within whose dread and holy keeping The better soul awakes to light. The wild desires no longer win us, The deeds of passion cease to chain; The love of Man revives within us, The love of God revives again. Be still, thou poodle; make not such racket and riot! Why at the threshold wilt snuffing be? Behind the stove repose thee in quiet! My softest cushion I give to thee. As thou, up yonder, with running and leaping Amused us hast, on the mountain's crest, So now I take thee into my keeping, A welcome, but also a silent, guest. Ah, when, within our narrow chamber The lamp with friendly lustre glows, Flames in the breast each faded ember, And in the heart, itself that knows. Then Hope again lends sweet assistance, And Reason then resumes her speech: One yearns, the rivers of existence, The very founts of Life, to reach. Snarl not, poodle! To the sound that rises, The sacred tones that my soul embrace, This bestial noise is out of place. We are used to see, that Man despises What he never comprehends, And the Good and the Beautiful vilipends, Finding them often hard to measure: Will the dog, like man, snarl his displeasure? But ah! I feel, though will thereto be stronger, Contentment flows from out my breast no longer. Why must the stream so soon run dry and fail us, And burning thirst again assail us? Therein I've borne so much probation! And yet, this want may be supplied us; We call the Supernatural to guide us; We pine and thirst for Revelation, Which nowhere worthier is, more nobly sent, Than here, in our New Testament. I feel impelled, its meaning to determine, With honest purpose, once for all, The hallowed Original To change to my beloved German. (He opens a volume, and commences.) 'Tis written: "In the Beginning was the Word." Here am I balked: who, now can help afford? The Word?impossible so high to rate it; And otherwise must I translate it. If by the Spirit I am truly taught. Then thus: "In the Beginning was the Thought" This first line let me weigh completely, Lest my impatient pen proceed too fleetly. Is it the Thought which works, creates, indeed? "In the Beginning was the Power," I read. Yet, as I write, a warning is suggested, That I the sense may not have fairly tested. The Spirit aids me: now I see the light! "In the Beginning was the Act," I write. If I must share my chamber with thee, Poodle, stop that howling, prithee! Cease to bark and bellow! Such a noisy, disturbing fellow I'll no longer suffer near me. One of us, dost hear me! Must leave, I fear me. No longer guest-right I bestow; The door is open, art free to go. But what do I see in the creature? Is that in the course of nature? Is't actual fact? or Fancy's shows? How long and broad my poodle grows! He rises mightily: A canine form that cannot be! What a spectre I've harbored thus! He resembles a hippopotamus, With fiery eyes, teeth terrible to see: O, now am I sure of thee! For all of thy half-hellish brood The Key of Solomon is good. SPIRITS (in the corridor) Some one, within, is caught! Stay without, follow him not! Like the fox in a snare, Quakes the old hell-lynx there. Take heedlook about! Back and forth hover, Under and over, And he'll work himself out. If your aid avail him, Let it not fail him; For he, without measure, Has wrought for our pleasure. FAUST First, to encounter the beast, The Words of the Four be addressed: Salamander, shine glorious! Wave, Undine, as bidden! Sylph, be thou hidden! Gnome, be laborious! Who knows not their sense (These elements), Their properties And power not sees, No mastery he inherits Over the Spirits. Vanish in flaming ether, Salamander! Flow foamingly together, Undine! Shine in meteor-sheen, Sylph! Bring help to hearth and shelf. Incubus! Incubus! Step forward, and finish thus! Of the Four, no feature Lurks in the creature. Quiet he lies, and grins disdain: Not yet, it seems, have I given him pain. Now, to undisguise thee, Hear me exorcise thee! Art thou, my gay one, Hell's fugitive stray-one? The sign witness now, Before which they bow, The cohorts of Hell! With hair all bristling, it begins to swell. Base Being, hearest thou? Knowest and fearest thou The One, unoriginate, Named inexpressibly, Through all Heaven impermeate, Pierced irredressibly! Behind the stove still banned, See it, an elephant, expand! It fills the space entire, Mist-like melting, ever faster. 'Tis enough: ascend no higher, Lay thyself at the feet of the Master! Thou seest, not vain the threats I bring thee: With holy fire I'll scorch and sting thee! Wait not to know The threefold dazzling glow! Wait not to know The strongest art within my hands! MEPHISTOPHELES (while the vapor is dissipating, steps forth from behind the stove, in the costume of a Travelling Scholar.) Why such a noise? What are my lord's commands? FAUST This was the poodle's real core, A travelling scholar, then? The casus is diverting. MEPHISTOPHELES The learned gentleman I bow before: You've made me roundly sweat, that's certain! FAUST What is thy name? MEPHISTOPHELES A question small, it seems, For one whose mind the Word so much despises; Who, scorning all external gleams, The depths of being only prizes. FAUST With all you gentlemen, the name's a test, Whereby the nature usually is expressed. Clearly the latter it implies In names like Beelzebub, Destroyer, Father of Lies. Who art thou, then? MEPHISTOPHELES Part of that Power, not understood, Which always wills the Bad, and always works the Good. FAUST What hidden sense in this enigma lies? MEPHISTOPHELES I am the Spirit that Denies! And justly so: for all things, from the Void Called forth, deserve to be destroyed: 'Twere better, then, were naught created. Thus, all which you as Sin have rated, Destruction,aught with Evil blent, That is my proper element. FAUST Thou nam'st thyself a part, yet show'st complete to me? MEPHISTOPHELES The modest truth I speak to thee. If Man, that microcosmic fool, can see Himself a whole so frequently, Part of the Part am I, once All, in primal Night, Part of the Darkness which brought forth the Light, The haughty Light, which now disputes the space, And claims of Mother Night her ancient place. And yet, the struggle fails; since Light, howe'er it weaves, Still, fettered, unto bodies cleaves: It flows from bodies, bodies beautifies; By bodies is its course impeded; And so, but little time is needed, I hope, ere, as the bodies die, it dies! FAUST I see the plan thou art pursuing: Thou canst not compass general ruin, And hast on smaller scale begun. MEPHISTOPHELES And truly 'tis not much, when all is done. That which to Naught is in resistance set, The Something of this clumsy world,has yet, With all that I have undertaken, Not been by me disturbed or shaken: From earthquake, tempest, wave, volcano's brand, Back into quiet settle sea and land! And that damned stuff, the bestial, human brood, What use, in having that to play with? How many have I made away with! And ever circulates a newer, fresher blood. It makes me furious, such things beholding: From Water, Earth, and Air unfolding, A thousand germs break forth and grow, In dry, and wet, and warm, and chilly; And had I not the Flame reserved, why, really, There's nothing special of my own to show! FAUST So, to the actively eternal Creative force, in cold disdain You now oppose the fist infernal, Whose wicked clench is all in vain! Some other labor seek thou rather, Queer Son of Chaos, to begin! MEPHISTOPHELES Well, we'll consider: thou canst gather My views, when next I venture in. Might I, perhaps, depart at present? FAUST Why thou shouldst ask, I don't perceive. Though our acquaintance is so recent, For further visits thou hast leave. The window's here, the door is yonder; A chimney, also, you behold. MEPHISTOPHELES I must confess that forth I may not wander, My steps by one slight obstacle controlled, The wizard's-foot, that on your threshold made is. FAUST The pentagram prohibits thee? Why, tell me now, thou Son of Hades, If that prevents, how cam'st thou in to me? Could such a spirit be so cheated? MEPHISTOPHELES Inspect the thing: the drawing's not completed. The outer angle, you may see, Is open left the lines don't fit it. FAUST Well,Chance, this time, has fairly hit it! And thus, thou'rt prisoner to me? It seems the business has succeeded. MEPHISTOPHELES The poodle naught remarked, as after thee he speeded; But other aspects now obtain: The Devil can't get out again. FAUST Try, then, the open window-pane! MEPHISTOPHELES For Devils and for spectres this is law: Where they have entered in, there also they withdraw. The first is free to us; we're governed by the second. FAUST In Hell itself, then, laws are reckoned? That's well! So might a compact be Made with you gentlemen and binding,surely? MEPHISTOPHELES All that is promised shall delight thee purely; No skinflint bargain shalt thou see. But this is not of swift conclusion; We'll talk about the matter soon. And now, I do entreat this boon Leave to withdraw from my intrusion. FAUST One moment more I ask thee to remain, Some pleasant news, at least, to tell me. MEPHISTOPHELES Release me, now! I soon shall come again; Then thou, at will, mayst question and compel me. FAUST I have not snares around thee cast; Thyself hast led thyself into the meshes. Who traps the Devil, hold him fast! Not soon a second time he'll catch a prey so precious. MEPHISTOPHELES An't please thee, also I'm content to stay, And serve thee in a social station; But stipulating, that I may With arts of mine afford thee recreation. FAUST Thereto I willingly agree, If the diversion pleasant be. MEPHISTOPHELES My friend, thou'lt win, past all pretences, More in this hour to soo the thy senses, Than in the year's monotony. That which the dainty spirits sing thee, The lovely pictures they shall bring thee, Are more than magic's empty show. Thy scent will be to bliss invited; Thy palate then with taste delighted, Thy nerves of touch ecstatic glow! All unprepared, the charm I spin: We're here together, so begin! SPIRITS Vanish, ye darking Arches above him! Loveliest weather, Born of blue ether, Break from the sky! O that the darkling Clouds had departed! Starlight is sparkling, Tranquiller-hearted Suns are on high. Heaven's own children In beauty bewildering, Waveringly bending, Pass as they hover; Longing unending Follows them over. They, with their glowing Garments, out-flowing, Cover, in going, Landscape and bower, Where, in seclusion, Lovers are plighted, Lost in illusion. Bower on bower! Tendrils unblighted! Lo! in a shower Grapes that o'ercluster Gush into must, or Flow into rivers Of foaming and flashing Wine, that is dashing Gems, as it boundeth Down the high places, And spreading, surroundeth With crystalline spaces, In happy embraces, Blossoming forelands, Emerald shore-lands! And the winged races Drink, and fly onward Fly ever sunward To the enticing Islands, that flatter, Dipping and rising Light on the water! Hark, the inspiring Sound of their quiring! See, the entrancing Whirl of their dancing! All in the air are Freer and fairer. Some of them scaling Boldly the highlands, Others are sailing, Circling the islands; Others are flying; Life-ward all hieing, All for the distant Star of existent Rapture and Love! MEPHISTOPHELES He sleeps! Enough, ye fays! your airy number Have sung him truly into slumber: For this performance I your debtor prove. Not yet art thou the man, to catch the Fiend and hold him! With fairest images of dreams infold him, Plunge him in seas of sweet untruth! Yet, for the threshold's magic which controlled him, The Devil needs a rat's quick tooth. I use no leng thened invocation: Here rustles one that soon will work my liberation. The lord of rats and eke of mice, Of flies and bed-bugs, frogs and lice, Summons thee hither to the door-sill, To gnaw it where, with just a morsel Of oil, he paints the spot for thee: There com'st thou, hopping on to me! To work, at once! The point which made me craven Is forward, on the ledge, engraven. Another bite makes free the door: So, dream thy dreams, O Faust, until we meet once more! FAUST (awaking) Am I again so foully cheated? Remains there naught of lofty spirit-sway, But that a dream the Devil counterfeited, And that a poodle ran away? ~ Johann Wolfgang von Goethe, THE STUDY (The Exorcism) ,

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

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

989:The Kalevala - Rune Xxvii THE UNWELCOME GUEST. I have brought young Kaukomieli, Brought the Islander and hero, Also known as Lemminkainen, Through the jaws of death and ruin, Through the darkling deeps of Kalma, To the homesteads of Pohyola, To the dismal courts of Louhi; Now must I relate his doings, Must relate to all my bearers, How the merry Lemminkainen, Handsome hero, Kaukomieli, Wandered through Pohyola's chambers, Through the halls of Sariola, How the hero went unbidden To the feasting and carousal, Uninvited to the banquet. Lemminkainen full of courage, Full of life, and strength, and magic. Stepped across the ancient threshold, To the centre of the court-room, And the floors of linwood trembled, Walls and ceilings creaked and murmured. Spake the reckless Lemminkainen, These the words that Ahti uttered: 'Be ye greeted on my coming, Ye that greet, be likewise greeted! Listen, all ye hosts of Pohya; Is there food about this homestead, Barley for my hungry courser, Beer to give a thirsty stranger? Sat the host of Sariola At the east end of the table, Gave this answer to the questions: 'Surely is there in this homestead, For thy steed an open stable, Never will this host refuse thee, 459 Shouldst thou act a part becoming, Worthy, coming to these portals, Waiting near the birchen rafters, In the spaces by the kettles, By the triple hooks of iron.' Then the reckless Lemminkainen Shook his sable locks and answered: 'Lempo may perchance come hither, Let him fill this lowly station, Let him stand between the kettles, That with soot he may be blackened. Never has my ancient father, Never has the dear old hero, Stood upon a spot unworthy, At the portals near the rafters; For his steed the best of stables, Food and shelter gladly furnished, And a room for his attendants, Corners furnished for his mittens, Hooks provided for his snow-shoes, Halls in waiting for his helmet. Wherefore then should I not find here What my father found before me?' To the centre walked the hero, Walked around the dining table, Sat upon a bench and waited, On a bench of polished fir-wood, And the kettle creaked beneath him. Spake the reckless Lemminkainen: 'As a guest am I unwelcome, Since the waiters bring no viands, Bring no dishes to the stranger?' Ilpotar, the Northland hostess, Then addressed the words that follow: 'Lemminkainen, thou art evil, Thou art here, but not invited, Thou hast not the look of kindness, Thou wilt give me throbbing temples, Thou art bringing pain and sorrow. All our beer is in the barley, All the malt is in the kernel, All our grain is still ungarnered, 460 And our dinner has been eaten; Yesterday thou shouldst have been here, Come again some future season.' Whereupon wild Lemminkainen Pulled his mouth awry in anger, Shook his coal-black locks and answered: 'All the tables here are empty, And the feasting-time is over; All the beer has left the goblets, Empty too are all the pitchers, Empty are the larger vessels. O thou hostess of Pohyola, Toothless dame of dismal Northland, Badly managed is thy wedding, And thy feast is ill-conducted, Like the dogs hast thou invited; Thou hast baked the honey-biscuit, Wheaten loaves of greatest virtue, Brewed thy beer from hops and barley, Sent abroad thine invitations, Six the hamlets thou hast honored, Nine the villages invited By thy merry wedding-callers. Thou hast asked the poor and lowly, Asked the hosts of common people, Asked the blind, and deaf, and crippled, Asked a multitude of beggars, Toilers by the day, and hirelings; Asked the men of evil habits, Asked the maids with braided tresses, I alone was not invited. How could such a slight be given, Since I sent thee kegs of barley? Others sent thee grain in cupfuls, Brought it sparingly in dippers, While I sent thee fullest measure, Sent the half of all my garners, Of the richest of my harvest, Of the grain that I had gathered. Even now young Lemminkainen, Though a guest of name and station Has no beer, no food, no welcome, 461 Naught for him art thou preparing, Nothing cooking in thy kettles, Nothing brewing in thy cellars For the hero of the Islands, At the closing of his journey.' Ilpotar, the ancient hostess, Gave this order to her servants: 'Come, my pretty maiden-waiter, Servant-girl to me belonging, Lay some salmon to the broiling, Bring some beer to give the stranger!' Small of stature was the maiden, Washer of the banquet-platters, Rinser of the dinner-ladles, Polisher of spoons of silver, And she laid some food in kettles, Only bones and beads of whiting, Turnip-stalks and withered cabbage, Crusts of bread and bits of biscuit. Then she brought some beer in pitchers, Brought of common drink the vilest, That the stranger, Lemminkainen, Might have drink, and meat in welcome, Thus to still his thirst and hunger. Then the maiden spake as follows: 'Thou art sure a mighty hero, Here to drink the beer of Pohya, Here to empty all our vessels!' Then the minstrel, Lemminkainen, Closely handled all the pitchers, Looking to the very bottoms; There beheld he writhing serpents, In the centre adders swimming, On the borders worms and lizards. Then the hero, Lemminkainen, Filled with anger, spake as follows: Get ye hence, ye things of evil, Get ye hence to Tuonela, With the bearer of these pitchers, With the maid that brought ye hither, Ere the evening moon has risen, Ere the day-star seeks the ocean! 462 0 thou wretched beer of barley, Thou hast met with great dishonor, Into disrepute hast fallen, But I'll drink thee, notwithstanding, And the rubbish cast far from me.' Then the hero to his pockets Thrust his first and unnamed finger, Searching in his pouch of leather; Quick withdraws a hook for fishing, Drops it to the pitcher's bottom, Through the worthless beer of barley; On his fish-book hang the serpents, Catches many hissing adders, Catches frogs in magic numbers, Catches blackened worms in thousands, Casts them to the floor before him, Quickly draws his heavy broad sword, And decapitates the serpents. Now he drinks the beer remaining, When the wizard speaks as follows: 'As a guest am I unwelcome, Since no beer to me is given That is worthy of a hero; Neither has a ram been butchered, Nor a fattened calf been slaughtered, Worthy food for Lemminkainen.' Then the landlord of Pohyola Answered thus the Island-minstrel: 'Wherefore hast thou journeyed hither, Who has asked thee for thy presence? Spake in answer Lemminkainen: 'Happy is the guest invited, Happier when not expected; Listen, son of Pohylander, Host of Sariola, listen: Give me beer for ready payment, Give me worthy drink for money!' Then the landlord of Pohyola, In bad humor, full of anger, Conjured in the earth a lakelet, At the feet of Kaukomieli, Thus addressed the Island-hero: 463 'Quench thy thirst from yonder lakelet, There, the beer that thou deservest!' Little heeding, Lemminkainen To this insolence made answer: 'I am neither bear nor roebuck, That should drink this filthy water, Drink the water of this lakelet.' Ahti then began to conjure, Conjured he a bull before him, Bull with horns of gold and silver, And the bull drank from the lakelet, Drank he from the pool in pleasure. Then the landlord of Pohyola There a savage wolf created, Set him on the floor before him To destroy the bull of magic, Lemminkainen, full of courage, Conjured up a snow-white rabbit, Set him on the floor before him To attract the wolf's attention. Then the landlord of Pohyola Conjured there a dog of Lempo, Set him on the floor before him To destroy the magic rabbit. Lemminkainen, full of mischief, Conjured on the roof a squirrel, That by jumping on the rafters He might catch the dog's attention. But the master of the Northland Conjured there a golden marten, And he drove the magic squirrel From his seat upon the rafters. Lemminkainen, full of mischief, Made a fox of scarlet color, And it ate the golden marten. Then the master of Pohyola Conjured there a hen to flutter Near the fox of scarlet color. Lemminkainen, full of mischief, Thereupon a hawk created, That with beak and crooked talons He might tear the hen to pieces. 464 Spake the landlord of Pohyola, These the words the tall man uttered: 'Never will this feast be bettered Till the guests are less in number; I must do my work as landlord, Get thee hence, thou evil stranger, Cease thy conjurings of evil, Leave this banquet of my people, Haste away, thou wicked wizard, To thine Island-home and people! Spake the reckless Lemminkainen: 'Thus no hero will be driven, Not a son of any courage Will be frightened by thy presence, Will be driven from thy banquet.' Then the landlord of Pohyola Snatched his broadsword from the rafters, Drew it rashly from the scabbard, Thus addressing Lemminkainen: 'Ahti, Islander of evil, Thou the handsome Kaukomieli, Let us measure then our broadswords, Let our skill be fully tested; Surely is my broadsword better Than the blade within thy scabbard.' Spake the hero, Lemminkainen. 'That my blade is good and trusty, Has been proved on heads of heroes, Has on many bones been tested; Be that as it may, my fellow, Since thine order is commanding, Let our swords be fully tested, Let us see whose blade is better. Long ago my hero-father Tested well this sword in battle, Never failing in a conflict. Should his son be found less worthy?' Then he grasped his mighty broadsword, Drew the fire-blade from the scabbard Hanging from his belt of copper. Standing on their hilts their broadswords, Carefully their blades were measured, 465 Found the sword of Northland's master Longer than the sword of Ahti By the half-link of a finger. Spake the reckless Lemminkainen. 'Since thou hast the longer broadsword, Thou shalt make the first advances, I am ready for thy weapon.' Thereupon Pohyola's landlord With the wondrous strength of anger, Tried in vain to slay the hero, Strike the crown of Lemminkainen; Chipped the splinters from the rafters, Cut the ceiling into fragments, Could not touch the Island-hero. Thereupon brave Kaukomieli, Thus addressed Pohyola's master: 'Have the rafters thee offended? What the crimes they have committed, Since thou hewest them in pieces? Listen now, thou host of Northland, Reckless landlord of Pohyola, Little room there is for swordsmen In these chambers filled with women; We shall stain these painted rafters, Stain with blood these floors and ceilings; Let us go without the mansion, In the field is room for combat, On the plain is space sufficient; Blood looks fairer in the court-yard, Better in the open spaces, Let it dye the snow-fields scarlet.' To the yard the heroes hasten, There they find a monstrous ox-skin, Spread it on the field of battle; On the ox-skin stand the swordsmen. Spake the hero, Lemminkainen: 'Listen well, thou host of Northland, Though thy broadsword is the longer, Though thy blade is full of horror, Thou shalt have the first advantage; Use with skill thy boasted broadsword Ere the final bout is given, 466 Ere thy head be chopped in pieces; Strike with skill, or thou wilt perish, Strike, and do thy best for Northland.' Thereupon Pohyola's landlord Raised on high his blade of battle, Struck a heavy blow in anger, Struck a second, then a third time, But he could not touch his rival, Could Dot draw a single blood-drop From the veins of Lemminkainen, Skillful Islander and hero. Spake the handsome Kaukomieli: 'Let me try my skill at fencing, Let me swing my father's broadsword, Let my honored blade be tested!' But the landlord of Pohyola, Does not heed the words of Ahti, Strikes in fury, strikes unceasing, Ever aiming, ever missing. When the skillful Lemminkainen Swings his mighty blade of magic, Fire disports along his weapon, Flashes from his sword of honor, Glistens from the hero's broadsword, Balls of fire disporting, dancing, On the blade of mighty Ahti, Overflow upon the shoulders Of the landlord of Pohyola. Spake the hero, Lemminkainen: 'O thou son of Sariola, See! indeed thy neck is glowing Like the dawning of the morning, Like the rising Sun in ocean!' Quickly turned Pohyola's landlord, Thoughtless host of darksome Northland, To behold the fiery splendor Playing on his neck and shoulders. Quick as lightning, Lemminkainen, With his father's blade of battle, With a single blow of broadsword, With united skill and power, Lopped the head of Pohya's master; 467 As one cleaves the stalks of turnips, As the ear falls from the corn-stalk, As one strikes the fins from salmon, Thus the head rolled from the shoulders Of the landlord of Pohyola, Like a ball it rolled and circled. In the yard were pickets standing, Hundreds were the sharpened pillars, And a head on every picket, Only one was left un-headed. Quick the victor, Lemminkainen, Took the head of Pohya's landlord, Spiked it on the empty picket. Then the Islander, rejoicing, Handsome hero, Kaukomieli, Quick returning to the chambers, Crave this order to the hostess: 'Evil maiden, bring me water, Wherewithal to cleanse my fingers From the blood of Northland's master, Wicked host of Sariola.' Ilpotar, the Northland hostess, Fired with anger, threatened vengeance, Conjured men with heavy broadswords, Heroes clad in copper-armor, Hundred warriors with their javelins, And a thousand bearing cross-bows, To destroy the Island-hero, For the death of Lemminkainen. Kaukomieli soon discovered That the time had come for leaving, That his presence was unwelcome At the feasting of Pohyola, At the banquet of her people. ~ Elias Lönnrot,

990:The Kalevala - Rune Xxvii THE UNWELCOME GUEST. I have brought young Kaukomieli, Brought the Islander and hero, Also known as Lemminkainen, Through the jaws of death and ruin, Through the darkling deeps of Kalma, To the homesteads of Pohyola, To the dismal courts of Louhi; Now must I relate his doings, Must relate to all my bearers, How the merry Lemminkainen, Handsome hero, Kaukomieli, Wandered through Pohyola's chambers, Through the halls of Sariola, How the hero went unbidden To the feasting and carousal, Uninvited to the banquet. Lemminkainen full of courage, Full of life, and strength, and magic. Stepped across the ancient threshold, To the centre of the court-room, And the floors of linwood trembled, Walls and ceilings creaked and murmured. Spake the reckless Lemminkainen, These the words that Ahti uttered: 'Be ye greeted on my coming, Ye that greet, be likewise greeted! Listen, all ye hosts of Pohya; Is there food about this homestead, Barley for my hungry courser, Beer to give a thirsty stranger? Sat the host of Sariola At the east end of the table, Gave this answer to the questions: 'Surely is there in this homestead, For thy steed an open stable, Never will this host refuse thee, 469 Shouldst thou act a part becoming, Worthy, coming to these portals, Waiting near the birchen rafters, In the spaces by the kettles, By the triple hooks of iron.' Then the reckless Lemminkainen Shook his sable locks and answered: 'Lempo may perchance come hither, Let him fill this lowly station, Let him stand between the kettles, That with soot he may be blackened. Never has my ancient father, Never has the dear old hero, Stood upon a spot unworthy, At the portals near the rafters; For his steed the best of stables, Food and shelter gladly furnished, And a room for his attendants, Corners furnished for his mittens, Hooks provided for his snow-shoes, Halls in waiting for his helmet. Wherefore then should I not find here What my father found before me?' To the centre walked the hero, Walked around the dining table, Sat upon a bench and waited, On a bench of polished fir-wood, And the kettle creaked beneath him. Spake the reckless Lemminkainen: 'As a guest am I unwelcome, Since the waiters bring no viands, Bring no dishes to the stranger?' Ilpotar, the Northland hostess, Then addressed the words that follow: 'Lemminkainen, thou art evil, Thou art here, but not invited, Thou hast not the look of kindness, Thou wilt give me throbbing temples, Thou art bringing pain and sorrow. All our beer is in the barley, All the malt is in the kernel, All our grain is still ungarnered, 470 And our dinner has been eaten; Yesterday thou shouldst have been here, Come again some future season.' Whereupon wild Lemminkainen Pulled his mouth awry in anger, Shook his coal-black locks and answered: 'All the tables here are empty, And the feasting-time is over; All the beer has left the goblets, Empty too are all the pitchers, Empty are the larger vessels. O thou hostess of Pohyola, Toothless dame of dismal Northland, Badly managed is thy wedding, And thy feast is ill-conducted, Like the dogs hast thou invited; Thou hast baked the honey-biscuit, Wheaten loaves of greatest virtue, Brewed thy beer from hops and barley, Sent abroad thine invitations, Six the hamlets thou hast honored, Nine the villages invited By thy merry wedding-callers. Thou hast asked the poor and lowly, Asked the hosts of common people, Asked the blind, and deaf, and crippled, Asked a multitude of beggars, Toilers by the day, and hirelings; Asked the men of evil habits, Asked the maids with braided tresses, I alone was not invited. How could such a slight be given, Since I sent thee kegs of barley? Others sent thee grain in cupfuls, Brought it sparingly in dippers, While I sent thee fullest measure, Sent the half of all my garners, Of the richest of my harvest, Of the grain that I had gathered. Even now young Lemminkainen, Though a guest of name and station Has no beer, no food, no welcome, 471 Naught for him art thou preparing, Nothing cooking in thy kettles, Nothing brewing in thy cellars For the hero of the Islands, At the closing of his journey.' Ilpotar, the ancient hostess, Gave this order to her servants: 'Come, my pretty maiden-waiter, Servant-girl to me belonging, Lay some salmon to the broiling, Bring some beer to give the stranger!' Small of stature was the maiden, Washer of the banquet-platters, Rinser of the dinner-ladles, Polisher of spoons of silver, And she laid some food in kettles, Only bones and beads of whiting, Turnip-stalks and withered cabbage, Crusts of bread and bits of biscuit. Then she brought some beer in pitchers, Brought of common drink the vilest, That the stranger, Lemminkainen, Might have drink, and meat in welcome, Thus to still his thirst and hunger. Then the maiden spake as follows: 'Thou art sure a mighty hero, Here to drink the beer of Pohya, Here to empty all our vessels!' Then the minstrel, Lemminkainen, Closely handled all the pitchers, Looking to the very bottoms; There beheld he writhing serpents, In the centre adders swimming, On the borders worms and lizards. Then the hero, Lemminkainen, Filled with anger, spake as follows: Get ye hence, ye things of evil, Get ye hence to Tuonela, With the bearer of these pitchers, With the maid that brought ye hither, Ere the evening moon has risen, Ere the day-star seeks the ocean! 472 0 thou wretched beer of barley, Thou hast met with great dishonor, Into disrepute hast fallen, But I'll drink thee, notwithstanding, And the rubbish cast far from me.' Then the hero to his pockets Thrust his first and unnamed finger, Searching in his pouch of leather; Quick withdraws a hook for fishing, Drops it to the pitcher's bottom, Through the worthless beer of barley; On his fish-book hang the serpents, Catches many hissing adders, Catches frogs in magic numbers, Catches blackened worms in thousands, Casts them to the floor before him, Quickly draws his heavy broad sword, And decapitates the serpents. Now he drinks the beer remaining, When the wizard speaks as follows: 'As a guest am I unwelcome, Since no beer to me is given That is worthy of a hero; Neither has a ram been butchered, Nor a fattened calf been slaughtered, Worthy food for Lemminkainen.' Then the landlord of Pohyola Answered thus the Island-minstrel: 'Wherefore hast thou journeyed hither, Who has asked thee for thy presence? Spake in answer Lemminkainen: 'Happy is the guest invited, Happier when not expected; Listen, son of Pohylander, Host of Sariola, listen: Give me beer for ready payment, Give me worthy drink for money!' Then the landlord of Pohyola, In bad humor, full of anger, Conjured in the earth a lakelet, At the feet of Kaukomieli, Thus addressed the Island-hero: 473 'Quench thy thirst from yonder lakelet, There, the beer that thou deservest!' Little heeding, Lemminkainen To this insolence made answer: 'I am neither bear nor roebuck, That should drink this filthy water, Drink the water of this lakelet.' Ahti then began to conjure, Conjured he a bull before him, Bull with horns of gold and silver, And the bull drank from the lakelet, Drank he from the pool in pleasure. Then the landlord of Pohyola There a savage wolf created, Set him on the floor before him To destroy the bull of magic, Lemminkainen, full of courage, Conjured up a snow-white rabbit, Set him on the floor before him To attract the wolf's attention. Then the landlord of Pohyola Conjured there a dog of Lempo, Set him on the floor before him To destroy the magic rabbit. Lemminkainen, full of mischief, Conjured on the roof a squirrel, That by jumping on the rafters He might catch the dog's attention. But the master of the Northland Conjured there a golden marten, And he drove the magic squirrel From his seat upon the rafters. Lemminkainen, full of mischief, Made a fox of scarlet color, And it ate the golden marten. Then the master of Pohyola Conjured there a hen to flutter Near the fox of scarlet color. Lemminkainen, full of mischief, Thereupon a hawk created, That with beak and crooked talons He might tear the hen to pieces. 474 Spake the landlord of Pohyola, These the words the tall man uttered: 'Never will this feast be bettered Till the guests are less in number; I must do my work as landlord, Get thee hence, thou evil stranger, Cease thy conjurings of evil, Leave this banquet of my people, Haste away, thou wicked wizard, To thine Island-home and people! Spake the reckless Lemminkainen: 'Thus no hero will be driven, Not a son of any courage Will be frightened by thy presence, Will be driven from thy banquet.' Then the landlord of Pohyola Snatched his broadsword from the rafters, Drew it rashly from the scabbard, Thus addressing Lemminkainen: 'Ahti, Islander of evil, Thou the handsome Kaukomieli, Let us measure then our broadswords, Let our skill be fully tested; Surely is my broadsword better Than the blade within thy scabbard.' Spake the hero, Lemminkainen. 'That my blade is good and trusty, Has been proved on heads of heroes, Has on many bones been tested; Be that as it may, my fellow, Since thine order is commanding, Let our swords be fully tested, Let us see whose blade is better. Long ago my hero-father Tested well this sword in battle, Never failing in a conflict. Should his son be found less worthy?' Then he grasped his mighty broadsword, Drew the fire-blade from the scabbard Hanging from his belt of copper. Standing on their hilts their broadswords, Carefully their blades were measured, 475 Found the sword of Northland's master Longer than the sword of Ahti By the half-link of a finger. Spake the reckless Lemminkainen. 'Since thou hast the longer broadsword, Thou shalt make the first advances, I am ready for thy weapon.' Thereupon Pohyola's landlord With the wondrous strength of anger, Tried in vain to slay the hero, Strike the crown of Lemminkainen; Chipped the splinters from the rafters, Cut the ceiling into fragments, Could not touch the Island-hero. Thereupon brave Kaukomieli, Thus addressed Pohyola's master: 'Have the rafters thee offended? What the crimes they have committed, Since thou hewest them in pieces? Listen now, thou host of Northland, Reckless landlord of Pohyola, Little room there is for swordsmen In these chambers filled with women; We shall stain these painted rafters, Stain with blood these floors and ceilings; Let us go without the mansion, In the field is room for combat, On the plain is space sufficient; Blood looks fairer in the court-yard, Better in the open spaces, Let it dye the snow-fields scarlet.' To the yard the heroes hasten, There they find a monstrous ox-skin, Spread it on the field of battle; On the ox-skin stand the swordsmen. Spake the hero, Lemminkainen: 'Listen well, thou host of Northland, Though thy broadsword is the longer, Though thy blade is full of horror, Thou shalt have the first advantage; Use with skill thy boasted broadsword Ere the final bout is given, 476 Ere thy head be chopped in pieces; Strike with skill, or thou wilt perish, Strike, and do thy best for Northland.' Thereupon Pohyola's landlord Raised on high his blade of battle, Struck a heavy blow in anger, Struck a second, then a third time, But he could not touch his rival, Could Dot draw a single blood-drop From the veins of Lemminkainen, Skillful Islander and hero. Spake the handsome Kaukomieli: 'Let me try my skill at fencing, Let me swing my father's broadsword, Let my honored blade be tested!' But the landlord of Pohyola, Does not heed the words of Ahti, Strikes in fury, strikes unceasing, Ever aiming, ever missing. When the skillful Lemminkainen Swings his mighty blade of magic, Fire disports along his weapon, Flashes from his sword of honor, Glistens from the hero's broadsword, Balls of fire disporting, dancing, On the blade of mighty Ahti, Overflow upon the shoulders Of the landlord of Pohyola. Spake the hero, Lemminkainen: 'O thou son of Sariola, See! indeed thy neck is glowing Like the dawning of the morning, Like the rising Sun in ocean!' Quickly turned Pohyola's landlord, Thoughtless host of darksome Northland, To behold the fiery splendor Playing on his neck and shoulders. Quick as lightning, Lemminkainen, With his father's blade of battle, With a single blow of broadsword, With united skill and power, Lopped the head of Pohya's master; 477 As one cleaves the stalks of turnips, As the ear falls from the corn-stalk, As one strikes the fins from salmon, Thus the head rolled from the shoulders Of the landlord of Pohyola, Like a ball it rolled and circled. In the yard were pickets standing, Hundreds were the sharpened pillars, And a head on every picket, Only one was left un-headed. Quick the victor, Lemminkainen, Took the head of Pohya's landlord, Spiked it on the empty picket. Then the Islander, rejoicing, Handsome hero, Kaukomieli, Quick returning to the chambers, Crave this order to the hostess: 'Evil maiden, bring me water, Wherewithal to cleanse my fingers From the blood of Northland's master, Wicked host of Sariola.' Ilpotar, the Northland hostess, Fired with anger, threatened vengeance, Conjured men with heavy broadswords, Heroes clad in copper-armor, Hundred warriors with their javelins, And a thousand bearing cross-bows, To destroy the Island-hero, For the death of Lemminkainen. Kaukomieli soon discovered That the time had come for leaving, That his presence was unwelcome At the feasting of Pohyola, At the banquet of her people. ~ Elias Lönnrot,

991:The Kalevala - Rune Xxi ILMARINEN'S WEDDING-FEAST. Louhi, hostess of the Northland, Ancient dame of Sariola, While at work within her dwelling, Heard the whips crack on the fenlands, Heard the rattle of the sledges; To the northward turned her glances, Turned her vision to the sunlight, And her thoughts ran on as follow: 'Who are these in bright apparel, On the banks of Pohya-waters, Are they friends or hostile armies?' Then the hostess of the Northland Looked again and well considered, Drew much nearer to examine, Found they were not hostile armies, Found that they were friends and suitors. In the midst was Ilmarinen, Son-in-law to ancient Louhi. When the hostess of Pohyola Saw the son-in-law approaching She addressed the words that follow: 'I had thought the winds were raging, That the piles of wood were falling, Thought the pebbles in commotion, Or perchance the ocean roaring; Then I hastened nearer, nearer, Drew still nearer and examined, Found the winds were not in battle, Found the piles of wood unshaken, Found the ocean was not roaring, Nor the pebbles in commotion, Found my son-in-law was coming With his heroes and attendants, Heroes counted by the hundreds. 'Should you ask of me the question, How I recognized the bridegroom 351 Mid the hosts of men and heroes, I should answer, I should tell you: 'As the hazel-bush in copses, As the oak-tree in the forest, As the Moon among the planets; Drives the groom a coal-black courser, Running like the famished black-dog, Flying like the hungry raven, Graceful as the lark at morning, Golden cuckoos, six in number, Twitter on the birchen cross-bow; There are seven bluebirds singing On the racer's hame and collar.' Noises hear they in the court-yard, On the highway hear the sledges, To the court comes Ilmarinen, With his body-guard of heroes; In the midst the chosen suitor, Not too far in front of others, Not too far behind his fellows. Spake the hostess of Pohyola: 'Hie ye hither, men and heroes, Haste, ye watchers, to the stables, There unhitch the suitor's stallion, Lower well the racer's breast-plate, There undo the straps and buckles, Loosen well the shafts and traces, And conduct the suitor hither, Give my son-in-law good welcome!' Ilmarinen turned his racer Into Louhi's yard and stables, And descended from his snow-sledge. Spake the hostess of Pohyola: 'Come, thou servant of my bidding, Best of all my trusted servants, Take at once the bridegroom's courser From the shafts adorned with silver, From the curving arch of willow, Lift the harness trimmed in copper, Tie the white-face to the manger, Treat the suitor's steed with kindness, Lead him carefully to shelter 352 By his soft and shining bridle, By his halter tipped with silver; Let him roll among the sand-hills, On the bottoms soft and even, On the borders of the snow-banks, In the fields of milky color. 'Lead the hero's steed to water, Lead him to the Pohya-fountains, Where the living streams are flowing, Sweet as milk of human kindness, From the roots of silvery birches, Underneath the shade of aspens. 'Feed the courser of the suitor, On the sweetest corn and barley, On the summer-wheat and clover, In the caldron steeped in sweetness; Feed him at the golden manger, In the boxes lined with copper, At my manger richly furnished, In the warmest of the stables; Tie him with a silk-like halter, To the golden rings and staples, To the hooks of purest silver, Set in beams of birch and oak-wood; Feed him on the hay the sweetest, Feed him on the corn nutritious, Give the best my barns can furnish. 'Curry well the suitor's courser With the curry-comb of fish-bone, Brush his hair with silken brushes, Put his mane and tail in order, Cover well with flannel blankets, Blankets wrought in gold and silver, Buckles forged from shining copper. 'Come, ye small lads of the village, Lead the suitor to my chambers, With your auburn locks uncovered, From your hands remove your mittens, See if ye can lead the hero Through the door without his stooping, Lifting not the upper cross-bar, Lowering not the oaken threshold, 353 Moving not the birchen casings, Great the hero who must enter. 'Ilmarinen is too stately, Cannot enter through the portals, Not the son-in-law and bridegroom, Till the portals have been heightened; Taller by a head the suitor Than the door-ways of the mansion.' Quick the servants of Pohyola Tore away the upper cross-bar, That his cap might not be lifted; Made the oaken threshold lower That the hero might not stumble; Made the birch-wood portals wider, Opened full the door of welcome, Easy entrance for the suitor. Speaks the hostess of the Northland As the bridegroom freely passes Through the doorway of her dwelling: 'Thanks are due to thee, O Ukko, That my son-in-law has entered! Let me now my halls examine; Make the bridal chambers ready, Finest linen on my tables, Softest furs upon my benches, Birchen flooring scrubbed to whiteness, All my rooms in perfect order.' Then the hostess of Pohyola Visited her spacious dwelling, Did not recognize her chambers; Every room had been remodeled, Changed by force of mighty magic; All the halls were newly burnished, Hedge-hog bones were used for ceilings, Bones of reindeer for foundations, Bones of wolverine for door-sills, For the cross-bars bones of roebuck, Apple-wood were all the rafters, Alder-wood, the window-casings, Scales of trout adorned the windows, And the fires were set in flowers. All the seats were made of silver, 354 All the floors of copper-tiling, Gold-adorned were all the tables, On the floor were silken mattings, Every fire-place set in copper, Every hearth-stone cut from marble, On each shelf were colored sea-shells, Kalew's tree was their protection. To the court-room came the hero, Chosen suitor from Wainola, These the words of Ilmarinen: 'Send, O Ukko, health and pleasure To this ancient home and dwelling, To this mansion richly fashioned!' Spake the hostess of Pohyola: 'Let thy coming be auspicious To these halls of thee unworthy, To the home of thine affianced, To this dwelling lowly fashioned, Mid the lindens and the aspens. 'Come, ye maidens that should serve me, Come, ye fellows from the village, Bring me fire upon the birch-bark, Light the fagots of the fir-tree, That I may behold the bridegroom, Chosen suitor of my daughter, Fairy Maiden of the Rainbow, See the color of his eyeballs, Whether they are blue or sable, See if they are warm and faithful.' Quick the young lads from the village Brought the fire upon the birch-bark, Brought it on the tips of pine-wood; And the fire and smoke commingled Roll and roar about the hero, Blackening the suitor's visage, And the hostess speaks as follows; 'Bring the fire upon a taper, On the waxen tapers bring it!' Then the maidens did as bidden, Quickly brought the lighted tapers, Made the suitor's eyeballs glisten, Made his cheeks look fresh and ruddy; 355 Made his eyes of sable color Sparkle like the foam of waters, Like the reed-grass on the margin, Colored as the ocean jewels, Iridescent as the rainbow. 'Come, ye fellows of the hamlet, Lead my son-in-law and hero To the highest seat at table, To the seat of greatest honor, With his back upon the blue-wall, Looking on my bounteous tables, Facing all the guests of Northland.' Then the hostess of Pohyola Served her guests in great abundance, Richest drinks and rarest viands, First of all she, served the bridegroom On his platters, honeyed biscuit, And the sweetest river salmon, Seasoned butter, roasted bacon, All the dainties of Pohyola. Then the helpers served the others, Filled the plates of all invited With the varied food of Northland. Spake the hostess of Pohyola: 'Come, ye maidens from the village, Hither bring the beer in pitchers, In the urns with double handles, To the many guests in-gathered, Ere all others, serve the bridegroom.' Thereupon the merry maidens Brought the beer in silver pitchers From the copper-banded vessels, For the wedding-guests assembled; And the beer, fermenting, sparkled On the beard of Ilmarinen, On the beards of many heroes. When the guests had all partaken Of the wondrous beer of barley, Spake the beer in merry accents Through the tongues of the magicians, Through the tongue of many a hero, Through the tongue of Wainamoinen, 356 Famed to be the sweetest singer Of the Northland bards and minstrels, These the words of the enchanter: 'O thou beer of honeyed flavor, Let us not imbibe in silence, Let some hero sing thy praises, Sing thy worth in golden measures; Let the hostess start the singing, Let the bridegroom sound thy virtues! Have our songs thus quickly vanished, Have our joyful tongues grown silent? Evil then has been the brewing, Then the beer must be unworthy, That it does not cheer the singer, Does not move the merry minstrel, That the golden guests are joyless, And the cuckoo is not singing. Never will these benches echo Till the bench-guests chant thy virtues; Nor the floor resound thy praises Till the floor-guests sing in concord; Nor the windows join the chorus Till the window-guests have spoken; All the tables will keep silence Till the heroes toast thy virtues; Little singing from the chimney Till the chimney-guests have chanted.' On the floor a child was sitting, Thus the little boy made answer: 'I am small and young in singing, Have perchance but little wisdom; Be that as it may, my seniors, Since the elder minstrels sing not, Nor the heroes chant their legends, Nor the hostess lead the singing, I will sing my simple stories, Sing my little store of knowledge, To the pleasure of the evening, To the joy of the invited.' Near the fire reclined an old man, And the gray-beard thus made answer: 'Not the time for children's singing, 357 Children's wisdom is too ready, Children's songs are filled with trifles, Filled with shrewd and vain deceptions, Maiden-songs are full of follies; Leave the songs and incantations To the ancient wizard-singers; Leave the tales of times primeval To the minstrel of Wainola, To the hero of the Northland, To the, ancient Wainamoinen.' Thereupon Osmoinen answered: 'Are there not some sweeter singers In this honored congregation, That will clasp their hands together, Sing the ancient songs unbroken, Thus begin the incantations, Make these ancient halls re-echo For the pleasure of the evening, For the joy of the in-gathered?' From the hearth-stone spake, the gray-beard 'Not a singer of Pohyola, Not a minstrel, nor magician, That was better skilled in chanting Legends of the days departed, Than was I when I was singing, In my years of vain ambition; Then I chanted tales of heroes, On the blue back of the waters, Sang the ballads of my people, In the vales and on the mountains, Through the verdant fields and forests; Sweet my voice and skilled my singing, All my songs were highly lauded, Rippled like the quiet rivers, Easy-flowing like the waters, Easy-gliding as the snow-shoes, Like the ship upon the ocean. 'Woe is me, my days are ended, Would not recognize my singing, All its sweetness gone to others, Flows no more like rippling waters, Makes no more the hills re-echo! 358 Now my songs are full of discord, Like the rake upon the stubble, Like the sledge upon the gravel, Like the boat upon the sea-shore!' Then the ancient Wainamoinen Spake these words in magic measures: 'Since no other bard appeareth That will clasp my hand in singing, I will sing some simple legends, Sing my, garnered store of wisdom, Make these magic halls re-echo With my tales of ancient story, Since a bard I was created, Born an orator and singer; Do not ask the ways of others, Follow not the paths of strangers.' Wainamoinen, famous minstrel, Song's eternal, wise supporter, Then began the songs of pleasure, Made the halls resound with joyance, Filled the rooms with wondrous singing; Sang the ancient bard-magician All the oldest wisdom-sayings, Did not fail in voice nor legends, All the wisest thoughts remembered. Thus the ancient Wainamoinen Sang the joy of all assembled, To the pleasure of the evening, To the merriment of maidens, To the happiness of heroes; All the guests were stilled in wonder At the magic of his singing, At the songs of the magician. Spake again wise Wainamoinen, When his wonder-tales had ended: 'l have little worth or power, Am a bard of little value, Little consequence my singing, Mine abilities as nothing, If but Ukko, my Creator, Should intone his wisdom-sayings, Sing the source of good and evil, 359 Sing the origin of matter, Sing the legends of omniscience, Sing his songs in full perfection. God could sing the floods to honey, Sing the sands to ruddy berries, Sing the pebbles into barley, Sing to beer the running waters, Sing to salt the rocks of ocean, Into corn-fields sing the forests, Into gold the forest-fruitage, Sing to bread the hills and mountains, Sing to eggs the rounded sandstones; He could touch the springs of magic, He could turn the keys of nature, And produce within thy pastures, Hurdles filled with sheep and reindeer, Stables filled with fleet-foot stallions, Kine in every field and fallow; Sing a fur-robe for the bridegroom, For the bride a coat of ermine, For the hostess, shoes of silver, For the hero, mail of copper. 'Grant O Ukko, my Creator, God of love, and truth, and justice, Grant thy blessing on our feasting, Bless this company assembled, For the good of Sariola, For the happiness of Northland! May this bread and beer bring joyance, May they come in rich abundance, May they carry full contentment To the people of Pohyola, To the cabin and the mansion; May the hours we spend in singing, In the morning, in the evening, Fill our hearts with joy and gladness! Hear us in our supplications, Grant to us thy needed blessings, Send enjoyment, health, and comfort, To the people here assembled, To the host and to the hostess, To the bride and to the bridegroom, 360 To the sons upon the waters, To the daughters at their weavings, To the hunters on the mountains, To the shepherds in the fenlands, That our lives may end in honor, That we may recall with pleasure Ilmarinen's magic marriage To the Maiden of the Rainbow, Snow-white virgin of the Northland.' ~ Elias Lönnrot,

992:The Kalevala - Rune Xlix RESTORATION OF THE SUN AND MOON. Thus has Fire returned to Northland But the gold Moon is not shining, Neither gleams the silver sunlight In the chambers of Wainola, On the plains of Kalevala. On the crops the white-frost settled, And the cattle died of hunger, Even birds grew sick and perished. Men and maidens, faint and famished, Perished in the cold and darkness, From the absence of the sunshine, From the absence of the moonlight. Knew the pike his holes and hollows, And the eagle knew his highway, Knew the winds the times for sailing; But the wise men of the Northland Could not know the dawn of morning, On the fog-point in the ocean, On the islands forest-covered. Young and aged talked and wondered, Well reflected, long debated, How to live without the moonlight, Live without the silver sunshine, In the cold and cheerless Northland, In the homes of Kalevala. Long conjectured all the maidens, Orphans asked the wise for counsel. Spake a maid to Ilmarinen, Running to the blacksmith's furnace: 'Rise, O artist, from thy slumbers, Hasten from thy couch unworthy; Forge from gold the Moon for Northland, Forge anew the Sun from silver Cannot live without the moonlight, Nor without the silver sunshine!' From his couch arose the artist, 223 From his couch of stone, the blacksmith, And began his work of forging, Forging Sun and Moon for Northland. Came the ancient Wainamoinen, In the doorway sat and lingered, Spake, these Words to Ilmarinen: 'Blacksmith, my beloved brother, Thou the only metal-worker, Tell me why thy magic hammer Falls so heavy on thine anvil?' Spake the youthful Ilmarinen: 'Moon of gold and Sun of silver, I am forging for Wainola; I shall swing them into ether, Plant them in the starry heavens.' Spake the wise, old Wainamoinen: 'Senseless blacksmith of the ages, Vainly dost thou swing thy hammer, Vainly rings thy mighty anvil; Silver will not gleam as sunshine, Not of gold is born the moonlight!' Ilmarinen, little heeding, Ceases not to ply his hammer, Sun and Moon the artist forges, Wings the Moon of Magic upward, Hurls it to the pine-tree branches; Does not shine without her master. Then the silver Sun he stations In an elm-tree on the mountain. From his forehead drip the sweat-drops, Perspiration from his fingers, Through his labors at the anvil While the Sun and Moon were forging; But the Sun shone not at morning From his station in the elm-tree; And the Moon shone not at evening From the pine-tree's topmost branches. Spake the ancient Wainamoinen: 'Let the Fates be now consulted, And the oracles examined; Only thus may we discover Where the Sun and Moon lie hidden.' 224 Thereupon old Wainamoinen, Only wise and true magician, Cut three chips from trunks of alder, Laid the chips in magic order, Touched and turned them with his fingers, Spake these words of master-magic: 'Of my Maker seek I knowledge, Ask in hope and faith the answer From the great magician, Ukko: Tongue of alder, tell me truly, Symbol of the great Creator, Where the Sun and Moon are sleeping; For the Moon shines not in season, Nor appears the Sun at midday, From their stations in the sky-vault. Speak the truth, O magic alder, Speak not words of man, nor hero, Hither bring but truthful measures. Let us form a sacred compact: If thou speakest me a falsehood, I will hurl thee to Manala, Let the nether fires consume thee, That thine evil signs may perish.' Thereupon the alder answered, Spake these words of truthful import: 'Verily the Sun lies hidden And the golden Moon is sleeping In the stone-berg of Pohyola, In the copper-bearing mountain.' These the words of Wainamoinen: 'I shall go at once to Northland, To the cold and dark Pohyola, Bring the Sun and Moon to gladden All Wainola's fields and forests.' Forth he hastens on his journey, To the dismal Sariola, To the Northland cold and dreary; Travels one day, then a second, So the third from morn till evening, When appear the gates of Pohya, With her snow-clad hills and mountains. Wainamoinen, the magician, 225 At the river of Pohyola, Loudly calls the ferry-maiden: Bring a boat, O Pohya-daughter, Bring a strong and trusty vessel, Row me o'er these chilling waters, O'er this rough and rapid river! ' But the Ferry-maiden heard not, Did not listen to his calling. Thereupon old Wainamoinen, Laid a pile of well-dried brush-wood, Knots and needles of the fir-tree, Made a fire beside the river, Sent the black smoke into heaven Curling to the home of Ukko. Louhi, hostess of the Northland, Hastened to her chamber window, Looked upon the bay and river, Spake these words to her attendants: 'Why the fire across the river Where the current meets the deep-sea, Smaller than the fires of foemen, Larger than the flames of hunters?' Thereupon a Pohyalander Hastened from the court of Louhi That the cause he might discover,' Bring the sought-for information To the hostess of Pohyola; Saw upon the river-border Some great hero from Wainola. Wainamoinen saw the stranger, Called again in tones of thunder: 'Bring a skiff; thou son of Northland, For the minstrel, Wainamoinen! Thus the Pohyalander answered: 'Here no skiffs are lying idle, Row thyself across the waters, Use thine arms, and feet, and fingers, To propel thee o'er the river, O'er the sacred stream of Pohya.' Wainamoinen, long reflecting, Bravely thus soliloquizes: 'I will change my form and features, 226 Will assume a second body, Neither man, nor ancient minstrel, Master of the Northland waters!' Then the singer, Wainamoinen, Leaped, a pike, upon the waters, Quickly swam the rapid river, Gained the frigid Pohya-border. There his native form resuming, Walked he as a mighty hero, On the dismal isle of Louhi, Spake the wicked sons of Northland: Come thou to Pohyola's court-room.' To Pohyola's, court he hastened. Spake again the sons of evil: Come thou to the halls of Louhi!' To Pohyola's halls he hastened. On the latch he laid his fingers, Set his foot within the fore-hall, Hastened to the inner chamber, Underneath the painted rafters, Where the Northland-heroes gather. There he found the Pohya-masters Girded with their swords of battle, With their spears and battle-axes, With their fatal bows and arrows, For the death of Wainamoinen, Ancient bard, Suwantolainen. Thus they asked the hero-stranger. 'Magic swimmer of the Northland, Son of evil, what the message That thou bringest from thy people, What thy mission to Pohyola?' Wainamoinen, old and truthful, Thus addressed the hosts of Louhi: 'For the Sun I come to Northland, Come to seek the Moon in Pohya; Tell me where the Sun lies hidden, Where the golden Moon is sleeping.' Spake the evil sons of Pohya: 'Both the Sun and Moon are hidden In the rock of many colors, In the copper-bearing mountain, 227 In a cavern iron-banded, In the stone-berg of Pohyola, Nevermore to gain their freedom, Nevermore to shine in Northland!' Spake the hero, Wainamoinen: 'If the Sun be not uncovered, If the Moon leave not her dungeon, I will challenge all Pohyola To the test of spear or broadsword, Let us now our weapons measure!' Quick the hero of Wainola Drew his mighty sword of magic; On its border shone the moonlight, On its hilt the Sun was shining, On its back, a neighing stallion, On its face a cat was mewing, Beautiful his magic weapon. Quick the hero-swords are tested, And the blades are rightly measured Wainamoinen's sword is longest By a single grain of barley, By a blade of straw, the widest. To the court-yard rushed the heroes, Hastened to the deadly combat, On the plains of Sariola. Wainamoinen, the magician, Strikes one blow, and then a second, Strikes a third time, cuts and conquers. As the house-maids slice the turnips, As they lop the heads of cabbage, As the stalks of flax are broken, So the heads of Louhi's heroes Fall before the magic broadsword Of the ancient Wainamoinen. Then victor from Wainola, Ancient bard and great magician, Went to find the Sun in slumber, And the golden Moon discover, In, the copper-bearing Mountains, In the cavern iron-banded, In the stone-berg of Pohyola. He had gone but little distance, 228 When he found a sea-green island; On the island stood a birch-tree, Near the birch-tree stood a pillar Carved in stone of many colors; In the pillar, nine large portals Bolted in a hundred places; In the rock he found a crevice Sending forth a gleam of sunlight. Quick he drew his mighty broadsword, From the pillar struck three colors, From the magic of his weapon; And the pillar fell asunder, Three the number of the fragments. Wainamoinen, old and faithful, Through the crevice looked and wondered. In the center of the pillar, From a scarlet-colored basin, Noxious serpents beer were drinking, And the adders eating spices. Spake the ancient Wainamoinen: 'Therefore has Pohyola's hostess Little drink to give to strangers, Since her beer is drank by serpents, And her spices given to adders.' Quick he draws his magic fire-blade, Cuts the vipers green in pieces, Lops the heads off all the adders, Speaks these words of master-magic: Thus, hereafter, let the serpent Drink the famous beer of barley, Feed upon the Northland-spices!' Wainamoinen, the magician, The eternal wizard-singer, Sought to open wide the portals With the hands and words of magic; But his hands had lost their cunning, And his magic gone to others. Thereupon the ancient minstrel Quick returning, heavy-hearted, To his native halls and hamlets, Thus addressed his brother-heroes: 'Woman, he without his weapons, 229 With no implements, a weakling! Sun and Moon have I discovered, But I could not force the Portals Leading to their rocky cavern In the copper bearing mountain. Spake the reckless Lemminkainen 'O thou ancient Wainamoinen, Why was I not taken with thee To become, thy war-companion? Would have been of goodly service, Would have drawn the bolts or broken, All the portals to the cavern, Where the Sun and Moon lie hidden In the copper-bearing mountain!' Wainamoinen, ancient minstrel, Thus replied to Lemminkainen: 'Empty Words will break no portals, Draw no bolts of any moment; Locks and bolts are never broken. With the words of little wisdom! Greater means than thou commandest Must be used to free the sunshine, Free the moonlight from her dungeon.' Wainamoinen, not discouraged, Hastened to the, forge and smithy, Spake these words to Ilmarinen: 'O thou famous metal-artist, Forge for me a magic trident, Forge from steel a dozen stout-rings, Master-keys, a goodly number, Iron bars and heavy hammers, That the Sun we may uncover In the copper-bearing mountain, In the stone-berg of Pohyola.' Then the blacksmith, Ilmarinen, The eternal metal-worker, Forged the needs of Wainamoinen, Forged for him the magic trident, Forged from steel a dozen stout-rings, Master-keys a goodly number, Iron bars and heavy hammers, Not the largest, nor the smallest, 230 Forged them of the right dimensions. Louhi, hostess of Pohyola, Northland's old and toothless wizard, Fastened wings upon her shoulders, As an eagle, sailed the heavens, Over field, and fen, and forest, Over Pohya's many, waters, To the hamlets of Wainola, To the forge of Ilmarinen. Quick the famous metal-worker Went to see if winds were blowing; Found the winds at peace and silent, Found an eagle, sable-colored, Perched upon his window-casement. Spake the artist, Ilmarinen: 'Magic bird, whom art thou seeking, Why art sitting at my window?' This the answer of the eagle: 'Art thou blacksmith, Ilmarinen, The eternal iron-forger, Master of the magic metals, Northland's wonder-working artist?' Ilmarinen gave this answer: 'There is nothing here of wonder, Since I forged the dome of heaven, Forged the earth a concave cover!' Spake again the magic eagle: Why this ringing of thine anvil, Why this knocking of thy hammer, Tell me what thy hands are forging?' This the answer of the blacksmith: ''Tis a collar I am forging For the neck of wicked Louhi, Toothless witch of Sariola, Stealer of the silver sunshine, Stealer of the golden moonlight; With this collar I shall bind her To the iron-rock of Ehstland!' Louhi, hostess of Pohyola, Saw misfortune fast approaching, Saw destruction flying over, Saw the signs of bad-luck lower; 231 Quickly winged her way through ether To her native halls and chambers, To the darksome Sariola, There unlocked the massive portals Where the Sun and Moon were hidden, In the rock of many colors, In the cavern iron-banded, In the copper-bearing mountain. Then again the wicked Louhi Changed her withered form and features, And became a dove of good-luck; Straightway winged the starry heavens, Over field, and fen, and forest, To the meadows of Wainola, To the plains of Kalevala, To the forge of Ilmarinen. This the question of the blacksmith 'Wherefore comest, dove of good-luck, What the tidings that thou bringest?' Thus the magic bird made answer: 'Wherefore come I to thy smithy? Come to bring the joyful tidings That the Sun has left his cavern, Left the rock of many colors, Left the stone-berg of Pohyola; That the Moon no more is hidden In the copper-bearing mountains, In the caverns iron-banded.' Straightway hastened Ilmarinen To the threshold of his smithy, Quickly scanned the far horizon, Saw again the silver sunshine, Saw once more the golden moonlight, Bringing peace, and joy, and plenty, To the homes of Kalevala. Thereupon the blacksmith hastened To his brother, Wainamoinen, Spake these words to the magician: 'O thou ancient bard and minstrel, The eternal wizard-singer See, the Sun again is shining, And the golden Moon is beaming 232 From their long-neglected places, From their stations in the sky-vault!' Wainamoinen, old and faithful, Straightway hastened to the court-yard, Looked upon the far horizon, Saw once more the silver sunshine, Saw again the golden moonlight, Bringing peace, and joy, and plenty, To the people of the Northland, And the minstrel spake these measures: 'Greetings to thee, Sun of fortune, Greetings to thee, Moon of good-luck, Welcome sunshine, welcome moonlight, Golden is the dawn of morning! Free art thou, O Sun of silver, Free again, O Moon beloved, As the sacred cuckoo's singing, As the ring-dove's liquid cooings. 'Rise, thou silver Sun, each Morning, Source of light and life hereafter, Bring us, daily, joyful greetings, Fill our homes with peace and plenty, That our sowing, fishing, hunting, May be prospered by thy coming. Travel on thy daily journey, Let the Moon be ever with thee; Glide along thy way rejoicing, End thy journeyings in slumber; Rest at evening in the ocean, When the daily cares have ended, To the good of all thy people, To the pleasure Of Wainoloa, To the joy of Kalevala!' ~ Elias Lönnrot,

993:The Kalevala - Rune Xvi WAINAMOINEN'S BOAT-BUILDING. Wainamoinen, ancient minstrel, The eternal wisdom-singer, For his boat was working lumber, Working long upon his vessel, On a fog-point jutting seaward, On an island, forest-covered; But the lumber failed the master, Beams were wanting for his vessel, Beams and scantling, ribs and flooring. Who will find for him the lumber, Who procure the timber needed For the boat of Wainamoinen, For the bottom of his vessel? Pellerwoinen of the prairies, Sampsa, slender-grown and ancient, He will seek the needful timber, He procure the beams of oak-wood For the boat of Wainamoinen, For the bottom of his vessel. Soon he starts upon his journey To the eastern fields and forests, Hunts throughout the Northland mountain To a second mountain wanders, To a third he hastens, searching, Golden axe upon his shoulder, In his hand a copper hatchet. Comes an aspen-tree to meet him Of the height of seven fathoms. Sampsa takes his axe of copper, Starts to fell the stately aspen, But the aspen quickly halting, Speaks these words to Pellerwoinen: 'Tell me, hero, what thou wishest, What the service thou art needing?' Sampsa Pellerwoinen answers: 'This indeed, the needed service 291 That I ask of thee, O aspen: Need thy lumber for a vessel, For the boat of Wainamoinen, Wisest of the wisdom-singers.' Quick and wisely speaks the aspen, Thus its hundred branches answer: 'All the boats that have been fashioned From my wood have proved but failures; Such a vessel floats a distance, Then it sinks upon the bottom Of the waters it should travel. All my trunk is filled with hollows, Three times in the summer seasons Worms devour my stem and branches, Feed upon my heart and tissues.' Pellerwoinen leaves the aspen, Hunts again through all the forest, Wanders through the woods of Northland, Where a pine-tree comes to meet him, Of the height of fourteen fathoms. With his axe he chops the pine-tree, Strikes it with his axe of copper, As he asks the pine this question: 'Will thy trunk give worthy timber For the boat of Wainamoinen, Wisest of the wisdom-singers?' Loudly does the pine-tree answer: 'All the ships that have been fashioned From my body are unworthy; I am full of imperfections, Cannot give thee needed timber Wherewithal to build thy vessel; Ravens live within ray branches, Build their nests and hatch their younglings Three times in my trunk in summer.' Sampsa leaves the lofty pine-tree, Wanders onward, onward, onward, To the woods of gladsome summer, Where an oak-tree comes to meet him, In circumference, three fathoms, And the oak he thus addresses: 'Ancient oak-tree, will thy body 292 Furnish wood to build a vessel, Build a boat for Wainamoinen, Master-boat for the magician, Wisest of the wisdom-singers?' Thus the oak replies to Sampsa: 'I for thee will gladly furnish Wood to build the hero's vessel; I am tall, and sound, and hardy, Have no flaws within my body; Three times in the months of summer, In the warmest of the seasons, Does the sun dwell in my tree-top, On my trunk the moonlight glimmers, In my branches sings the cuckoo, In my top her nestlings slumber.' Now the ancient Pellerwoinen Takes the hatchet from his shoulder, Takes his axe with copper handle, Chops the body of the oak-tree; Well he knows the art of chopping. Soon he fells the tree majestic, Fells the mighty forest-monarch, With his magic axe and power. From the stems he lops the branches, Splits the trunk in many pieces, Fashions lumber for the bottom, Countless boards, and ribs, and braces, For the singer's magic vessel, For the boat of the magician. Wainamoinen, old and skilful, The eternal wonder-worker, Builds his vessel with enchantment, Builds his boat by art of magic, From the timber of the oak-tree, From its posts, and planks, and flooring. Sings a song, and joins the frame-work; Sings a second, sets the siding; Sings a third time, sets the row-locks; Fashions oars, and ribs, and rudder, Joins the sides and ribs together. When the ribs were firmly fastened, When the sides were tightly jointed, 293 Then alas! three words were wanting, Lost the words of master-magic, How to fasten in the ledges, How the stern should be completed, How complete the boat's forecastle. Then the ancient Wainamoinen, Wise and wonderful enchanter, Heavy-hearted spake as follows: 'Woe is me, my life hard-fated! Never will this magic vessel Pass in safety o'er the water, Never ride the rough sea-billows.' Then he thought and long considered, Where to find these words of magic, Find the lost-words of the Master: 'From the brains of countless swallows, From the heads of swans in dying, From the plumage of the gray-duck?' For these words the hero searches, Kills of swans a goodly number, Kills a flock of fattened gray-duck, Kills of swallows countless numbers, Cannot find the words of magic, Not the lost-words of the Master. Wainamoinen, wisdom-singer, Still reflected and debated: 'I perchance may find the lost-words On the tongue of summer-reindeer, In the mouth of the white squirrel.' Now again he hunts the lost-words, Hastes to find the magic sayings, Kills a countless host of reindeer, Kills a rafterful of squirrels, Finds of words a goodly number, But they are of little value, Cannot find the magic lost-word. Long he thought and well considered: 'I can find of words a hundred In the dwellings of Tuoni, In the Manala fields and castles.' Wainamoinen quickly journeys To the kingdom of Tuoni, 294 There to find the ancient wisdom, There to learn the secret doctrine; Hastens on through fen and forest, Over meads and over marshes, Through the ever-rising woodlands, Journeys one week through the brambles, And a second through the hazels, Through the junipers the third week, When appear Tuoni's islands, And the Manala fields and castles. Wainamoinen, brave and ancient, Calls aloud in tones of thunder, To the Tuonela deeps and dungeons, And to Manala's magic castle: 'Bring a boat, Tuoni's daughter, Bring a ferry-boat, O maiden, That may bear me o'er this channel, O'er this black and fatal river.' Quick the daughter of Tuoni, Magic maid of little stature, Tiny virgin of Manala, Tiny washer of the linen, Tiny cleaner of the dresses, At the river of Tuoni, In Manala's ancient castles, Speaks these words to Wainamoinen, Gives this answer to his calling: 'Straightway will I bring the row-boat, When the reasons thou hast given Why thou comest to Manala In a hale and active body.' Wainamoinen, old and artful., Gives this answer to the maiden: 'I was brought here by Tuoni, Mana raised me from the coffin.' Speaks the maiden of Manala: 'This a tale of wretched liars; Had Tuoni brought thee hither, Mana raised thee from the coffin, Then Tuoni would be with thee, Manalainen too would lead thee, With Tuoni's hat upon thee, 295 On thy hands, the gloves of Mana; Tell the truth now, Wainamoinen, What has brought thee to Manala?' Wainamoinen, artful hero, Gives this answer, still finessing: 'Iron brought me to Manala, To the kingdom of Tuoni.' Speaks the virgin of the death-land, Mana's wise and tiny daughter: 'Well I know that this is falsehood, Had the iron brought thee hither, Brought thee to Tuoni's kingdom, Blood would trickle from thy vesture, And the blood-drops, scarlet-colored. Speak the truth now, Wainamoinen, This the third time that I ask thee.' Wainamoinen, little heeding, Still finesses to the daughter: 'Water brought me to Manala, To the kingdom of Tuoui.' This the tiny maiden's answer: 'Well I know thou speakest falsely; If the waters of Manala, If the cataract and whirlpool, Or the waves had brought thee hither, From thy robes the drops would trickle, Water drip from all thy raiment. Tell the truth and I will serve thee, What has brought thee to Manala?' Then the wilful Wainamoinen Told this falsehood to the maiden: 'Fire has brought me to Manala, To the kingdom of Tuoni.' Spake again Tuoni's daughter: 'Well I know the voice of falsehood. If the fire had brought thee hither, Brought thee to Tuoni's empire, Singed would be thy locks and eyebrows, And thy beard be crisped and tangled. O, thou foolish Wainamoinen, If I row thee o'er the ferry, Thou must speak the truth in answer, 296 This the last time I will ask thee; Make an end of thy deception. What has brought thee to Manala, Still unharmed by pain or sickness, Still untouched by Death's dark angel Spake the ancient Wainamoinen: 'At the first I spake, not truly, Now I give thee rightful answer: I a boat with ancient wisdom, Fashioned with my powers of magic, Sang one day and then a second, Sang the third day until evening, When I broke the magic main-spring, Broke my magic sledge in pieces, Of my song the fleetest runners; Then I come to Mana's kingdom, Came to borrow here a hatchet, Thus to mend my sledge of magic, Thus to join the parts together. Send the boat now quickly over, Send me, quick, Tuoni's row-boat, Help me cross this fatal river, Cross the channel of Manala.' Spake the daughter of Tuoni, Mana's maiden thus replying: 'Thou art sure a stupid fellow, Foresight wanting, judgment lacking, Having neither wit nor wisdom, Coming here without a reason, Coming to Tuoni's empire; Better far if thou shouldst journey To thy distant home and kindred; Man they that visit Mana, Few return from Maria's kingdom.' Spake the good old Wainamoinen: 'Women old retreat from danger, Not a man of any courage, Not the weakest of the heroes. Bring thy boat, Tuoni's daughter, Tiny maiden of Manala, Come and row me o'er the ferry.' Mana's daughter does as bidden, 297 Brings her boat to Wainamoinen, Quickly rows him through the channel, O'er the black and fatal river, To the kingdom of Manala, Speaks these words to the magician: 'Woe to thee! O Wainamoinen! Wonderful indeed, thy magic, Since thou comest to Manala, Comest neither dead nor dying.' Tuonetar, the death-land hostess, Ancient hostess of Tuoni, Brings him pitchers filled with strong-beer, Fills her massive golden goblets, Speaks these measures to the stranger: 'Drink, thou ancient Wainamoinen, Drink the beer of king Tuoni!' Wainamoinen, wise and cautious, Carefully inspects the liquor, Looks a long time in the pitchers, Sees the spawning of the black-frogs, Sees the young of poison-serpents, Lizards, worms, and writhing adders, Thus addresses Tuonetar: 'Have not come with this intention, Have not come to drink thy poisons, Drink the beer of Tuonela; Those that drink Tuoni's liquors, Those that sip the cups of Mana, Court the Devil and destruction, End their lives in want and ruin.' Tuonetar makes this answer: 'Ancient minstrel, Wainamoinen, Tell me what has brought thee hither, Brought thee to the, realm of Mana, To the courts of Tuonela, Ere Tuoni sent his angels To thy home in Kalevala, There to cut thy magic life-thread.' Spake the singer, Wainamoinen: 'I was building me a vessel, At my craft was working, singing, Needed three words of the Master, 298 How to fasten in the ledges, How the stern should be completed, How complete the boat's forecastle. This the reason of my coming To the empire of Tuoni, To the castles of Manala: Came to learn these magic sayings, Learn the lost-words of the Master.' Spake the hostess, Tuonetar: 'Mana never gives these sayings, Canst not learn them from Tuoni, Not the lost-words of the Master; Thou shalt never leave this kingdom, Never in thy magic life-time, Never go to Kalevala, To Wainola's peaceful meadows. To thy distant home and country.' Quick the hostess, Tuonetar, Waves her magic wand of slumber O'er the head of Wainamoinen, Puts to rest the wisdom-hero, Lays him on the couch of Mana, In the robes of living heroes, Deep the sleep that settles o'er him. In Manala lived a woman, In the kingdom of Tuoni, Evil witch and toothless wizard, Spinner of the threads of iron, Moulder of the bands of copper, Weaver of a hundred fish-nets, Of a thousand nets of copper, Spinning in the days of summer, Weaving in the winter evenings, Seated on a rock in water. In the kingdom of Tuoni Lived a man, a wicked wizard, Three the fingers of the hero, Spinner he of iron meshes, Maker too of nets of copper, Countless were his nets of metal, Moulded on a rock in water, Through the many days of summer. 299 Mana's son with crooked fingers, Iron-pointed, copper fingers, Pulls of nets, at least a thousand, Through the river of Tuoni, Sets them lengthwise, sets them crosswise, In the fatal, darksome river, That the sleeping Wainamomen, Friend and brother of the waters, May not leave the isle of Mana, Never in the course of ages, Never leave the death-land castles, Never while the moonlight glimmers On the empire of Tuoni. Wainamoinen, wise and wary, Rising from his couch of slumber, Speaks these words as he is waking: 'Is there not some mischief brewing, Am I not at last in danger, In the chambers of Tuoni, In the Manala home and household?' Quick he changes his complexion, Changes too his form and feature, Slips into another body; Like a serpent in a circle, Rolls black-dyed upon the waters; Like a snake among the willows, Crawls he like a worm of magic, Like an adder through the grasses, Through the coal-black stream of death-land, Through a thousand nets of copper Interlaced with threads of iron, From the kingdom of Tuoni, From the castles of Manala. Mana's son, the wicked wizard, With his iron-pointed fingers, In the early morning hastens To his thousand nets of copper, Set within the Tuoni river, Finds therein a countless number Of the death-stream fish and serpents; Does not find old Wainamoinen, Wainamoinen, wise and wary, 300 Friend and fellow of the waters. When the wonder-working hero Had escaped from Tuonela, Spake he thus in supplication: 'Gratitude to thee, O Ukko, Do I bring for thy protection! Never suffer other heroes, Of thy heroes not the wisest, To transgress the laws of nature; Never let another singer, While he lives within the body, Cross the river of Tuoni, As thou lovest thy creations. Many heroes cross the channel, Cross the fatal stream of Mana, Few return to tell the story, Few return from Tuonela, From Manala's courts and castles.' Wainamoinen calls his people, On the plains of Kalevala, Speaks these words of ancient wisdom, To the young men, to the maidens, To the rising generation: 'Every child of Northland, listen: If thou wishest joy eternal, Never disobey thy parents, Never evil treat the guiltless, Never wrong the feeble-minded, Never harm thy weakest fellow, Never stain thy lips with falsehood, Never cheat thy trusting neighbor, Never injure thy companion, Lest thou surely payest penance In the kingdom of Tuoni, In the prison of Manala; There, the home of all the wicked, There the couch of the unworthy, There the chambers of the guilty. Underneath Manala's fire-rock Are their ever-flaming couches, For their pillows hissing serpents, Vipers green their writhing covers, 301 For their drink the blood of adders, For their food the pangs of hunger, Pain and agony their solace; If thou wishest joy eternal, Shun the kingdom of Tuoui!' ~ Elias Lönnrot,

994:The Kalevala - Rune Xxxii KULLERVO AS A SHEPHERD. Kullerwoinen, wizard-servant Of the blacksmith, Ilmarinen, Purchased slave from Untamoinen, Magic son with sky-blue stockings., With a head of golden ringlets, In his shoes of marten-leather, Waiting little, asked the blacksmith, Asked the host for work at morning, In the evening asked the hostess, These the words of Kullerwoinen: 'Give me work at early morning, In the evening, occupation, Labor worthy of thy servant.' Then the wife of Ilmarinen, Once the Maiden of the Rainbow, Thinking long, and long debating, How to give the youth employment, How the purchased slave could labor; Finally a shepherd made him, Made him keeper of her pastures; But the over-scornful hostess, Baked a biscuit for the herdsman, Baked a loaf of wondrous thickness, Baked the lower-half of oat-meal, And the upper-half of barley, Baked a flint-stone in the centre, Poured around it liquid butter, Then she gave it to the shepherd, Food to still the herdsman's hunger; Thus she gave the youth instructions: 'Do not eat the bread in hunger, Till the herd is in the woodlands!' Then the wife of Ilmarinen Sent her cattle to the pasture, Thus addressing Kullerwoinen: 'Drive the cows to yonder bowers, 509 To the birch-trees and the aspens, That they there may feed and fatten, Fill themselves with milk and butter, In the open forest-pastures, On the distant hills and mountains, In the glens among the birch-trees, In the lowlands with the aspens, In the golden pine-tree forests, In the thickets silver-laden. 'Guard them, thou O kind Creator, Shield them, omnipresent Ukko, Shelter them from every danger, And protect them from all evil, That they may not want, nor wander From the paths of peace and plenty. As at home Thou didst protect them In the shelters and the hurdles, Guard them now beneath the heavens, Shelter them in woodland pastures, That the herds may live and prosper To 'the joy of Northland's hostess, And against the will of Lempo. 'If my herdsman prove unworthy, If the shepherd-maids seem evil, Let the pastures be their shepherds, Let the alders guard the cattle, Make the birch-tree their protector, Let the willow drive them homeward, Ere the hostess go to seek them, Ere the milkmaids wait and worry. Should the birch-tree not protect them, Nor the aspen lend assistance, Nor the linden be their keeper, Nor the willow drive them homeward, Wilt thou give them better herdsmen, Let Creation's beauteous daughters Be their kindly shepherdesses. Thou hast many lovely maidens, Many hundreds that obey thee, In the Ether's spacious circles, Beauteous daughters of creation. 'Summer-daughter, magic maiden, 510 Southern mother of the woodlands, Pine-tree daughter, Kateyatar, Pihlayatar, of the aspen, Alder-maiden, Tapio's daughter, Daughter of the glen, Millikki, And the mountain-maid, Tellervo, Of my herds be ye protectors, Keep them from the evil-minded, Keep them safe in days of summer, In the times of fragrant flowers, While the tender leaves are whispering, While the Earth is verdure-laden. 'Summer-daughter, charming maiden, Southern mother of the woodlands, Spread abroad thy robes of safety, Spread thine apron o'er the forest, Let it cover all my cattle, And protect the unprotected, That no evil winds may harm them, May not suffer from the storm-clouds. Guard my flocks from every danger, Keep them from the hands of wild-beasts, From the swamps with sinking pathways, From the springs that bubble trouble, From the swiftly running waters, From the bottom of the whirlpool, That they may not find misfortune, May not wander to destruction, In the marshes sink and perish, Though against God's best intentions, Though against the will of Ukko. 'From a distance bring a bugle, Bring a shepherd's horn from heaven, Bring the honey-flute of Ukko, Play the music of creation, Blow the pipes of the magician, Play the flowers on the highlands, Charm the hills, and dales, and mount Charm the borders of the forest, Fill the forest-trees with honey, Fill with spice the fountain-borders. 'For my herds give food and shelter, 511 Feed them all on honeyed pastures, Give them drink at honeyed fountains Feed them on thy golden grasses, On the leaves of silver saplings, From the springs of life and beauty, From the crystal-waters flowing, From the waterfalls of Rutya, From the uplands green and golden, From the glens enriched in silver. Dig thou also golden fountains On the four sides of the willow, That the cows may drink in sweetness, And their udders swell with honey, That their milk may flow in streamlets; Let the milk be caught in vessels, Let the cow's gift be not wasted, Be not given to Manala. 'Many are the sons of evil, That to Mana take their milkings, Give their milk to evil-doers, Waste it in Tuoni's empire; Few there are, and they the worthy, That can get the milk from Mana; Never did my ancient mother Ask for counsel in the village, Never in the courts for wisdom; She obtained her milk from Mana, Took the sour-milk from the dealers, Sweet-milk from the greater distance, From the kingdom of Manala, From Tuoni's fields and pastures; Brought it in the dusk of evening, Through the by-ways in the darkness, That the wicked should not know it, That it should not find destruction. 'This the language of my mother, And these words I also echo: Whither does the cow's gift wander, Whither has the milk departed? Has it gone to feed the strangers, Banished to the distant village, Gone to feed the hamlet-lover, 512 Or perchance to feed the forest, Disappeared within the woodlands, Scattered o'er the hills and mountains, Mingled with the lakes and rivers? It shall never go to Mana, Never go to feed the stranger, Never to the village-lover; Neither shall it feed the forest, Nor be lost upon the mountains, Neither sprinkled in the woodlands, Nor be mingled with the waters; It is needed for our tables, Worthy food for all our children.' Summer-daughter, maid of beauty, Southern daughter of Creation, Give Suotikki tender fodder, To Watikki, give pure water, To Hermikki milk abundant, Fresh provisions to Tuorikki, From Mairikki let the milk flow, Fresh milk from my cows in plenty, Coming from the tips of grasses, From the tender herbs and leaflets, From the meadows rich in honey, From the mother of the forest, From the meadows sweetly dripping, From the berry-laden branches, From the heath of flower-maidens, From the verdure. maiden bowers, From the clouds of milk-providers, From the virgin of the heavens, That the milk may flow abundant From the cows that I have given To the keeping of Kullervo. 'Rise thou virgin of the valley, From the springs arise in beauty, Rise thou maiden of the fountain, Beautiful, arise in ether, Take the waters from the cloudlets, And my roaming herds besprinkle, That my cows may drink and flourish, May be ready for the coming 513 Of the shepherdess of evening. 'O Millikki, forest-hostess, Mother of the herds at pasture, Send the tallest of thy servants, Send the best of thine assistants, That my herds may well be guarded, Through the pleasant days of summer, Given us by our Creator. 'Beauteous virgin of the woodlands, Tapio's most charming daughter, Fair Tellervo, forest-maiden, Softly clad in silken raiment, Beautiful in golden ringlets, Do thou give my herds protection, In the Metsola dominions, On the hills of Tapiola; Shield them with thy hands of beauty, Stroke them gently with thy fingers, Give to them a golden lustre, Make them shine like fins of salmon, Grow them robes as soft as ermine. 'When the evening star brings darkness, When appears the hour of twilight, Send my lowing cattle homeward, Milk within their vessels coursing, Water on their backs in lakelets. When the Sun has set in ocean, When the evening-bird is singing, Thus address my herds of cattle: 'Ye that carry horns, now hasten To the sheds of Ilmarinen; Ye enriched in milk go homeward, To the hostess now in waiting, Home, the better place for sleeping, Forest-beds are full of danger; When the evening comes in darkness, Straightway journey to the milkmaids Building fires to light the pathway On the turf enriched in honey, In the pastures berry-laden! 'Thou, O Tapio's son, Nyrikki, Forest-son, enrobed in purple, 514 Cut the fir-trees on the mountains, Cut the pines with cones of beauty, Lay them o'er the streams for bridges, Cover well the sloughs of quicksand, In the swamps and in the lowlands, That my herd may pass in safety, On their long and dismal journey, To the clouds of smoke may hasten, Where the milkmaids wait their coming. If the cows heed not this order, Do not hasten home at evening, Then, O service-berry maiden, Cut a birch-rod from the glenwood, From the juniper, a whip-stick, Near to Tapio's spacious mansion, Standing on the ash-tree mountain, Drive my wayward, ]owing cattle, Into Metsola's wide milk-yards, When the evening-star is rising. 'Thou, O Otso, forest-apple, Woodland bear, with honeyed fingers, Let us make a lasting treaty, Make a vow for future ages, That thou wilt not kill my cattle, Wilt not eat my milk-providers; That I will not send my hunters To destroy thee and thy kindred, Never in the days of summer, The Creator's warmest season. 'Dost thou hear the tones of cow-bells, Hear the calling of the bugles, Ride thyself within the meadow, Sink upon the turf in slumber, Bury both thine ears in clover, Crouch within some alder-thicket Climb between the mossy ledges, Visit thou some rocky cavern, Flee away to other mountains, Till thou canst not hear the cow-bells, Nor the calling of the herdsmen. 'Listen, Otso of the woodlands, Sacred bear with honeyed fingers, 515 To approach the herd of cattle Thou thyself art not forbidden, But thy tongue, and teeth, and fingers, Must not touch my herd in summer, Must not harm my harmless creatures. Go around the scented meadows, Amble through the milky pastures, From the tones of bells and shepherds. should the herd be on the mountain, Go thou quickly to the marshes; Should my cattle browse the lowlands, Sleep thou then within the thicket; Should they feed upon the uplands, Thou must hasten to the valley; Should the herd graze at the bottom, Thou must feed upon the summit. 'Wander like the golden cuckoo, Like the dove of silver brightness, Like a little fish in ocean; Ride thy claws within thy hair-foot, Shut thy wicked teeth in darkness, That my herd may not be frightened, May not think themselves in danger. Leave my cows in peace and plenty, Let them journey home in order, Through the vales and mountain by-ways, Over plains and through the forest, Harming not my harmless creatures. 'Call to mind our former pledges, At the river of Tuoni, Near the waterfall and whirlpool, In the ears of our Creator. Thrice to Otso was it granted, In the circuit of the summer, To approach the land of cow-bells, Where the herdsmen's voices echo; But to thee it was not granted, Otso never had permission To attempt a wicked action, To begin a work of evil. Should the blinding thing of malice Come upon thee in thy roamings, 516 Should thy bloody teeth feel hunger, Throw thy malice to the mountains, And thy hunger to the pine-trees, Sink thy teeth within the aspens, In the dead limbs of the birches, Prune the dry stalks from the willows. Should thy hunger still impel thee, Go thou to the berry-mountain, Eat the fungus of the forest, Feed thy hunger on the ant-hills, Eat the red roots of the bear-tree, Metsola's rich cakes of honey, Not the grass my herd would feed on. Or if Metsola's rich honey Should ferment before the eating, On the hills of golden color, On the mountains filled with silver, There is other food for hunger, Other drink for thirsting Otso, Everlasting will the food be, And the drink be never wanting. 'Let us now agree in honor, And conclude a lasting treaty That our lives may end in pleasure, May be, merry in the summer, Both enjoy the woods in common, Though our food must be distinctive Shouldst thou still desire to fight me, Let our contests be in winter, Let our wars be, on the snow-fields. Swamps will thaw in days of summer, Warm, the water in the rivers. Therefore shouldst thou break this treaty, Shouldst thou come where golden cattle Roam these woodland hills and valleys, We will slay thee with our cross-bows; Should our arrow-men be absent, We have here some archer-women, And among them is the hostess, That can use the fatal weapon, That can bring thee to destruction, Thus will end the days of trouble 517 That thou bringest to our people, And against the will of Ukko. 'Ukko, ruler in the heavens, Lend an ear to my entreaty, Metamorphose all my cattle, Through the mighty force of magic, Into stumps and stones convert them, If the enemy should wander, Near my herd in days of summer. 'If I had been born an Otso, I would never stride and amble At the feet of aged women; Elsewhere there are hills and valleys, Farther on are honey-pastures, Where the lazy bear may wander, Where the indolent may linger; Sneak away to yonder mountain, That thy tender flesh may lessen, In the blue-glen's deep recesses, In the bear-dens of the forest, Thou canst move through fields of acorns, Through the sand and ocean-pebbles, There for thee is tracked a pathway, Through the woodlands on the sea-coast, To the Northland's farthest limits, To the dismal plains of Lapland, There 'tis well for thee to lumber, There to live will be a pleasure. Shoeless there to walk in summer, Stockingless in days of autumn, On the blue-back of the mountain, Through the swamps and fertile lowlands. 'If thou canst not journey thither, Canst not find the Lapland-highway, Hasten on a little distance, In the bear-path leading northward. To the grove of Tuonela, To the honey-plains of Kalma, Swamps there are in which to wander, Heaths in which to roam at pleasure, There are Kiryos, there are Karyos, And of beasts a countless number, 518 With their fetters strong as iron, Fattening within the forest. Be ye gracious, groves and mountains, Full of grace, ye darksome thickets, Peace and, plenty to my cattle, Through the pleasant days of summer, The Creator's warmest season. 'Knippana, O King of forests, Thou the gray-beard of the woodlands, Watch thy dogs in fen and fallow, Lay a sponge within one nostril, And an acorn in the other, That they may not scent my cattle; Tie their eyes with silken fillets, That they may not see my herdlings, May not see my cattle grazing. 'Should all this seem inefficient, Drive away thy barking children, Let them run to other forests, Let them hunt in other marshes, From these verdant strips of meadow, From these far outstretching borders, Hide thy dogs within thy caverns, Firmly tie thy yelping children, Tie them with thy golden fetters, With thy chains adorned with silver, That they may not do me damage,' May not do a deed of mischief. Should all this prove inefficient, Thou, O Ukko, King of heaven. Wise director, full of mercy, Hear the golden words I utter, Hear a voice that breathes affection, From the alder make a muzzle, For each dog, within the kennel; Should the alder prove too feeble, Cast a band of purest copper; Should the copper prove a failure, Forge a band of ductile iron; Should the iron snap asunder, In each nose a small-ring fasten, Made of molten gold and silver, 519 Chain thy dogs in forest-caverns, That my herd may not be injured. Then the wife of Ilmarinen, Life-companion of the blacksmith, Opened all her yards and stables, Led her herd across the meadow, Placed them in the herdman's keeping, In the care of Kullerwoinen. ~ Elias Lönnrot,

995:SCENE I. The Country. Enter ALBERT. Albert. O that the earth were empty, as when Cain Had no perplexity to hide his head! Or that the sword of some brave enemy Had put a sudden stop to my hot breath, And hurl'd me down the illimitable gulph Of times past, unremember'd! Better so Than thus fast-limed in a cursed snare, The white limbs of a wanton. This the end Of an aspiring life! My boyhood past In feud with wolves and bears, when no eye saw The solitary warfare, fought for love Of honour 'mid the growling wilderness. My sturdier youth, maturing to the sword, Won by the syren-trumpets, and the ring Of shields upon the pavement, when bright-mail'd Henry the Fowler pass'd the streets of Prague, Was't to this end I louted and became The menial of Mars, and held a spear Sway'd by command, as corn is by the wind? Is it for this, I now am lifted up By Europe's throned Emperor, to see My honour be my executioner, My love of fame, my prided honesty Put to the torture for confessional? Then the damn'd crime of blurting to the world A woman's secret! Though a fiend she be, Too tender of my ignominious life; But then to wrong the generous Emperor In such a searching point, were to give up My soul for foot-ball at Hell's holiday! I must confess, and cut my throat, to-day? To-morrow? Ho! some wine! Enter SIGIFRED. Sigifred. A fine humour Albert. Who goes there? Count Sigifred? Ha! Ha! Sigifred. What, man, do you mistake the hollow sky For a throng 'd tavern, and these stubbed trees For old serge hangings, me, your humble friend, For a poor waiter? Why, man, how you stare! What gipsies have you been carousing with? No, no more wine; methinks you've had enough. Albert. You well may laugh and banter. What a fool An injury may make of a staid man! You shall know all anon. Sigifred. Some tavern brawl? Albert. 'Twas with some people out of common reach; Revenge is difficult. Sigifred. I am your friend; We meet again to-day, and can confer Upon it. For the present I'm in haste. Albert. Whither? Sigifred. To fetch King Gersa to the feast. The Emperor on this marriage is so hot, Pray Heaven it end not in apoplexy! The very porters, as I pass'd the doors, Heard his loud laugh, and answer 'd in full choir. I marvel, Albert, you delay so long From those bright revelries; go, show yourself, You may be made a duke. Albert. Aye, very like: Pray, what day has his Highness fix'd upon? Sigifred. For what? Albert. The marriage. What else can I mean? Sigifred. To-day! O, I forgot, you could not know; The news is scarce a minute old with me. Albert. Married to-day! To-day! You did not say so? Sigifred. Now, while I speak to you, their comely heads Are bow'd before the mitre. Albert. O! Monstrous! Sigifred. What is this? Albert. Nothing, Sigifred. Farewell! We'll meet upon our subject. Farewell, count! [Exit. Sigifred. Is this clear-headed Albert? He brain-turned! Tis as portentous as a meteor. [Exit. SCENE II. An Apartment in the Castle. Enter, as from the Marriage, OTHO, LUDOLPH, AURANTHE, CONRAD, Nobles, Knights, Ladies, &c. Music. Otho. Now, Ludolph! Now, Auranthe! Daughter fair! What can I find to grace your nuptial day More than my love, and these wide realms in fee? Ludolph. I have too much. Auranthe. And I, my liege, by far. Ludolph. Auranthe! I have! O, my bride, my love! Not all the gaze upon us can restrain My eyes, too long poor exiles from thy face, From adoration, and my foolish tongue From uttering soft responses to the love I see in thy mute beauty beaming forth! Fair creature, bless me with a single word! All mine! Auranthe. Spare, spare me, my Lord! I swoon else. Ludolph. Soft beauty! by to-morrow I should die, Wert thou not mine. [They talk apart, First Lady. How deep she has bewitch'd him! First Knight. Ask you for her recipe for love philtres. Second Lady. They hold the Emperor in admiration, Otho. If ever king was happy, that am I! What are the cities 'yond the Alps to me, The provinces about the Danube's mouth, The promise of fair soil beyond the Rhone; Or routing out of Hyperborean hordes, To those fair children, stars of a new age? Unless perchance I might rejoice to win This little ball of earth, and chuck it them To play with! Auranthe. Nay, my Lord, I do not know. Ludolph. Let me not famish. Otho (to Conrad). Good Franconia, You heard what oath I sware, as the sun rose, That unless Heaven would send me back my son, My Arab, no soft music should enrich The cool wine, kiss'd off with a soldier's smack; Now all my empire, barter 'd for one feast, Seems poverty. Conrad. Upon the neighbour-plain The heralds have prepar'd a royal lists; Your knights, found war-proof in the bloody field, Speed to the game. Otho. Well, Ludolph, what say you? Ludolph. My lord! Otho. A tourney? Conrad. Or, if't please you best Ludolph. I want no morel First Lady. He soars! Second Lady. Past all reason. Ludolph. Though heaven's choir Should in a vast circumference descend And sing for my delight, I'd stop my ears! Though bright Apollo's car stood burning here, And he put out an arm to bid me mount, His touch an immortality, not I! This earth, this palace, this room, Auranthe! Otho. This is a little painful; just too much. Conrad, if he flames longer in this wise, I shall believe in wizard-woven loves And old romances; but I'll break the spell. Ludolph! Conrad. He will be calm, anon. Ludolph. You call'd? Yes, yes, yes, I offend. You must forgive me; Not being quite recover'd from the stun Of your large bounties. A tourney, is it not? {A senet heard faintly. Conrad. The trumpets reach us. Ethelbert (without). On your peril, sirs, Detain us! First Voice (without). Let not the abbot pass. Second Voice (without). No, On your lives! First Voice (without). Holy Father, you must not. Ethelbert (without). Otho! Otho. Who calls on Otho? Ethelhert (without). Ethelbert! Otho. Let him come in. Enter ETHELBERT leading in ERMINIA. Thou cursed abbot, why Hast brought pollution to our holy rites? Hast thou no fear of hangman, or the ****? Ludolph. What portent what strange prodigy is this? Conrad. Away! Ethelbert. You, Duke? Ermmia. Albert has surely fail'd me! Look at the Emperor's brow upon me bent! Ethelbert. A sad delay! Conrad. Away, thou guilty thing! Ethelbert. You again, Duke? Justice, most mighty Otho! You go to your sister there and plot again, A quick plot, swift as thought to save your heads; For lo! the toils are spread around your den, The word is all agape to see dragg'd forth Two ugly monsters. Ludolph. What means he, my lord? Conrad. I cannot guess. Ethelbert. Best ask your lady sister, Whether the riddle puzzles her beyond The power of utterance. Conrad. Foul barbarian, cease; The Princess faints! Ludolph. Stab him! , sweetest wife! [Attendants bear off AURANTHE, Erminia. Alas! Ethelbert. Your wife? Ludolph. Aye, Satan! does that yerk ye? Ethelbert. Wife! so soon! Ludolph. Aye, wife! Oh, impudence! Thou bitter mischief! Venomous mad priest! How dar'st thou lift those beetle brows at me? Me the prince Ludolph, in this presence here, Upon my marriage-day, and scandalize My joys with such opprobrious surprise? SO Wife! Why dost linger on that syllable, As if it were some demon's name pronounc'd To summon harmful lightning, and make roar The sleepy thunder? Hast no sense of fear? No ounce of man in thy mortality? Tremble! for, at my nod, the sharpen'd axe Will make thy bold tongue quiver to the roots, Those grey lids wink, and thou not know it more! Ethelbert. O, poor deceived Prince! I pity thee! Great Otho! I claim justice Ludolph. Thou shalt hav 't! Thine arms from forth a pulpit of hot fire Shall sprawl distracted! O that that dull cowl Were some most sensitive portion of thy life, That I might give it to my hounds to tear! Thy girdle some fine zealous-pained nerve To girth my saddle! And those devil's beads Each one a life, that I might, every day, Crush one with Vulcan's hammer! Otho. Peace, my son; You far outstrip my spleen in this affair. Let us be calm, and hear the abbot's plea For this intrusion. Ludolph. I am silent, sire. Otho. Conrad, see all depart not wanted here. [Exeunt Knights, Ladies, &c. Ludolph, be calm. Ethelbert, peace awhile. This mystery demands an audience Of a just judge, and that will Otho be. Ludolph. Why has he time to breathe another word? Otho. Ludolph, old Ethelbert, be sure, comes not To beard us for no cause ; he's not the man To cry himself up an ambassador Without credentials. Ludolph. Ill chain up myself. Otho. Old Abbot, stand here forth. Lady Erminia, Sit. And now, Abbot! what have you to say? Our ear is open. First we here denounce Hard penalties against thee, if 't be found The cause for which you have disturb 'd us here, Making our bright hours muddy, be a thing Of little moment. Ethelbert. See this innocent! Otho! thou father of the people call'd, Is her life nothing? Her fair honour nothing? Her tears from matins until even-song Nothing? Her burst heart nothing? Emperor! Is this your gentle niece the simplest flower Of the world's herbal this fair lilly blanch 'd Still with the dews of piety, this meek lady Here sitting like an angel newly-shent, Who veils its snowy wings and grows all pale, Is she nothing? Otho. What more to the purpose, abbot? Ludolph. Whither is he winding? Conrad. No clue yet! Ethelbert. You have heard, my Liege, and so, no doubt, all here, Foul, poisonous, malignant whisperings; Nay open speech, rude mockery grown common, Against the spotless nature and clear fame Of the princess Erminia, your niece. I have intruded here thus suddenly, Because I hold those base weeds, with tight hand, Which now disfigure her fair growing stem, Waiting but for your sign to pull them up By the dark roots, and leave her palpable, To all men's sight, a Lady, innocent. The ignominy of that whisper'd tale About a midnight gallant, seen to climb A window to her chamber neighboured near, I will from her turn off, and put the load On the right shoulders; on that wretch's head, Who, by close stratagems, did save herself, Chiefly by shifting to this lady's room A rope-ladder for false witness. Ludolph. Most atrocious! Otho. Ethelbert, proceed. Ethelbert. With sad lips I shall: For in the healing of one wound, I fear To make a greater. His young highness here To-day was married. Ludolph. Good. Ethelbert. Would it were good! Yet why do I delay to spread abroad The names of those two vipers, from whose jaws A deadly breath went forth to taint and blast This guileless lady? Otho. Abbot, speak their names. Ethelbert. A minute first. It cannot be but may I ask, great judge, if you to-day have put A letter by unread? Otho. Does 'tend in this? Conrad. Out with their names! Ethelbert. Bold sinner, say you so? Ludolph. Out, tedious monk! Otho. Confess, or by the wheel Ethelbert. My evidence cannot be far away; And, though it never come, be on my head The crime of passing an attaint upon The slanderers of this virgin. Ludolph. Speak aloud! Ethelbert. Auranthe, and her brother there. Conrad. Amaze! Ludolph. Throw them from the windows! Otho. Do what you will! Ludolph. What shall I do with them? Something of quick dispatch, for should she hear, My soft Auranthe, her sweet mercy would Prevail against my fury. Damned priest! What swift death wilt thou die? As to the lady I touch her not. Ethelbert. Illustrious Otho, stay! An ample store of misery thou hast, Choak not the granary of thy noble mind With more bad bitter grain, too difficult A cud for the repentance of a man Grey-growing. To thee only I appeal, Not to thy noble son, whose yeasting youth Will clear itself, and crystal turn again. A young man's heart, by Heaven's blessing, is A wide world, where a thousand new-born hopes Empurple fresh the melancholy blood; But an old man's is narrow, tenantless Of hopes, and stuffd with many memories, Which, being pleasant, ease the heavy pulse Painful, clog up and stagnate. Weigh this matter Even as a miser balances his coin ; And, in the name of mercy, give command That your knight Albert be brought here before you. He will expound this riddle ; he will show A noon-day proof of bad Auranthe's guilt. Otho. Let Albert straight be summon 'd. [Exit one of the Nobles. Ludolph. Impossible ! I cannot doubt I will not no to doubt Is to be ashes! wither 'd up to death! Otho. My gentle Ludolph, harbour not a fear; You do yourself much wrong. Ludolph. O, wretched dolt! Now, when my foot is almost on thy neck, Wilt thou infuriate me? Proof! thou fool! Why wilt thou teaze impossibility With such a thick-skull'd persevering suit? Fanatic obstinacy! Prodigy! Monster of folly! Ghost of a turn'd brain! You puzzle me, you haunt me, when I dream Of you my brain will split! Bald sorcerer! Juggler! May I come near you? On my soul I know not whether to pity, curse, or laugh. Enter ALBERT, and the Nobleman. Here, Albert, this old phantom wants a proof! Give him his proof! A camel's load of proofs! Otho. Albert, I speak to you as to a man Whose words once utter 'd pass like current gold; And therefore fit to calmly put a close To this brief tempest. Do you stand possess 'd Of any proof against the honourableness Of Lady Auranthe, our new-spoused daughter? Albert. You chill me with astonishment. How's this? My Liege, what proof should I have 'gainst a fame Impossible of slur? [Otho rises. Erminia. O wickedness! Ethelbert. Deluded monarch, 'tis a cruel lie. Otho. Peace, rebel-priest! Conrad. Insult beyond credence! Erminia. Almost a dream! Ludolph. We have awaken'd from A foolish dream that from my brow hath wrung A wrathful dew. O folly! why did I So act the lion with this silly gnat? Let them depart. Lady Erminia! I ever griev'd for you, as who did not? But now you have, with such a brazen front, So most maliciously, so madly striven To dazzle the soft moon, when tenderest clouds Should be unloop'd around to curtain her; I leave you to the desert of the world Almost with pleasure. Let them be set free For me! I take no personal revenge More than against a nightmare, which a man forgets in the new dawn. [Exit LUDOLPH. Otho. Still in extremes! No, they must not be loose. Ethelbert. Albert, I must suspect thee of a crime So fiendish Otho. Fear'st thou not my fury, monk? Conrad, be they in your sure custody Till we determine some fit punishment. It is so mad a deed, I must reflect And question them in private ; for perhaps, By patient scrutiny, we may discover Whether they merit death, or should be placed In care of the physicians. [Exeunt OTHO and Nobles, ALBERT following. Conrad. My guards, ho! Erminia. Albert, wilt thou follow there? Wilt thou creep dastardly behind his back, And slink away from a weak woman's eye? Turn, thou court-Janus! thou forget'st thyself; Here is the Duke, waiting with open arms, [Enter Guards. To thank thee; here congratulate each other; Wring hands; embrace; and swear how lucky 'twas That I, by happy chance, hit the right man Of all the world to trust in. Albert. Trust! to me! Conrad (aside). He is the sole one in this mystery. Erminia. Well, I give up, and save my prayers for Heaven! You, who could do this deed, would ne'er relent, Though, at my words, the hollow prison-vaults Would groan for pity. Conrad. Manacle them both! Ethelbert. I know itit must be I see it all! Albert, thou art the minion! Erminia. Ah ! too plain Conrad. Silence! Gag up their mouths! I cannot bear More of this brawling. That the Emperor Had plac'd you in some other custody! Bring them away. [Exeunt all but ALBERT. Albert. Though my name perish from the book of honour, Almost before the recent ink is dry, And be no more remember'd after death, Than any drummer's in the muster-roll; Yet shall I season high my sudden fall With triumph o'er that evil-witted duke! He shall feel what it is to have the hand Of a man drowning, on his hateful throat. Enter GERSA and SIGIFRED. Gersa. What discord is at ferment in this house? Sigifred. We are without conjecture; not a soul We met could answer any certainty. Gersa. Young Ludolph, like a fiery arrow, shot By us. Sigifred. The Emperor, with cross'd arms, in thought. Gersa. In one room music, in another sadness, Perplexity every where! Albert. A trifle more! Follow; your presences will much avail To tune our jarred spirits. I'll explain. [Exeunt. by owner. provided at no charge for educational purposes ~ John Keats, Otho The Great - Act III ,

996: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,

997:The Kalevala - Rune Xlii CAPTURE OF THE SAMPO. Wainamoinen, old and truthful, With the blacksmith, Ilmarinen, With the reckless son of Lempo, Handsome hero, Kaukomieli, On the sea's smooth plain departed, On the far-extending waters, To the village, cold and dreary, To the never-pleasant Northland, Where the heroes fall and perish. Ilmarinen led the rowers On one side the magic war-ship, And the reckless Lemminkainen Led the rowers on the other. Wainamoinen, old and trusty, Laid his hand upon the rudder, Steered his vessel o'er the waters, Through the foam and angry billows To Pohyola's place of landing, To the cylinders of copper, Where the war-ships lie at anchor. When they had arrived at Pohya, When their journey they had ended, On the land they rolled their vessel, On the copper-banded rollers, Straightway journeyed to the village, Hastened to the halls and hamlets Of the dismal Sariola. Louhi, hostess of the Northland, Thus addressed the stranger-heroes: Magic heroes of Wainola, What the tidings ye are bringing To the people of my village?' Wainamoinen, ancient minstrel. Gave this answer to the hostess: 'All the hosts of Kalevala Are inquiring for the Sampo, 192 Asking for the lid in colors; Hither have these heroes journeyed To divide the priceless treasure. Thus the hostess spake in answer: 'No one would divide a partridge, Nor a squirrel, with three heroes; Wonderful the magic Sampo, Plenty does it bring to Northland; And the colored lid re-echoes From the copper-bearing mountains, From the stone-berg of Pohyola, To the joy of its possessors.' Wainamoinen, ancient minstrel, Thus addressed the ancient Louhi: 'If thou wilt not share the Sampo, Give to us an equal portion, We will take it to Wainola, With its lid of many colors, Take by force the hope of Pohya.' Thereupon the Northland hostess Angry grew and sighed for vengeance; Called her people into council, Called the hosts of Sariola, Heroes with their trusted broadswords, To destroy old Wainamoinen With his people of the Northland. Wainamoinen, wise and ancient, Hastened to his harp of fish-bone, And began his magic playing; All of Pohya stopped and listened, Every warrior was silenced By the notes of the magician; Peaceful-minded grew the soldiers, All the maidens danced with pleasure, While the heroes fell to weeping, And the young men looked in wonder. Wainamoinen plays unceasing, Plays the maidens into slumber, Plays to sleep the young and aged, All of Northland sleeps and listens. Wise and wondrous Wainamoinen, The eternal bard and singer, 193 Searches in his pouch of leather, Draws therefrom his slumber-arrows, Locks the eyelids of the sleepers, Of the heroes of Pohyola, Sings and charms to deeper slumber All the warriors of the Northland. Then the heroes of Wainola Hasten to obtain the Sampo, To procure the lid in colors From the copper-bearing mountains. From behind nine locks of copper, In the stone-berg of Pohyola. Wainamoinen, ancient minstrel, Then began his wondrous singing, Sang in gentle tones of magic, At the entrance to the mountain, At the border of the stronghold; Trembled all the rocky portals, And the iron-banded pillars Fell and crumbled at his singing. Ilmarinen, magic blacksmith, Well anointed all the hinges, All the bars and locks anointed, And the bolts flew back by magic, All the gates unlocked in silence, Opened for the great magician. Spake the minstrel Wainamoinen: 'O thou daring Lemminkainen, Friend of mine in times of trouble, Enter thou within the mountain, Bring away the wondrous Sampo, Bring away the lid in colors!' Quick the reckless Lemminkainen, Handsome hero, Kaukomieli, Ever ready for a venture, Hastens to the mountain-caverns, There to find the famous Sampo, There to get the lid in colors; Strides along with conscious footsteps, Thus himself he vainly praises: 'Great am I and full of glory, Wonder-hero, son of Ukko, 194 I will bring away the Sampo, Turn about the lid in colors, Turn it on its magic hinges!' Lemminkainen finds the wonder, Finds the Sampo in the mountain, Labors long with strength heroic, Tugs with might and main to turn it; Motionless remains the treasure, Deeper sinks the lid in colors, For the roots have grown about it, Grown nine fathoms deep in sand-earth. Lived a mighty ox in Northland, Powerful in bone and sinew, Beautiful in form and color, Horns the length of seven fathoms, Mouth and eyes of wondrous beauty. Lemminkainen, reckless hero, Harnesses the ox in pasture, Takes the master-plow of Pohya, Plows the roots about the Sampo, Plows around the lid in colors, And the sacred Sampo loosens, Falls the colored lid in silence. Straightway ancient Wainamoinen Brings the blacksmith, Ilmarinen, Brings the daring Lemminkainen, Lastly brings the magic Sampo, From the stone-berg of Pohyola, From the copper-bearing mountain, Hides it in his waiting vessel, In the war-ship of Wainola. Wainamoinen called his people, Called his crew of men and maidens, Called together all his heroes, Rolled his vessel to the water, Into billowy deeps and dangers. Spake the blacksmith, Ilmarinen: 'Whither shall we take the Sampo, Whither take the lid in colors, From the stone-berg of Pohyola, From this evil spot of Northland?' Wainamoinen, wise and faithful, 195 Gave this answer to the question: 'Thither shall we take the Sampo, Thither take the lid in colors, To the fog-point on the waters, To the island forest-covered; There the treasure may be hidden, May remain in peace for ages, Free from trouble, free from danger, Where the sword will not molest it.' Then the minstrel, Wainamoinen, Joyful, left the Pohya borders, Homeward sailed, and happy-hearted, Spake these measures on departing: 'Turn, O man-of-war, from Pohya, Turn thy back upon the strangers, Turn thou to my distant country! Rock, O winds, my magic vessel, Homeward drive my ship, O billows, Lend the rowers your assistance, Give the oarsmen easy labor, On this vast expanse of waters! Give me of thine oars, O Ahto, Lend thine aid, O King of sea-waves, Guide as with thy helm in safety, Lay thy hand upon the rudder, And direct our war-ship homeward; Let the hooks of metal rattle O'er the surging of the billows, On the white-capped waves' commotion.' Then the master, Wainamoinen, Guided home his willing vessel; And the blacksmith, Ilmarinen, With the lively Lemminkainen, Led the mighty host of rowers, And the war-ship glided homeward O'er the sea's unruffled surface, O'er the mighty waste of waters. Spake the reckless Lemminkainen: 'Once before I rode these billows, There were viands for the heroes, There was singing for the maidens; But to-day I hear no singing, 196 Hear no songs upon the vessel, Hear no music on the waters.' Wainamoinen, wise and ancient, Answered thus wild Lemminkainen: 'Let none sing upon the blue-sea, On the waters, no rejoicing; Singing would prolong our journey, Songs disturb the host of rowers; Soon will die the silver sunlight, Darkness soon will overtake us, On this evil waste of waters, On this blue-sea, smooth and level.' These the words of Lemminkainen: 'Time will fly on equal pinions Whether we have songs or silence; Soon will disappear the daylight, And the night as quickly follow, Whether we be sad or joyous.' Wainamoinen, the magician, O'er the blue backs of the billows, Steered one day, and then a second, Steered the third from morn till even, When the wizard, Lemminkainen, Once again addressed the master: 'Why wilt thou, O famous minstrel, Sing no longer for thy people, Since the Sampo thou hast captured, Captured too the lid in colors?' These the words of Wainamoinen: ''Tis not well to sing too early! Time enough for songs of joyance When we see our home-land mansions, When our journeyings have ended!' Spake the reckless Lemminkainen: 'At the helm, if I were sitting, I would sing at morn and evening, Though my voice has little sweetness; Since thy songs are not forthcoming Listen to my wondrous singing!' Thereupon wild Lemminkainen, Handsome hero, Kaukomieli, Raised his voice above the waters, 197 O'er the sea his song resounded; But his measures were discordant, And his notes were harsh and frightful. Sang the wizard, Lemminkainen, Screeched the reckless Kaukomieli, Till the mighty war-ship trembled; Far and wide was heard his singing, Heard his songs upon the waters, Heard within the seventh village, Heard beyond the seven oceans. Sat a crane within the rushes, On a hillock clothed in verdure, And the crane his toes was counting; Suddenly he heard the singing Of the wizard, Lemminkainen; And the bird was justly frightened At the songs of the magician. Then with horrid voice, and screeching, Flew the crane across the broad-sea To the lakes of Sariola, O'er Pohyola's hills and hamlets, Screeching, screaming, over Northland, Till the people of the darkness Were awakened from their slumbers. Louhi hastens to her hurdles, Hastens to her droves of cattle, Hastens also to her garners, Counts her herds, inspects her store-house; Undisturbed she finds her treasures. Quick she journeys to the entrance To the copper-bearing mountain, Speaks these words as she approaches: 'Woe is me, my life hard-fated, Woe to Louhi, broken-hearted! Here the tracks of the destroyers, All my locks and bolts are broken By the hands of cruel strangers! Broken are my iron hinges, Open stand the mountain-portals Leading to the Northland-treasure. Has Pohyola lost her Sampo?' Then she hastened to the chambers 198 Where the Sampo had been grinding; But she found the chambers empty, Lid and Sampo gone to others, From the stone-berg of Pohyola, From behind nine locks of copper, In the copper-bearing mountain. Louhi, hostess of the Northland, Angry grew and cried for vengeance; As she found her fame departing, Found her-strength fast disappearing, Thus addressed the sea-fog virgin: 'Daughter of the morning-vapors, Sift thy fogs from distant cloud-land, Sift the thick air from the heavens, Sift thy vapors from the ether, On the blue-back of the broad-sea, On the far extending waters, That the ancient Wainamoinen, Friend of ocean-wave and billow, May not baffle his pursuers! 'Should this prayer prove unavailing, Iku-Turso, son of Old-age, Raise thy head above the billows, And destroy Wainola's heroes, Sink them to thy deep sea-castles, There devour them at thy pleasure; Bring thou back the golden Sampo To the people of Pohyola! 'Should these words be ineffective, Ukko, mightiest of rulers, Golden king beyond the welkin, Sitting on a throne of silver, Fill thy skies with heavy storm-clouds, Call thy fleetest winds about thee, Send them o'er the seven broad-seas, There to find the fleeing vessel, That the ancient Wainamoinen May not baffle his pursuers!' Quick the virgin of the vapors Breathed a fog upon the waters, Made it settle on the war-ship Of the, heroes of the Northland, 199 Held the minstrel, Wainamoinen, Anchored in the fog and darkness; Bound him one day, then a second, Then a third till dawn of morning, In the middle of the blue-sea, Whence he could not flee in safety From the wrath of his pursuers. When the third night had departed, Resting in the sea, and helpless, Wainamoinen spake as follows, 'Not a man of strength and courage, Not the weakest of the heroes, Who upon the sea will suffer, Sink and perish in the vapors, Perish in the fog and darkness!' With his sword he smote the billows, From his magic blade flowed honey; Quick the vapor breaks, and rises, Leaves the waters clear for rowing; Far extend the sky and waters, Large the ring of the horizon, And the troubled sea enlarges. Time had journeyed little distance, Scarce a moment had passed over, When they heard a mighty roaring, Heard a roaring and a rushing Near the border of the vessel, Where the foam was shooting skyward O'er the boat of Wainamoinen. Straightway youthful Ilmarinen Sank in gravest apprehension, From his cheeks the blood departed; Pulled his cap down o'er his forehead, Shook and trembled with emotion. Wainamoinen, ancient minstrel, Casts his eyes upon the waters Near the broad rim of his war-ship; There perceives an ocean-wonder With his head above the sea-foam. Wainamoinen, brave and mighty, Seizes quick the water-monster, Lifts him by his ears and questions: 200 'Iku-Turso, son of Old-age, Why art rising from the blue-sea? Wherefore dost thou leave thy castle, Show thyself to mighty heroes, To the heroes of Wainola?' Iku-Turso, son of Old-age, Ocean monster, manifested Neither pleasure, nor displeasure, Was not in the least affrighted, Did not give the hero answer. Whereupon the ancient minstrel, Asked the second time the monster, Urgently inquired a third time: 'Iku-Turso, son of Old-age, Why art rising from the waters, Wherefore dost thou leave the blue-sea? Iku-Turso gave this answer: For this cause I left my castle Underneath the rolling billows: Came I here with the intention To destroy the Kalew-heroes, And return the magic Sampo To the people of Pohyola. If thou wilt restore my freedom, Spare my life, from pain and sorrow, I will quick retrace my journey, Nevermore to show my visage To the people of Wainola, Never while the moonlight glimmers On the hills of Kalevala!' Then the singer, Wainamoinen, Freed the monster, Iku-Turso, Sent him to his deep sea-castles, Spake these words to him departing: 'Iku-Turso, son of Old-age, Nevermore arise from ocean, Nevermore let Northland-heroes See thy face above the waters I Nevermore has Iku-Turso Risen to the ocean-level; Never since have Northland sailors Seen the head of this sea-monster. 201 Wainamoinen, old and truthful, Onward rowed his goodly vessel, Journeyed but a little distance, Scarce a moment had passed over, When the King of all creators, Mighty Ukko of the heavens, Made the winds blow full of power, Made the storms arise in fury, Made them rage upon the waters. From the west the winds came roaring, From the north-east came in anger, Winds came howling from the south-west, Came the winds from all directions, In their fury, rolling, roaring, Tearing branches from the lindens, Hurling needles from the pine-trees, Blowing flowers from the heather, Grasses blowing from the meadow, Tearing up the very bottom Of the deep and boundless blue-sea. Roared the winds and lashed the waters Till the waves were white with fury; Tossed the war-ship high in ether, Tossed away the harp of fish-bone, Magic harp of Wainamoinen, To the joy of King Wellamo, To the pleasure of his people, To the happiness of Ahto, Ahto, rising from his caverns, On the floods beheld his people Carry off the harp of magic To their home below the billows. Wainamoinen, ancient minstrel, Heavy-hearted, spake these measures: 'I have lost what I created, I have lost the harp of joyance; Now my strength has gone to others, All my pleasure too departed, All my hope and comfort vanished! Nevermore the harp of fish-bone Will enchant the hosts of Suomi!' Then the blacksmith, Ilmarinen, 202 Sorrow-laden, spake as follows: 'Woe is me, my life hard-fated! Would that I had never journeyed On these waters filled with dangers, On the rolling waste before me, In this war-ship false and feeble. Winds and storms have I encountered, Wretched days of toil and trouble, I have witnessed in the Northland; Never have I met such dangers On the land, nor on the ocean, Never in my hero life-time!' Then the ancient Wainamoinen Spake and these the words he uttered: 'Weep no more, my goodly comrades, In my bark let no one murmur; Weeping cannot mend disaster, Tears can never still misfortune, Mourning cannot save from evil. 'Sea, command thy warring forces, Bid thy children cease their fury! Ahto, still thy surging billows! Sink, Wellamo, to thy slumber, That our boat may move in safety. Rise, ye storm-winds, to your kingdoms, Lift your heads above the waters, To the regions of your kindred, To your people and dominions; Cut the trees within the forest, Bend the lindens of the valley, Let our vessel sail in safety!' Then the reckless Lemminkainen, Handsome wizard, Kaukomieli, Spake these words in supplication: 'Come, O eagle, Turyalander, Bring three feathers from thy pinions, Three, O raven, three, O eagle, To protect this bark from evil!' All the heroes of Wainola Call their forces to the rescue, And repair the sinking vessel. By the aid of master-magic, 203 Wainamoinen saved his war-ship, Saved his people from destruction, Well repaired his ship to battle With the roughest seas of Northland; Steers his mighty boat in safety Through the perils of the whirlpool, Through the watery deeps and dangers. ~ Elias Lönnrot,

998: XXI - WALPURGIS-NIGHT THE HARTZ MOUNTAINS. District of Schierke and Elend. FAUST MEPHISTOPHELES MEPHISTOPHELES DOST thou not wish a broomstick-steed's assistance? The sturdiest he-goat I would gladly see: The way we take, our goal is yet some distance. FAUST So long as in my legs I feel the fresh existence. This knotted staff suffices me. What need to shorten so the way? Along this labyrinth of vales to wander, Then climb the rocky ramparts yonder, Wherefrom the fountain flings eternal spray, Is such delight, my steps would fain delay. The spring-time stirs within the fragrant birches, And even the fir-tree feels it now: Should then our limbs escape its gentle searches? MEPHISTOPHELES I notice no such thing, I vow! 'Tis winter still within my body: Upon my path I wish for frost and snow. How sadly rises, incomplete and ruddy, The moon's lone disk, with its belated glow, And lights so dimly, that, as one advances, At every step one strikes a rock or tree! Let us, then, use a Jack-o'-lantern's glances: I see one yonder, burning merrily. Ho, there! my friend! I'll levy thine attendance: Why waste so vainly thy resplendence? Be kind enough to light us up the steep! WILL-O'-THE-WISP My reverence, I hope, will me enable To curb my temperament unstable; For zigzag courses we are wont to keep. MEPHISTOPHELES Indeed? he'd like mankind to imitate! Now, in the Devil's name, go straight, Or I'll blow out his being's flickering spark! WILL-O'-THE-WISP You are the master of the house, I mark, And I shall try to serve you nicely. But then, reflect: the mountain's magic-mad to-day, And if a will-o'-the-wisp must guide you on the way, You mustn't take things too precisely. FAUST, MEPHISTOPHELES, WILL-O'-THE-WISP (in alternating song) We, it seems, have entered newly In the sphere of dreams enchanted. Do thy bidding, guide us truly, That our feet be forwards planted In the vast, the desert spaces! See them swiftly changing places, Trees on trees beside us trooping, And the crags above us stooping, And the rocky snouts, outgrowing, Hear them snoring, hear them blowing! O'er the stones, the grasses, flowing Stream and streamlet seek the hollow. Hear I noises? songs that follow? Hear I tender love-petitions? Voices of those heavenly visions? Sounds of hope, of love undying! And the echoes, like traditions Of old days, come faint and hollow. Hoo-hoo! Shoo-hoo! Nearer hover Jay and screech-owl, and the plover, Are they all awake and crying? Is't the salamander pushes, Bloated-bellied, through the bushes? And the roots, like serpents twisted, Through the sand and boulders toiling, Fright us, weirdest links uncoiling To entrap us, unresisted: Living knots and gnarls uncanny Feel with polypus-antennae For the wanderer. Mice are flying, Thousand-colored, herd-wise hieing Through the moss and through the heather! And the fire-flies wink and darkle, Crowded swarms that soar and sparkle, And in wildering escort gather! Tell me, if we still are standing, Or if further we're ascending? All is turning, whirling, blending, Trees and rocks with grinning faces, Wandering lights that spin in mazes, Still increasing and expanding! MEPHISTOPHELES Grasp my skirt with heart undaunted! Here a middle-peak is planted, Whence one seeth, with amaze, Mammon in the mountain blaze. FAUST How strangely glimmers through the hollows A dreary light, like that of dawn! Its exhalation tracks and follows The deepest gorges, faint and wan. Here steam, there rolling vapor sweepeth; Here burns the glow through film and haze: Now like a tender thread it creepeth, Now like a fountain leaps and plays. Here winds away, and in a hundred Divided veins the valley braids: There, in a corner pressed and sundered, Itself detaches, spreads and fades. Here gush the sparkles incandescent Like scattered showers of golden sand; But, see! in all their height, at present, The rocky ramparts blazing stand. Under the old ribs of the rock retreating Under the old ribs of the rock retreating MEPHISTOPHELES Has not Sir Mammon grandly lighted His palace for this festal night? 'Tis lucky thou hast seen the sight; The boisterous guests approach that were invited. FAUST How raves the tempest through the air! With what fierce blows upon my neck 'tis beating! MEPHISTOPHELES Under the old ribs of the rock retreating, Hold fast, lest thou be hurled down the abysses there! The night with the mist is black; Hark! how the forests grind and crack! Frightened, the owlets are scattered: Hearken! the pillars are shattered. The evergreen palaces shaking! Boughs are groaning and breaking, The tree-trunks terribly thunder, The roots are twisting asunder! In frightfully intricate crashing Each on the other is dashing, And over the wreck-strewn gorges The tempest whistles and surges! Hear'st thou voices higher ringing? Far away, or nearer singing? Yes, the mountain's side along, Sweeps an infuriate glamouring song! WITCHES (in chorus) The witches ride to the Brocken's top, The stubble is yellow, and green the crop. There gathers the crowd for carnival: Sir Urian sits over all. And so they go over stone and stock; The witch she-s, and-s the buck. A VOICE Alone, old Baubo's coming now; She rides upon a farrow-sow. CHORUS Then honor to whom the honor is due! Dame Baubo first, to lead the crew! A tough old sow and the mother thereon, Then follow the witches, every one. A VOICE Which way com'st thou hither? VOICE O'er the Ilsen-stone. I peeped at the owl in her nest alone: How she stared and glared! VOICE Betake thee to Hell! Why so fast and so fell? VOICE She has scored and has flayed me: See the wounds she has made me! WITCHES (chorus) The way is wide, the way is long: See, what a wild and crazy throng! The broom it scratches, the fork it thrusts, The child is stifled, the mother bursts. WIZARDS (semichorus) As doth the snail in shell, we crawl: Before us go the women all. When towards the Devil's House we tread, Woman's a thousand steps ahead. OTHER SEMICHORUS We do not measure with such care: Woman in thousand steps is theft. But howsoe'er she hasten may, Man in one leap has cleared the way. VOICE (from above) Come on, come on, from Rocky Lake! VOICE (from below) Aloft we'd fain ourselves betake. We've washed, and are bright as ever you will, Yet we're eternally sterile still. BOTH CHORUSES The wind is hushed, the star shoots by. The dreary moon forsakes the sky; The magic notes, like spark on spark, Drizzle, whistling through the dark. VOICE (from below) Halt, there! Ho, there! VOICE (from above) Who calls from the rocky cleft below there? VOICE (below) Take me, too! take me, too! I'm climbing now three hundred years, And yet the summit cannot see: Among my equals I would be. BOTH CHORUSES Bears the broom and bears the stock, Bears the fork and bears the buck: Who cannot raise himself to-night Is evermore a ruined wight. HALF-WITCH (below) So long I stumble, ill bestead, And the others are now so far ahead! At home I've neither rest nor cheer, And yet I cannot gain them here. CHORUS OF WITCHES To cheer the witch will salve avail; A rag will answer for a sail; Each trough a goodly ship supplies; He ne'er will fly, who now not flies. BOTH CHORUSES When round the summit whirls our flight, Then lower, and on the ground alight; And far and wide the heather press With witchhood's swarms of wantonness! (They settle down.) MEPHISTOPHELES They crowd and push, they roar and clatter! They whirl and whistle, pull and chatter! They shine, and spirt, and stink, and burn! The true witch-element we learn. Keep close! or we are parted, in our turn, Where art thou? FAUST (in the distance) Here! MEPHISTOPHELES What! whirled so far astray? Then house-right I must use, and clear the way. Make room! Squire Voland comes! Room, gentle rabble, room! Here, Doctor, hold to me: in one jump we'll resume An easier space, and from the crowd be free: It's too much, even for the like of me. Yonder, with special light, there's something shining clearer Within those bushes; I've a mind to see. Come on! we'll slip a little nearer. FAUST Spirit of Contradiction! On! I'll follow straight. 'Tis planned most wisely, if I judge aright: We climb the Brocken's top in the Walpurgis-Night, That arbitrarily, here, ourselves we isolate. MEPHISTOPHELES But see, what motley flames among the heather! There is a lively club together: In smaller circles one is not alone. FAUST Better the summit, I must own: There fire and whirling smoke I see. They seek the Evil One in wild confusion: Many enigmas there might find solution. MEPHISTOPHELES But there enigmas also knotted be. Leave to the multitude their riot! Here will we house ourselves in quiet. It is an old, transmitted trade, That in the greater world the little worlds are made. I see stark-nude young witches congregate, And old ones, veiled and hidden shrewdly: On my account be kind, nor treat them rudely! The trouble's small, the fun is great. I hear the noise of instruments attuning, Vile din! yet one must learn to bear the crooning. Come, come along! It must be, I declare! I'll go ahead and introduce thee there, Thine obligation newly earning. That is no little space: what say'st thou, friend? Look yonder! thou canst scarcely see the end: A hundred fires along the ranks are burning. They dance, they chat, they cook, they drink, they court: Now where, just tell me, is there better sport? FAUST Wilt thou, to introduce us to the revel, Assume the part of wizard or of devil? MEPHISTOPHELES I'm mostly used, 'tis true, to go incognito, But on a gala-day one may his orders show. The Garter does not deck my suit, But honored and at home is here the cloven foot. Perceiv'st thou yonder snail? It cometh, slow and steady; So delicately its feelers pry, That it hath scented me already: I cannot here disguise me, if I try. But come! we'll go from this fire to a newer: I am the go-between, and thou the wooer. (To some, who are sitting around dying embers:) Old gentlemen, why at the outskirts? Enter! I'd praise you if I found you snugly in the centre, With youth and revel round you like a zone: You each, at home, are quite enough alone. GENERAL Say, who would put his trust in nations, Howe'er for them one may have worked and planned? For with the people, as with women, Youth always has the upper hand. MINISTER They're now too far from what is just and sage. I praise the old ones, not unduly: When we were all-in-all, then, truly, Then was the real golden age. PARVENU We also were not stupid, either, And what we should not, often did; But now all things have from their bases slid, Just as we meant to hold them fast together. AUTHOR Who, now, a work of moderate sense will read? Such works are held as antiquate and mossy; And as regards the younger folk, indeed, They never yet have been so pert and saucy. MEPHISTOPHELES (who all at once appears very old) I feel that men are ripe for Judgment-Day, Now for the last time I've the witches'-hill ascended: Since to the lees my cask is drained away, The world's, as well, must soon be ended. HUCKSTER-WITCH Ye gentlemen, don't pass me thus! Let not the chance neglected be! Behold my wares attentively: The stock is rare and various. And yet, there's nothing I've collected No shop, on earth, like this you'll find! Which has not, once, sore hurt inflicted Upon the world, and on mankind. No dagger's here, that set not blood to flowing; No cup, that hath not once, within a healthy frame Poured speedy death, in poison glowing: No gems, that have not brought a maid to shame; No sword, but severed ties for the unwary, Or from behind struck down the adversary. MEPHISTOPHELES Gossip! the times thou badly comprehendest: What's done has happedwhat haps, is done! 'Twere better if for novelties thou sendest: By such alone can we be won. FAUST Let me not lose myself in all this pother! This is a fair, as never was another! MEPHISTOPHELES The whirlpool swirls to get above: Thou'rt shoved thyself, imagining to shove. FAUST But who is that? MEPHISTOPHELES Note her especially, Tis Lilith. FAUST Who? MEPHISTOPHELES Adam's first wife is she. Beware the lure within her lovely tresses, The splendid sole adornment of her hair! When she succeeds therewith a youth to snare, Not soon again she frees him from her jesses. FAUST Those two, the old one with the young one sitting, They've danced already more than fitting. MEPHISTOPHELES No rest to-night for young or old! They start another dance: come now, let us take hold! FAUST (dancing with the young witch) A lovely dream once came to me; I then beheld an apple-tree, And there two fairest apples shone: They lured me so, I climbed thereon. THE FAIR ONE Apples have been desired by you, Since first in Paradise they grew; And I am moved with joy, to know That such within my garden grow. MEPHISTOPHELES (dancing with the old one) A dissolute dream once came to me: Therein I saw a cloven tree, Which had a; Yet,as 'twas, I fancied it. THE OLD ONE I offer here my best salute Unto the knight with cloven foot! Let him aprepare, If himdoes not scare. PROKTOPHANTASMIST Accursd folk! How dare you venture thus? Had you not, long since, demonstration That ghosts can't stand on ordinary foundation? And now you even dance, like one of us! THE FAIR ONE (dancing) Why does he come, then, to our ball? FAUST (dancing) O, everywhere on him you fall! When others dance, he weighs the matter: If he can't every step bechatter, Then 'tis the same as were the step not made; But if you forwards go, his ire is most displayed. If you would whirl in regular gyration As he does in his dull old mill, He'd show, at any rate, good-will, Especially if you heard and heeded his hortation. PROKTOPHANTASMIST You still are here? Nay, 'tis a thing unheard! Vanish, at once! We've said the enlightening word. The pack of devils by no rules is daunted: We are so wise, and yet is Tegel haunted. To clear the folly out, how have I swept and stirred! Twill ne'er be clean: why, 'tis a thing unheard! THE FAIR ONE Then cease to bore us at our ball! PROKTOPHANTASMIST I tell you, spirits, to your face, I give to spirit-despotism no place; My spirit cannot practise it at all. (The dance continues) Naught will succeed, I see, amid such revels; Yet something from a tour I always save, And hope, before my last step to the grave, To overcome the poets and the devils. MEPHISTOPHELES He now will seat him in the nearest puddle; The solace this, whereof he's most assured: And when upon his rump the leeches hang and fuddle, He'll be of spirits and of Spirit cured. (To FAUST, who has left the dance:) Wherefore forsakest thou the lovely maiden, That in the dance so sweetly sang? FAUST Ah! in the midst of it there sprang A red mouse from her mouthsufficient reason. MEPHISTOPHELES That's nothing! One must not so squeamish be; So the mouse was not gray, enough for thee. Who'd think of that in love's selected season? FAUST Then saw I. MEPHISTOPHELES What? FAUST Mephisto, seest thou there, Alone and far, a girl most pale and fair? She falters on, her way scarce knowing, As if with fettered feet that stay her going. I must confess, it seems to me As if my kindly Margaret were she. MEPHISTOPHELES Let the thing be! All thence have evil drawn: It is a magic shape, a lifeless eidolon. Such to encounter is not good: Their blank, set stare benumbs the human blood, And one is almost turned to stone. Medusa's tale to thee is known. FAUST Forsooth, the eyes they are of one whom, dying, No hand with loving pressure closed; That is the breast whereon I once was lying, The body sweet, beside which I reposed! MEPHISTOPHELES Tis magic all, thou fool, seduced so easily! Unto each man his love she seems to be. FAUST The woe, the rapture, so ensnare me, That from her gaze I cannot tear me! And, strange! around her fairest throat A single scarlet band is gleaming, No broader than a knife-blade seeming! MEPHISTOPHELES Quite right! The mark I also note. Her head beneath her arm she'll sometimes carry; Twas Perseus lopped it, her old adversary. Thou crav'st the same illusion still! Come, let us mount this little hill; The Prater shows no livelier stir, And, if they've not bewitched my sense, I verily see a theatre. What's going on? SERVIBILIS 'Twill shortly recommence: A new performance'tis the last of seven. To give that number is the custom here: 'Twas by a Dilettante written, And Dilettanti in the parts appear. That now I vanish, pardon, I entreat you! As Dilettante I the curtain raise. MEPHISTOPHELES When I upon the Blocksberg meet you, I find it good: for that's your proper place. Faust ~ Johann Wolfgang von Goethe, WALPURGIS-NIGHT ,

999:Ben Jonson Entertains A Man From Stratford You are a friend then, as I make it out, Of our man Shakespeare, who alone of us Will put an ass’s head in Fairyland As he would add a shilling to more shillings, All most harmonious,—and out of his Miraculous inviolable increase Fills Ilion, Rome, or any town you like Of olden time with timeless Englishmen; And I must wonder what you think of him— All you down there where your small Avon flows By Stratford, and where you’re an Alderman. Some, for a guess, would have him riding back To be a farrier there, or say a dyer; Or maybe one of your adept surveyors; Or like enough the wizard of all tanners. Not you—no fear of that; for I discern In you a kindling of the flame that saves— The nimble element, the true caloric; I see it, and was told of it, moreover, By our discriminate friend himself, no other. Had you been one of the sad average, As he would have it,—meaning, as I take it, The sinew and the solvent of our Island, You’d not be buying beer for this Terpander’s Approved and estimated friend Ben Jonson; He’d never foist it as a part of his Contingent entertainment of a townsman While he goes off rehearsing, as he must, If he shall ever be the Duke of Stratford. And my words are no shadow on your town— Far from it; for one town’s as like another As all are unlike London. Oh, he knows it,— And there’s the Stratford in him; he denies it, And there’s the Shakespeare in him. So, God help him! I tell him he needs Greek; but neither God Nor Greek will help him. Nothing will help that man. You see the fates have given him so much, He must have all or perish,—or look out Of London, where he sees too many lords. 59 They’re part of half what ails him: I suppose There’s nothing fouler down among the demons Than what it is he feels when he remembers The dust and sweat and ointment of his calling With his lords looking on and laughing at him. King as he is, he can’t be king de facto, And that’s as well, because he wouldn’t like it; He’d frame a lower rating of men then Than he has now; and after that would come An abdication or an apoplexy. He can’t be king, not even king of Stratford,— Though half the world, if not the whole of it, May crown him with a crown that fits no king Save Lord Apollo’s homesick emissary: Not there on Avon, or on any stream Where Naiads and their white arms are no more, Shall he find home again. It’s all too bad. But there’s a comfort, for he’ll have that House— The best you ever saw; and he’ll be there Anon, as you’re an Alderman. Good God! He makes me lie awake o’nights and laugh. And you have known him from his origin, You tell me; and a most uncommon urchin He must have been to the few seeing ones— A trifle terrifying, I dare say, Discovering a world with his man’s eyes, Quite as another lad might see some finches, If he looked hard and had an eye for nature. But this one had his eyes and their foretelling, And he had you to fare with, and what else? He must have had a father and a mother— In fact I’ve heard him say so—and a dog, As a boy should, I venture; and the dog, Most likely, was the only man who knew him. A dog, for all I know, is what he needs As much as anything right here to-day, To counsel him about his disillusions, Old aches, and parturitions of what’s coming,— A dog of orders, an emeritus, To wag his tail at him when he comes home, And then to put his paws up on his knees 60 And say, “For God’s sake, what’s it all about?” I don’t know whether he needs a dog or not— Or what he needs. I tell him he needs Greek; I’ll talk of rules and Aristotle with him, And if his tongue’s at home he’ll say to that, “I have your word that Aristotle knows, And you mine that I don’t know Aristotle.” He’s all at odds with all the unities, And what’s yet worse, it doesn’t seem to matter; He treads along through Time’s old wilderness As if the tramp of all the centuries Had left no roads—and there are none, for him; He doesn’t see them, even with those eyes,— And that’s a pity, or I say it is. Accordingly we have him as we have him— Going his way, the way that he goes best, A pleasant animal with no great noise Or nonsense anywhere to set him off— Save only divers and inclement devils Have made of late his heart their dwelling place. A flame half ready to fly out sometimes At some annoyance may be fanned up in him, But soon it falls, and when it falls goes out; He knows how little room there is in there For crude and futile animosities, And how much for the joy of being whole, And how much for long sorrow and old pain. On our side there are some who may be given To grow old wondering what he thinks of us And some above us, who are, in his eyes, Above himself,—and that’s quite right and English. Yet here we smile, or disappoint the gods Who made it so: the gods have always eyes To see men scratch; and they see one down here Who itches, manor-bitten to the bone, Albeit he knows himself—yes, yes, he knows— The lord of more than England and of more Than all the seas of England in all time Shall ever wash. D’ye wonder that I laugh? He sees me, and he doesn’t seem to care; And why the devil should he? I can’t tell you. 61 I’ll meet him out alone of a bright Sunday, Trim, rather spruce, and quite the gentleman. “What ho, my lord!” say I. He doesn’t hear me; Wherefore I have to pause and look at him. He’s not enormous, but one looks at him. A little on the round if you insist, For now, God save the mark, he’s growing old; He’s five and forty, and to hear him talk These days you’d call him eighty; then you’d add More years to that. He’s old enough to be The father of a world, and so he is. “Ben, you’re a scholar, what’s the time of day?” Says he; and there shines out of him again An aged light that has no age or station— The mystery that’s his—a mischievous Half-mad serenity that laughs at fame For being won so easy, and at friends Who laugh at him for what he wants the most, And for his dukedom down in Warwickshire;— By which you see we’re all a little jealous.… Poor Greene! I fear the color of his name Was even as that of his ascending soul; And he was one where there are many others,— Some scrivening to the end against their fate, Their puppets all in ink and all to die there; And some with hands that once would shade an eye That scanned Euripides and Æschylus Will reach by this time for a pot-house mop To slush their first and last of royalties. Poor devils! and they all play to his hand; For so it was in Athens and old Rome. But that’s not here or there; I’ve wandered off. Greene does it, or I’m careful. Where’s that boy? Yes, he’ll go back to Stratford. And we’ll miss him? Dear sir, there’ll be no London here without him. We’ll all be riding, one of these fine days, Down there to see him—and his wife won’t like us; And then we’ll think of what he never said Of women—which, if taken all in all With what he did say, would buy many horses. 62 Though nowadays he’s not so much for women: “So few of them,” he says, “are worth the guessing.” But there’s a worm at work when he says that, And while he says it one feels in the air A deal of circumambient hocus-pocus. They’ve had him dancing till his toes were tender, And he can feel ’em now, come chilly rains. There’s no long cry for going into it, However, and we don’t know much about it. But you in Stratford, like most here in London, Have more now in the Sonnets than you paid for; He’s put one there with all her poison on, To make a singing fiction of a shadow That’s in his life a fact, and always will be. But she’s no care of ours, though Time, I fear, Will have a more reverberant ado About her than about another one Who seems to have decoyed him, married him, And sent him scuttling on his way to London,— With much already learned, and more to learn, And more to follow. Lord! how I see him now, Pretending, maybe trying, to be like us. Whatever he may have meant, we never had him; He failed us, or escaped, or what you will,— And there was that about him (God knows what,— We’d flayed another had he tried it on us) That made as many of us as had wits More fond of all his easy distances Than one another’s noise and clap-your-shoulder. But think you not, my friend, he’d never talk! Talk? He was eldritch at it; and we listened— Thereby acquiring much we knew before About ourselves, and hitherto had held Irrelevant, or not prime to the purpose. And there were some, of course, and there be now, Disordered and reduced amazedly To resignation by the mystic seal Of young finality the gods had laid On everything that made him a young demon; And one or two shot looks at him already As he had been their executioner; And once or twice he was, not knowing it,— 63 Or knowing, being sorry for poor clay And saying nothing.… Yet, for all his engines, You’ll meet a thousand of an afternoon Who strut and sun themselves and see around ’em A world made out of more that has a reason Than his, I swear, that he sees here to-day; Though he may scarcely give a Fool an exit But we mark how he sees in everything A law that, given we flout it once too often, Brings fire and iron down on our naked heads. To me it looks as if the power that made him, For fear of giving all things to one creature, Left out the first,—faith, innocence, illusion, Whatever ’tis that keeps us out o’ Bedlam,— And thereby, for his too consuming vision, Empowered him out of nature; though to see him, You’d never guess what’s going on inside him. He’ll break out some day like a keg of ale With too much independent frenzy in it; And all for cellaring what he knows won’t keep, And what he’d best forget—but that he can’t. You’ll have it, and have more than I’m foretelling; And there’ll be such a roaring at the Globe As never stunned the bleeding gladiators. He’ll have to change the color of its hair A bit, for now he calls it Cleopatra. Black hair would never do for Cleopatra. But you and I are not yet two old women, And you’re a man of office. What he does Is more to you than how it is he does it,— And that’s what the Lord God has never told him. They work together, and the Devil helps ’em; They do it of a morning, or if not, They do it of a night; in which event He’s peevish of a morning. He seems old; He’s not the proper stomach or the sleep— And they’re two sovran agents to conserve him Against the fiery art that has no mercy But what’s in that prodigious grand new House. I gather something happening in his boyhood Fulfilled him with a boy’s determination To make all Stratford ’ware of him. Well, well, 64 I hope at last he’ll have his joy of it, And all his pigs and sheep and bellowing beeves, And frogs and owls and unicorns, moreover, Be less than hell to his attendant ears. Oh, past a doubt we’ll all go down to see him. He may be wise. With London two days off, Down there some wind of heaven may yet revive him; But there’s no quickening breath from anywhere Small make of him again the poised young faun From Warwickshire, who’d made, it seems, already A legend of himself before I came To blink before the last of his first lightning. Whatever there be, there’ll be no more of that; The coming on of his old monster Time Has made him a still man; and he has dreams Were fair to think on once, and all found hollow. He knows how much of what men paint themselves Would blister in the light of what they are; He sees how much of what was great now shares An eminence transformed and ordinary; He knows too much of what the world has hushed In others, to be loud now for himself; He knows now at what height low enemies May reach his heart, and high friends let him fall; But what not even such as he may know Bedevils him the worst: his lark may sing At heaven’s gate how he will, and for as long As joy may listen, but he sees no gate, Save one whereat the spent clay waits a little Before the churchyard has it, and the worm. Not long ago, late in an afternoon, I came on him unseen down Lambeth way, And on my life I was afear’d of him: He gloomed and mumbled like a soul from Tophet, His hands behind him and his head bent solemn. “What is it now,” said I,—“another woman?” That made him sorry for me, and he smiled. “No, Ben,” he mused; “it’s Nothing. It’s all Nothing. We come, we go; and when we’re done, we’re done; Spiders and flies—we’re mostly one or t’other— We come, we go; and when we’re done, we’re done; 65 “By God, you sing that song as if you knew it!” Said I, by way of cheering him; “what ails ye?” “I think I must have come down here to think,” Says he to that, and pulls his little beard; “Your fly will serve as well as anybody, And what’s his hour? He flies, and flies, and flies, And in his fly’s mind has a brave appearance; And then your spider gets him in her net, And eats him out, and hangs him up to dry. That’s Nature, the kind mother of us all. And then your slattern housemaid swings her broom, And where’s your spider? And that’s Nature, also. It’s Nature, and it’s Nothing. It’s all Nothing. It’s all a world where bugs and emperors Go singularly back to the same dust, Each in his time; and the old, ordered stars That sang together, Ben, will sing the same Old stave tomorrow.” When he talks like that, There’s nothing for a human man to do But lead him to some grateful nook like this Where we be now, and there to make him drink. He’ll drink, for love of me, and then be sick; A sad sign always in a man of parts, And always very ominous. The great Should be as large in liquor as in love,— And our great friend is not so large in either: One disaffects him, and the other fails him; Whatso he drinks that has an antic in it, He’s wondering what’s to pay in his insides; And while his eyes are on the Cyprian He’s fribbling all the time with that damned House. We laugh here at his thrift, but after all It may be thrift that saves him from the devil; God gave it, anyhow,—and we’ll suppose He knew the compound of his handiwork. Today the clouds are with him, but anon He’ll out of ’em enough to shake the tree Of life itself and bring down fruit unheard-of,— And, throwing in the bruised and whole together, Prepare a wine to make us drunk with wonder; 66 And if he live, there’ll be a sunset spell Thrown over him as over a glassed lake That yesterday was all a black wild water. God send he live to give us, if no more, What now’s a-rampage in him, and exhibit, With a decent half-allegiance to the ages An earnest of at least a casual eye Turned once on what he owes to Gutenberg, And to the fealty of more centuries Than are as yet a picture in our vision. “There’s time enough,—I’ll do it when I’m old, And we’re immortal men,” he says to that; And then he says to me, “Ben, what’s ‘immortal’? Think you by any force of ordination It may be nothing of a sort more noisy Than a small oblivion of component ashes That of a dream-addicted world was once A moving atomy much like your friend here?” Nothing will help that man. To make him laugh, I said then he was a mad mountebank,— And by the Lord I nearer made him cry. I could have eat an eft then, on my knees, Tail, claws, and all of him; for I had stung The king of men, who had no sting for me, And I had hurt him in his memories; And I say now, as I shall say again, I love the man this side idolatry. He’ll do it when he’s old, he says. I wonder. He may not be so ancient as all that. For such as he, the thing that is to do Will do itself,—but there’s a reckoning; The sessions that are now too much his own, The roiling inward of a stilled outside, The churning out of all those blood-fed lines, The nights of many schemes and little sleep, The full brain hammered hot with too much thinking, The vexed heart over-worn with too much aching,— This weary jangling of conjoined affairs Made out of elements that have no end, And all confused at once, I understand, 67 Is not what makes a man to live forever. O no, not now! He’ll not be going now: There’ll be time yet for God knows what explosions Before he goes. He’ll stay awhile. Just wait: Just wait a year or two for Cleopatra, For she’s to be a balsam and a comfort; And that’s not all a jape of mine now, either. For granted once the old way of Apollo Sings in a man, he may then, if he’s able, Strike unafraid whatever strings he will Upon the last and wildest of new lyres; Nor out of his new magic, though it hymn The shrieks of dungeoned hell, shall he create A madness or a gloom to shut quite out A cleaving daylight, and a last great calm Triumphant over shipwreck and all storms. He might have given Aristotle creeps, But surely would have given him his katharsis. He’ll not be going yet. There’s too much yet Unsung within the man. But when he goes, I’d stake ye coin o’ the realm his only care For a phantom world he sounded and found wanting Will be a portion here, a portion there, Of this or that thing or some other thing That has a patent and intrinsical Equivalence in those egregious shillings. And yet he knows, God help him! Tell me, now, If ever there was anything let loose On earth by gods or devils heretofore Like this mad, careful, proud, indifferent Shakespeare! Where was it, if it ever was? By heaven, ’Twas never yet in Rhodes or Pergamon— In Thebes or Nineveh, a thing like this! No thing like this was ever out of England; And that he knows. I wonder if he cares. Perhaps he does.… O Lord, that House in Stratford! ~ Edwin Arlington Robinson,

1000:A Dialogue At Fiesole HE. Halt here awhile. That mossy-cushioned seat Is for your queenliness a natural throne; As I am fitly couched on this low sward, Here at your feet. SHE. And I, in thought, at yours: My adoration, deepest. HE. Deep, so deep, I have no thought wherewith to fathom it; Or, shall I say, no flight of song so high, To reach the Heaven whence you look down on me, My star, my far-off star! SHE. If far, yet fixed: No shifting planet leaving you to seek Where now it shines. HE. A little light, if near, Glows livelier than the largest orb in Heaven. SHE. But little lights burn quickly out, and then, Another must be kindled. Stars gleam on, Unreached, but unextinguished. . . . Now, the song. HE. Yes, yes, the song: your music to my verse. SHE. In this sequestered dimple of the hill, Forgotten by the furrow, none will hear: Only the nightingales, that misconceive The mid-day darkness of the cypresses 29 For curtained night. HE. And they will hush to hear A sudden singing sweeter than their own. Delay not the enchantment, but begin. SHE (singing). If you were here, if you were here, The cattle-bells would sound more clear; The cataracts would flash and leap More silvery from steep to steep; The farewell of a rosier glow Soften the summit of the snow; The valley take a tenderer green; In dewy gorge and dim ravine The loving bramble-flowers embrace The rough thorn with a gentler grace; The gentian open bluer eyes, In bluer air, to bluer skies: The frail anemone delay, The jonquil hasten on its way, The primrose linger past its time, The violet prolong its prime; And every flower that seeks the light, On Alpine lowland, Alpine height, Wear April's smile without its tear, If you were here; if you were here! If you were here, the Spring would wake A fuller music in the brake. The mottled misselthrush would pipe A note more ringing, rich, and ripe; The whitethroat peer above its nest With brighter eye and downier breast; The cuckoo greet the amorous year, Chanting its joy without its jeer; The lark betroth the earth and sky With peals of heavenlier minstrelsy; And every wildwood bird rejoice On fleeter wing, with sweeter voice, 30 If you were here! If you were here, I too should feel The moisture of the Springtide steal Along my veins, and rise and roll Through every fibre of my soul. In my live breast would melt the snow, And all its channels flush and flow With waves of life and streams of song, Frozen and silent all too long. A something in each wilding flower, Something in every scented shower, Something in flitting voice and wing, Would drench my heart and bid me sing: Not in this feeble halting note, But, like the merle's exulting throat, With carol full and carol clear, If you were here, if you were here. HE. Hark! How the hills have caught the strain, and seem Loth to surrender it, and now enclose Its cadence in the silence of their folds. Still as you sang, the verses had the wing Of that which buoyed them, and your aery voice Lifted my drooping music from the ground. Now that you cease, there is an empty nest, From which the full-fledged melody hath flown. SHE. Dare I with you contend in metaphor, It might not be so fanciful to show That nest, and eggs, and music, all are yours. But modesty in poets is too rare, To be reproved for error. Let me then Be crowned full queen of song, albeit in sooth I am but consort, owing my degree To the real sceptred Sovereign at my side. But now repay my music, and in kind. Unfolding to my ear the youngest flower Of song that seems to blossom all the year; ``Delay not the enchantment, but begin.'' 31 HE (reciting). Yet, you are here; yes, you are here. There's not a voice that wakes the year, In vale frequented, upland lone, But steals some sweetness from your own. When dream and darkness have withdrawn, I feel you in the freshening dawn: You fill the noonday's hushed repose; You scent the dew of daylight's close. The twilight whispers you are nigh; The stars announce you in the sky. The moon, when most alone in space, Fills all the heavens with your face. In darkest hour of deepest night, I see you with the spirit's sight; And slumber murmurs in my ear, ``Hush! she is here. Sleep! she is here.'' SHE. Hark how you bare your secret when you sing! Imagination's universal scope Can swift endue this gray and shapeless world With the designs and colour of the sky. What want you with our fixed and lumpish forms, You, unconditioned arbiter of air? ``Yet, you are here; yes, you are here.'' The span Of nimble fancy leaps the interval, And brings the distant nearer than the near. HE. Distance is nearer than proximity, When distance longs, proximity doth not. SHE. The near is always distant to the mind That craves for satisfaction of its end; Nor doth the distance ever feel so far As when the end is touched. Retard that goal, Prolonging appetite beyond the feast That feeds anticipation. 32 HE. Specious foil! That parries every stroke before 'tis made. Yet surfeit's self doth not more surely cloy Than endless fasting. SHE. Still a swifter cure Waits on too little than attends too much. While disappointment merely woundeth Hope, The deadly blow by disenchantment dealt Strikes at the heart of Faith. O happy you, The favourites of Fancy, who replace Illusion with illusion, and conceive Fresh cradles in the dark womb of the grave. While we, prosaic victims, prove that time Kills love while leaving loveless life alive, You still, divinely duped, sing deathless love, And with your wizard music, once again, Make Winter Spring. Yet surely you forgive That I have too much pity for the flowers Children and poets cull to fling away, To be an April nosegay. HE. How you swell The common chorus! Women, who are wronged So roughly by men's undiscerning word, As though one pattern served to show them all, Should be more just to poets. These, in truth, Diverge from one another nowise less Than ``women,'' vaguely labelled: children some, With childish voice and nature, lyric bards, Weaklings that on life's threshold sweetly wail, But never from that silvery treble pass Into the note and chant of manliness. Their love is like their verse, a frail desire, A fluttering fountain falling feebly back Into its shallow origin. Next there are The poets of contention, wrestlers born, Who challenge iron Circumstance, and fail: Generous and strong, withal not strong enough, 33 Since lacking sinewy wisdom, hard as life. The love of these is like the lightning spear, And shrivels whom it touches. They consume All things within their reach, and, last of all, Their lonely selves; and then through time they tower, Sublime but charred, and wear on their high fronts The gloomy glory of the sunlit pine. But the great gods of Song, in clear white light, The radiance of their godhead, calmly dwell, And with immutable cold starlike gaze Scan both the upper and the under world, As it revolves, themselves serenely fixed. Their bias is the bias of the sphere, That turns all ways, but turns away from none, Save to return to it. They have no feud With gods or men, the living or the dead, The past or present, and their words complete Life's incompleteness with a healing note. For they are not more sensitive than strong, More wise than tender; understanding all, At peace with all, at peace with life and death, And love that gives a meaning unto life And takes from death the meaning and the sting: At peace with hate, and every opposite. Were I but one of these-presumptuous thought!Even you, the live fulfilment of such dreams As these secrete, would hazard well your love On my more largely loving. 'Twould be you, Yes, even you, that first would flag and fail In either of my choosing; you, whose wing Would droop on mine and pray to be upborne. And when my pinions did no more suffice For that their double load, then softly down, Softly and smoothly as descending lark That hath fulfilled its rhapsody in Heaven, And with diminished music must decline To earthy sounds and concepts, I should curb Illimitable longings to the range Of lower aspiration. Were I such!But, since I am notSHE. 34 Am not? Who shall say, Save she who tests, and haply to her loss? 'Tis better left untested. Strange that you, Who can imagine whatso thing you will, Should lack imagination to appraise Imagination at its topmost worth. Now wield your native sceptre and extend Your fancy forth where Florence overbrims In eddies fairer even than herself. Look how the landscape smiles complacently At its own beauty, as indeed it may; Villa and vineyard each a separate home, Containing possibilities unseen, Materials for your pleasure. Now disport! Which homestead may it please my lord of song To chalk for his, as those rough Frenchmen did Who came with bow-legged Charles to justify Savonarola's scourgeful prophecies? Shall it be that one gazing in our face, Not jealous of its beauty, but exposed To all the wantonness of sun and air, With roses girt, with roses garlanded, And balustraded terrace topped with jars Of clove carnations; unambitious roof, Italian equivalent to house Love in a cottage? Why, the very place For her you once described! Wait! Let me see, Can I recall the lines? Yes, thus they ran. Do you remember them? Or are they now A chronicle forgotten and erased From that convenient palimpsest, the heart? In dewy covert of her eyes The secret of the violet lies; The sun and wind caress and pair In the lithe wavelets of her hair; The fragrance of the warm soft south Hovers about her honeyed mouth; And, when she moves, she floats through air Like zephyr-wafted gossamer. Hers is no lore of dumb dead books; Her learning liveth in her looks; 35 And still she shows, in meek replies, Wisdom enough to deem you wise. Her voice as soothing is and sweet As whispers of the waving wheat, And in the moisture of her kiss Is April-like deliciousness. Like gloaming-hour, she doth inspire A vague, an infinite desire; And, like the stars, though out of sight, Filleth the loneliness of night. Come how she may, or slow or fleet, She brings the morning on her feet; Gone, leaves behind a nameless pain, Like the sadness of a silenced strain. HE. A youthful dream. SHE. Yet memory can surmise That young dream fruited to reality, Then, like reality, was dream no more. All dreams are youthful; you are dreaming still. What lovely visions denizen your sleep! Let me recall another; for I know All you have written, thought, and felt, and much You neither thought nor felt, but only sang. A wondrous gift, a godlike gift, that breathes Into our exiled clay unexiled lives, Manlier than Adam, comelier than Eve. That massive villa, we both know so well, With one face set toward Settignano, one Gazing at Bellosguardo, and its rear Locked from the north by clustered cypresses, That seem like fixed colossal sentinels, And tower above its tower, but look not in, Might be abode for her whom you conceived In tropes so mystical, you must forgive If recollection trips. To dwell with her is calmly to abide Through every change of time and every flux of tide. 36 In her the Present, Past, and Future meet, The Father, and the Son, and dovelike Paraclete. She holdeth silent intercourse with Night, Still journeying with the stars, and shining with their light. Her love, illumination; her embrace, The sweep of angels' wings across a mortal's face. Her lap is piled with autumn fruits, her brow Crowned with the blossoming trails that smile from April's bough. Like wintry stars that shine with frosty fire, Her loftiness excites to elevate desire. To love her is to burn with such a flame As lights the lamp which bears the Sanctuary's name. That lamp burns on for ever, day and night, Before her mystic shrine. I am its acolyte. HE. The merest foam of fancy; foam and spray. SHE. Foam-drift of fancy that hath ebbed away. See how the very simile rebukes Man's all unsealike longings! For confess, While ocean still returns, the puny waves Of mortal love are sucked into the sand, Their motion felt, their music heard, no more. Look when the vines are linking hands, and seem As pausing from the dance of Spring, or just Preparing to renew it, round and round, On the green carpet of the bladed corn, That spreads about their feet: corn, vine, and fig, Almond and mulberry, cherry, and pear, and peach, Not taught to know their place, but left to range Up to the villa's walls, windows, and doors, And peep into its life and smile good-day, A portion of its homeliness and joy: 37 A poet's villa once, a poet's again, If you but dream it such; a roof for her, To whom you wrote-I wonder who she wasThis saucy sonnet; saucy, withal sweet, And O, how true of the reflected love You poets render to your worshippers. TRUE AS THE DIAL TO THE SUN. You are the sun, and I the dial, sweet, So you can mark on me what time you will. If you move slowly, how can I move fleet? And when you halt, I too must fain be still. Chide not the cloudy humours of my brow, If you behold no settled sunshine there: Rather upbraid your own, sweet, and allow, My looks cannot be foul if yours be fair. Then from the heaven of your high witchery shine, And I with smiles shall watch the hours glide by; You have no mood that is not straightway mine; My cheek but takes complexion from your eye. All that I am dependeth so on you, What clouds the sun must cloud the dial too. HE. No man should quarrel with his Past, and I Maintain no feud with mine. Do we not ripen, Ripen and mellow in love, unto the close, Thanks no more to the present than the past? First love is fresh but fugitive as Spring, A wilding flower no sooner plucked than faded; And summer's sultry fervour ends in storm, Recriminating thunder, wasteful tears, And angry gleam of lightning menaces. Give me October's meditative haze, Its gossamer mornings, dewy-wimpled eves, Dewy and fragrant, fragrant and secure, The long slow sound of farmward-wending wains, When homely Love sups quiet 'mong its sheaves, Sups 'mong its sheaves, its sickle at its side, And all is peace, peace and plump fruitfulness. SHE. 38 Picture of all we dream and we desire: Autumn's grave cheerfulness and sober bliss, Rich resignation, humble constancy. For, prone to bear the load piled up by life, We, once youth's pasture season at an end, Submit to crawl. Unbroken to the last, You spurn the goad of stern taskmaster Time. Even 'mid autumn harvest you demand Returning hope and blossom of the Spring, All seasons and sensations, and at once, Or in too quick succession. Do we blame? We envy rather the eternal youth We cannot share. But youth is pitiless, And, marching onward, neither asks nor seeks Who falls behind. Thus women who are wise, Beside their thresholds knitting homely gear, Wave wistful salutation as you pass, And think of you regretfully, when gone: A soft regret, a sweet regret, that is Only the mellow fruit of unplucked joy. Now improvise some other simple strain, That with harmonious cadence may attune The vain and hazard discords of discourse. HE. When Love was young, it asked for wings, That it might still be roaming; And away it sped, by fancy led, Through dawn, and noon, and gloaming. Each daintiness that blooms and blows It wooed in honeyed metre, And when it won the sweetest sweet, It flew off to a sweeter: When Love was young. When Love was old, it craved for rest, For home, and hearth, and haven; For quiet talks round sheltered walks, And long lawns smoothly shaven. And what Love sought, at last it found, A roof, a porch, a garden, And from a fond unquestioning heart 39 Peace, sympathy, and pardon, When Love was old. SHE. Simple, in sooth, and haply true: withal, Too, too autumnal even for my heart. I never weary of your vernal note. Carol again, and sing me back my youth With the redundant melodies of Spring. HE. I breathe my heart in the heart of the rose, The rose that I pluck and send you, With a prayer that the perfume its leaves enclose May kiss, and caress, and tend you: Caress and tend you till I can come, To the garden where first I found you, And the thought that as yet in the rose is dumb Can ripple in music round you. O rose, that will shortly be her guest, You may well look happy, at leaving: Will you lie in the cradle her snowy breast Doth rock with its gentle heaving? Will you mount the throne of her hazel hair, That waves like a summer billow, Or be hidden and hushed, at nightfall prayer, In the folds of her dimpled pillow? And when she awakes at dawn to feel If you have been dreaming with her, Then the whole of your secret, sweet rose, reveal, And say I am coming thither: And that when there is silence in earth and sky, And peace from the cares that cumber, She must not ask if your leaves or I Be clasped in her perfumed slumber. SHE. Give me your hand; and, if you will, keep mine Engraffed in yours, as slowly thus we skirt La Doccia's dark declivity, and make 40 Athwart Majano's pathless pines a path To lead us onward haply where it may. Lo! the Carrara mountains flush to view, That in the noonday were not visible. Shall we not fold this comfort to our hearts, Humbly rejoiced to think as there are heights Seen only in the sunset, so our lives, If that they lack not loftiness, may wear A glow of glory on their furrowed fronts, Until they faint and fade into the night! ~ Alfred Austin,

1001:The Kalevala - Rune Xii KYLLIKKI'S BROKEN VOW. Lemminkainen, artful husband, Reckless hero, Kaukomieli, Constantly beside his young wife., Passed his life in sweet contentment, And the years rolled swiftly onward; Ahti thought not of the battles, Nor Kyllikki of the dances. Once upon a time it happened That the hero, Lemminkainen, Went upon the lake a-fishing, Was not home at early evening, As the cruel night descended; To the village went Kyllikki, To the dance of merry maidens. Who will tell the evil story, Who will bear the information To the husband, Lemminkainen? Ahti's sister tells the story, And the sister's name, Ainikki. Soon she spreads the cruel tidings, Straightway gives the information, Of Kyllikki's perjured honor, These the words Ainikki utters: 'Ahti, my beloved brother, To the village went Kyllikki, To the hall of many strangers, To the plays and village dances, With the young men and the maidens, With the maids of braided tresses, To the halls of joy and pleasure.' Lemminkainen, much dejected, Broken-hearted, flushed with anger, Spake these words in measured accents: 'Mother dear, my gray-haired mother, Wilt thou straightway wash my linen In the blood of poison-serpents, 139 In the black blood of the adder? I must hasten to the combat, To the camp-fires of the Northland, To the battle-fields of Lapland; To the village went Kyllikki, To the play of merry maidens, To the games and village dances, With the maids of braided tresses.' Straightway speaks the wife, Kyllikki: 'My beloved husband, Ahti, Do not go to war, I pray thee. In the evening I lay sleeping, Slumbering I saw in dream-land Fire upshooting from the chimney, Flames arising, mounting skyward, From the windows of this dwelling, From the summits of these rafters, Piercing through our upper chambers, Roaring like the fall of waters, Leaping from the floor and ceiling, Darting from the halls and doorways.' But the doubting Lemminkainen Makes this answer to Kyllikki: 'I discredit dreams or women, Have no faith in vows of maidens! Faithful mother of my being, Hither bring my mail of copper; Strong desire is stirring in me For the cup of deadly combat, For the mead of martial conquest.' This the pleading mother's answer: 'Lemminkainen, son beloved, Do not go to war I pray thee; We have foaming beer abundant, In our vessels beer of barley, Held in casks by oaken spigots; Drink this beer of peace and pleasure, Let us drink of it together.' Spake the hero, Lemminkainen: 'I shall taste no more the viands, In the home of false Kyllikki; Rather would I drink the water 140 From the painted tips of birch-oars; Sweeter far to me the water, Than the beverage of dishonor, At my mother's home and fireside! 'Hither bring my martial doublet, Bring me now the sword of battle, Bring my father's sword of honor; I must go to upper Northland, To the battle-fields of Lapland, There to win me gold and silver.' This the anxious mother's answer: 'My beloved Kaukomieli, We have gold in great abundance, Gold and silver in the store-room; Recently upon the uplands, In the early hours of morning, Toiled the workmen in the corn-fields, Plowed the meadows filled with serpents, When the plowshare raised the cover From a chest of gold and silver, Countless was the gold uncovered, Hid beneath the grassy meadow; This the treasure I have brought thee, Take the countless gold in welcome.' Spake the hero, Lemminkainen: 'Do not wish thy household silver, From the wars I'll earn my silver; Gold and silver from the combat Are to me of greater value Than the wealth thou hast discovered. Bring me now my heavy armor, Bring me too my spear and broadsword; To the Northland I must hasten, To the bloody wars of Lapland, Thither does my pride impel me, Thitherward my heart is turning. 'I have heard a tale of Lapland, Some believe the wondrous story, That a maid in Pimentola Lives that does not care for suitors, Does not care for bearded heroes.' This the aged mother's answer: 141 'Warlike Athi, son beloved, In thy home thou hast Kyllikki, Fairest wife of all the islands; Strange to see two wives abiding In the home of but one husband.' Spake the hero, Lemminkainen: 'To the village runs Kyllikki; Let her run to village dances, Let her sleep in other dwellings, With the village youth find pleasure, With the maids of braided tresses.' Seeks the mother to detain him, Thus the anxious mother answers: 'Do not go, my son beloved, Ignorant of Pohya-witchcraft, To the distant homes of Northland Till thou hast the art of magic, Till thou hast some little wisdom Do not go to fields of battle, To the fires of Northland's children, To the slaughter-fields of Lapland, Till of magic thou art master. There the Lapland maids will charm thee, Turyalanders will bewitch thee, Sing thy visage into charcoal, Head and shoulders to the furnace, Into ashes sing thy fore-arm, Into fire direct thy footsteps.' Spake the warlike Lemminkainen: Wizards often have bewitched me, And the fascinating serpents; Lapland wizards, three in number, On an eve in time of summer, Sitting on a rock at twilight, Not a garment to protect them, Once bewitched me with their magic; This much they have taken from me, This the sum of all my losses: What the hatchet gains from flint-stone, What the auger bores from granite, What the heel chips from the iceberg, And what death purloins from tomb-stones. 142 'Horribly the wizards threatened, Tried to sink me with their magic, In the water of the marshes, In the mud and treacherous quicksand, To my chin in mire and water; But I too was born a hero, Born a hero and magician, Was not troubled by their magic. 'Straightway I began my singing, Sang the archers with their arrows, Sang the spearmen with their weapons, Sang the swordsmen with their poniards, Sang the singers with their singing, The enchanters with their magic, To the rapids of the rivers, To the highest fall of waters, To the all-devouring whirlpool, To the deepest depths of ocean, Where the wizards still are sleeping, Sleeping till the grass shoots upward Through the beards and wrinkled faces, Through the locks of the enchanters, As they sleep beneath the billows.' Still entreats the anxious mother, Still beseeches Lemminkainen, Trying to restrain the hero, While Kyllikki begs forgiveness; This the language of the mother: 'Do not go, my son beloved, To the villages of Northland, Nor to Lapland's frigid borders; Dire misfortune will befall thee, Star of evil settle o'er thee, Lemminkainen's end, destruction. 'Couldst thou speak in tongues a hundred, I could not believe thee able, Through the magic of thy singing, To enchant the sons of Lapland To the bottom of the ocean, Dost not know the Tury-language, Canst but speak the tongue of Suomi, Canst not win by witless magic.' 143 Lemminkainen, reckless hero, Also known as Kaukomieli, Stood beside his mother, combing Out his sable locks and musing, Brushing down his beard, debating, Steadfast still in his decision, Quickly hurls his brush in anger, Hurls it to the wall opposing, Gives his mother final answer, These the words that Ahti uses: 'Dire misfortune will befall me, Some sad fate will overtake me, Evil come to Lemminkainen, When the blood flows from that hair-brush, When blood oozes from those bristles.' Thus the warlike Lemminkainen Goes to never-pleasant Lapland, Heeding not his mother's warning, Heeding not her prohibition. Thus the hero, Kaukomieli, Quick equips himself for warfare, On his head a copper helmet, On his shoulders caps of copper, On his body iron armor, Steel, the belt around his body; As he girds himself for battle, Ahti thus soliloquizing: 'Strong the hero in his armor, Strong indeed in copper helmet, Powerful in mail of iron, Stronger far than any hero On the dismal shores of Lapland, Need not fear their wise enchanters, Need not fear their strongest foemen, Need not fear a war with wizards.' Grasped he then the sword of battle, Firmly grasped the heavy broadsword That Tuoni had been grinding, That the gods had brightly burnished, Thrust it in the leathern scabbard, Tied the scabbard to his armor. How do heroes guard from danger, 144 Where protect themselves from evil? Heroes guard their homes and firesides, Guard their doors, and roofs, and windows, Guard the posts that bold the torch-lights, Guard the highways to the court-yard, Guard the ends of all the gate-ways. Heroes guard themselves from women, Carefully from merry maidens; If in this their strength be wanting, Easy fall the heroes, victims To the snares of the enchanters. Furthermore are heroes watchful Of the tribes of warlike giants, Where the highway doubly branches, On the borders of the blue-rock, On the marshes filled with evil, Near the mighty fall of waters, Near the circling of the whirlpool, Near the fiery springs and rapids. Spake the stout-heart, Lemminkainen: 'Rise ye heroes of the broadsword, Ye, the earth's eternal heroes, From the deeps, ye sickle-bearers, From the brooks, ye crossbow-shooters, Come, thou forest, with thine archers, Come, ye thickets, with your armies, Mountain spirits, with your powers, Come, fell Hisi, with thy horrors, Water-mother, with thy dangers, Come, Wellamo, with thy mermaids, Come, ye maidens from the valleys, Come, ye nymphs from winding rivers, Be protection to this hero, Be his day-and-night companions, Body-guard to Lemminkainen, Thus to blunt the spears of wizards, Thus to dull their pointed arrows, That the spears of the enchanters, That the arrows of the archers, That the weapons of the foemen, May not harm this bearded hero. 'Should this force be insufficient, 145 I can call on other powers, I can call the gods above me, Call the great god of the heavens, Him who gives the clouds their courses, Him who rules through boundless ether, Who directs the march of storm-winds. 'Ukko, thou O God above me, Thou the father of creation, Thou that speakest through the thunder, Thou whose weapon is the lightning, Thou whose voice is borne by ether, Grant me now thy mighty fire-sword, Give me here thy burning arrows, Lightning arrows for my quiver, Thus protect me from all danger, Guard me from the wiles of witches, Guide my feet from every evil, Help me conquer the enchanters, Help me drive them from the Northland; Those that stand in front of battle, Those that fill the ranks behind me, Those around me, those above me, Those beneath me, help me banish,. With their knives, and swords, and cross-bows, With their spears of keenest temper, With their tongues of evil magic; Help me drive these Lapland wizards To the deepest depths of ocean, There to wrestle with Wellamo.' Then the reckless Lemminkainen Whistled loudly for his stallion, Called the racer from the hurdles, Called his brown steed from the pasture, Threw the harness on the courser, Hitched the fleet-foot to the snow-sledge, Leaped upon the highest cross-bench, Cracked his whip above the racer, And the steed flies onward swiftly, Bounds the sleigh upon its journey, And the golden plain re-echoes; Travels one day, then a second, Travels all the next day northward, 146 Till the third day evening brings him To a sorry Northland village, On the dismal shores of Lapland. Here the hero, Lemminkainen, Drove along the lowest highway, Through the streets along the border, To a court-yard in the hamlet, Asked one standing in the doorway: 'Is there one within this dwelling, That can loose my stallion's breastplate, That can lift his heavy collar, That these shafts can rightly lower?' On the floor a babe was playing, And the young child gave this answer: 'There is no one in this dwelling That can loose thy stallion's breastplate, That can lift his heavy collar, That the shafts can rightly lower.' Lemminkainen, not discouraged, Whips his racer to a gallop, Rushes forward through the village, On the middle of the highways, To the court-yard in the centre, Asks one standing in the threshold, Leaning on the penthouse door-posts: 'Is there any one here dwelling That can slip my stallion's bridle, That can loose his leathern breast-straps, That can tend my royal racer?' From the fire-place spake a wizard, From her bench the witch made answer: 'Thou canst find one in this dwelling, That can slip thy courser's bridle, That can loose his heavy breastplate, That can tend thy royal racer. There are here a thousand heroes That can make thee hasten homeward, That can give thee fleet-foot stallions, That can chase thee to thy country, Reckless rascal and magician, To thy home and fellow minstrels, To the uplands of thy father, 147 To the cabins of thy mother, To the work-bench of thy brother, To the dairy or thy sister, Ere the evening star has risen, Ere the sun retires to slumber.' Lemminkainen, little fearing, Gives this answer to the wizard: 'I should slay thee for thy pertness, That thy clatter might be silenced.' Then he whipped his fiery charger, And the steed flew onward swiftly, On the upper of the highways, To the court-yard on the summit. When the reckless Lemminkainen Had approached the upper court-yard, Uttered he the words that follow: 'O thou Hisi, stuff this watch-dog, Lempo, stuff his throat and nostrils, Close the mouth of this wild barker, Bridle well the vicious canine, That the watcher may be silent While the hero passes by him.' Then he stepped within the court-room, With his whip he struck the flooring, From the floor arose a vapor, In the fog appeared a pigmy, Who unhitched the royal racer, From his back removed the harness, Gave the weary steed attention. Then the hero, Lemminkainen, Carefully advanced and listened. No one saw the strange magician, No one heard his cautious footsteps; Heard he songs within the dwelling, Through the moss-stuffed chinks heard voices. Through the walls he beard them singing, Through the doors the peals of laughter. Then he spied within the court-rooms, Lurking slyly in the hall-ways, Found the court-rooms filled with singers, By the walls were players seated, Near the doors the wise men hovered, 148 Skilful ones upon the benches, Near the fires the wicked wizards; All were singing songs of Lapland, Singing songs of evil Hisi. Now the minstrel, Lemminkainen, Changes both his form and stature, Passes through the inner door-ways, Enters he the spacious court-hall, And these words the hero utters: 'Fine the singing quickly ending, Good the song that quickly ceases; Better far to keep thy wisdom Than to sing it on the house-tops.' Comes the hostess of Pohyola, Fleetly rushing through the door-way, To the centre of the court-room, And addresses thus the stranger: Formerly a dog lay watching, Was a cur of iron-color, Fond of flesh, a bone-devourer, Loved to lick the blood of strangers. Who then art thou of the heroes, Who of all the host of heroes, That thou art within my court-rooms, That thou comest to my dwelling, Was not seen without my portals, Was not scented by my watch-dogs? Spake the reckless Lemminkainen: 'Do not think that I come hither Having neither wit nor wisdom, Having neither art nor power, Wanting in ancestral knowledge, Lacking prudence of the fathers, That thy watch-dogs may devour me. 'My devoted mother washed me, When a frail and tender baby, Three times in the nights of summer, Nine times in the nights of autumn, That upon my journeys northward I might sing the ancient wisdom, Thus protect myself from danger; When at home I sing as wisely 149 As the minstrels of thy hamlet.' Then the singer, Lemminkainen, Ancient hero, Kaukomieli, Quick began his incantations, Straightway sang the songs of witchcraft, From his fur-robe darts the lightning, Flames outshooting from his eye-balls, From the magic of his singing From his wonderful enchantment. Sang the very best of singers To the very worst of minstrels, Filled their mouths with dust and ashes, Piled the rocks upon their shoulders, Stilled the best of Lapland witches, Stilled the sorcerers and wizards. Then he banished all their heroes, Banished all their proudest minstrels, This one hither, that one thither, To the lowlands poor in verdure, To the unproductive uplands, To the oceans wanting whiting, To the waterfalls of Rutya, To the whirlpool hot and flaming, To the waters decked with sea-foam, Into fires and boiling waters, Into everlasting torment. Then the hero, Lemminkainen, Sang the foemen with their broadswords? Sang the heroes with their weapons, Sang the eldest, sang the youngest, Sang the middle-aged, enchanted; Only one he left his senses, He a poor, defenseless shepherd, Old and sightless, halt and wretched, And the old man's name was Nasshut. Spake the miserable shepherd: 'Thou hast old and young enchanted, Thou hast banished all our heroes, Why hast spared this wretched shepherd?' This is Lemminkainen's answer: 'Therefore have I not bewitched thee: Thou art old, and blind, and wretched 150 Feeble-minded thou, and harmless, Loathsome now without my magic. Thou didst, in thy better life-time, When a shepherd filled with malice, Ruin all thy mother's berries, Make thy sister, too unworthy, Ruin all thy brother's cattle, Drive to death thy father's stallions, Through the marshes, o'er the meadows, Through the lowlands, o'er the mountains, Heeding not thy mother's counsel.' Thereupon the wretched Nasshut, Angry grew and swore for vengeance, Straightway limping through the door-way, Hobbled on beyond the court-yard, O'er the meadow-lands and pastures, To the river of the death-land, To the holy stream and whirlpool, To the kingdom of Tuoni, To the islands of Manala; Waited there for Kaukomieli, Listened long for Lemminkainen, Thinking he must pass this river On his journey to his country, On. the highway to the islands, From the upper shores of Pohya, From the dreary Sariola. ~ Elias Lönnrot,

1002:The Kalevala - Rune X ILMARINEN FORGES THE SAMPO. Wainamoinen, the magician, Takes his steed of copper color, Hitches quick his fleet-foot courser, Puts his racer to the snow-sledge, Straightway springs upon the cross-seat, Snaps his whip adorned with jewels. Like the winds the steed flies onward, Like a lightning flash, the racer Makes the snow-sledge creak and rattle, Makes the highway quickly vanish, Dashes on through fen and forest, Over hills and through the valleys, Over marshes, over mountains, Over fertile plains and meadows; Journeys one day, then a second, So a third from morn till evening, Till the third day evening brings him To the endless bridge of Osmo, To the Osmo-fields and pastures, To the plains of Kalevala; When the hero spake as follows: 'May the wolves devour the dreamer, Eat the Laplander for dinner, May disease destroy the braggart, Him who said that I should never See again my much-loved home-land, Nevermore behold my kindred, Never during all my life-time, Never while the sunshine brightens, Never while the moonlight glimmers On the meadows of Wainola, On the plains of Kalevala.' Then began old Wainamoinen, Ancient bard and famous singer, To renew his incantations; Sang aloft a wondrous pine-tree, 114 Till it pierced the clouds in growing With its golden top and branches, Till it touched the very heavens, Spread its branches in the ether, In the ever-shining sunlight. Now he sings again enchanting, Sings the Moon to shine forever In the fir-tree's emerald branches; In its top he sings the Great Bear. Then be quickly journeys homeward, Hastens to his golden portals, Head awry and visage wrinkled, Crooked cap upon his forehead, Since as ransom he had promised Ilmarinen, magic artist, Thus to save his life from torture On the distant fields of Northland In the dismal Sariola. When his stallion he had halted On the Osmo-field and meadow, Quickly rising in his snow-sledge, The magician heard one knocking, Breaking coal within the smithy, Beating with a heavy hammer. Wainamoinen, famous minstrel, Entering the smithy straightway, Found the blacksmith, Ilmarinen, Knocking with his copper hammer. Ilmarinen spake as follows: 'Welcome, brother Wainamoinen, Old and worthy Wainamoinen! Why so long hast thou been absent, Where hast thou so long been hiding?' Wainamoinen then made answer, These the words of the magician: 'Long indeed have I been living, Many dreary days have wandered, Many cheerless nights have lingered, Floating on the cruel ocean, Weeping in the fens and woodlands Of the never-pleasant Northland, In the dismal Sariola; 115 With the Laplanders I've wandered, With the people filled with witchcraft.' Promptly answers Ilmarinen, These the words the blacksmith uses: 'O thou ancient Wainamoinen, Famous and eternal singer, Tell me of thy journey northward, Of thy wanderings in Lapland, Of thy dismal journey homeward.' Spake the minstrel, Wainamoinen: 'I have much to tell thee, brother, Listen to my wondrous story: In the Northland lives a virgin, In a village there, a maiden, That will not accept a lover, That a hero's hand refuses, That a wizard's heart disdaineth; All of Northland sings her praises, Sings her worth and magic beauty, Fairest maiden of Pohyola, Daughter of the earth and ocean. From her temples beams the moonlight, From her breast, the gleam of sunshine, From her forehead shines the rainbow, On her neck, the seven starlets, And the Great Bear from her shoulder. 'Ilmarinen, worthy brother, Thou the only skilful blacksmith, Go and see her wondrous beauty, See her gold and silver garments, See her robed in finest raiment, See her sitting on the rainbow, Walking on the clouds of purple. Forge for her the magic Sampo, Forge the lid in many colors, Thy reward shall be the virgin, Thou shalt win this bride of beauty; Go and bring the lovely maiden To thy home in Kalevala.' Spake the brother, Ilmarinen: O thou cunning Wainamoinen, Thou hast promised me already 116 To the ever-darksome Northland, Thy devoted head to ransom, Thus to rescue thee from trouble. I shall never visit Northland, Shall not go to see thy maiden, Do not love the Bride of Beauty; Never while the moonlight glimmers, Shall I go to dreary Pohya, To the plains of Sariola, Where the people eat each other, Sink their heroes in the ocean, Not for all the maids of Lapland.' Spake the brother, Wainamoinen: 'I can tell thee greater wonders, Listen to my wondrous story: I have seen the fir-tree blossom, Seen its flowers with emerald branches, On the Osmo-fields and woodlands; In its top, there shines the moonlight, And the Bear lives in its branches.' Ilmarinen thus made answer: 'I cannot believe thy story, Cannot trust thy tale of wonder, Till I see the blooming fir-tree, With its many emerald branches, With its Bear and golden moonlight.' This is Wainamoinen's answer: 'Wilt thou not believe my story? Come with me and I will show thee If my lips speak fact or fiction.' Quick they journey to discover, Haste to view the wondrous fir-tree; Wainamoinen leads the journey, Ilmarinen closely follows. As they near the Osmo-borders, Ilmarinen hastens forward That be may behold the wonder, Spies the Bear Within the fir-top, Sitting on its emerald branches, Spies the gleam of golden moonlight. Spake the ancient Wainamoinen, These the words the singer uttered: 117 Climb this tree, dear Ilmarinen, And bring down the golden moonbeams, Bring the Moon and Bear down with thee From the fir-tree's lofty branches.' Ilmarinen, full consenting, Straightway climbed the golden fir-tree, High upon the bow of heaven, Thence to bring the golden moonbeams, Thence to bring the Bear of heaven, From the fir-tree's topmost branches. Thereupon the blooming fir-tree Spake these words to Ilmarinen: 'O thou senseless, thoughtless hero, Thou hast neither wit nor instinct; Thou dost climb my golden branches, Like a thing of little judgment, Thus to get my pictured moonbeams, Take away my silver starlight, Steal my Bear and blooming branches.' Quick as thought old Wainamoinen Sang again in magic accents, Sang a storm-wind in the heavens, Sang the wild winds into fury, And the singer spake as follows: `Take, O storm-wind, take the forgeman, Carry him within thy vessel, Quickly hence, and land the hero On the ever-darksome Northland, On the dismal Sariola.' Now the storm-wind quickly darkens, Quickly piles the air together, Makes of air a sailing vessel, Takes the blacksmith, Ilmarinen, Fleetly from the fir-tree branches, Toward the never-pleasant Northland, Toward the dismal Sariola. Through the air sailed Ilmarinen, Fast and far the hero travelled, Sweeping onward, sailing northward, Riding in the track of storm-winds, O'er the Moon, beneath the sunshine, On the broad back of the Great Bear, 118 Till he neared Pohyola's woodlands, Neared the homes of Sariola, And alighted undiscovered, Was Dot noticed by the hunters, Was not scented by the watch-dogs. Louhi, hostess of Pohyola, Ancient, toothless dame of Northland, Standing in the open court-yard, Thus addresses Ilmarinen, As she spies the hero-stranger: 'Who art thou of ancient heroes, Who of all the host of heroes, Coming here upon the storm-wind, O'er the sledge-path of the ether, Scented not by Pohya's watch-dogs? This is Ilmarinen's answer: 'I have surely not come hither To be barked at by the watch-dogs, At these unfamiliar portals, At the gates of Sariola.' Thereupon the Northland hostess Asks again the hero-stranger: 'Hast thou ever been acquainted With the blacksmith of Wainola, With the hero, Ilmarinen, With the skilful smith and artist? Long I've waited for his coming, Long this one has been expected, On the borders of the Northland, Here to forge for me the Sampo.' Spake the hero, Ilmarinen: 'Well indeed am I acquainted With the blacksmith, Ilmarinen, I myself am Ilmarinen, I, the skilful smith and artist.' Louhi, hostess of the Northland, Toothless dame of Sariola, Straightway rushes to her dwelling, These the words that Louhi utters: 'Come, thou youngest of my daughters, Come, thou fairest of my maidens, Dress thyself in finest raiment, 119 Deck thy hair with rarest jewels, Pearls upon thy swelling bosom, On thy neck, a golden necklace, Bind thy head with silken ribbons, Make thy cheeks look fresh and ruddy, And thy visage fair and winsome, Since the artist, Ilmarinen, Hither comes from Kalevala, Here to forge for us the Sampo, Hammer us the lid in colors.' Now the daughter of the Northland, Honored by the land and water, Straightway takes her choicest raiment, Takes her dresses rich in beauty, Finest of her silken wardrobe, Now adjusts her silken fillet, On her brow a band of copper, Round her waist a golden girdle, Round her neck a pearly necklace, Shining gold upon her bosom, In her hair the threads of silver. From her dressing-room she hastens, To the hall she bastes and listens, Full of beauty, full of joyance, Ears erect and eyes bright-beaming, Ruddy cheeks and charming visage, Waiting for the hero-stranger. Louhi, hostess of Pohyola, Leads the hero, Ilmarinen, To her dwelling-rooms in Northland, To her home in Sariola, Seats him at her well-filled table, Gives to him the finest viands, Gives him every needed comfort, Then addresses him as follows: 'O thou blacksmith, Ilmarinen, Master of the forge and smithy, Canst thou forge for me the Sampo, Hammer me the lid in colors, From the tips of white-swan feathers, From the milk of greatest virtue, From a single grain of barley, 120 From the finest wool of lambkins? Thou shalt have my fairest daughter, Recompense for this thy service.' These the words of Ilmarinen: 'I will forge for thee the Sampo, Hammer thee the lid in colors, From the tips of white-swan feathers, From the milk of greatest virtue, From a single grain of barley, From the finest wool of lambkins? Since I forged the arch of heaven, Forged the air a concave cover, Ere the earth had a beginning.' Thereupon the magic blacksmith Went to forge the wondrous Sampo, Went to find a blacksmith's workshop, Went to find the tools to work with; But he found no place for forging, Found no smithy, found no bellows, Found no chimney, found no anvil, Found no tongs, and found no hammer. Then the-artist, Ilmarinen. Spake these words, soliloquizing: 'Only women grow discouraged, Only knaves leave work unfinished, Not the devils, nor the heroes, Nor the Gods of greater knowledge.' Then the blacksmith, Ilmarinen, Sought a place to build a smithy, Sought a place to plant a bellows, On the borders of the Northland, On the Pohya-hills and meadows; Searched one day, and then a second; Ere the evening of the third day, Came a rock within his vision, Came a stone with rainbow-colors. There the blacksmith, Ilmarinen, Set at work to build his smithy, Built a fire and raised a chimney; On the next day laid his bellows, On the third day built his furnace, And began to forge the Sampo. 121 The eternal magic artist, Ancient blacksmith, Ilmarinen, First of all the iron-workers, Mixed together certain metals, Put the mixture in the caldron, Laid it deep within the furnace, Called the hirelings to the forging. Skilfully they work the bellows, Tend the fire and add the fuel, Three most lovely days of summer, Three short nights of bright midsummer, Till the rocks begin to blossom, In the foot-prints of the workmen, From the magic heat and furnace. On the first day, Ilmarinen Downward bent and well examined, On the bottom of his furnace, Thus to see what might be forming From the magic fire and metals. From the fire arose a cross-bow, 'With the brightness of the moonbeams, Golden bow with tips of silver; On the shaft was shining copper, And the bow was strong and wondrous, But alas! it was ill-natured, Asking for a hero daily, Two the heads it asked on feast-days. Ilmarinen, skilful artist, Was not pleased with this creation, Broke the bow in many pieces, Threw them back within the furnace, Kept the workmen at the bellows, Tried to forge the magic Sampo. On the second day, the blacksmith Downward bent and well examined, On the bottom of the furnace; From the fire, a skiff of metals, Came a boat of purple color, All the ribs were colored golden, And the oars were forged from copper; Thus the skiff was full of beauty, But alas! a thing of evil; 122 Forth it rushes into trouble, Hastens into every quarrel, Hastes without a provocation Into every evil combat. Ilmarinen, metal artist, Is not pleased with this creation, Breaks the skiff in many fragments, Throws them back within the furnace, Keeps the workmen at the bellows, Thus to forge the magic Sampo. On the third day, Ilmarinen, First of all the metal-workers, Downward bent and well examined, On the bottom of the furnace; There be saw a heifer rising, Golden were the horns of Kimmo, On her head the Bear of heaven, On her brow a disc of sunshine, Beautiful the cow of magic; But alas! she is ill-tempered, Rushes headlong through the forest, Rushes through the swamps and meadows, Wasting all her milk in running. Ilmarinen, the magician. Is not pleased with this creation, Cuts the magic cow in pieces, Throws them in the fiery furnace, Sets the workmen at the bellows, Thus to forge the magic Sampo. On the fourth day, Ilmarinen Downward bent and well examined, To the bottom of the furnace; There beheld a plow in beauty Rising from the fire of metals, Golden was the point and plowshare, And the beam was forged from copper, And the handles, molten silver, Beautiful the plow and wondrous; But alas! it is ill-mannered, Plows up fields of corn and barley, Furrows through the richest meadows. Ilmarinen, metal artist, 123 Is not pleased with this creation, Quickly breaks the plow in pieces, Throws them back within the furnace, Lets the winds attend the bellows, Lets the storm-winds fire the metals. Fiercely vie the winds of heaven, East-wind rushing, West-wind roaring, South-wind crying, North-wind howling, Blow one day and then a second, Blow the third from morn till even, When the fire leaps through the windows, Through the door the sparks fly upward, Clouds of smoke arise to heaven; With the clouds the black smoke mingles, As the storm-winds ply the bellows. On the third night Ilmarinen, Bending low to view his metals, On the bottom of the furnace, Sees the magic Sampo rising, Sees the lid in many colors. Quick the artist of Wainola Forges with the tongs and anvil, Knocking with a heavy hammer, Forges skilfully the Sampo; On one side the flour is grinding, On another salt is making, On a third is money forging, And the lid is many-colored. Well the Sampo grinds when finished, To and fro the lid in rocking, Grinds one measure at the day-break, Grinds a measure fit for eating, Grinds a second for the market, Grinds a third one for the store-house. Joyfully the dame of Northland, Louhi, hostess of Pohyola, Takes away the magic Sampo, To the hills of Sariola, To the copper-bearing mountains, Puts nine locks upon the wonder, Makes three strong roots creep around it; In the earth they grow nine fathoms, 124 One large root beneath the mountain, One beneath the sandy sea-bed, One beneath the mountain-dwelling. Modestly pleads Ilmarinen For the maiden's willing answer, These the words of the magician: 'Wilt thou come with me, fair maiden, Be my wife and queen forever? I have forged for thee the Sampo, Forged the lid in many colors.' Northland's fair and lovely daughter Answers thus the metal-worker: 'Who will in the coming spring-time, Who will in the second summer, Guide the cuckoo's song and echo? Who will listen to his calling, Who will sing with him in autumn, Should I go to distant regions, Should this cheery maiden vanish From the fields of Sariola, From Pohyola's fens and forests, Where the cuckoo sings and echoes? Should I leave my father's dwelling, Should my mother's berry vanish, Should these mountains lose their cherry, Then the cuckoo too would vanish, All the birds would leave the forest, Leave the summit of the mountain, Leave my native fields and woodlands, Never shall I, in my life-time, Say farewell to maiden freedom, Nor to summer cares and labors, Lest the harvest be ungarnered, Lest the berries be ungathered, Lest the song-birds leave the forest, Lest the mermaids leave the waters, Lest I sing with them no longer.' Ilmarinen, the magician, The eternal metal-forger, Cap awry and head dejected, Disappointed, heavy-hearted, Empty-handed, well considers, 125 How to reach his distant country, Reach his much-loved home and kinded, Gain the meadows of Wainola, From the never-pleasant Northland, From the darksome Sariola. Louhi thus addressed the suitor: 'O thou blacksmith, Ilmarinen, Why art thou so heavy-hearted, Why thy visage so dejected? Hast thou in thy mind to journey From the vales and hills of Pohya, To the meadows of Wainola, To thy home in Kalevala? This is Ilmarinen's answer: 'Thitherward my mind is tending, To my home-land let me journey, With my kindred let me linger, Be at rest in mine own country.' Straightway Louhi, dame of Northland, Gave the hero every comfort, Gave him food and rarest viands, Placed him in a boat of copper, In a copper-banded vessel, Called the winds to his assistance, Made the North-wind guide him homeward. Thus the skilful Ilmarinen Travels toward his native country, On the blue back of the waters, Travels one day, then a second, Till the third day evening brings him To Wainola's peaceful meadows, To his home in Kalevala. Straightway ancient Wainamoinen Thus addresses Ilmarinen: 'O my brother, metal-artist, Thou eternal wonder-worker, Didst thou forge the magic Sampo, Forge the lid in many colors?' Spake the brother, Ilmarinen, These the words the master uttered: 'Yea, I forged the magic Sampo, Forged the lid in many colors; 126 To and fro the lid in rocking Grinds one measure at the day-dawn, Grinds a measure fit for eating, Grinds a second for the market, Grinds a third one for the store-house. Louhi has the wondrous Sampo, I have not the Bride of Beauty.' ~ Elias Lönnrot,

1003:Lohengrin THE holy bell, untouched by human hands, Clanged suddenly, and tolled with solemn knell. Between the massive, blazoned temple-doors, Thrown wide, to let the summer morning in, Sir Lohengrin, the youngest of the knights, Had paused to taste the sweetness of the air. All sounds came up the mountain-side to him, Softened to music,— noise of laboring men, The cheerful cock-crow and the low of kine, Bleating of sheep, and twittering of the birds, Commingled into murmurous harmonies— When harsh, and near, and clamorous tolled the bell. He started, with his hand upon his sword; His face, an instant since serene and fair, And simple with the beauty of a boy, Heroic, flushed, expectant all at once. The lovely valley stretching out beneath Was now a painted picture,— nothing more; All music of the mountain or the vale Rang meaningless to him who heard the bell. 'I stand upon the threshold, and am called,' His clear, young voice shrilled gladly through the air, And backward through the sounding corridors. 'And have ye heard the bell, my brother knights, Untouched by human hands or winds of heaven? It called me, yea, it called my very name!' So, breathing still of morning, Lohengrin Sprang 'midst the gathering circle of the knights, Eager, exalted. 'Nay, it called us all: It rang as it hath often rung before,— Because the good cause, somewhere on the earth, Requires a champion,' with a serious smile, An older gravely answered. 'Where to go? We know not, and we know not whom to serve.' Then spake Sir Percivale, their holiest knight, And father of the young Sir Lohengrin: 'All that to us seems old, familiar, stale, 106 Unto the boy is vision, miracle. Cross him not, brethren, in his first desire. I will dare swear the summons rang to him, Not sternly solemn, as it tolled to us, But gracious, sweet, and gay as marriage-bells.' His pious hands above the young man's head Wandered in blessing, lightly touching it, As fondly as a mother. 'Lohengrin, My son, farewell,— God send thee faith and strength.' ' God send me patience and humility,' Murmured the boyish knight, from contrite heart, With head downcast for those anointing hands. Then raising suddenly wide, innocent eyes,— 'Father, my faith is boundless as God's love.' Complete in glittering silver armor clad, With silver maiden-shield, blank of device, Sir Lohengrin rode down the Montsalvatsch, With Percivale and Tristram, Frimutelle And Eliduc, to speed him on his quest. They fared in silence, for the elder knights Were filled with grave misgivings, solemn thoughts Of fate and sorrow, and they heard the bell Tolling incessant; while Sir Lohengrin, Buoyant with hope, and dreaming like a girl, With wild blood dancing in his veins, had made The journey down the mount unconsciously, Surprised to find that he had reached the vale. Distinct and bowered in green the mountain loomed, Topped with the wondrous temple, with its cross Smitten to splendor by the eastern sun. Around them lay the valley beautiful, Imparadised with flowers and light of June; And through the valley flowed a willowy stream, Golden and gray, at this delicious hour, With purity and sunshine. Here the knights, Irresolute, gave pause — which path to choose? 'God lead me right!' said meek Sir Lohengrin; And as he spoke afar upon the stream, He saw a shining swan approaching them. Full-breasted, with the current it sailed down, Dazzling in sun and shadow, air and wave, 107 With unseen movement, wings a little spread, Their downy under-feathers fluttering, Stirred by its stately progress; in its beak It held a silver chain, and drew thereby A dainty carven shallop after it, Embossed with silver and with ivory. 'Lead ye my charger up the mount again,' Cried Lohengrin, and leaped unto the ground, 'For I will trust my guidance to the swan.' ' Nay, hold, Sir Lohengrin,' said Eliduc, ' Thou hast not made provision for this quest.' ' God will provide,' the pious knight replied. Then Percival: 'Be faithful to thy vows; Bethink thee of thine oath when thou art asked Thy mission in the temple, or thy race. Farewell, farewell.' 'Farewell,' cried Lohengrin, And sprang into the shallop as it passed, And waved farewells unto his brother knights, Until they saw the white and silver shine Of boat and swan and armor less and less, Till in the willowy distance they were lost. Skirting the bases of the rolling hills, He glided on the river hour by hour, All through the endless summer day. At first On either side the willows brushed his boat, Then underneath their sweeping arch he passed, Into a rich, enchanted wilderness, Cool, full of mystic shadows and rare lights, Wherein the very river changed its hue, Reflecting tender shades of waving green, And mossy undergrowth of grass and fern. Here yellow lilies floated 'midst broad leaves, Upon their reedy stalks, and far below, Beneath the flags and rushes, coppery bream Sedately sailed, and flickering perch, and dace With silvery lustres caught the glancing rays Of the June sun upon their mottled scales. 'Midst the close sedge the bright-eyed water-mouse Nibbled its food, while overhead, its kin, The squirrel, frisked among the trees. The air Was full of life and sound of restless birds, 108 Darting with gayer tints of red and blue And speckled plumage 'mid gray willow leaves, And sober alders, and light-foliaged birch. Unnumbered insects fluttered o'er the banks, Some dimpling the smooth river's slippery floor, Leaping from point to point. Then passed the knight 'Twixt broad fields basking in excess of light, And girt around by range on range of hills, Green, umber, purple, waving limitless, Unto the radiant crystal of the sky. Through unfamiliar solitudes the swan Still led him, and he saw no living thing Save creatures of the wood, no human face, Nor sign of human dwelling. But he sailed, Holding high thoughts and vowing valorous vows, Filled with vast wonder and keen happiness, At the world's very beauty, and his life Opened in spacious vistas measureless, As lovely as the stream that bore him on. So dazzled was the boyish Lohengrin By all the vital beauty of the real, And the yet wilder beauty of his dreams, That he had lost all sense of passing time, And woke as from a trance of centuries, To find himself within the heart of hills, The river widened to an ample lake, And the swan faring towards a narrow gorge, That seemed to lead him to the sunset clouds. Suffused with color were the extremest heights; The river rippled in a glassy flood, Glorying in the glory of the sky. O what a moment for a man to take Down with him in his memory to the grave! Life at that hour appeared as infinite As expectation, sacred, wonderful, A vision and a privilege. The stream Lessened to force its way through rocky walls, Then swerved and flowed, a purple brook, through woods Dewy with evening, sunless, odorous. There Lohengrin, with eyes upon the stream, Now brighter than the earth, saw, deep and clear, The delicate splendor of the earliest star. 109 All night, too full of sweet expectancy, Too reverent of the loveliness, for sleep, He watched the rise and setting of the stars.. All things were new upon that magic day, Suggesting nobler possibilities, For a life passed in wise serenity, Confided with sublimely simple faith Unto the guidance of the higher will. In the still heavens hung the large round moon, White on the blue-black ripples glittering, And rolled soft floods of slumberous, misty light Over dim fields and colorless, huge hills. But the pure swan still bore its burden on, The ivory shallop and the silver knight, Pale-faced in that white lustre, neither made For any port, but seemed to float at will Aimlessly in a strange, unpeopled land. So passed the short fair night, and morning broke Upon the river where it flowed through flats Wide, fresh, and vague in gray, uncertain dawn, With cool air sweet from leagues of dewy grass. Then 'midst the flush and beauty of the east, The risen sun made all the river flow, Smitten with light, in gold and gray again. Rightly he judged his voyage but begun, When the swan loitered by low banks set thick With cresses, and red berries, and sweet herbs, That he might pluck and taste thereof; for these Such wondrous vigor in his frame infused, They seemed enchanted and ambrosial fruits. Day waxed and waned and vanished many times, And many suns still found him journeying; But when the sixth night darkened hill and wold, He seemed bewitched as by a wizard's spell, By this slow, constant progress, and deep sleep Possessed his spirit, and his head drooped low On the hard pillow of his silver shield. Unconscious he was borne through silent hours, Nor wakened by the dawn of a new day, But in his dreamless sleep he never lost The sense of moving forward on a stream. Now fared the swan through tilled and cultured lands, 110 Dappled with sheep and kine on pastures soft, Sprinkled with trim and pleasant cottages, With men and women working noiselessly, As in a picture; nearer then they drew, And sounds of rural labor, spoken words, Sir Lohengrin might hear, but still he slept, Nor saw the shining turrets of a town, Gardens and castles, domes and cross-topped spires Fair in the distance, and the flowing stream, Cleaving its liquid path 'midst many men, And glittering galleries filled with courtly folk, Ranged for a tourney-show in open air. Ah! what a miracle it seemed to these,— The white bird bearing on the river's breast That curious, sparkling shallop, and within The knight in silver armor, with bared head, And crisp hair blown about his angel face, Asleep upon his shield! They gazed on him As on the incarnate spirit of pure faith, And as the very ministrant of God. But one great damsel throned beside a king, With coroneted head and white, wan face, Flushed suddenly, and clasped her hands in prayer, And raised large, lucid eyes in thanks to Heaven. Then, in his dreamless slumber, Lohengrin, Feeling the steady motion of the boat Suddenly cease, awoke. Refreshed, alert, He knew at once that he had reached his port, And saw that peerless maiden thanking Heaven For his own advent, and his heart leaped up Into his throat, and love o'ermastered him. After the blare of flourished trumpets died, A herald thus proclaimed the tournament: 'Greetings and glory to the majesty Of the imperial Henry. By his grace, This tourney has been granted to the knight, Frederick of Telramund, who claims the hand Of Lady Elsie, Duchess of Brabant, His ward, and stands prepared to prove in arms His rights against all champions in the lists, Whom his unwilling mistress may select. Sir Frederick, Lord of Telramund, is here: 111 What champion will espouse the lady's cause?' Sir Frederick, huge in stature and in bulk, In gleaming armor terribly equipped, Advanced defiant, as the herald ceased. Then Lohengrin, with spear and shield in hand, Sprang lightly, from his shallop, in the lists. His beaver raised disclosed his ardent face, His whole soul shining from inspired eyes. With cast-back head, sun-smitten silver mail, Quivering with spirit, light, and life, he stood, And flung his gauntlet at Sir Frederick's feet, Crying with shrill, clear voice that rang again, 'Sir Lohengrin adopts the lady's cause.' Then these with shock of conflict couched their spears In deadly combat; but their weapons clanged Harmless against their mail impregnable, Or else were nimbly foiled by dexterous shields. Unequal and unjust it seemed at first,— The slender boy matched with the warrior huge, Who bore upon him with the skill and strength Of a tried conqueror; but the stranger knight Displayed such agile grace in parrying blows, Such fiery valor dealing his own strokes, That men looked on in wonder, and his foe Was hardly put upon it for his life. Thrice they gave praise, to breathe, and to prepare For fiercer battle, and the galleries rang With plaudits, and the names of both the knights. And they, with spirits whetted by the strife, Met for the fourth, last time, and fenced and struck, And the keen lance of Lohengrin made way, Between the meshes of Sir Frederick's mail, Through cuirass and through jerkin, to the flesh, With pain so sharp and sudden that he fell. Then Henry threw his warder to the ground, And cried the stranger knight had won the day; And all the lesser voices, following his, Called, ' Lohengrin—Sir Lohengrin hath won!' He, flushed with victory, standing in the lists, Deafened with clamor of his very name, Reëchoed to the heavens, felt himself Alone and alien, and would fain float back 112 Unto the temple, had he not recalled The fair, great damsel throned beside the king. But lo! the swan had vanished, and the boat He fancied he descried a tiny star, Glimmering in the shining distances. 'His Majesty would greet Sir Lohengrin; And Lady Elsie, Duchess of Brabant, Would thank him for his prowess.' Thus proclaimed The herald, while the unknown knight was led To the imperial throne. Then Elsie spake: 'Thou hast redeemed my life from misery; How may I worthily reward or thank? Be thou the nearest to our ducal throne, The highest knight of Limburg and Brabant, The greatest gentleman,— unless thy rank, In truth, be suited to thine own deserts, And thou, a prince, art called to higher aims.' 'Madam, my thanks are rather due to Fate, For having chosen so poor an instrument For such a noble end. A knight am I, The champion of the helpless and oppressed, Bound by fast vows to own no other name Than Lohengrin, the Stranger, in this land, And to depart when asked my race or rank. Trusting in God I came, and, trusting Him, I must remain, for all my fate hath changed, All my desires and hopes, since I am here.' So ended that great joust, and in the days Thereafter Elsie and Sir Lohengrin, United by a circumstance so strange, Loved and were wedded. A more courteous duke, A braver chevalier, Brabant ne'er saw. Such grace breathed from his person and his deeds, Such simple innocence and faith looked forth From eyes well-nigh too beautiful for man, That whom he met, departed as his friend. But Elsie, bound to him by every bond Of love and honor and vast gratitude, Being of lesser faith and confidence, Tortured herself with envious jealousies, Misdoubting her own beauty, and her power 113 To win and to retain so great a heart. Each year Sir Lohengrin proclaimed a joust In memory of the tourney where he won His lovely Duchess, and his lance prevailed Against all lesser knights. When his twain sons, Loyal and brave and gentle as their sire, Had grown to stalwart men, and his one girl, Eyed like himself and as his Duchess fair, Floramie, grew to gracious maidenhood, He gave a noble tourney, and o'erthrew The terrible and potent Duke of Cleves. 'Ha!' sneered the Dame of Cleves, 'this Lohengrin May be a knight adroit and valorous, But who knows whence he sprang?' and lightly laughed, Seeing the hot blood kindle Elsie's cheek. That night Sir Lohengrin sought rest betimes, By hours of crowded action quite forespent, And found the Duchess Elsie on her couch, Staining the silken broideries with her tears. 'Why dost thou weep?' he questioned tenderly, Kissing her delicate hands, and parting back Her heavy yellow hair from brow and face. 'The Duchess Anne of Cleves hath wounded me.' 'Sweet, am not I at hand to comfort thee?' And he caressed her as an ailing child, Until she smiled and slept. But the next night He found her weeping, and he questioned her, With the same answer, and again she slept; Then the third night he asked her why she grieved And she uprising, white, with eager eyes, Cried, 'Lohengrin, my lord, my only love, For our sons' sake, who know not whence they spring, Our daughter who remains a virgin yet, Let me not hear folk girding at thy race. I know thy blood is royal, I have faith; But tell me all, that I may publish it Unto our dukedom.' Hurt and wondering, He answered simply, 'I am Lohengrin, Son to Sir Percivale, and ministrant Within the holy temple of the Grail. I would thy faith were greater, this is all. Now must I bid farewell.' ' O Lohengrin, 114 What have I done?' She clung about his neck, And moistened all his beard with streaming tears; But he with one long kiss relaxed her arms Calmly from his embrace, and stood alone. ' Blame not thy nature now with vain reproofs. This also is our fate: in all things else. We have submitted,—let us yield in this, With no less grace now that God tries our hearts, Than when He sent us victory and love.' ' Yea, go, — you never loved me,' faltered she; ' I will not blame my nature, but your own. Through all our wedded years I doubted you; Your eyes have never brightened meeting mine As I have seen them in religious zeal, Or in exalted hours of victory.' A look of perfect weariness, unmixed With wrath or grief, o'erspread the knight's pale face; But with the pity that a god might show Towards one with ills impossible to him, He drew anear, caressing her, and sighed: ' Through all our wedded years you doubted me? Poor child, poor child! and it has come to this. Thank Heaven, I gave no cause for your mistrust, Desiring never an ideal more fair Of womanhood than was my chosen wife.' She, broken, sobbing, leaned her delicate head On his great shoulder, and remorseful cried, ' O loyal, honest, simple Lohengrin, Thy wife has been unworthy: this is why Thou sayest farewell in accents cold and strange, With alien eyes that even now behold Things fairer, better, than her mournful face.' But he with large allowance answered her: 'If this be truth, it is because I feel That I belong no more unto myself, Neither to thee, for God withdraws my soul Beyond all earthly passions unto Him. Now that we know our doom, with serious calm, Beside thee I will sit, till break of day, Thus holding thy chill hand and tell thee all. This will resign thee, for I cannot think How any human soul that hath beheld 115 Life's compensations and its miracles, Can fail to trust in what is yet to come.' Then he began from that auroral hour When he first heard the temple bell, and told The wonder of the swan that came for him, His journey down the stream, the tournament, His strength unwonted, combating the knight Who towered above him with superior force Of flesh and sinew,— how he prayed through all, Imploring God to let the just cause win, Unconscious of the close-thronged galleries, Feeling two eyes alone that burned his soul. She knew the rest. Therewith he kissed her brow And ended,—' Now the knights will take me back Into the temple; all who keep their vows, Are welcomed there again to peace and rest. There will my years fall from me like a cloak, And I will stand again at manhood's prime. Then when all errors of the flesh are purged From these I loved here, they may follow me, Unto perpetual worship and to peace.' She lay quite calm, and smiling heard his voice, Already grown to her remote and changed, And when he ceased, arose and gazed in awe On his transfigured face and kissed his brow, And understood, accepting all her fate. Anon he called his children, and to these: 'Farewell, sweet Florance and dear Percivale; Here is my horn, and here mine ancient sword,— Guard them with care and win with them repute. Here, Elsie, is the ring my mother gave,— Part with it never; and thou, Floramie, Take thou my love,—I have naught else to give; Be of strong faith in him thou mean'st to wed.' So these communed together, till the night Died from the brightening skies, and in the east The morning star hung in aerial rose, And the blue deepened; while moist lawn and hedge Breathed dewy freshness through the windows oped. Then on the stream, that nigh the palace flowed, A stainless swan approached them; in its beak It held a silver chain, and drew thereby 116 A dainty, carven shallop after it, Embossed with silver and with ivory. Followed by waved farewells and streaming eyes, Sir Lohengrin embarked and floated forth Unto perpetual worship and to peace. ~ Emma Lazarus,

1004:The Kalevala - Rune L MARIATTA--WAINAMOINEN'S DEPARTURE. Mariatta, child of beauty, Grew to maidenhood in Northland, In the cabin of her father, In the chambers of her mother, Golden ringlets, silver girdles, Worn against the keys paternal, Glittering upon her bosom; Wore away the father's threshold With the long robes of her garments; Wore away the painted rafters With her beauteous silken ribbons; Wore away the gilded pillars With the touching of her fingers; Wore away the birchen flooring With the tramping of her fur-shoes. Mariatta, child of beauty, Magic maid of little stature, Guarded well her sacred virtue, Her sincerity and honor, Fed upon the dainty whiting, On the inner bark of birch-wood, On the tender flesh of lambkins. When she hastened in the evening To her milking in the hurdles, Spake in innocence as follows: 'Never will the snow-white virgin Milk the kine of one unworthy!' When she journeyed over snow-fields, On the seat beside her father, Spake in purity as follows: 'Not behind a steed unworthy Will I ever ride the snow-sledge!' Mariatta, child of beauty, Lived a virgin with her mother, As a maiden highly honored, Lived in innocence and beauty, 68 Daily drove her flocks to pasture, Walking with the gentle lambkins. When the lambkins climbed the mountains, When they gamboled on the hill-tops, Stepped the virgin to the meadow, Skipping through a grove of lindens, At the calling of the cuckoo, To the songster's golden measures. Mariatta, child of beauty, Looked about, intently listened, Sat upon the berry-meadow Sat awhile, and meditated On a hillock by the forest, And soliloquized as follows: 'Call to me, thou golden cuckoo, Sing, thou sacred bird of Northland, Sing, thou silver breasted songster, Speak, thou strawberry of Ehstland, Tell bow long must I unmarried, As a shepherdess neglected, Wander o'er these bills and mountains, Through these flowery fens and fallows. Tell me, cuckoo of the woodlands, Sing to me how many summers I must live without a husband, As a shepherdess neglected!' Mariatta, child of beauty, Lived a shepherd-maid for ages, As a virgin with her mother. Wretched are the lives of shepherds, Lives of maidens still more wretched, Guarding flocks upon the mountains; Serpents creep in bog and stubble, On the greensward dart the lizards; But it was no serpent singing, Nor a sacred lizard calling, It was but the mountain-berry Calling to the lonely maiden: 'Come, O virgin, come and pluck me, Come and take me to thy bosom, Take me, tinsel-breasted virgin, Take me, maiden, copper-belted, 69 Ere the slimy snail devours me, Ere the black-worm feeds upon me. Hundreds pass my way unmindful, Thousands come within my hearing, Berry-maidens swarm about me, Children come in countless numbers, None of these has come to gather, Come to pluck this ruddy berry.' Mariatta, child of beauty, Listened to its gentle pleading, Ran to pick the berry, calling, With her fair and dainty fingers,. Saw it smiling near the meadow, Like a cranberry in feature, Like a strawberry in flavor; But be Virgin, Mariatta, Could not pluck the woodland-stranger, Thereupon she cut a charm-stick, Downward pressed upon the berry, When it rose as if by magic, Rose above her shoes of ermine, Then above her copper girdle, Darted upward to her bosom, Leaped upon the maiden's shoulder, On her dimpled chin it rested, On her lips it perched a moment, Hastened to her tongue expectant To and fro it rocked and lingered, Thence it hastened on its journey, Settled in the maiden's bosom. Mariatta, child of beauty, Thus became a bride impregnate, Wedded to the mountain-berry; Lingered in her room at morning, Sat at midday in the darkness, Hastened to her couch at evening. Thus the watchful mother wonders: 'What has happened to our Mary, To our virgin, Mariatta, That she throws aside her girdle, Shyly slips through hall and chamber, Lingers in her room at morning, 70 Hastens to her couch at evening, Sits at midday in the darkness?' On the floor a babe was playing, And the young child thus made answer: 'This has happened to our Mary, To our virgin, Mariatta, This misfortune to the maiden: She has lingered by the meadows, Played too long among the lambkins, Tasted of the mountain-berry.' Long the virgin watched and waited, Anxiously the days she counted, Waiting for the dawn of trouble. Finally she asked her mother, These the words of Mariatta: 'Faithful mother, fond and tender, Mother whom I love and cherish, Make for me a place befitting, Where my troubles may be lessened, And my heavy burdens lightened.' This the answer of the mother: 'Woe to thee, thou Hisi-maiden, Since thou art a bride unworthy, Wedded only to dishonor!' Mariatta, child of beauty, Thus replied in truthful measures: 'I am not a maid of Hisi, I am not a bride unworthy, Am not wedded to dishonor; As a shepherdess I wandered With the lambkins to the glen-wood, Wandered to the berry-mountain, Where the strawberry had ripened; Quick as thought I plucked the berry, On my tongue I gently laid it, To and fro it rocked and lingered, Settled in my heaving bosom. This the source of all my trouble, Only cause of my dishonor!' As the mother was relentless, Asked the maiden of her father, This the virgin-mother's pleading: 71 O my father, full of pity, Source of both my good and evil, Build for me a place befitting, Where my troubles may be lessened, And my heavy burdens lightened.' This the answer of the father, Of the father unforgiving: 'Go, thou evil child of Hisi, Go, thou child of sin and sorrow, Wedded only to dishonor, To the Great Bear's rocky chamber, To the stone-cave of the growler, There to lessen all thy troubles, There to cast thy heavy burdens!' Mariatta, child of beauty, Thus made answer to her father: 'I am not a child of Hisi, I am not a bride unworthy, Am not wedded to dishonor; I shall bear a noble hero, I shall bear a son immortal, Who will rule among the mighty, Rule the ancient Wainamoinen.' Thereupon the virgin-mother Wandered hither, wandered thither, Seeking for a place befitting, Seeking for a worthy birth-place For her unborn son and hero; Finally these words she uttered 'Piltti, thou my youngest maiden, Trustiest of all my servants, Seek a place within the village, Ask it of the brook of Sara, For the troubled Mariatta, Child of sorrow and misfortune.' Thereupon the little maiden, Piltti, spake these words in answer: 'Whom shall I entreat for succor, Who will lend me his assistance? These the words of Mariatta: 'Go and ask it of Ruotus, Where the reed-brook pours her waters.' 72 Thereupon the servant, Piltti, Ever hopeful, ever willing, Hastened to obey her mistress, Needing not her exhortation; Hastened like the rapid river, Like the flying smoke of battle To the cabin of Ruotus. When she walked the hill-tops tottered, When she ran the mountains trembled; Shore-reeds danced upon the pasture, Sandstones skipped about the heather As the maiden, Piltti, hastened To the dwelling of Ruotus. At his table in his cabin Sat Ruotus, eating, drinking, In his simple coat of linen. With his elbows on the table Spake the wizard in amazement: 'Why hast thou, a maid of evil, Come to see me in my cavern, What the message thou art bringing? Thereupon the servant, Piltti, Gave this answer to the wizard: 'Seek I for a spot befitting, Seek I for a worthy birth-place, For an unborn child and hero; Seek it near the Sara-streamlet, Where the reed-brook pours her waters. Came the wife of old Ruotus, Walking with her arms akimbo, Thus addressed the maiden, Piltti: 'Who is she that asks assistance, Who the maiden thus dishonored, What her name, and who her kindred?' 'I have come for Mariatta, For the worthy virgin-mother.' Spake the wife of old Ruotus, Evil-minded, cruel-hearted: 'Occupied are all our chambers, All our bath-rooms near the reed-brook; in the mount of fire are couches, is a stable in the forest, 73 For the flaming horse of Hisi; In the stable is a manger Fitting birth-place for the hero From the wife of cold misfortune, Worthy couch for Mariatta!' Thereupon the servant, Piltti, Hastened to her anxious mistress, Spake these measures, much regretting. 'There is not a place befitting, on the silver brook of Sara. Spake the wife of old Ruotus: 'Occupied are all the chambers, All the bath-rooms near the reed-brook; In the mount of fire are couches, Is a stable, in the forest, For the flaming horse of Hisi; In the stable is a manger, Fitting birth-place for the hero From the wife of cold misfortune, Worthy couch for Mariatta.'' Thereupon the hapless maiden, Mariatta, virgin-mother, Fell to bitter tears and murmurs, Spake these words in depths of sorrow: 'I, alas! must go an outcast, Wander as a wretched hireling, Like a servant in dishonor, Hasten to the burning mountain, To the stable in the forest, Make my bed within a manger, Near the flaming steed of Hisi!' Quick the hapless virgin-mother, Outcast from her father's dwelling, Gathered up her flowing raiment, Grasped a broom of birchen branches, Hastened forth in pain and sorrow To the stable in the woodlands, On the heights of Tapio's mountains, Spake these words in supplication: 'Come, I pray thee, my Creator, Only friend in times of trouble, Come to me and bring protection 74 To thy child, the virgin-mother, To the maiden, Mariatta, In this hour of sore affliction. Come to me, benignant Ukko, Come, thou only hope and refuge, Lest thy guiltless child should perish, Die the death of the unworthy!' When the virgin, Mariatta, Had arrived within the stable Of the flaming horse of Hisi, She addressed the steed as follows: 'Breathe, O sympathizing fire-horse, Breathe on me, the virgin-mother, Let thy heated breath give moisture, Let thy pleasant warmth surround me, Like the vapor of the morning; Let this pure and helpless maiden Find a refuge in thy manger!' Thereupon the horse, in pity, Breathed the moisture of his nostrils On the body of the virgin, Wrapped her in a cloud of vapor, Gave her warmth and needed comforts, Gave his aid to the afflicted, To the virgin, Mariatta. There the babe was born and cradled Cradled in a woodland-manger, Of the virgin, Mariatta, Pure as pearly dews of morning, Holy as the stars in heaven. There the mother rocks her infant, In his swaddling clothes she wraps him, Lays him in her robes of linen; Carefully the babe she nurtures, Well she guards her much-beloved, Guards her golden child of beauty, Her beloved gem of silver. But alas! the child has vanished, Vanished while the mother slumbered. Mariatta, lone and wretched, Fell to weeping, broken-hearted, Hastened off to seek her infant. 75 Everywhere the mother sought him, Sought her golden child of beauty, Her beloved gem of silver; Sought him underneath the millstone, In the sledge she sought him vainly, Underneath the sieve she sought him, Underneath the willow-basket, Touched the trees, the grass she parted, Long she sought her golden infant, Sought him on the fir-tree-mountain, In the vale, and hill, and heather; Looks within the clumps of flowers, Well examines every thicket, Lifts the juniper and willow, Lifts the branches of the alder. Lo! a star has come to meet her, And the star she thus beseeches-. 'O, thou guiding-star of Northland, Star of hope, by God created, Dost thou know and wilt thou tell me Where my darling child has wandered, Where my holy babe lies hidden?' Thus the star of Northland answers: 'If I knew, I would not tell thee; 'Tis thy child that me created, Set me here to watch at evening, In the cold to shine forever, Here to twinkle in the darkness.' Comes the golden Moon to meet her, And the Moon she thus beseeches: 'Golden Moon, by Ukko fashioned, Hope and joy of Kalevala, Dost thou know and wilt thou tell me Where my darling child has wandered, Where my holy babe lies hidden? Speaks the golden Moon in answer: 'If I knew I would not tell thee; 'Tis thy child that me created, Here to wander in the darkness, All alone at eve to wander On my cold and cheerless journey, Sleeping only in the daylight, 76 Shining for the good of others.' Thereupon the virgin-mother Falls again to bitter weeping, Hastens on through fen and forest, Seeking for her babe departed. Comes the silver Sun to meet her, And the Sun she thus addresses: 'Silver Sun by Ukko fashioned, Source of light and life to Northland, Dost thou know and wilt thou tell me Where my darling child has wandered, Where my holy babe lies hidden?' Wisely does the Sun make answer: 'Well I know thy babe's dominions, Where thy holy child is sleeping, Where Wainola's light lies hidden; 'Tis thy child that me created, Made me king of earth and ether, Made the Moon and Stars attend me, Set me here to shine at midday, Makes me shine in silver raiment, Lets me sleep and rest at evening; Yonder is thy golden infant, There thy holy babe lies sleeping, Hidden to his belt in water, Hidden in the reeds and rushes.' Mariatta, child of beauty, Virgin-mother of the Northland, Straightway seeks her babe in Swamp-land, Finds him in the reeds and rushes; Takes the young child on her bosom To the dwelling of her father. There the infant grew in beauty, Gathered strength, and light, and wisdom, All of Suomi saw and wondered. No one knew what name to give him; When the mother named him, Flower, Others named him, Son-of-Sorrow. When the virgin, Mariatta, Sought the priesthood to baptize him, Came an old man, Wirokannas, With a cup of holy water, 77 Bringing to the babe his blessing; And the gray-beard spake as follows: 'I shall not baptize a wizard, Shall not bless a black-magician With the drops of holy water; Let the young child be examined, Let us know that he is worthy, Lest he prove the son of witchcraft.' Thereupon old Wirokannas Called the ancient Wainamoinen, The eternal wisdom-singer, To inspect the infant-wonder, To report him good or evil. Wainamoinen, old and faithful, Carefully the child examined, Gave this answer to his people: 'Since the child is but an outcast, Born and cradled in a manger, Since the berry is his father; Let him lie upon the heather, Let him sleep among the rushes, Let him live upon the mountains; Take the young child to the marshes, Dash his head against the birch-tree.' Then the child of Mariatta, Only two weeks old, made answer: 'O, thou ancient Wainamoinen, Son of Folly and Injustice, Senseless hero of the Northland, Falsely hast thou rendered judgment. In thy years, for greater follies, Greater sins and misdemeanors, Thou wert not unjustly punished. In thy former years of trouble, When thou gavest thine own brother, For thy selfish life a ransom, Thus to save thee from destruction, Then thou wert not sent to Swamp-land To be murdered for thy follies. In thy former years of sorrow, When the beauteous Aino perished In the deep and boundless blue-sea, 78 To escape thy persecutions, Then thou wert not evil-treated, Wert not banished by thy people.' Thereupon old Wirokannas, Of the wilderness the ruler, Touched the child with holy water, Crave the wonder-babe his blessing, Gave him rights of royal heirship, Free to live and grow a hero, To become a mighty ruler, King and Master of Karyala. As the years passed Wainamoinen Recognized his waning powers, Empty-handed, heavy-hearted, Sang his farewell song to Northland, To the people of Wainola; Sang himself a boat of copper, Beautiful his bark of magic; At the helm sat the magician, Sat the ancient wisdom-singer. Westward, westward, sailed the hero O'er the blue-back of the waters, Singing as he left Wainola, This his plaintive song and echo: 'Suns may rise and set in Suomi, Rise and set for generations, When the North will learn my teachings, Will recall my wisdom-sayings, Hungry for the true religion. Then will Suomi need my coming, Watch for me at dawn of morning, That I may bring back the Sampo, Bring anew the harp of joyance, Bring again the golden moonlight, Bring again the silver sunshine, Peace and plenty to the Northland.' Thus the ancient Wainamoinen, In his copper-banded vessel, Left his tribe in Kalevala, Sailing o'er the rolling billows, Sailing through the azure vapors, Sailing through the dusk of evening, 79 Sailing to the fiery sunset, To the higher-landed regions, To the lower verge of heaven; Quickly gained the far horizon, Gained the purple-colored harbor. There his bark be firmly anchored, Rested in his boat of copper; But be left his harp of magic, Left his songs and wisdom-sayings, To the lasting joy of Suomi. EPILOGUE. Now I end my measured singing, Bid my weary tongue keep silence, Leave my songs to other singers. Horses have their times of resting After many hours of labor; Even sickles will grow weary When they have been long at reaping; Waters seek a quiet haven After running long in rivers; Fire subsides and sinks in slumber At the dawning of the morning Therefore I should end my singing, As my song is growing weary, For the pleasure of the evening, For the joy of morn arising. Often I have heard it chanted, Often heard the words repeated: 'Worthy cataracts and rivers Never empty all their waters.' Thus the wise and worthy singer Sings not all his garnered wisdom; Better leave unsung some sayings Than to sing them out of season. Thus beginning, and thus ending, Do I roll up all my legends, Roll them in a ball for safety, In my memory arrange them, In their narrow place of resting, Lest the songs escape unheeded, While the lock is still unopened, While the teeth remain unparted, 80 And the weary tongue is silent. Why should I sing other legends, Chant them in the glen and forest, Sing them on the hill and heather? Cold and still my golden mother Lies beneath the meadow, sleeping, Hears my ancient songs no longer, Cannot listen to my singing; Only will the forest listen, Sacred birches, sighing pine-trees, Junipers endowed with kindness, Alder-trees that love to bear me, With the aspens and the willows. When my loving mother left me, Young was I, and low of stature; Like the cuckoo of the forest, Like the thrush upon the heather, Like the lark I learned to twitter, Learned to sing my simple measures, Guided by a second mother, Stern and cold, without affection; Drove me helpless from my chamber To the wind-side of her dwelling, To the north-side of her cottage, Where the chilling winds in mercy Carried off the unprotected. As a lark I learned to wander, Wander as a lonely song-bird, Through the forests and the fenlands Quietly o'er hill and heather; Walked in pain about the marshes, Learned the songs of winds and waters, Learned the music of the ocean, And the echoes of the woodlands. Many men that live to murmur, Many women live to censure, Many speak with evil motives; Many they with wretched voices Curse me for my wretched singing, Blame my tongue for speaking wisdom, Call my ancient songs unworthy, Blame the songs and curse the singer. 81 Be not thus, my worthy people, Blame me not for singing badly, Unpretending as a minstrel. I have never had the teaching, Never lived with ancient heroes, Never learned the tongues of strangers, Never claimed to know much wisdom. Others have had language-masters, Nature was my only teacher, Woods and waters my instructors. Homeless, friendless, lone, and needy, Save in childhood with my mother, When beneath her painted rafters, Where she twirled the flying spindle, By the work-bench of my brother, By the window of my sister, In. the cabin of my father, In my early days of childhood. Be this as it may, my people, This may point the way to others, To the singers better gifted, For the good of future ages, For the coming generations, For the rising folk of Suomi. ~ Elias Lönnrot,

1005:The Kalevala - Rune Xxix THE ISLE OF REFUGE. Lemminkainen, full of joyance, Handsome hero, Kaukomieli, Took provisions in abundance, Fish and butter, bread and bacon, Hastened to the Isle of Refuge, Sailed away across the oceans, Spake these measures on departing: 'Fare thee well, mine Island-dwelling, I must sail to other borders, To an island more protective, Till the second summer passes; Let the serpents keep the island, Lynxes rest within the glen-wood, Let the blue-moose roam the mountains, Let the wild-geese cat the barley. Fare thee well, my helpful mother! When the warriors of the Northland, From the dismal Sariola, Come with swords, and spears, and cross-bows, Asking for my head in vengeance, Say that I have long departed, Left my mother's Island-dwelling, When the barley had been garnered.' Then he launched his boat of copper, Threw the vessel to the waters, From the iron-banded rollers, From the cylinders of oak-wood, On the masts the sails he hoisted, Spread the magic sails of linen, In the stern the hero settled And prepared to sail his vessel, One hand resting on the rudder. Then the sailor spake as follows, These the words of Lemminkainen: 'Blow, ye winds, and drive me onward, Blow ye steady, winds of heaven, 409 Toward the island in the ocean, That my bark may fly in safety To my father's place of refuge, To the far and nameless island!' Soon the winds arose as bidden, Rocked the vessel o'er the billows, O'er the blue-back of the waters, O'er the vast expanse of ocean; Blew two months and blew unceasing, Blew a third month toward the island, Toward his father's Isle of Refuge. Sat some maidens on the seaside, On the sandy beach of ocean, Turned about in all directions, Looking out upon the billows; One was waiting for her brother, And a second for her father, And a third one, anxious, waited For the, coming of her suitor; There they spied young Lemminkainen, There perceived the hero's vessel Sailing o'er the bounding billows; It was like a hanging cloudlet, Hanging twixt the earth and heaven. Thus the island-maidens wondered, Thus they spake to one another: 'What this stranger on the ocean, What is this upon the waters? Art thou one of our sea-vessels? Wert thou builded on this island? Sail thou straightway to the harbor, To the island-point of landing That thy tribe may be discovered.' Onward did the waves propel it, Rocked his vessel o'er the billows, Drove it to the magic island, Safely landed Lemminkainen On the sandy shore and harbor. Spake he thus when he had landed, These the words that Ahti uttered: 'Is there room upon this island, Is there space within this harbor, 410 Where my bark may lie at anchor, Where the sun may dry my vessel?' This the answer of the virgins, Dwellers on the Isle of Refuge: 'There is room within this harbor, On this island, space abundant, Where thy bark may lie at anchor, Where the sun may dry thy vessel; Lying ready are the rollers, Cylinders adorned with copper; If thou hadst a hundred vessels, Shouldst thou come with boats a thousand, We would give them room in welcome.' Thereupon wild Lemminkainen Rolled his vessel in the harbor, On the cylinders of copper, Spake these words when he had ended: 'Is there room upon this island, Or a spot within these forests, Where a hero may be hidden From the coming din of battle, From the play of spears and arrows? Thus replied the Island-maidens: 'There are places on this island, On these plains a spot befitting Where to hide thyself in safety, Hero-son of little valor. Here are many, many castles, Many courts upon this island; Though there come a thousand heroes, Though a thousand spearmen. follow, Thou canst hide thyself in safety.' Spake the hero, Lemminkainen: 'Is there room upon this island, Where the birch-tree grows abundant, Where this son may fell the forest, And may cultivate the fallow? ' Answered thus the Island-maidens: 'There is not a spot befitting, Not a place upon the island, Where to rest thy wearied members, Not the smallest patch of birch-wood, 411 Thou canst bring to cultivation. All our fields have been divided, All these woods have been apportioned, Fields and forests have their owners.' Lemminkainen asked this question, These the words of Kaukomieli: 'Is there room upon this island, Worthy spot in field or forest, Where to Sing my songs of magic, Chant my gathered store of wisdom, Sing mine ancient songs and legends?' Answered thus the Island-maidens: 'There is room upon this island, Worthy place in these dominions, Thou canst sing thy garnered wisdom, Thou canst chant thine ancient legends, Legends of the times primeval, In the forest, in the castle, On the island-plains and pastures.' Then began the reckless minstrel To intone his wizard-sayings; Sang he alders to the waysides, Sang the oaks upon the mountains, On the oak-trees sang be branches, On each branch he sang an acorn, On the acorns, golden rollers, On each roller, sang a cuckoo; Then began the cuckoos, calling, Gold from every throat came streaming, Copper fell from every feather, And each wing emitted silver, Filled the isle with precious metals. Sang again young Lemminkainen, Conjured on, and sang, and chanted, Sang to precious stones the sea-sands, Sang the stones to pearls resplendent, Robed the groves in iridescence, Sang the island full of flowers, Many-colored as the rainbow. Sang again the magic minstrel, In the court a well he conjured, On the well a golden cover, 412 On the lid a silver dipper, That the boys might drink the water, That the maids might lave their eyelids. On the plains he conjured lakelets, Sang the duck upon the waters, Golden-cheeked and silver-headed, Sang the feet from shining copper; And the Island-maidens wondered, Stood entranced at Ahti's wisdom, At the songs of Lemminkainen, At the hero's magic power. Spake the singer, Lemminkainen, Handsome hero, Kaukomieli: 'I would sing a wondrous legend, Sing in miracles of sweetness, If within some hall or chamber, I were seated at the table. If I sing not in the castle, In some spot by walls surrounded Then I sing my songs to zephyrs, Fling them to the fields and forests.' Answered thus the Island-maidens: 'On this isle are castle-chambers, Halls for use of magic singers, Courts complete for chanting legends, Where thy singing will be welcome, Where thy songs will not be scattered To the forests of the island, Nor thy wisdom lost in ether.' Straightway Lemminkainen journeyed With the maidens to the castle; There he sang and conjured pitchers On the borders of the tables, Sang and conjured golden goblets Foaming with the beer of barley; Sang he many well-filled vessels, Bowls of honey-drink abundant, Sweetest butter, toothsome biscuit, Bacon, fish, and veal, and venison, All the dainties of the Northland, Wherewithal to still his hunger. But the proud-heart, Lemminkainen, 413 Was not ready for the banquet, Did not yet begin his feasting, Waited for a knife of silver, For a knife of golden handle; Quick he sang the precious metals, Sang a blade from purest silver, To the blade a golden handle, Straightway then began his feasting, Quenched his thirst and stilled his hunger, Charmed the maidens on the island. Then the minstrel, Lemminkainen, Roamed throughout the island-hamlets, To the joy of all the virgins, All the maids of braided tresses; Wheresoe'er he turned his footsteps, There appeared a maid to greet him; When his hand was kindly offered, There his band was kindly taken; When he wandered out at evening, Even in the darksome places, There the maidens bade him welcome; There was not an island-village Where there were not seven castles, In each castle seven daughters, And the daughters stood in waiting, Gave the hero joyful greetings, Only one of all the maidens Whom he did not greet with pleasure. Thus the merry Lemminkainen Spent three summers in the ocean, Spent a merry time in refuge, In the hamlets on the island, To the pleasure of the maidens, To the joy of all the daughters; Only one was left neglected, She a poor and graceless spinster, On the isle's remotest border, In the smallest of the hamlets. 'Then he thought about his journey O'er the ocean to his mother, To the cottage of his father. There appeared the slighted spinster, 414 To the Northland son departing, Spake these words to Lemminkainen: 'O, thou handsome Kaukomieli, Wisdom-bard, and magic singer, Since this maiden thou hast slighted, May the winds destroy thy vessel, Dash thy bark to countless fragments On the ocean-rocks and ledges!' Lemminkainen's thoughts were homeward, Did not heed the maiden's murmurs, Did not rise before the dawning Of the morning on the island, To the pleasure of the maiden Of the much-neglected hamlet. Finally at close of evening, He resolved to leave the island, He resolved to waken early, Long before the dawn of morning; Long before the time appointed, He arose that he might wander Through the hamlets of the island, Bid adieu to all the maidens, On the morn of his departure. As he wandered hither, thither, Walking through the village path-ways To the last of all the hamlets; Saw he none of all the castle-, Where three dwellings were not standing; Saw he none of all the dwellings Where three heroes were not watching; Saw he none of all the heroes, Who was not engaged in grinding Swords, and spears, and battle-axes, For the death of Lemminkainen. And these words the hero uttered: 'Now alas! the Sun arises From his couch within the ocean, On the frailest of the heroes, On the saddest child of Northland; On my neck the cloak of Lempo Might protect me from all evil, Though a hundred foes assail me, 415 Though a thousand archers follow.' Then he left the maids ungreeted, Left his longing for the daughters Of the nameless Isle of Refuge, With his farewell-words unspoken, Hastened toward the island-harbor, Toward his magic bark at anchor; But he found it burned to ashes, Sweet revenge had fired his vessel, Lighted by the slighted spinster. Then he saw the dawn of evil, Saw misfortune hanging over, Saw destruction round about him. Straightway he began rebuilding Him a magic sailing-vessel, New and wondrous, full of beauty; But the hero needed timber, Boards, and planks, and beams, and braces, Found the smallest bit of lumber, Found of boards but seven fragments, Of a spool he found three pieces, Found six pieces of the distaff; With these fragments builds his vessel, Builds a ship of magic virtue, Builds the bark with secret knowledge, Through the will of the magician; Strikes one blow, and builds the first part, Strikes a second, builds the centre, Strikes a third with wondrous power, And the vessel is completed. Thereupon the ship he launches, Sings the vessel to the ocean, And these words the hero utters: 'Like a bubble swim these waters, Like a flower ride the billows; Loan me of thy magic feathers, Three, O eagle, four, O raven, For protection to my vessel, Lest it flounder in the ocean!' Now the sailor, Lemminkainen, Seats himself upon the bottom Of the vessel he has builded, 416 Hastens on his journey homeward, Head depressed and evil-humored, Cap awry upon his forehead, Mind dejected, heavy-hearted, That he could not dwell forever In the castles of the daughters Of the nameless Isle of Refuge. Spake the minstrel, Lemminkainen, Handsome hero, Kaukomieli: 'Leave I must this merry island, Leave her many joys and pleasures, Leave her maids with braided tresses, Leave her dances and her daughters, To the joys of other heroes; But I take this comfort with me: All the maidens on the island, Save the spinster who was slighted, Will bemoan my loss for ages, Will regret my quick departure; They will miss me at the dances, In the halls of mirth and joyance, In the homes of merry maidens, On my father's Isle of Refuge.' Wept the maidens on the island, Long lamenting, loudly calling To the hero sailing homeward: 'Whither goest, Lemminkainen, Why depart, thou best of heroes? Dost thou leave from inattention, Is there here a dearth of maidens, Have our greetings been unworthy?' Sang the magic Lemminkainen To the maids as he was sailing, This in answer to their calling: 'Leaving not for want of pleasure, Do not go from dearth of women Beautiful the island-maidens, Countless as the sands their virtues. This the reason of my going, I am longing for my home-land, Longing for my mother's cabins, For the strawberries of Northland, 417 For the raspberries of Kalew, For the maidens of my childhood, For the children of my mother.' Then the merry Lemminkainen Bade farewell to all the island; Winds arose and drove his vessel On the blue-back of the ocean, O'er the far-extending waters, Toward the island of his mother. On the shore were grouped the daughters Of the magic Isle of Refuge, On the rocks sat the forsaken, Weeping stood the island-maidens, Golden daughters, loud-lamenting. Weep the maidens of the island While the sail-yards greet their vision, While the copper-beltings glisten; Do not weep to lose the sail-yards, Nor to lose the copper-beltings; Weep they for the loss of Ahti, For the fleeing Kaukomieli Guiding the departing vessel. Also weeps young Lemminkainen, Sorely weeps, and loud-lamenting, Weeps while he can see the island, While the island hill-tops glisten; Does not mourn the island-mountains, Weeps he only for the maidens, Left upon the Isle of Refuge. Thereupon sailed Kaukomieli On the blue-back of the ocean; Sailed one day, and then a second, But, alas! upon the third day, There arose a mighty storm-wind, And the sky was black with fury. Blew the black winds from the north-west, From the south-east came the whirlwind, Tore away the ship's forecastle, Tore away the vessel's rudder, Dashed the wooden hull to pieces. Thereupon wild Lemminkainen Headlong fell upon the waters; 418 With his head he did the steering, With his hands and feet, the rowing; Swam whole days and nights unceasing, Swam with hope and strength united, Till at last appeared a cloudlet, Growing cloudlet to the westward, Changing to a promontory, Into land within the ocean. Swiftly to the shore swam Ahti, Hastened to a magic castle, Found therein a hostess baking, And her daughters kneading barley, And these words the hero uttered: 'O, thou hostess, filled with kindness, Couldst thou know my pangs of hunger, Couldst thou guess my name and station, Thou wouldst hasten to the storehouse, Bring me beer and foaming liquor, Bring the best of thy provisions, Bring me fish, and veal, and bacon, Butter, bread, and honeyed biscuits, Set for me a wholesome dinner, Wherewithal to still my hunger, Quench the thirst of Lemminkainen. Days and nights have I been swimming, Buffeting the waves of ocean, Seemed as if the wind protected, And the billows gave me shelter,' Then the hostess, filled with kindness, Hastened to the mountain storehouse, Cut some butter, veal, and bacon, Bread, and fish, and honeyed biscuit, Brought the best of her provisions, Brought the mead and beer of barley, Set for him a toothsome dinner, Wherewithal to still his hunger, Quench the thirst of Lemminkainen. When the hero's feast had ended, Straightway was a magic vessel Given by the kindly hostess To the weary Kaukomieli, Bark of beauty, new and hardy, 419 Wherewithal to aid the stranger In his journey to his home-land, To the cottage of his mother. Quickly sailed wild Lemminkainen On the blue-back of the ocean; Sailed he days and nights unceasing, Till at last he reached the borders Of his own loved home and country; There beheld he scenes familiar, Saw the islands, capes, and rivers, Saw his former shipping-stations, Saw he many ancient landmarks, Saw the mountains with their fir-trees, Saw the pine-trees on the hill-tops, Saw the willows in the lowlands; Did not see his father's cottage, Nor the dwellings of his mother. Where a mansion once had risen, There the alder-trees were growing, Shrubs were growing on the homestead, Junipers within the court-yard. Spake the reckless Lemminkainen: 'In this glen I played and wandered, On these stones I rocked for ages, On this lawn I rolled and tumbled, Frolicked on these woodland-borders, When a child of little stature. Where then is my mother's dwelling, Where the castles of my father? Fire, I fear, has found the hamlet, And the winds dispersed the ashes.' Then he fell to bitter weeping, Wept one day and then a second, Wept the third day without ceasing; Did not mourn the ancient homestead, Nor the dwellings of his father; Wept he for his darling mother, Wept he for the dear departed, For the loved ones of the island. Then he saw the bird of heaven, Saw an eagle flying near him, And he asked the bird this question: 420 'Mighty eagle, bird majestic, Grant to me the information, Where my mother may have wandered, Whither I may go and find her!' But the eagle knew but little, Only knew that Ahti's people Long ago together perished; And the raven also answered That his people had been scattered By the, swords, and spears, and arrows, Of his enemies from Pohya. Spake the hero, Lemminkainen: 'Faithful mother, dear departed, Thou who nursed me in my childhood, Art thou dead and turned to ashes, Didst thou perish for my follies, O'er thy head are willows weeping, Junipers above thy body, Alders watching o'er thy slumbers? This my punishment for evil, This the recompense of folly! Fool was I, a son unworthy, That I measured swords in Northland With the landlord of Pohyola, To my tribe came fell destruction, And the death of my dear mother, Through my crimes and misdemeanors.' Then the ministrel [sic] looked about him, Anxious, looked in all directions, And beheld some gentle foot-prints, Saw a pathway lightly trodden Where the heather had been beaten. Quick as thought the path he followed, Through the meadows, through the brambles, O'er the hills, and through the valleys, To a forest, vast and cheerless; Travelled far and travelled farther, Still a greater distance travelled, To a dense and hidden glenwood, In the middle of the island; Found therein a sheltered cabin, Found a small and darksome dwelling 421 Built between the rocky ledges, In the midst of triple pine-trees; And within he spied his mother, Found his gray-haired mother weeping. Lemminkainen loud rejoices, Cries in tones of joyful greetings, These the words that Ahti utters: 'Faithful mother, well-beloved, Thou that gavest me existence, Happy I, that thou art living, That thou hast not yet departed To the kingdom of Tuoni, To the islands of the blessed, I had thought that thou hadst perished, Hadst been murdered by my foemen, Hadst been slain with bows and arrows. Heavy are mine eyes from weeping, And my checks are white with sorrow, Since I thought my mother slaughtered For the sins I had committed!' Lemminkainen's mother answered: 'Long, indeed, hast thou been absent, Long, my son, hast thou been living In thy father's Isle of Refuge, Roaming on the secret island, Living at the doors of strangers, Living in a nameless country, Refuge from the Northland foemen.' Spake the, hero, Lemminkainen: 'Charming is that spot for living, Beautiful the magic island, Rainbow-colored was the forest, Blue the glimmer of the meadows, Silvered were, the pine-tree branches, Golden were the heather-blossoms; All the woodlands dripped with honey, Eggs in every rock and crevice, Honey flowed from birch and sorb-tree, Milk in streams from fir and aspen, Beer-foam dripping from the willows, Charming there to live and linger, All their edibles delicious. 422 This their only source of trouble: Great the fear for all the maidens, All the heroes filled with envy, Feared the coming of the stranger; Thought that all the island-maidens, Thought that all the wives and daughters, All the good, and all the evil, Gave thy son too much attention; Thought the stranger, Lemminkainen, Saw the Island-maids too often; Yet the virgins I avoided, Shunned the good and shunned the evil, Shunned the host of charming daughters, As the black-wolf shuns the sheep-fold, As the hawk neglects the chickens.' ~ Elias Lönnrot,

1006:The Kalevala - Rune Xx THE BREWING OF BEER. Now we sing the wondrous legends, Songs of wedding-feasts and dances, Sing the melodies of wedlock, Sing the songs of old tradition; Sing of Ilmarinen's marriage To the Maiden of the Rainbow, Fairest daughter of the Northland, Sing the drinking-songs of Pohya. Long prepared they for the wedding In Pohyola's halls and chambers, In the courts of Sariola; Many things that Louhi ordered, Great indeed the preparations For the marriage of the daughter, For the feasting of the heroes, For the drinking of the strangers, For the feeding of the poor-folk, For the people's entertainment. Grew an ox in far Karjala, Not the largest, nor the smallest, Was the ox that grew in Suomi; But his size was all-sufficient, For his tail was sweeping Jamen, And his head was over Kemi, Horns in length a hundred fathoms, Longer than the horns his mouth was; Seven days it took a weasel To encircle neck and shoulders; One whole day a swallow journeyed From one horn-tip to the other, Did not stop between for resting. Thirty days the squirrel travelled From the tail to reach the shoulders, But he could not gain the horn-tip Till the Moon had long passed over. This young ox of huge dimensions, 335 This great calf of distant Suomi, Was conducted from Karjala To the meadows of Pohyola; At each horn a hundred heroes, At his head and neck a thousand. When the mighty ox was lassoed, Led away to Northland pastures, Peacefully the monster journeyed By the bays of Sariola, Ate the pasture on the borders; To the clouds arose his shoulders, And his horns to highest heaven. Not in all of Sariola Could a butcher be discovered That could kill the ox for Louhi, None of all the sons of Northland, In her hosts of giant people, In her rising generation, In the hosts of those grown older. Came a hero from a distance, Wirokannas from Karelen, And these words the gray-beard uttered: 'Wait, O wait, thou ox of Suomi, Till I bring my ancient war-club; Then I'll smite thee on thy forehead, Break thy skull, thou willing victim! Nevermore wilt thou in summer Browse the woods of Sariola, Bare our pastures, fields, and forests; Thou, O ox, wilt feed no longer Through the length and breadth of Northland, On the borders of this ocean!' When the ancient Wirokannas Started out the ox to slaughter, When Palwoinen swung his war-club, Quick the victim turned his forehead, Flashed his flaming eyes upon him; To the fir-tree leaped the hero, In the thicket hid Palwoinen, Hid the gray-haired Wirokannas. Everywhere they seek a butcher, One to kill the ox of Suomi, 336 In the country of Karelen, And among the Suomi-giants, In the quiet fields of Ehstland, On the battle-fields of Sweden, Mid the mountaineers of Lapland, In the magic fens of Turya; Seek him in Tuoni's empire, In the death-courts of Manala. Long the search, and unsuccessful, On the blue back of the ocean, On the far-outstretching pastures. There arose from out the sea-waves, Rose a hero from the waters, On the white-capped, roaring breakers, From the water's broad expanses; Nor belonged he to the largest, Nor belonged he to the smallest; Made his bed within a sea-shell, Stood erect beneath a flour-sieve, Hero old, with hands of iron, And his face was copper-colored; Quick the hero full unfolded, Like the full corn from the kernel. On his head a hat of flint-stone, On his feet were sandstone-sandals, In his hand a golden cleaver, And the blade was copper-handled. Thus at last they found a butcher, Found the magic ox a slayer. Nothing has been found so mighty That it has not found a master. As the sea-god saw his booty, Quickly rushed he on his victim, Hurled him to his knees before him, Quickly felled the calf of Suomi, Felled the young ox of Karelen. Bountifully meat was furnished; Filled at least a thousand hogsheads Of his blood were seven boatfuls, And a thousand weight of suet, For the banquet of Pohyola, For the marriage-feast of Northland. 337 In Pohyola was a guest-room, Ample was the hall of Louhi, Was in length a hundred furlongs, And in breadth was nearly fifty; When upon the roof a rooster Crowed at break of early morning, No one on the earth could hear him; When the dog barked at one entrance, None could hear him at the other. Louhi, hostess of Pohyola, Hastens to the hall and court-room, In the centre speaks as follows: 'Whence indeed will come the liquor, Who will brew me beer from barley, Who will make the mead abundant, For the people of the Northland, Coming to my daughter's marriage, To her drinking-feast and nuptials? Cannot comprehend the malting, Never have I learned the secret, Nor the origin of brewing.' Spake an old man from his corner: 'Beer arises from the barley, Comes from barley, hops, and water, And the fire gives no assistance. Hop-vine was the son of Remu, Small the seed in earth was planted, Cultivated in the loose soil, Scattered like the evil serpents On the brink of Kalew-waters, On the Osmo-fields and borders. There the young plant grew and flourished, There arose the climbing hop-vine, Clinging to the rocks and alders. 'Man of good-luck sowed the barley On the Osmo hills and lowlands, And the barley grew and flourished, Grew and spread in rich abundance, Fed upon the air and water, On the Osmo plains and highlands, On the fields of Kalew-heroes. 'Time had travelled little distance, 338 Ere the hops in trees were humming, Barley in the fields was singing, And from Kalew's well the water, This the language of the trio: 'Let us join our triple forces, Join to each the other's powers; Sad alone to live and struggle, Little use in working singly, Better we should toil together.' 'Osmotar, the beer-preparer, Brewer of the drink refreshing, Takes the golden grains of barley, Taking six of barley-kernels, Taking seven tips of hop-fruit, Filling seven cups with water, On the fire she sets the caldron, Boils the barley, hops, and water, Lets them steep, and seethe, and bubble Brewing thus the beer delicious, In the hottest days of summer, On the foggy promontory, On the island forest-covered; Poured it into birch-wood barrels, Into hogsheads made of oak-wood. 'Thus did Osmotar of Kalew Brew together hops and barley, Could not generate the ferment. Thinking long and long debating, Thus she spake in troubled accents: 'What will bring the effervescence, Who will add the needed factor, That the beer may foam and sparkle, May ferment and be delightful?' Kalevatar, magic maiden, Grace and beauty in her fingers, Swiftly moving, lightly stepping, In her trimly-buckled sandals, Steps upon the birch-wood bottom, Turns one way, and then another, In the centre of the caldron; Finds within a splinter lying From the bottom lifts the fragment, 339 Turns it in her fingers, musing: 'What may come of this I know not, In the hands of magic maidens, In the virgin hands of Kapo, Snowy virgin of the Northland!' 'Kalevatar took the splinter To the magic virgin, Kapo, Who by unknown force and insight. Rubbed her hands and knees together, And produced a snow-white squirrel; Thus instructed she her creature, Gave the squirrel these directions: 'Snow-white squirrel, mountain-jewel, Flower of the field and forest, Haste thee whither I would send thee, Into Metsola's wide limits, Into Tapio's seat of wisdom; Hasten through the heavy tree-tops, Wisely through the thickest branches, That the eagle may not seize thee, Thus escape the bird of heaven. Bring me ripe cones from the fir-tree, From the pine-tree bring me seedlings, Bring them to the hands of Kapo, For the beer of Osmo's daughter.' Quickly hastened forth the squirrel, Quickly sped the nimble broad-tail, Swiftly hopping on its journey From one thicket to another, From the birch-tree to the aspen, From the pine-tree to the willow, From the sorb-tree to the alder, Jumping here and there with method, Crossed the eagle-woods in safety, Into Metsola's wide limits, Into Tapio's seat of wisdom; There perceived three magic pine-trees, There perceived three smaller fir-trees, Quickly climbed the dark-green branches, Was not captured by the eagle, Was not mangled in his talons; Broke the young cones from the fir-tree, 340 Cut the shoots of pine-tree branches, Hid the cones within his pouches, Wrapped them in his fur-grown mittens Brought them to the hands of Kapo, To the magic virgin's fingers. Kapo took the cones selected, Laid them in the beer for ferment, But it brought no effervescence, And the beer was cold and lifeless. 'Osmotar, the beer-preparer, Kapo, brewer of the liquor, Deeply thought and long considered: 'What will bring the effervescence, Who will lend me aid efficient, That the beer may foam and sparkle, May ferment and be refreshing?' 'Kalevatar, sparkling maiden, Grace and beauty in her fingers, Softly moving, lightly stepping, In her trimly-buckled sandals, Steps again upon the bottom, Turns one way and then another, In the centre of the caldron, Sees a chip upon the bottom, Takes it from its place of resting, Looks upon the chip and muses 'What may come of this I know not, In the hands of mystic maidens, In the hands of magic Kapo, In the virgin's snow-white fingers.' 'Kalevatar took the birch-chip To the magic maiden, Kapo, Gave it to the white-faced maiden. Kapo, by the aid of magic, Rubbed her hands and knees together, And produced a magic marten, And the marten, golden-breasted; Thus instructed she her creature, Gave the marten these directions. 'Thou, my golden-breasted marten, Thou my son of golden color, Haste thou whither I may send thee, 341 To the bear-dens of the mountain, To the grottoes of the growler, Gather yeast upon thy fingers, Gather foam from lips of anger, From the lips of bears in battle, Bring it to the hands of Kapo, To the hands of Osmo's daughter.' 'Then the marten golden-breasted, Full consenting, hastened onward, Quickly bounding on his journey, Lightly leaping through the distance Leaping o'er the widest rivers, Leaping over rocky fissures, To the bear-dens of the mountain, To the grottoes of the growler, Where the wild-bears fight each other, Where they pass a dread existence, Iron rocks, their softest pillows, In the fastnesses of mountains; From their lips the foam was dripping, From their tongues the froth of anger; This the marten deftly gathered, Brought it to the maiden, Kapo, Laid it in her dainty fingers. 'Osmotar, the beer-preparer, Brewer of the beer of barley, Used the beer-foam as a ferment; But it brought no effervescence, Did not make the liquor sparkle. 'Osmotar, the beer-preparer, Thought again, and long debated: 'Who or what will bring the ferment, Th at my beer may not be lifeless?' 'Kalevatar, magic maiden, Grace and beauty in her fingers, Softly moving, lightly stepping, In her trimly-buckled sandals, Steps again upon the bottom, Turns one way and then another, In the centre of the caldron, Sees a pod upon the bottom, Lifts it in her snow-white fingers, 342 Turns it o'er and o'er, and muses: 'What may come of this I know not, In the hands of magic maidens, In the hands of mystic Kapo, In the snowy virgin's fingers?' 'Kalevatar, sparkling maiden, Gave the pod to magic Kapo; Kapo, by the aid of magic, Rubbed the pod upon her knee-cap, And a honey-bee came flying From the pod within her fingers, Kapo thus addressed her birdling: 'Little bee with honeyed winglets, King of all the fragrant flowers, Fly thou whither I direct thee, To the islands in the ocean, To the water-cliffs and grottoes, Where asleep a maid has fallen, Girdled with a belt of copper By her side are honey-grasses, By her lips are fragrant flowers, Herbs and flowers honey-laden; Gather there the sweetened juices, Gather honey on thy winglets, From the calyces of flowers, From the tips of seven petals, Bring it to the hands of Kapo, To the hands of Osmo's daughter.' 'Then the bee, the swift-winged birdling, Flew away with lightning-swiftness On his journey to the islands, O'er the high waves of the ocean; Journeyed one day, then a second, Journeyed all the next day onward, Till the third day evening brought him To the islands in the ocean, To the water-cliffs and grottoes; Found the maiden sweetly sleeping, In her silver-tinselled raiment, Girdled with a belt of copper, In a nameless meadow, sleeping, In the honey-fields of magic; 343 By her side were honeyed grasses, By her lips were fragrant flowers, Silver stalks with golden petals; Dipped its winglets in the honey, Dipped its fingers in the juices Of the sweetest of the flowers, Brought the honey back to Kapo, To the mystic maiden's fingers. 'Osmotar, the beer-preparer, Placed the honey in the liquor; Kapo mixed the beer and honey, And the wedding-beer fermented; Rose the live beer upward, upward, From the bottom of the vessels, Upward in the tubs of birch-wood, Foaming higher, higher, higher, Till it touched the oaken handles, Overflowing all the caldrons; To the ground it foamed and sparkled, Sank away in sand and gravel. 'Time had gone but little distance, Scarce a moment had passed over, Ere the heroes came in numbers To the foaming beer of Northland, Rushed to drink the sparkling liquor. Ere all others Lemminkainen Drank, and grew intoxicated On the beer of Osmo's daughter, On the honey-drink of Kalew. 'Osmotar, the beer-preparer, Kapo, brewer of the barley, Spake these words in saddened accents: 'Woe is me, my life hard-fated, Badly have I brewed the liquor, Have not brewed the beer in wisdom, Will not live within its vessels, Overflows and fills Pohyola!' 'From a tree-top sings the redbreast, From the aspen calls the robin: 'Do not grieve, thy beer is worthy, Put it into oaken vessels, Into strong and willing barrels 344 Firmly bound with hoops of copper.' 'Thus was brewed the beer or Northland, At the hands of Osmo's daughter; This the origin of brewing Beer from Kalew-hops and barley; Great indeed the reputation Of the ancient beer of Kalew, Said to make the feeble hardy, Famed to dry the tears of women, Famed to cheer the broken-hearted, Make the aged young and supple, Make the timid brave and mighty, Make the brave men ever braver, Fill the heart with joy and gladness, Fill the mind with wisdom-sayings, Fill the tongue with ancient legends, Only makes the fool more foolish.' When the hostess of Pohyola Heard how beer was first fermented, Heard the origin of brewing, Straightway did she fill with water Many oaken tubs and barrels; Filled but half the largest vessels, Mixed the barley with the water, Added also hops abundant; Well she mixed the triple forces In her tubs of oak and birch-wood, Heated stones for months succeeding, Thus to boil the magic mixture, Steeped it through the days of summer, Burned the wood of many forests, Emptied all the, springs of Pohya; Daily did the, forests lesson, And the wells gave up their waters, Thus to aid the hostess, Louhi, In the brewing of the liquors, From the water, hops, and barley, And from honey of the islands, For the wedding-feast of Northland, For Pohyola's great carousal And rejoicings at the marriage Of the Malden of the Rainbow 345 To the blacksmith, Ilmarinen, Metal-worker of Wainola. Smoke is seen upon the island, Fire, upon the promontory, Black smoke rising to the heavens From the fire upon the island; Fills with clouds the half of Pohya, Fills Karelen's many hamlets; All the people look and wonder, This the chorus of the women: 'Whence are rising all these smoke-clouds, Why this dreadful fire in Northland? Is not like the smoke of camp-fires, Is too large for fires of shepherds!' Lemminkainen's ancient mother Journeyed in the early morning For some water to the fountain, Saw the smoke arise to heaven, In the region of Pohyola, These the words the mother uttered: ''Tis the smoke of battle-heroes, From the beat of warring armies!' Even Ahti, island-hero, Ancient wizard, Lemminkainen, Also known as Kaukomieli, Looked upon the scene in wonder, Thought awhile and spake as follows: 'I would like to see this nearer, Learn the cause of all this trouble, Whence this smoke and great confusion, Whether smoke from heat of battle, Or the bonfires of the shepherds.' Kaukomieli gazed and pondered, Studied long the rising smoke-clouds; Came not from the heat of battle, Came not from the shepherd bonfires; Heard they were the fires of Louhi Brewing beer in Sariola, On Pohyola's promontory; Long and oft looked Lemminkainen, Strained in eagerness his vision, Stared, and peered, and thought, and wondered, 346 Looked abashed and envy-swollen, 'O beloved, second mother, Northland's well-intentioned hostess, Brew thy beer of honey-flavor, Make thy liquors foam and sparkle, For thy many friends invited, Brew it well for Lemminkainen, For his marriage in Pohyola With the Maiden of the Rainbow.' Finally the beer was ready, Beverage of noble heroes, Stored away in casks and barrels, There to rest awhile in silence, In the cellars of the Northland, In the copper-banded vessels, In the magic oaken hogsheads, Plugs and faucets made of copper. Then the hostess of Pohyola Skilfully prepared the dishes, Laid them all with careful fingers In the boiling-pans and kettles, Ordered countless loaves of barley, Ordered many liquid dishes, All the delicacies of Northland, For the feasting of her people, For their richest entertainment, For the nuptial songs and dances, At the marriage of her daughter With the blacksmith, Ilmarinen. When the loaves were baked and ready. When the dishes all were seasoned, Time had gone but little distance, Scarce a moment had passed over, Ere the beer, in casks imprisoned, Loudly rapped, and sang, and murmured: 'Come, ye heroes, come and take me, Come and let me cheer your spirits, Make you sing the songs of wisdom, That with honor ye may praise me, Sing the songs of beer immortal!' Straightway Louhi sought a minstrel, Magic bard and artist-singer, 347 That the beer might well be lauded, Might be praised in song and honor. First as bard they brought a salmon, Also brought a pike from ocean, But the salmon had no talent, And the pike had little wisdom; Teeth of pike and gills of salmon Were not made for singing legends. Then again they sought a singer, Magic minstrel, beer-enchanter, Thus to praise the drink of heroes, Sing the songs of joy and gladness; And a boy was brought for singing; But the boy had little knowledge, Could not praise the beer in honor; Children's tongues are filled with questions, Children cannot speak in wisdom, Cannot sing the ancient legends. Stronger grew the beer imprisoned In the copper-banded vessels, Locked behind the copper faucets, Boiled, and foamed, and sang, and murmured: 'If ye do not bring a singer, That will sing my worth immortal, That will sing my praise deserving, I will burst these bands of copper, Burst the heads of all these barrels; Will not serve the best of heroes Till he sings my many virtues.' Louhi, hostess of Pohyola, Called a trusted maiden-servant, Sent her to invite the people To the marriage of her daughter, These the words that Louhi uttered: 'O my trusted, truthful maiden, Servant-maid to me belonging, Call together all my people, Call the heroes to my banquet, Ask the rich, and ask the needy, Ask the blind and deaf, and crippled, Ask the young, and ask the aged; Go thou to the hills, and hedges, 348 To the highways, and the by-ways, Urge them to my daughter's wedding; Bring the blind, and sorely troubled, In my boats upon the waters, In my sledges bring the halting, With the old, and sick, and needy; Ask the whole of Sariola, Ask the people of Karelen, Ask the ancient Wainamoinen, Famous bard and wisdom-singer; But I give command explicit Not to ask wild Lemminkainen, Not the island-dweller, Ahti!' This the question of the servant: 'Why not ask wild Lemminkainen, Ancient islander and minstrel?' Louhi gave this simple answer: 'Good the reasons that I give thee Why the wizard, Lemminkainen, Must not have an invitation To my daughter's feast and marriage Ahti courts the heat of battle, Lemminkainen fosters trouble, Skilful fighter of the virtues; Evil thinking, acting evil, He would bring but pain and sorrow, He would jest and jeer at maidens In their trimly buckled raiment, Cannot ask the evil-minded!' Thus again the servant questions: 'Tell me how to know this Ahti, Also known as Lemminkainen, That I may not ask him hither; Do not know the isle of Ahti, Nor the home of Kaukomieli Spake the hostess of Pohyola: 'Easy 'tis to know the wizard, Easy find the Ahti-dwelling: Ahti lives on yonder island, On that point dwells Lemminkainen, In his mansion near the water, Far at sea his home and dwelling.' 349 Thereupon the trusted maiden Spread the wedding-invitations To the people of Pohyola, To the tribes of Kalevala; Asked the friendless, asked the homeless Asked the laborers and shepherds, Asked the fishermen and hunters, Asked the deaf, the dumb, the crippled, Asked the young, and asked the aged, Asked the rich, and asked the needy; Did not give an invitation To the reckless Lemminkainen, Island-dweller of the ocean. ~ Elias Lönnrot,

1007:The Kalevala - Rune Iii WAINAMOINEN AND YOUKAHAINEN. Wainamoinen, ancient minstrel, Passed his years in full contentment, On the meadows of Wainola, On the plains of Kalevala, Singing ever wondrous legends, Songs of ancient wit and wisdom, Chanting one day, then a second, Singing in the dusk of evening, Singing till the dawn of morning, Now the tales of old-time heroes, Tales of ages long forgotten, Now the legends of creation, Once familiar to the children, By our children sung no longer, Sung in part by many heroes, In these mournful days of evil, Evil days our race befallen. Far and wide the story travelled, Far away men spread the knowledge Of the chanting of the hero, Of the song of Wainamoinen; To the South were heard the echoes, All of Northland heard the story. Far away in dismal Northland, Lived the singer, Youkahainen, Lapland's young and reckless minstrel, Once upon a time when feasting, Dining with his friends and fellows, Came upon his ears the story That there lived a sweeter singer, On the meadows of Wainola, On the plains of Kalevala, Better skilled in chanting legends, Better skilled than Youkahainen, Better than the one that taught him. Straightway then the bard grew angry, 23 Envy rose within his bosom, Envy of this Wainamoinen, Famed to be a sweeter singer; Hastes he angry to his mother, To his mother, full of wisdom, Vows that he will southward hasten, Hie him southward and betake him To the dwellings of Wainola, To the cabins of the Northland, There as bard to vie in battle, With the famous Wainamoinen. 'Nay,' replies the anxious father, 'Do not go to Kalevala.' 'Nay,' replies the fearful mother, 'Go not hence to Wainamoinen, There with him to offer battle; He will charm thee with his singing Will bewitch thee in his anger, He will drive thee back dishonored, Sink thee in the fatal snow-drift, Turn to ice thy pliant fingers, Turn to ice thy feet and ankles.' These the words of Youkahainen: Good the judgement of a father, Better still, a mother's counsel, Best of all one's own decision. I will go and face the minstrel, Challenge him to sing in contest, Challenge him as bard to battle, Sing to him my sweet-toned measures, Chant to him my oldest legends, Chant to him my garnered wisdom, That this best of boasted singers, That this famous bard of Suomi, Shall be worsted in the contest, Shall become a hapless minstrel; By my songs shall I transform him, That his feet shall be as flint-stone, And as oak his nether raiment; And this famous, best of singers, Thus bewitched, shall carry ever, In his heart a stony burden, 24 On his shoulder bow of marble, On his hand a flint-stone gauntlet, On his brow a stony visor.' Then the wizard, Youkahainen, Heeding not advice paternal, Heeding not his mother's counsel, Leads his courser from his stable, Fire outstreaming from his nostrils, From his hoofs, the sparks outshooting, Hitches to his sledge, the fleet-foot, To his golden sledge, the courser, Mounts impetuous his snow-sledge, Leaps upon the hindmost cross-bench, Strikes his courser with his birch-whip, With his birch-whip, pearl-enamelled. Instantly the prancing racer Springs away upon his journey; On he, restless, plunges northward, All day long be onward gallops, All the next day, onward, onward, So the third from morn till evening, Till the third day twilight brings him To the meadows of Wainola, To the plains of Kalevala. As it happened, Wainamoinen, Wainamoinen, the magician, Rode that sunset on the highway, Silently for pleasure driving Down Wainola's peaceful meadows, O'er the plains of Kalevala. Youkahainen, young and fiery, Urging still his foaming courser, Dashes down upon the singer, Does not turn aside in meeting, Meeting thus in full collision; Shafts are driven tight together, Hames and collars wedged and tangled, Tangled are the reins and traces. Thus perforce they make a stand-still, Thus remain and well consider; Water drips from hame and collar, Vapors rise from both their horses. 25 Speaks the minstrel, Wainamoinen: 'Who art thou, and whence? Thou comest Driving like a stupid stripling, Wainamoinen and Youkahainen. Careless, dashing down upon me. Thou hast ruined shafts and traces; And the collar of my racer Thou hast shattered into ruin, And my golden sleigh is broken, Box and runners dashed to pieces.' Youkahainen then make answer, Spake at last the words that follow: 'I am youthful Youkahainen, But make answer first, who thou art, Whence thou comest, where thou goest, From what lowly tribe descended?' Wainamolinen, wise and ancient, Answered thus the youthful minstrel: 'If thou art but Youkahainen, Thou shouldst give me all the highway; I am many years thy senior.' Then the boastful Youkahainen Spake again to Wainamoinen: 'Young or ancient, little matter, Little consequence the age is; He that higher stands in wisdom, He whose knowledge is the greater, He that is the sweeter singer, He alone shall keep the highway, And the other take the roadside. Art thou ancient Wainamoinen, Famous sorcerer and minstrel? Let us then begin our singing, Let us sing our ancient legends, Let us chant our garnered wisdom, That the one may hear the other, That the one may judge the other, In a war of wizard sayings.' Wainamoinen, wise and ancient, Thus replied in modest accents: 'What I know is very little, Hardly is it worth the singing, 26 Neither is my singing wondrous: All my days I have resided In the cold and dreary Northland, In a desert land enchanted, In my cottage home for ayes; All the songs that I have gathered, Are the cuckoo's simple measures, Some of these I may remember; But since thou perforce demandest, I accept thy boastful challenge. Tell me now, my golden youngster, What thou knowest more than others, Open now thy store of wisdom.' Thus made answer Youkahainen, Lapland's young and fiery minstrel: 'Know I many bits of learning This I know in perfect clearness: Every roof must have a chimney, Every fire-place have a hearth-stone; Lives of seal are free and merry, Merry is the life of walrus, Feeding on incautious salmon, Daily eating perch and whiting; Whitings live in quiet shallows, Salmon love the level bottoms; Spawns the pike in coldest weather, And defies the storms of winter. Slowly perches swim in Autumn, Wry-backed, hunting deeper water, Spawn in shallows in the summer, Bounding on the shore of ocean. Should this wisdom seem too little, I can tell thee other matters, Sing thee other wizard sayings: All the Northmen plow with reindeer, Mother-horses plow the Southland, Inner Lapland plows with oxen; All the trees on Pisa-mountain, Know I well in all their grandeur; On the Horna-rock are fir-trees, Fir-trees growing tall and slender; Slender grow the trees on mountains. 27 Three, the water-falls in number, Three in number, inland oceans, Three in number, lofty mountains, Shooting to the vault of heaven. Hallapyora's near to Yaemen, Katrakoski in Karyala; Imatra, the falling water, Tumbles, roaring, into Wuoksi.' Then the ancient Wainimoinen: 'Women's tales and children's wisdom Do not please a bearded hero, Hero, old enough for wedlock; Tell the story of creation, Tell me of the world's beginning, Tell me of the creatures in it, And philosophize a little.' Then the youthful Youkahainen Thus replied to Wainamoinen: 'Know I well the titmouse-fountains, Pretty birdling is the titmouse; And the viper, green, a serpent; Whitings live in brackish waters; Perches swim in every river; Iron rusts, and rusting weakens; Bitter is the taste of umber; Boiling water is malicious; Fire is ever full of danger; First physician, the Creator; Remedy the oldest, water; Magic is the child of sea-foam; God the first and best adviser; Waters gush from every mountain; Fire descended first from heaven; Iron from the rust was fashioned; Copper from the rocks created; Marshes are of lands the oldest; First of all the trees, the willow; Fir-trees were the first of houses; Hollowed stones the first of kettles.' Now the ancient Wainamoinen Thus addresses Youkahainen: 'Canst thou give me now some wisdom, 28 Is this nonsense all thou knowest?' Youkahainen thus made answer: 'I can tell thee still a trifle, Tell thee of the times primeval, When I plowed the salt-sea's bosom, When I raked the sea-girt islands, When I dug the salmon-grottoes, Hollowed out the deepest caverns, When I all the lakes created, When I heaped the mountains round them, When I piled the rocks about them. I was present as a hero, Sixth of wise and ancient heroes, Seventh of all primeval heroes, When the heavens were created, When were formed the ether-spaces, When the sky was crystal-pillared, When was arched the beauteous rainbow, When the Moon was placed in orbit, When the silver Sun was planted, When the Bear was firmly stationed, And with stars the heavens were sprinkled.' Spake the ancient Wainamoinen: 'Thou art surely prince of liars, Lord of all the host of liars; Never wert thou in existence, Surely wert thou never present, When was plowed the salt-sea's bosom, When were raked the sea-girt islands, When were dug the salmon-grottoes, When were hollowed out the caverns, When the lakes were all created, When were heaped the mountains round them, When the rocks were piled about them. Thou wert never seen or heard of When the earth was first created, When were made the ether-spaces, When the air was crystal-pillared, When the Moon was placed in orbit, When the silver Sun was planted, When the Bear was firmly stationed, When the skies with stars were sprinkled.' 29 Then in anger Youkahainen Answered ancient Wainamoinen: 'Then, sir, since I fail in wisdom, With the sword I offer battle; Come thou, famous bard and minstrel, Thou the ancient wonder-singer, Let us try our strength with broadswords, let our blades be fully tested.' Spake the ancient Wainamoinen: 'Not thy sword and not thy wisdom, Not thy prudence, nor thy cunning, Do I fear a single moment. Let who may accept thy challenge, Not with thee, a puny braggart, Not with one so vain and paltry, Will I ever measure broadswords.' Then the youthful Youkahainen, Mouth awry and visage sneering, Shook his golden locks and answered: 'Whoso fears his blade to measure, Fears to test his strength at broadswords, Into wild-boar of the forest, Swine at heart and swine in visage, Singing I will thus transform him; I will hurl such hero-cowards, This one hither, that one thither, Stamp him in the mire and bedding, In the rubbish of the stable.' Angry then grew Wainamoinen, Wrathful waxed, and fiercely frowning, Self-composed he broke his silence, And began his wondrous singing. Sang he not the tales of childhood, Children's nonsense, wit of women, Sang he rather bearded heroes, That the children never heard of, That the boys and maidens knew not Known but half by bride and bridegroom, Known in part by many heroes, In these mournful days of evil, Evil times our race befallen. Grandly sang wise Wainamoinen, 30 Till the copper-bearing mountains, And the flinty rocks and ledges Heard his magic tones and trembled; Mountain cliffs were torn to pieces, All the ocean heaved and tumbled; And the distant hills re-echoed. Lo! the boastful Youkahainen Is transfixed in silent wonder, And his sledge with golden trimmings Floats like brushwood on the billows; Sings his braces into reed-grass, Sings his reins to twigs of willow, And to shrubs his golden cross-bench. Lo! his birch-whip, pearl-enameled, Floats a reed upon the border; Lo! his steed with golden forehead, Stands a statue on the waters; Hames and traces are as fir-boughs, And his collar, straw and sea-grass. Still the minstrel sings enchantment, Sings his sword with golden handle, Sings it into gleam of lightning, Hangs it in the sky above him; Sings his cross-bow, gaily painted, To a rainbow o'er the ocean; Sings his quick and feathered arrows Into hawks and screaming eagles; Sings his dog with bended muzzle, Into block of stone beside him; Sings his cap from off his forehead, Sings it into wreaths of vapor; From his hands he sings his gauntlets Into rushes on the waters; Sings his vesture, purple-colored, Into white clouds in the heavens; Sings his girdle, set with jewels, Into twinkling stars around him; And alas! for Youkahainen, Sings him into deeps of quick-sand; Ever deeper, deeper, deeper, In his torture, sinks the wizard, To his belt in mud and water. 31 Now it was that Youkahainen Comprehended but too clearly What his folly, what the end was, Of the journey he had ventured, Vainly he had undertaken For the glory of a contest With the grand, old Wainamoinen. When at last young Youkahainen, Pohyola's old and sorry stripling, Strives his best to move his right foot, But alas! the foot obeys not; When he strives to move his left foot, Lo! he finds it turned to flint-stone. Thereupon sad Youkahainen, In the deeps of desperation, And in earnest supplication, Thus addresses Wainamoinen: 'O thou wise and worthy minstrel, Thou the only true, magician, Cease I pray thee thine enchantment,. Only turn away thy magic, Let me leave this slough of horror, Loose me from this stony prison, Free me from this killing torment, I will pay a golden ransom.' Spake the ancient Wainamoinen: 'What the ransom thou wilt give me If I cease from mine enchantment, If I turn away my magic, Lift thee from thy slough of horror, Loose thee from thy stony prison, Free thee from thy killing torment?' Answered youthful Youkahainen: 'Have at home two magic cross-bows, Pair of bows of wondrous power, One so light a child can bend it, Only strength can bend the other, Take of these the one that pleases.' Then the ancient Wainamoinen: 'Do not wish thy magic cross-bows, Have a few of such already, Thine to me are worse than useless 32 I have bows in great abundance, Bows on every nail and rafter, Bows that laugh at all the hunters, Bows that go themselves a-hunting.' Then the ancient Wainamoinen Sang alas! poor Youkahainen Deeper into mud and water, Deeper in the slough of torment. Youkahainen thus made answer: 'Have at home two magic shallops, Beautiful the boats and wondrous; One rides light upon the ocean, One is made for heavy burdens; Take of these the one that pleases.' Spake the ancient Wainamoinen: 'Do not wish thy magic shallops, Have enough of such already; All my bays are full of shallops, All my shores are lined with shallops, Some before the winds are sailors, Some were built to sail against them.' Still the Wainola bard and minstrel Sings again poor Youkahainen Deeper, deeper into torment, Into quicksand to his girdle, Till the Lapland bard in anguish Speaks again to Wainamoinen: 'Have at home two magic stallions, One a racer, fleet as lightning, One was born for heavy burdens; Take of these the one that pleases.' Spake the ancient Wainamoinen: 'Neither do I wish thy stallions, Do not need thy hawk-limbed stallions, Have enough of these already; Magic stallions swarm my stables, Eating corn at every manger, Broad of back to hold the water, Water on each croup in lakelets.' Still the bard of Kalevala Sings the hapless Lapland minstrel Deeper, deeper into torment, 33 To his shoulders into water. Spake again young Youkahainen: 'O thou ancient Wainamoinen, Thou the only true magician, Cease I pray thee thine enchantment, Only turn away thy magic, I will give thee gold abundant, Countless stores of shining silver; From the wars my father brought it, Brought it from the hard-fought battles.' Spake the wise, old Wainamoinen: 'For thy gold I have no longing, Neither do I wish thy silver, Have enough of each already; Gold abundant fills my chambers, On each nail hang bags of silver, Gold that glitters in the sunshine, Silver shining in the moonlight.' Sank the braggart, Youkahainen, Deeper in his slough of torment, To his chin in mud and water, Ever praying, thus beseeching: 'O thou ancient Wainamoinen, Greatest of the old magicians, Lift me from this pit of horror, From this prison-house of torture; I will give thee all my corn-fields, Give thee all my corn in garners, Thus my hapless life to ransom, Thus to gain eternal freedom.' Wainamoinen thus made answer: 'Take thy corn to other markets, Give thy garners to the needy; I have corn in great abundance, Fields have I in every quarter, Corn in all my fields is growing; One's own fields are always richer, One's own grain is much the sweeter.' Lapland's young and reckless minstrel, Sorrow-laden, thus enchanted, Deeper sinks in mud and water, Fear-enchained and full of anguish, 34 In the mire, his beard bedrabbled, Mouth once boastful filled with sea-weed, In the grass his teeth entangled, Youkahainen thus beseeches: 'O thou ancient Wainamoinen, Wisest of the wisdom-singers, Cease at last thine incantations, Only turn away thy magic, And my former life restore me, Lift me from this stifling torment, Free mine eyes from sand and water, I will give thee sister, Aino, Fairest daughter of my mother, Bride of thine to be forever, Bride of thine to do thy pleasure, Sweep the rooms within thy cottage, Keep thy dwelling-place in order, Rinse for thee the golden platters, Spread thy couch with finest linens, For thy bed, weave golden covers, Bake for thee the honey-biscuit.' Wainamoinen, old and truthful, Finds at last the wished-for ransom, Lapland's young and fairest daughter, Sister dear of Youkahainen; Happy he, that he has won him, In his age a beauteous maiden, Bride of his to be forever, Pride and joy of Kalevala. Now the happy Wainamoinen, Sits upon the rock of gladness, Joyful on the rock of music, Sings a little, sings and ceases, Sings again, and sings a third time, Thus to break the spell of magic, Thus to lessen the enchantment, Thus the potent charm to banish. As the magic spell is broken, Youkahainen, sad, but wiser, Drags his feet from out the quicksand, Lifts his beard from out the water, From the rocks leads forth his courser, 35 Brings his sledge back from the rushes, Calls his whip back from the ocean, Sets his golden sledge in order, Throws himself upon the cross-bench, Snaps his whip and hies him homeward, Hastens homeward, heavy-hearted, Sad indeed to meet his mother, Aino's mother, gray and aged. Careless thus be hastens homeward, Nears his home with noise and bustle, Reckless drives against the pent-house, Breaks the shafts against the portals, Breaks his handsome sledge in pieces. Then his mother, quickly guessing, Would have chided him for rashness, But the father interrupted: 'Wherefore dost thou break thy snow-sledge, Wherefore dash thy thills in fragments, Wherefore comest home so strangely, Why this rude and wild behavior?' Now alas! poor Youkahainen, Cap awry upon his forehead, Falls to weeping, broken-hearted, Head depressed and mind dejected, Eyes and lips expressing sadness, Answers not his anxious father. Then the mother quickly asked him, Sought to find his cause for sorrow: 'Tell me, first-born, why thou weepest, Why thou weepest, heavy-hearted, Why thy mind is so dejected, Why thine eyes express such sadness.' Youkahainen then made answer: 'Golden mother, ever faithful, Cause there is to me sufficient, Cause enough in what has happened, Bitter cause for this my sorrow, Cause for bitter tears and murmurs: All my days will pass unhappy, Since, O mother of my being, I have promised beauteous Aino, Aino, thy beloved daughter, 36 Aino, my devoted sister, To decrepit Wainamoinen, Bride to be to him forever, Roof above him, prop beneath him, Fair companion at his fire-side.' Joyful then arose the mother, Clapped her hands in glee together, Thus addressing Youkahainen: 'Weep no more, my son beloved, Thou hast naught to cause thy weeping, Hast no reason for thy sorrow, Often I this hope have cherished; Many years have I been praying That this mighty bard and hero, Wise and valiant Wainamoinen, Spouse should be to beauteous Aino, Son-in-law to me, her mother.' But the fair and lovely maiden, Sister dear of Youkahainen, Straightway fell to bitter weeping, On the threshold wept and lingered, Wept all day and all the night long, Wept a second, then a third day, Wept because a bitter sorrow On her youthful heart had fallen. Then the gray-haired mother asked her: 'Why this weeping, lovely Aino? Thou hast found a noble suitor, Thou wilt rule his spacious dwelling, At his window sit and rest thee, Rinse betimes his golden platters, Walk a queen within his dwelling.' Thus replied the tearful Aino: 'Mother dear, and all-forgiving, Cause enough for this my sorrow, Cause enough for bitter weeping: I must loose my sunny tresses, Tresses beautiful and golden, Cannot deck my hair with jewels, Cannot bind my head with ribbons, All to be hereafter hidden Underneath the linen bonnet 37 That the wife. must wear forever; Weep at morning, weep at evening, Weep alas! for waning beauty, Childhood vanished, youth departed, Silver sunshine, golden moonlight, Hope and pleasure of my childhood, Taken from me now forever, And so soon to be forgotten At the tool-bench of my brother, At the window of my sister, In the cottage of my father.' Spake again the gray-haired mother To her wailing daughter Aino: 'Cease thy sorrow, foolish maiden, By thy tears thou art ungrateful, Reason none for thy repining, Not the slightest cause for weeping; Everywhere the silver sunshine Falls as bright on other households; Not alone the moonlight glimmers Through thy father's open windows, On the work-bench of thy brother; Flowers bloom in every meadow, Berries grow on every mountain; Thou canst go thyself and find them, All the day long go and find them; Not alone thy brother's meadows Grow the beauteous vines and flowers; Not alone thy father's mountains Yield the ripe, nutritious berries; Flowers bloom in other meadows, Berries grow on other mountains, There as here, my lovely Aino.' ~ Elias Lönnrot,

1008:The Kalevala - Rune Xxv WAINAMOINEN'S WEDDING-SONGS. At the home of Ilmarinen Long had they been watching, waiting, For the coming of the blacksmith, With his bride from Sariola. Weary were the eyes of watchers, Waiting from the father's portals, Looking from the mother's windows; Weary were the young knees standing At the gates of the magician; Weary grew the feet of children, Tramping to the walls and watching; Worn and torn, the shoes of heroes, Running on the shore to meet him. Now at last upon a morning Of a lovely day in winter, Heard they from the woods the rumble Of a snow-sledge swiftly bounding. Lakko, hostess of Wainola, She the lovely Kalew-daughter, Spake these words in great excitement: ''Tis the sledge of the magician, Comes at last the metal-worker From the dismal Sariola, By his side the Bride of Beauty! Welcome, welcome, to this hamlet, Welcome to thy mother's hearth-stone, To the dwelling of thy father, By thine ancestors erected!' Straightway came great Ilmarinen To his cottage drove the blacksmith, To the fireside of his father, To his mother's ancient dwelling. Hazel-birds were sweetly singing On the newly-bended collar; Sweetly called the sacred cuckoos From the summit of the break-board; 424 Merry, jumped the graceful squirrel On the oaken shafts and cross-bar. Lakko, Kalew's fairest hostess, Beauteous daughter of Wainola, Spake these words of hearty welcome: 'For the new moon hopes the village, For the sun, the happy maidens, For the boat, the swelling water; I have not the moon expected, For the sun have not been waiting, I have waited for my hero, Waited for the Bride of Beauty; Watched at morning, watched at evening, Did not know but some misfortune, Some sad fate had overtaken Bride and bridegroom on their journey; Thought the maiden growing weary, Weary of my son's attentions, Since he faithfully had promised To return to Kalevala, Ere his foot-prints had departed From the snow-fields of his father. Every morn I looked and listened, Constantly I thought and wondered When his sledge would rumble homeward, When it would return triumphant To his home, renowned and ancient. Had a blind and beggared straw-horse Hobbled to these shores awaiting, With a sledge of but two pieces, Well the steed would have been lauded, Had it brought my son beloved, Had it brought the Bride of Beauty. Thus I waited long, impatient, Looking out from morn till even, Watching with my head extended, With my tresses streaming southward, With my eyelids widely opened, Waiting for my son's returning To this modest home of heroes, To this narrow place of resting. Finally am I rewarded, 425 For the sledge has come triumphant, Bringing home my son and hero, By his side the Rainbow maiden, Red her cheeks, her visage winsome, Pride and joy of Sariola. 'Wizard-bridegroom of Wainola, Take thy-courser to the stable, Lead him to the well-filled manger, To the best of grain and clover; Give to us thy friendly greetings, Greetings send to all thy people. When thy greetings thou hast ended, Then relate what has befallen To our hero in his absence. Hast thou gone without adventure To the dark fields of Pohyola, Searching for the Maid of Beauty? Didst thou scale the hostile ramparts, Didst thou take the virgin's mansion, Passing o'er her mother's threshold, Visiting the halls of Louhi? 'But I know without the asking, See the answer to my question: Comest from the North a victor, On thy journey well contented; Thou hast brought the Northland daughter, Thou hast razed the hostile portals, Thou hast stormed the forts of Louhi, Stormed the mighty walls opposing, On thy journey to Pohyola, To the village of the father. In thy care the bride is sitting, In thine arms, the Rainbow-maiden, At thy side, the pride of Northland, Mated to the highly-gifted. Who has told the cruel story, Who the worst of news has scattered, That thy suit was unsuccessful, That in vain thy steed had journeyed? Not in vain has been thy wooing, Not in vain thy steed has travelled To the dismal homes of Lapland; 426 He has journeyed heavy laden, Shaken mane, and tail, and forelock, Dripping foam from lips and nostrils, Through the bringing of the maiden, With the burden of the husband. 'Come, thou beauty, from the snow-sledge, Come, descend thou from the cross-bench, Do not linger for assistance, Do not tarry to be carried; If too young the one that lifts thee, If too proud the one in waiting, Rise thou, graceful, like a young bird, Hither glide along the pathway, On the tan-bark scarlet- colored, That the herds of kine have evened, That the gentle lambs have trodden, Smoothened by the tails of horses. Haste thou here with gentle footsteps, Through the pathway smooth and tidy, On the tiles of even surface, On thy second father's court-yard, To thy second mother's dwelling, To thy brother's place of resting, To thy sister's silent chambers. Place thy foot within these portals, Step across this waiting threshold, Enter thou these halls of joyance, Underneath these painted rafters, Underneath this roof of ages. During all the winter evenings, Through the summer gone forever, Sang the tiling made of ivory, Wishing thou wouldst walk upon it; Often sang the golden ceiling, Hoping thou wouldst walk beneath it, And the windows often whistled, Asking thee to sit beside them; Even on this merry morning, Even on the recent evening, Sat the aged at their windows, On the sea-shore ran the children, Near the walls the maidens waited, 427 Ran the boys upon the highway, There to watch the young bride's coming, Coming with her hero-husband. 'Hail, ye courtiers of Wainola, With the heroes of the fathers, Hail to thee, Wainola's hamlet, Hail, ye halls with heroes peopled, Hail, ye rooms with all your inmates, Hail to thee, sweet golden moonlight, Hail to thee, benignant Ukko, Hail companions of the bridegroom! Never has there been in Northland Such a wedding-train of honor, Never such a bride of beauty. 'Bridegroom, thou beloved hero, Now untie the scarlet ribbons, And remove the silken muffler, Let us see the honey-maiden, See the Daughter of the Rainbow. Seven years hast thou been wooing, Hast thou brought the maid affianced, Wainamoinen's Wedding-Songs. Hast thou sought a sweeter cuckoo, Sought one fairer than the moonlight, Sought a mermaid from the ocean? But I know without the asking, See the answer to my question: Thou hast brought the sweet-voiced cuckoo, Thou hast found the swan of beauty Plucked the sweetest flower of Northland, Culled the fairest of the jewels, Gathered Pohya's sweetest berry!' Sat a babe upon the matting, And the young child spake as follows: 'Brother, what is this thou bringest, Aspen-log or trunk of willow, Slender as the mountain-linden? Bridegroom, well dost thou remember, Thou hast hoped it all thy life-time, Hoped to bring the Maid of Beauty, Thou a thousand times hast said it, Better far than any other, 428 Not one like the croaking raven, Nor the magpie from the border, Nor the scarecrow from the corn-fields, Nor the vulture from the desert. What has this one done of credit, In the summer that has ended? Where the gloves that she has knitted, Where the mittens she has woven? Thou hast brought her empty-handed, Not a gift she brings thy father; In thy chests the nice are nesting, Long-tails feeding on thy vestments, And thy bride, cannot repair them.' Lakko hostess of Wainola, She the faithful Kalew-daughter, Hears the young child's speech in wonder, Speaks these words of disapproval: Silly prattler, cease thy talking, Thou Last spoken in dishonor; Let all others be astonished, Reap thy malice on thy kindred, must not harm the Bride of Beauty, Rainbow-daughter of the Northland. False indeed is this thy Prattle, All thy words are full or evil, Fallen from thy tongue of mischief From the lips of one unworthy. Excellent the hero 's young bride, Best of all in Sariola, Like the, strawberry in summer, Like the daisy from the meadow, Like the cuckoo from the forest, Like the bluebird from the aspen, Like the redbreast from the heather, Like the martin. from the linden; Never couldst thou find in Ehstland Such a virgin as this daughter, Such a graceful beauteous maiden, With such dignity of Carriage, With such arms of pearly whiteness, With. a neck so fair and lovely. Neither is she empty-handed, 429 She has brought us furs abundant, Brought us many silken garments, Richest weavings of Pohyola. Many beauteous things the maiden, With the spindle has accomplished, Spun and woven with her fingers Dresses of the finest texture She in winter has upfolded, Bleached them in the days of spring-time, Dried them at the hour of noon-day, For our couches finest linen, For our heads the softest pillows, For our comfort woollen blankets, For our necks the silken ribbons.' To the bride speaks gracious Lakko: 'Goodly wife, thou Maid of Beauty, Highly wert thou praised as daughter, In thy father's distant country; Here thou shalt be praised forever By the kindred of thy husband; Thou shalt never suffer sorrow, Never give thy heart to grieving; In the swamps thou wert not nurtured, Wert not fed beside the brooklets; Thou wert born 'neath stars auspicious, Nurtured from the richest garners, Thou wert taken to the brewing Of the sweetest beer in Northland. 'Beauteous bride from Sariola, Shouldst thou see me bringing hither Casks of corn, or wheat, or barley; Bringing rye in great abundance, They belong to this thy household; Good the plowing of thy husband. Good his sowing and his reaping. 'Bride of Beauty from the Northland, Thou wilt learn this home to manage, Learn to labor with thy kindred; Good the home for thee to dwell in, Good enough for bride and daughter. At thy hand will rest the milk-pail, And the churn awaits thine order; 430 It is well here for the maiden, Happy will the young bride labor, Easy are the resting-benches; Here the host is like thy father, Like thy mother is the hostess, All the sons are like thy brothers, Like thy sisters are the daughters. 'Shouldst thou ever have a longing For the whiting of the ocean, For thy, father's Northland salmon, For thy brother's hazel-chickens, Ask them only of thy husband, Let thy hero-husband bring them. There is not in all of Northland, Not a creature of the forest, Not a bird beneath the ether, Not a fish within the waters, Not the largest, nor the smallests That thy husband cannot capture. It is well here for the maiden, Here the bride may live in freedom, Need not turn the heavy millstone, Need not move the iron pestle; Here the wheat is ground by water, For the rye, the swifter current, While the billows wash the vessels And the surging waters rinse them. Thou hast here a lovely village, Finest spot in all of Northland, In the lowlands sweet the verdure, in the uplands, fields of beauty, With the lake-shore near the hamlet, Near thy home the running water, Where the goslings swim and frolic, Water-birds disport in numbers.' Thereupon the bride and bridegroom Were refreshed with richest viands, Given food and drink abundant, Fed on choicest bits of reindeer, On the sweetest loaves of barley, On the best of wheaten biscuits, On the richest beer of Northland. 431 Many things were on the table, Many dainties of Wainola, In the bowls of scarlet color, In the platters deftly painted, Many cakes with honey sweetened, To each guest was butter given, Many bits of trout and whiting, Larger salmon carved in slices, With the knives of molten silver, Rimmed with gold the silver handles, Beer of barley ceaseless flowing, Honey-drink that was not purchased, In the cellar flows profusely, Beer for all, the tongues to quicken, Mead and beer the minds to freshen. Who is there to lead the singing, Lead the songs of Kalevala? Wainamoinen, old and truthful, The eternal, wise enchanter, Quick begins his incantations, Straightway sings the songs that follow. 'Golden brethren, dearest kindred, Ye, my loved ones, wise and worthy Ye companions, highly-gifted, Listen to my simple sayings: Rarely stand the geese together, Sisters do not mate each other, Not together stand the brothers, Nor the children of one mother, In the countries of the Northland. 'Shall we now begin the singing, Sing the songs of old tradition? Singers can but sing their wisdom, And the cuckoo call the spring-time, And the goddess of the heavens Only dyes the earth in beauty; So the goddesses of weaving Can but weave from dawn till twilight, Ever sing the youth of Lapland In their straw-shoes full of gladness, When the coarse-meat of the roebuck, Or of blue-moose they have eaten. 432 Wherefore should I not be singing, And the children not be chanting Of the biscuits of Wainola, Of the bread of Kalew-waters? Even Sing the lads of Lapland In their straw-shoes filled with joyance, Drinking but a cup of water, Eating but the bitter tan-bark. Wherefore should I not be singing, And the children not be chanting Of the beer of Kalevala, Brewed from barley in perfection, Dressed in quaint and homely costume, As they sit beside their hearth-stones. Wherefore should I not be singing, And the children too be chanting Underneath these painted rafters, In these halls renowned and ancient? This the place for men to linger, This the court-room for the maidens, Near the foaming beer of barley, Honey-brewed in great abundance, Very near, the salmon-waters, Near, the nets for trout and whiting, Here where food is never wanting, Where the beer is ever brewing. Here Wainola's sons assemble, Here Wainola's daughters gather, Here they never eat in trouble, Here they live without regretting, In the life-time of the landlord, While the hostess lives and prospers. 'Who shall first be sung and lauded? Shall it be the bride or bridegroom? Let us praise the bridegroom's father, Let the hero-host be chanted, Him whose home is in the forest, Him who built upon the mountains, Him who brought the trunks of lindens, With their tops and slender branches, Brought them to the best of places, Joined them skilfully together, 433 For the mansion of the nation, For this famous hero-dwelling, Walls procured upon the lowlands, Rafters from the pine and fir-tree, From the woodlands beams of oak-wood, From the berry-plains the studding, Bark was furnished by the aspen, And the mosses from the fenlands. Trimly builded is this mansion, In a haven warmly sheltered; Here a hundred men have labored, On the roof have stood a thousand, As this spacious house was building, As this roof was tightly jointed. Here the ancient mansion-builder, When these rafters were erected, Lost in storms his locks of sable, Scattered by the winds of heaven. Often has the hero-landlord On the rocks his gloves forgotten, Left his hat upon the willows, Lost his mittens in the marshes; Oftentimes the mansion-builder, In the early hours of morning, Ere his workmen had awakened, Unperceived by all the village, Has arisen from his slumber, Left his cabin the snow-fields, Combed his locks among the branches, Bathed his eyes in dews of morning. 'Thus obtained the pleasant landlord Friends to fill his spacious dwelling, Fill his benches with magicians, Fill his windows with enchanters, Fill his halls with wizard-singers, Fill his floors with ancient speakers, Fill his ancient court with strangers, Fill his hurdles with the needy; Thus the Kalew-host is lauded. 'Now I praise the genial hostess, Who prepares the toothsome dinner, Fills with plenty all her tables, 434 Bakes the honeyed loaves of barley, Kneads the dough with magic fingers, With her arms of strength and beauty, Bakes her bread in copper ovens, Feeds her guests and bids them welcome, Feeds them on the toothsome bacon, On the trout, and pike, and whiting, On the rarest fish in ocean, On the dainties of Wainola. 'Often has the faithful hostess Risen from her couch in silence, Ere the crowing of the watcher, To prepare the wedding-banquet, Make her tables look attractive. Brew the honey-beer of wedlock. Excellently has the housewife, Has the hostess filled with wisdom, Brewed the beer from hops and barley, From the corn of Kalevala, From the wheat-malt honey-seasoned, Stirred the beer with graceful fingers, At the oven in the penthouse, In the chamber swept and polished. Neither did the prudent hostess, Beautiful, and full of wisdom, Let the barley sprout too freely, Lest the beer should taste of black-earth, Be too bitter in the brewing, Often went she to the garners, Went alone at hour of midnight, Was not frightened by the black-wolf, Did not fear the beasts of woodlands. 'Now the hostess I have lauded, Let me praise the favored suitor, Now the honored hero-bridegroom, Best of all the village-masters. Clothed in purple is the hero, Raiment brought from distant nations, Tightly fitting to his body; Snugly sets his coat of ermine, To the floor it hangs in beauty, Trailing from his neck and shoulders, 435 Little of his vest appearing, Peeping through his outer raiment, Woven by the Moon's fair daughters, And his vestment silver-tinselled. Dressed in neatness is the suitor, Round his waist a belt of copper, Hammered by the Sun's sweet maidens, Ere the early fires were lighted, Ere the fire had been discovered. Dressed in richness is the bridegroom, On his feet are silken stockings, Silken ribbons on his ankles, Gold and silver interwoven. Dressed in beauty is the bridegroom, On his feet are shoes of deer-skin, Like the swans upon the water, Like the blue-duck on the sea-waves, Like the thrush among the willows, Like the water-birds of Northland. Well adorned the hero-suitor, With his locks of golden color, With his gold-beard finely braided, Hero-hat upon his forehead, Piercing through the forest branches, Reaching to the clouds of heaven, Bought with countless gold and silver, Priceless is the suitor's head-gear. 'Now the bridegroom has been lauded, I will praise the young bride's playmate, Day-companion in her childhood, In the maiden's magic mansion. Whence was brought the merry maiden, From the village of Tanikka? Thence was never brought the playmate, Playmate of the bride in childhood. Has she come from distant nations, From the waters of the Dwina, O'er the ocean far-outstretching? Not from Dwina came the maiden, Did not sail across the waters; Grew as berry in the mountains, As a strawberry of sweetness, 436 On the fields the child of beauty, In the glens the golden flower. Thence has come the young bride's playmate, Thence arose her fair companion. Tiny are her feet and fingers, Small her lips of scarlet color, Like the maiden's loom of Suomi; Eyes that shine in kindly beauty Like the twinkling stars of heaven; Beam the playmate's throbbing temples Like the moonlight on the waters. Trinkets has the bride's companion, On her neck a golden necklace, In her tresses, silken ribbons, On her arms are golden bracelets, Golden rings upon her fingers, Pearls are set in golden ear-rings, Loops of gold upon her temples, And with pearls her brow is studded. Northland thought the Moon was shining When her jeweled ear-ringsglistened; Thought the Sun had left his station When her girdle shone in beauty; Thought a ship was homeward sailing When her colored head-gear fluttered. Thus is praised the bride's companion, Playmate of the Rainbow-maiden. 'Now I praise the friends assembled, All appear in graceful manners; If the old are wise and silent, All the youth are free and merry, All the guests are fair and worthy. Never was there in Wainola, Never will there be in Northland, Such a company assembled; All the children speak in joyance, All the aged move sedately; Dressed in white are all the maidens, Like the hoar-frost of the morning, Like the welcome dawn of spring-time, Like the rising of the daylight. Silver then was more abundant, 437 Gold among the guests in plenty, On the hills were money, pockets, Money-bags along the valleys, For the friends that were invited, For the guests in joy assembled. All the friends have now been lauded, Each has gained his meed of honor.' Wainamoinen, old and truthful, Song-deliverer of Northland, Swung himself upon the fur-bench Or his magic sledge of copper, Straightway hastened to his hamlet, Singing as he journeyed onward, Singing charms and incantations, Singing one day, then a second, All the third day chanting legends. On the rocks the runners rattled, Hung the sledge upon a birch-stump, Broke it into many pieces, With the magic of his singing; Double were the runners bended, All the parts were torn asunder, And his magic sledge was ruined. Then the good, old Wainamoinen Spake these words in meditation: 'Is there one among this number, In this rising generation, Or perchance among the aged, In the passing generation, That will go to Mana's kingdom, To the empire of Tuoni, There to get the magic auger From the master of Manala, That I may repair my snow-sledge, Or a second sledge may fashion?' What the younger people answered Was the answer of the aged: 'Not among the youth of Northland, Nor among the aged heroes, Is there one of ample courage, That has bravery sufficient, To attempt the reckless journey 438 To the kingdom of Tuoni, To Manala's fields and castles, Thence to bring Tuoni's auger, Wherewithal to mend thy snow-sledge, Build anew thy sledge of magic.' Thereupon old Wainamoinen, The eternal wisdom-singer, Went again to Mana's empire, To the kingdom of Tuoni, Crossed the sable stream of Deathland, To the castles of Manala, Found the auger of Tuoni, Brought the instrument in safety. Straightway sings old Wainamoinen, Sings to life a purple forest, In the forest, slender birches, And beside them, mighty oak-trees, Shapes them into shafts and runners, Moulds them by his will and power, Makes anew his sledge of magic. On his steed he lays the harness, Binds him to his sledge securely, Seats himself upon the cross-bench, And the racer gallops homeward, To the manger filled and waiting, To the stable of his master; Brings the ancient Wainamoinen, Famous bard and wise enchanter, To the threshold of his dwelling, To his home in Kalevala. ~ Elias Lönnrot,

1009:The Coming Of Arthur Leodogran, the King of Cameliard, Had one fair daughter, and none other child; And she was the fairest of all flesh on earth, Guinevere, and in her his one delight. For many a petty king ere Arthur came Ruled in this isle, and ever waging war Each upon other, wasted all the land; And still from time to time the heathen host Swarmed overseas, and harried what was left. And so there grew great tracts of wilderness, Wherein the beast was ever more and more, But man was less and less, till Arthur came. For first Aurelius lived and fought and died, And after him King Uther fought and died, But either failed to make the kingdom one. And after these King Arthur for a space, And through the puissance of his Table Round, Drew all their petty princedoms under him. Their king and head, and made a realm, and reigned. And thus the land of Cameliard was waste, Thick with wet woods, and many a beast therein, And none or few to scare or chase the beast; So that wild dog, and wolf and boar and bear Came night and day, and rooted in the fields, And wallowed in the gardens of the King. And ever and anon the wolf would steal The children and devour, but now and then, Her own brood lost or dead, lent her fierce teat To human sucklings; and the children, housed In her foul den, there at their meat would growl, And mock their foster mother on four feet, Till, straightened, they grew up to wolf-like men, Worse than the wolves. And King Leodogran Groaned for the Roman legions here again, And Csar's eagle: then his brother king, Urien, assailed him: last a heathen horde, Reddening the sun with smoke and earth with blood, 573 And on the spike that split the mother's heart Spitting the child, brake on him, till, amazed, He knew not whither he should turn for aid. But--for he heard of Arthur newly crowned, Though not without an uproar made by those Who cried, `He is not Uther's son'--the King Sent to him, saying, `Arise, and help us thou! For here between the man and beast we die.' And Arthur yet had done no deed of arms, But heard the call, and came: and Guinevere Stood by the castle walls to watch him pass; But since he neither wore on helm or shield The golden symbol of his kinglihood, But rode a simple knight among his knights, And many of these in richer arms than he, She saw him not, or marked not, if she saw, One among many, though his face was bare. But Arthur, looking downward as he past, Felt the light of her eyes into his life Smite on the sudden, yet rode on, and pitched His tents beside the forest. Then he drave The heathen; after, slew the beast, and felled The forest, letting in the sun, and made Broad pathways for the hunter and the knight And so returned. For while he lingered there, A doubt that ever smouldered in the hearts Of those great Lords and Barons of his realm Flashed forth and into war: for most of these, Colleaguing with a score of petty kings, Made head against him, crying, `Who is he That he should rule us? who hath proven him King Uther's son? for lo! we look at him, And find nor face nor bearing, limbs nor voice, Are like to those of Uther whom we knew. This is the son of Gorlos, not the King; This is the son of Anton, not the King.' And Arthur, passing thence to battle, felt 574 Travail, and throes and agonies of the life, Desiring to be joined with Guinevere; And thinking as he rode, `Her father said That there between the man and beast they die. Shall I not lift her from this land of beasts Up to my throne, and side by side with me? What happiness to reign a lonely king, Vext--O ye stars that shudder over me, O earth that soundest hollow under me, Vext with waste dreams? for saving I be joined To her that is the fairest under heaven, I seem as nothing in the mighty world, And cannot will my will, nor work my work Wholly, nor make myself in mine own realm Victor and lord. But were I joined with her, Then might we live together as one life, And reigning with one will in everything Have power on this dark land to lighten it, And power on this dead world to make it live.' Thereafter--as he speaks who tells the tale-When Arthur reached a field-of-battle bright With pitched pavilions of his foe, the world Was all so clear about him, that he saw The smallest rock far on the faintest hill, And even in high day the morning star. So when the King had set his banner broad, At once from either side, with trumpet-blast, And shouts, and clarions shrilling unto blood, The long-lanced battle let their horses run. And now the Barons and the kings prevailed, And now the King, as here and there that war Went swaying; but the Powers who walk the world Made lightnings and great thunders over him, And dazed all eyes, till Arthur by main might, And mightier of his hands with every blow, And leading all his knighthood threw the kings Cardos, Urien, Cradlemont of Wales, Claudias, and Clariance of Northumberland, The King Brandagoras of Latangor, With Anguisant of Erin, Morganore, And Lot of Orkney. Then, before a voice 575 As dreadful as the shout of one who sees To one who sins, and deems himself alone And all the world asleep, they swerved and brake Flying, and Arthur called to stay the brands That hacked among the flyers, `Ho! they yield!' So like a painted battle the war stood Silenced, the living quiet as the dead, And in the heart of Arthur joy was lord. He laughed upon his warrior whom he loved And honoured most. `Thou dost not doubt me King, So well thine arm hath wrought for me today.' `Sir and my liege,' he cried, `the fire of God Descends upon thee in the battle-field: I know thee for my King!' Whereat the two, For each had warded either in the fight, Sware on the field of death a deathless love. And Arthur said, `Man's word is God in man: Let chance what will, I trust thee to the death.' Then quickly from the foughten field he sent Ulfius, and Brastias, and Bedivere, His new-made knights, to King Leodogran, Saying, `If I in aught have served thee well, Give me thy daughter Guinevere to wife.' Whom when he heard, Leodogran in heart Debating--`How should I that am a king, However much he holp me at my need, Give my one daughter saving to a king, And a king's son?'--lifted his voice, and called A hoary man, his chamberlain, to whom He trusted all things, and of him required His counsel: `Knowest thou aught of Arthur's birth?' Then spake the hoary chamberlain and said, `Sir King, there be but two old men that know: And each is twice as old as I; and one Is Merlin, the wise man that ever served King Uther through his magic art; and one Is Merlin's master (so they call him) Bleys, Who taught him magic, but the scholar ran Before the master, and so far, that Bleys, 576 Laid magic by, and sat him down, and wrote All things and whatsoever Merlin did In one great annal-book, where after-years Will learn the secret of our Arthur's birth.' To whom the King Leodogran replied, `O friend, had I been holpen half as well By this King Arthur as by thee today, Then beast and man had had their share of me: But summon here before us yet once more Ulfius, and Brastias, and Bedivere.' Then, when they came before him, the King said, `I have seen the cuckoo chased by lesser fowl, And reason in the chase: but wherefore now Do these your lords stir up the heat of war, Some calling Arthur born of Gorlos, Others of Anton? Tell me, ye yourselves, Hold ye this Arthur for King Uther's son?' And Ulfius and Brastias answered, `Ay.' Then Bedivere, the first of all his knights Knighted by Arthur at his crowning, spake-For bold in heart and act and word was he, Whenever slander breathed against the King-`Sir, there be many rumours on this head: For there be those who hate him in their hearts, Call him baseborn, and since his ways are sweet, And theirs are bestial, hold him less than man: And there be those who deem him more than man, And dream he dropt from heaven: but my belief In all this matter--so ye care to learn-Sir, for ye know that in King Uther's time The prince and warrior Gorlos, he that held Tintagil castle by the Cornish sea, Was wedded with a winsome wife, Ygerne: And daughters had she borne him,--one whereof, Lot's wife, the Queen of Orkney, Bellicent, Hath ever like a loyal sister cleaved To Arthur,--but a son she had not borne. And Uther cast upon her eyes of love: 577 But she, a stainless wife to Gorlos, So loathed the bright dishonour of his love, That Gorlos and King Uther went to war: And overthrown was Gorlos and slain. Then Uther in his wrath and heat besieged Ygerne within Tintagil, where her men, Seeing the mighty swarm about their walls, Left her and fled, and Uther entered in, And there was none to call to but himself. So, compassed by the power of the King, Enforced was she to wed him in her tears, And with a shameful swiftness: afterward, Not many moons, King Uther died himself, Moaning and wailing for an heir to rule After him, lest the realm should go to wrack. And that same night, the night of the new year, By reason of the bitterness and grief That vext his mother, all before his time Was Arthur born, and all as soon as born Delivered at a secret postern-gate To Merlin, to be holden far apart Until his hour should come; because the lords Of that fierce day were as the lords of this, Wild beasts, and surely would have torn the child Piecemeal among them, had they known; for each But sought to rule for his own self and hand, And many hated Uther for the sake Of Gorlos. Wherefore Merlin took the child, And gave him to Sir Anton, an old knight And ancient friend of Uther; and his wife Nursed the young prince, and reared him with her own; And no man knew. And ever since the lords Have foughten like wild beasts among themselves, So that the realm has gone to wrack: but now, This year, when Merlin (for his hour had come) Brought Arthur forth, and set him in the hall, Proclaiming, "Here is Uther's heir, your king," A hundred voices cried, "Away with him! No king of ours! a son of Gorlos he, Or else the child of Anton, and no king, Or else baseborn." Yet Merlin through his craft, And while the people clamoured for a king, 578 Had Arthur crowned; but after, the great lords Banded, and so brake out in open war.' Then while the King debated with himself If Arthur were the child of shamefulness, Or born the son of Gorlos, after death, Or Uther's son, and born before his time, Or whether there were truth in anything Said by these three, there came to Cameliard, With Gawain and young Modred, her two sons, Lot's wife, the Queen of Orkney, Bellicent; Whom as he could, not as he would, the King Made feast for, saying, as they sat at meat, `A doubtful throne is ice on summer seas. Ye come from Arthur's court. Victor his men Report him! Yea, but ye--think ye this king-So many those that hate him, and so strong, So few his knights, however brave they be-Hath body enow to hold his foemen down?' `O King,' she cried, `and I will tell thee: few, Few, but all brave, all of one mind with him; For I was near him when the savage yells Of Uther's peerage died, and Arthur sat Crowned on the das, and his warriors cried, "Be thou the king, and we will work thy will Who love thee." Then the King in low deep tones, And simple words of great authority, Bound them by so strait vows to his own self, That when they rose, knighted from kneeling, some Were pale as at the passing of a ghost, Some flushed, and others dazed, as one who wakes Half-blinded at the coming of a light. `But when he spake and cheered his Table Round With large, divine, and comfortable words, Beyond my tongue to tell thee--I beheld From eye to eye through all their Order flash A momentary likeness of the King: And ere it left their faces, through the cross And those around it and the Crucified, 579 Down from the casement over Arthur, smote Flame-colour, vert and azure, in three rays, One falling upon each of three fair queens, Who stood in silence near his throne, the friends Of Arthur, gazing on him, tall, with bright Sweet faces, who will help him at his need. `And there I saw mage Merlin, whose vast wit And hundred winters are but as the hands Of loyal vassals toiling for their liege. `And near him stood the Lady of the Lake, Who knows a subtler magic than his own-Clothed in white samite, mystic, wonderful. She gave the King his huge cross-hilted sword, Whereby to drive the heathen out: a mist Of incense curled about her, and her face Wellnigh was hidden in the minster gloom; But there was heard among the holy hymns A voice as of the waters, for she dwells Down in a deep; calm, whatsoever storms May shake the world, and when the surface rolls, Hath power to walk the waters like our Lord. `There likewise I beheld Excalibur Before him at his crowning borne, the sword That rose from out the bosom of the lake, And Arthur rowed across and took it--rich With jewels, elfin Urim, on the hilt, Bewildering heart and eye--the blade so bright That men are blinded by it--on one side, Graven in the oldest tongue of all this world, "Take me," but turn the blade and ye shall see, And written in the speech ye speak yourself, "Cast me away!" And sad was Arthur's face Taking it, but old Merlin counselled him, "Take thou and strike! the time to cast away Is yet far-off." So this great brand the king Took, and by this will beat his foemen down.' Thereat Leodogran rejoiced, but thought To sift his doubtings to the last, and asked, 580 Fixing full eyes of question on her face, `The swallow and the swift are near akin, But thou art closer to this noble prince, Being his own dear sister;' and she said, `Daughter of Gorlos and Ygerne am I;' `And therefore Arthur's sister?' asked the King. She answered, `These be secret things,' and signed To those two sons to pass, and let them be. And Gawain went, and breaking into song Sprang out, and followed by his flying hair Ran like a colt, and leapt at all he saw: But Modred laid his ear beside the doors, And there half-heard; the same that afterward Struck for the throne, and striking found his doom. And then the Queen made answer, `What know I? For dark my mother was in eyes and hair, And dark in hair and eyes am I; and dark Was Gorlos, yea and dark was Uther too, Wellnigh to blackness; but this King is fair Beyond the race of Britons and of men. Moreover, always in my mind I hear A cry from out the dawning of my life, A mother weeping, and I hear her say, "O that ye had some brother, pretty one, To guard thee on the rough ways of the world."' `Ay,' said the King, `and hear ye such a cry? But when did Arthur chance upon thee first?' `O King!' she cried, `and I will tell thee true: He found me first when yet a little maid: Beaten I had been for a little fault Whereof I was not guilty; and out I ran And flung myself down on a bank of heath, And hated this fair world and all therein, And wept, and wished that I were dead; and he-I know not whether of himself he came, Or brought by Merlin, who, they say, can walk Unseen at pleasure--he was at my side, And spake sweet words, and comforted my heart, And dried my tears, being a child with me. 581 And many a time he came, and evermore As I grew greater grew with me; and sad At times he seemed, and sad with him was I, Stern too at times, and then I loved him not, But sweet again, and then I loved him well. And now of late I see him less and less, But those first days had golden hours for me, For then I surely thought he would be king. `But let me tell thee now another tale: For Bleys, our Merlin's master, as they say, Died but of late, and sent his cry to me, To hear him speak before he left his life. Shrunk like a fairy changeling lay the mage; And when I entered told me that himself And Merlin ever served about the King, Uther, before he died; and on the night When Uther in Tintagil past away Moaning and wailing for an heir, the two Left the still King, and passing forth to breathe, Then from the castle gateway by the chasm Descending through the dismal night--a night In which the bounds of heaven and earth were lost-Beheld, so high upon the dreary deeps It seemed in heaven, a ship, the shape thereof A dragon winged, and all from stern to stern Bright with a shining people on the decks, And gone as soon as seen. And then the two Dropt to the cove, and watched the great sea fall, Wave after wave, each mightier than the last, Till last, a ninth one, gathering half the deep And full of voices, slowly rose and plunged Roaring, and all the wave was in a flame: And down the wave and in the flame was borne A naked babe, and rode to Merlin's feet, Who stoopt and caught the babe, and cried "The King! Here is an heir for Uther!" And the fringe Of that great breaker, sweeping up the strand, Lashed at the wizard as he spake the word, And all at once all round him rose in fire, So that the child and he were clothed in fire. And presently thereafter followed calm, 582 Free sky and stars: "And this the same child," he said, "Is he who reigns; nor could I part in peace Till this were told." And saying this the seer Went through the strait and dreadful pass of death, Not ever to be questioned any more Save on the further side; but when I met Merlin, and asked him if these things were truth-The shining dragon and the naked child Descending in the glory of the seas-He laughed as is his wont, and answered me In riddling triplets of old time, and said: `"Rain, rain, and sun! a rainbow in the sky! A young man will be wiser by and by; An old man's wit may wander ere he die. Rain, rain, and sun! a rainbow on the lea! And truth is this to me, and that to thee; And truth or clothed or naked let it be. Rain, sun, and rain! and the free blossom blows: Sun, rain, and sun! and where is he who knows? From the great deep to the great deep he goes." `So Merlin riddling angered me; but thou Fear not to give this King thy only child, Guinevere: so great bards of him will sing Hereafter; and dark sayings from of old Ranging and ringing through the minds of men, And echoed by old folk beside their fires For comfort after their wage-work is done, Speak of the King; and Merlin in our time Hath spoken also, not in jest, and sworn Though men may wound him that he will not die, But pass, again to come; and then or now Utterly smite the heathen underfoot, Till these and all men hail him for their king.' She spake and King Leodogran rejoiced, But musing, `Shall I answer yea or nay?' Doubted, and drowsed, nodded and slept, and saw, Dreaming, a slope of land that ever grew, Field after field, up to a height, the peak Haze-hidden, and thereon a phantom king, 583 Now looming, and now lost; and on the slope The sword rose, the hind fell, the herd was driven, Fire glimpsed; and all the land from roof and rick, In drifts of smoke before a rolling wind, Streamed to the peak, and mingled with the haze And made it thicker; while the phantom king Sent out at times a voice; and here or there Stood one who pointed toward the voice, the rest Slew on and burnt, crying, `No king of ours, No son of Uther, and no king of ours;' Till with a wink his dream was changed, the haze Descended, and the solid earth became As nothing, but the King stood out in heaven, Crowned. And Leodogran awoke, and sent Ulfius, and Brastias and Bedivere, Back to the court of Arthur answering yea. Then Arthur charged his warrior whom he loved And honoured most, Sir Lancelot, to ride forth And bring the Queen;--and watched him from the gates: And Lancelot past away among the flowers, (For then was latter April) and returned Among the flowers, in May, with Guinevere. To whom arrived, by Dubric the high saint, Chief of the church in Britain, and before The stateliest of her altar-shrines, the King That morn was married, while in stainless white, The fair beginners of a nobler time, And glorying in their vows and him, his knights Stood around him, and rejoicing in his joy. Far shone the fields of May through open door, The sacred altar blossomed white with May, The Sun of May descended on their King, They gazed on all earth's beauty in their Queen, Rolled incense, and there past along the hymns A voice as of the waters, while the two Sware at the shrine of Christ a deathless love: And Arthur said, `Behold, thy doom is mine. Let chance what will, I love thee to the death!' To whom the Queen replied with drooping eyes, `King and my lord, I love thee to the death!' And holy Dubric spread his hands and spake, 584 `Reign ye, and live and love, and make the world Other, and may thy Queen be one with thee, And all this Order of thy Table Round Fulfil the boundless purpose of their King!' So Dubric said; but when they left the shrine Great Lords from Rome before the portal stood, In scornful stillness gazing as they past; Then while they paced a city all on fire With sun and cloth of gold, the trumpets blew, And Arthur's knighthood sang before the King:-`Blow, trumpet, for the world is white with May; Blow trumpet, the long night hath rolled away! Blow through the living world--"Let the King reign." `Shall Rome or Heathen rule in Arthur's realm? Flash brand and lance, fall battleaxe upon helm, Fall battleaxe, and flash brand! Let the King reign. `Strike for the King and live! his knights have heard That God hath told the King a secret word. Fall battleaxe, and flash brand! Let the King reign. `Blow trumpet! he will lift us from the dust. Blow trumpet! live the strength and die the lust! Clang battleaxe, and clash brand! Let the King reign. `Strike for the King and die! and if thou diest, The King is King, and ever wills the highest. Clang battleaxe, and clash brand! Let the King reign. `Blow, for our Sun is mighty in his May! Blow, for our Sun is mightier day by day! Clang battleaxe, and clash brand! Let the King reign. `The King will follow Christ, and we the King In whom high God hath breathed a secret thing. Fall battleaxe, and flash brand! Let the King reign.' So sang the knighthood, moving to their hall. There at the banquet those great Lords from Rome, 585 The slowly-fading mistress of the world, Strode in, and claimed their tribute as of yore. But Arthur spake, `Behold, for these have sworn To wage my wars, and worship me their King; The old order changeth, yielding place to new; And we that fight for our fair father Christ, Seeing that ye be grown too weak and old To drive the heathen from your Roman wall, No tribute will we pay:' so those great lords Drew back in wrath, and Arthur strove with Rome. And Arthur and his knighthood for a space Were all one will, and through that strength the King Drew in the petty princedoms under him, Fought, and in twelve great battles overcame The heathen hordes, and made a realm and reigned. ~ Alfred Lord Tennyson,

1010:SCENE 1.PROLOGUE IN HEAVEN. THE LORD AND THE HOST OF HEAVEN. ENTER THREE ARCHANGELS. RAPHAEL: The sun makes music as of old Amid the rival spheres of Heaven, On its predestined circle rolled With thunder speed: the Angels even Draw strength from gazing on its glance, Though none its meaning fathom may:-- The worlds unwithered countenance Is bright as at Creations day. GABRIEL: And swift and swift, with rapid lightness, The adorned Earth spins silently, Alternating Elysian brightness With deep and dreadful night; the sea Foams in broad billows from the deep Up to the rocks, and rocks and Ocean, Onward, with spheres which never sleep, Are hurried in eternal motion. MICHAEL: And tempests in contention roar From land to sea, from sea to land; And, raging, weave a chain of power, Which girds the earth, as with a band.-- A flashing desolation there, Flames before the thunders way; But Thy servants, Lord, revere The gentle changes of Thy day. CHORUS OF THE THREE: The Angels draw strength from Thy glance, Though no one comprehend Thee may;-- Thy worlds unwithered countenance Is bright as on Creation's day. The sun sounds, according to ancient custom, In the song of emulation of his brother-spheres. And its fore-written circle Fulfils with a step of thunder. Its countenance gives the Angels strength Though no one can fathom it. The incredible high works Are excellent as at the first day. GABRIEL: And swift, and inconceivably swift The adornment of earth winds itself round, And exchanges Paradise--clearness With deep dreadful night. The sea foams in broad waves From its deep bottom, up to the rocks, And rocks and sea are torn on together In the eternal swift course of the spheres. MICHAEL: And storms roar in emulation From sea to land, from land to sea, And make, raging, a chain Of deepest operation round about. There flames a flashing destruction Before the path of the thunderbolt. But Thy servants, Lord, revere The gentle alternations of Thy day. CHORUS: Thy countenance gives the Angels strength, Though none can comprehend Thee: And all Thy lofty works Are excellent as at the first day. [ENTER MEPHISTOPHELES.] MEPHISTOPHELES: As thou, O Lord, once more art kind enough To interest Thyself in our affairs, And ask, How goes it with you there below? And as indulgently at other times Thou tookest not my visits in ill part, Thou seest me here once more among Thy household. Though I should scandalize this company, You will excuse me if I do not talk In the high style which they think fashionable; My pathos certainly would make You laugh too, Had You not long since given over laughing. Nothing know I to say of suns and worlds; I observe only how men plague themselves;-- The little god o the world keeps the same stamp, As wonderful as on creations day:-- A little better would he live, hadst Thou Not given him a glimpse of Heavens light Which he calls reason, and employs it only To live more beastlily than any beast. With reverence to Your Lordship be it spoken, Hes like one of those long-legged grasshoppers, Who flits and jumps about, and sings for ever The same old song i the grass. There let him lie, Burying his nose in every heap of dung. THE LORD: Have you no more to say? Do you come here Always to scold, and cavil, and complain? Seems nothing ever right to you on earth? MEPHISTOPHELES: No, Lord! I find all there, as ever, bad at best. Even I am sorry for mans days of sorrow; I could myself almost give up the pleasure Of plaguing the poor things. THE LORD: Knowest thou Faust? MEPHISTOPHELES: The Doctor? THE LORD: Ay; My servant Faust. MEPHISTOPHELES: In truth He serves You in a fashion quite his own; And the fools meat and drink are not of earth. His aspirations bear him on so far That he is half aware of his own folly, For he demands from Heaven its fairest star, And from the earth the highest joy it bears, Yet all things far, and all things near, are vain To calm the deep emotions of his breast. THE LORD: Though he now serves Me in a cloud of error, I will soon lead him forth to the clear day. When trees look green, full well the gardener knows That fruits and blooms will deck the coming year. MEPHISTOPHELES: What will You bet?--now am sure of winning-- Only, observe You give me full permission To lead him softly on my path. THE LORD: As long As he shall live upon the earth, so long Is nothing unto thee forbiddenMan Must err till he has ceased to struggle. MEPHISTOPHELES: Thanks. And that is all I ask; for willingly I never make acquaintance with the dead. The full fresh cheeks of youth are food for me, And if a corpse knocks, I am not at home. For I am like a cat--I like to play A little with the mouse before I eat it. THE LORD: Well, well! it is permitted thee. Draw thou His spirit from its springs; as thou findst power Seize him and lead him on thy downward path; And stand ashamed when failure teaches thee That a good man, even in his darkest longings, Is well aware of the right way. MEPHISTOPHELES: Well and good. I am not in much doubt about my bet, And if I lose, then tis Your turn to crow; Enjoy Your triumph then with a full breast. Ay; dust shall he devour, and that with pleasure, Like my old paramour, the famous Snake. THE LORD: Pray come here when it suits you; for I never Had much dislike for people of your sort. And, among all the Spirits who rebelled, The knave was ever the least tedious to Me. The active spirit of man soon sleeps, and soon 100 He seeks unbroken quiet; therefore I Have given him the Devil for a companion, Who may provoke him to some sort of work, And must create forever.--But ye, pure Children of God, enjoy eternal beauty;-- Let that which ever operates and lives Clasp you within the limits of its love; And seize with sweet and melancholy thoughts The floating phantoms of its loveliness. [HEAVEN CLOSES; THE ARCHANGELS EXEUNT.] MEPHISTOPHELES: From time to time I visit the old fellow, And I take care to keep on good terms with Him. Civil enough is the same God Almighty, To talk so freely with the Devil himself. SCENE 2.MAY-DAY NIGHT. THE HARTZ MOUNTAIN, A DESOLATE COUNTRY. FAUST, MEPHISTOPHELES. MEPHISTOPHELES: Would you not like a broomstick? As for me I wish I had a good stout ram to ride; For we are still far from the appointed place. FAUST: This knotted staff is help enough for me, Whilst I feel fresh upon my legs. What good Is there in making short a pleasant way? To creep along the labyrinths of the vales, And climb those rocks, where ever-babbling springs, Precipitate themselves in waterfalls, Is the true sport that seasons such a path. Already Spring kindles the birchen spray, And the hoar pines already feel her breath: Shall she not work also within our limbs? MEPHISTOPHELES: Nothing of such an influence do I feel. My body is all wintry, and I wish The flowers upon our path were frost and snow. But see how melancholy rises now, Dimly uplifting her belated beam, The blank unwelcome round of the red moon, And gives so bad a light, that every step One stumbles gainst some crag. With your permission, Ill call on Ignis-fatuus to our aid: I see one yonder burning jollily. Halloo, my friend! may I request that you Would favour us with your bright company? Why should you blaze away there to no purpose? Pray be so good as light us up this way. IGNIS-FATUUS: With reverence be it spoken, I will try To overcome the lightness of my nature; Our course, you know, is generally zigzag. MEPHISTOPHELES: Ha, ha! your worship thinks you have to deal With men. Go straight on, in the Devils name, Or I shall puff your flickering life out. IGNIS-FATUUS: Well, I see you are the master of the house; I will accommodate myself to you. Only consider that to-night this mountain Is all enchanted, and if Jack-a-lantern Shows you his way, though you should miss your own, You ought not to be too exact with him. FAUST, MEPHISTOPHELES, AND IGNIS-FATUUS, IN ALTERNATE CHORUS: The limits of the sphere of dream, The bounds of true and false, are past. Lead us on, thou wandering Gleam, Lead us onward, far and fast, To the wide, the desert waste. But see, how swift advance and shift Trees behind trees, row by row,-- How, clift by clift, rocks bend and lift Their frowning foreheads as we go. The giant-snouted crags, ho! ho! How they snort, and how they blow! Through the mossy sods and stones, Stream and streamlet hurry down A rushing throng! A sound of song Beneath the vault of Heaven is blown! Sweet notes of love, the speaking tones Of this bright day, sent down to say That Paradise on Earth is known, Resound around, beneath, above. All we hope and all we love Finds a voice in this blithe strain, Which wakens hill and wood and rill, And vibrates far oer field and vale, And which Echo, like the tale Of old times, repeats again. To-whoo! to-whoo! near, nearer now The sound of song, the rushing throng! Are the screech, the lapwing, and the jay, All awake as if twere day? See, with long legs and belly wide, A salamander in the brake! Every root is like a snake, And along the loose hillside, With strange contortions through the night, Curls, to seize or to affright; And, animated, strong, and many, They dart forth polypus-antennae, To blister with their poison spume The wanderer. Through the dazzling gloom The many-coloured mice, that thread The dewy turf beneath our tread, In troops each others motions cross, Through the heath and through the moss; And, in legions intertangled, The fire-flies flit, and swarm, and throng, Till all the mountain depths are spangled. Tell me, shall we go or stay? Shall we onward? Come along! Everything around is swept Forward, onward, far away! Trees and masses intercept The sight, and wisps on every side Are puffed up and multiplied. MEPHISTOPHELES: Now vigorously seize my skirt, and gain This pinnacle of isolated crag. One may observe with wonder from this point, How Mammon glows among the mountains. FAUST: Ay-- And strangely through the solid depth below A melancholy light, like the red dawn, Shoots from the lowest gorge of the abyss Of mountains, lightning hitherward: there rise Pillars of smoke, here clouds float gently by; Here the light burns soft as the enkindled air, Or the illumined dust of golden flowers; And now it glides like tender colours spreading; And now bursts forth in fountains from the earth; And now it winds, one torrent of broad light, Through the far valley with a hundred veins; And now once more within that narrow corner Masses itself into intensest splendour. And near us, see, sparks spring out of the ground, Like golden sand scattered upon the darkness; The pinnacles of that black wall of mountains That hems us in are kindled. MEPHISTOPHELES: Rare: in faith! Does not Sir Mammon gloriously illuminate His palace for this festival?--it is A pleasure which you had not known before. I spy the boisterous guests already. FAUST: How The children of the wind rage in the air! With what fierce strokes they fall upon my neck! MEPHISTOPHELES: Cling tightly to the old ribs of the crag. Beware! for if with them thou warrest In their fierce flight towards the wilderness, Their breath will sweep thee into dust, and drag Thy body to a grave in the abyss. A cloud thickens the night. Hark! how the tempest crashes through the forest! The owls fly out in strange affright; The columns of the evergreen palaces Are split and shattered; The roots creak, and stretch, and groan; And ruinously overthrown, The trunks are crushed and shattered By the fierce blasts unconquerable stress. Over each other crack and crash they all In terrible and intertangled fall; And through the ruins of the shaken mountain The airs hiss and howl-- It is not the voice of the fountain, Nor the wolf in his midnight prowl. Dost thou not hear? Strange accents are ringing Aloft, afar, anear? The witches are singing! The torrent of a raging wizard song Streams the whole mountain along. CHORUS OF WITCHES: The stubble is yellow, the corn is green, Now to the Brocken the witches go; The mighty multitude here may be seen Gathering, wizard and witch, below. Sir Urian is sitting aloft in the air; Hey over stock! and hey over stone! 'Twixt witches and incubi, what shall be done? Tell it who dare! tell it who dare! A VOICE: Upon a sow-swine, whose farrows were nine, Old Baubo rideth alone. CHORUS: Honour her, to whom honour is due, Old mother Baubo, honour to you! An able sow, with old Baubo upon her, Is worthy of glory, and worthy of honour! The legion of witches is coming behind, Darkening the night, and outspeeding the wind-- A VOICE: Which way comest thou? A VOICE: Over Ilsenstein; The owl was awake in the white moonshine; I saw her at rest in her downy nest, And she stared at me with her broad, bright eyne. VOICES: And you may now as well take your course on to Hell, Since you ride by so fast on the headlong blast. A VOICE: She dropped poison upon me as I passed. Here are the wounds-- CHORUS OF WITCHES: Come away! come along! The way is wide, the way is long, But what is that for a Bedlam throng? Stick with the prong, and scratch with the broom. The child in the cradle lies strangled at home, And the mother is clapping her hands.-- SEMICHORUS OF WIZARDS 1: We glide in Like snails when the women are all away; And from a house once given over to sin Woman has a thousand steps to stray. SEMICHORUS 2: A thousand steps must a woman take, Where a man but a single spring will make. VOICES ABOVE: Come with us, come with us, from Felsensee. VOICES BELOW: With what joy would we fly through the upper sky! We are washed, we are nointed, stark naked are we; But our toil and our pain are forever in vain. BOTH CHORUSES: The wind is still, the stars are fled, The melancholy moon is dead; The magic notes, like spark on spark, Drizzle, whistling through the dark. Come away! VOICES BELOW: Stay, Oh, stay! VOICES ABOVE: Out of the crannies of the rocks Who calls? VOICES BELOW: Oh, let me join your flocks! I, three hundred years have striven To catch your skirt and mount to Heaven,-- And still in vain. Oh, might I be With company akin to me! BOTH CHORUSES: Some on a ram and some on a prong, On poles and on broomsticks we flutter along; Forlorn is the wight who can rise not to-night. A HALF-WITCH BELOW: I have been tripping this many an hour: Are the others already so far before? No quiet at home, and no peace abroad! And less methinks is found by the road. CHORUS OF WITCHES: Come onward, away! aroint thee, aroint! A witch to be strong must anoint--anoint-- Then every trough will be boat enough; With a rag for a sail we can sweep through the sky, Who flies not to-night, when means he to fly? BOTH CHORUSES: We cling to the skirt, and we strike on the ground; Witch-legions thicken around and around; Wizard-swarms cover the heath all over. [THEY DESCEND.] MEPHISTOPHELES: What thronging, dashing, raging, rustling; What whispering, babbling, hissing, bustling; What glimmering, spurting, stinking, burning, As Heaven and Earth were overturning. There is a true witch element about us; Take hold on me, or we shall be divided:-- Where are you? FAUST [FROM A DISTANCE]: Here! MEPHISTOPHELES: What! I must exert my authority in the house. Place for young Voland! pray make way, good people. Take hold on me, doctor, an with one step Let us escape from this unpleasant crowd: They are too mad for people of my sort. Just there shines a peculiar kind of light-- Something attracts me in those bushes. Come This way: we shall slip down there in a minute. FAUST: Spirit of Contradiction! Well, lead on-- Twere a wise feat indeed to wander out Into the Brocken upon May-day night, And then to isolate oneself in scorn, Disgusted with the humours of the time. MEPHISTOPHELES: See yonder, round a many-coloured flame A merry club is huddled altogether: Even with such little people as sit there One would not be alone. FAUST: Would that I were Up yonder in the glow and whirling smoke, Where the blind million rush impetuously To meet the evil ones; there might I solve Many a riddle that torments me. MEPHISTOPHELES: Yet Many a riddle there is tied anew Inextricably. Let the great world rage! We will stay here safe in the quiet dwellings. Tis an old custom. Men have ever built Their own small world in the great world of all. I see young witches naked there, and old ones Wisely attired with greater decency. Be guided now by me, and you shall buy A pound of pleasure with a dram of trouble. I hear them tune their instruments--one must Get used to this damned scraping. Come, Ill lead you Among them; and what there you do and see, As a fresh compact twixt us two shall be. How say you now? this space is wide enough-- Look forth, you cannot see the end of it-- An hundred bonfires burn in rows, and they Who throng around them seem innumerable: Dancing and drinking, jabbering, making love, And cooking, are at work. Now tell me, friend, What is there better in the world than this? FAUST: In introducing us, do you assume The character of Wizard or of Devil? MEPHISTOPHELES: In truth, I generally go about In strict incognito; and yet one likes To wear ones orders upon gala days. I have no ribbon at my knee; but here At home, the cloven foot is honourable. See you that snail there?she comes creeping up, And with her feeling eyes hath smelt out something. I could not, if I would, mask myself here. Come now, well go about from fire to fire: Ill be the Pimp, and you shall be the Lover. [TO SOME OLD WOMEN, WHO ARE SITTING ROUND A HEAP OF GLIMMERING COALS.] Old gentlewomen, what do you do out here? You ought to be with the young rioters Right in the thickest of the revelry-- But every one is best content at home. General. Who dare confide in right or a just claim? So much as I had done for them! and now-- With women and the people tis the same, Youth will stand foremost ever,--age may go To the dark grave unhonoured. MINISTER: Nowadays People assert their rights: they go too far; 280 But as for me, the good old times I praise; Then we were all in all--twas something worth Ones while to be in place and wear a star; That was indeed the golden age on earth. PARVENU: We too are active, and we did and do What we ought not, perhaps; and yet we now Will seize, whilst all things are whirled round and round, A spoke of Fortunes wheel, and keep our ground. AUTHOR: Who now can taste a treatise of deep sense And ponderous volume? tis impertinence To write what none will read, therefore will I To please the young and thoughtless people try. MEPHISTOPHELES [WHO AT ONCE APPEARS TO HAVE GROWN VERY OLD]: I find the people ripe for the last day, Since I last came up to the wizard mountain; And as my little cask runs turbid now, So is the world drained to the dregs. PEDLAR-WITCH: Look here, Gentlemen; do not hurry on so fast; And lose the chance of a good pennyworth. I have a pack full of the choicest wares Of every sort, and yet in all my bundle Is nothing like what may be found on earth; Nothing that in a moment will make rich Men and the world with fine malicious mischief-- There is no dagger drunk with blood; no bowl From which consuming poison may be drained By innocent and healthy lips; no jewel, The price of an abandoned maidens shame; No sword which cuts the bond it cannot loose, Or stabs the wearers enemy in the back; No-- MEPHISTOPHELES: Gossip, you know little of these times. What has been, has been; what is done, is past, They shape themselves into the innovations They breed, and innovation drags us with it. The torrent of the crowd sweeps over us: You think to impel, and are yourself impelled. FAUST: What is that yonder? MEPHISTOPHELES: Mark her well. It is Lilith. FAUST: Who? MEPHISTOPHELES: Lilith, the first wife of Adam. Beware of her fair hair, for she excels All women in the magic of her locks; And when she winds them round a young mans neck, She will not ever set him free again. FAUST: There sit a girl and an old woman--they Seem to be tired with pleasure and with play. MEPHISTOPHELES: There is no rest to-night for any one: When one dance ends another is begun; Come, let us to it. We shall have rare fun. [FAUST DANCES AND SINGS WITH A GIRL, AND MEPHISTOPHELES WITH AN OLD WOMAN.] FAUST: I had once a lovely dream In which I saw an apple-tree, Where two fair apples with their gleam To climb and taste attracted me. THE GIRL: She with apples you desired From Paradise came long ago: With you I feel that if required, Such still within my garden grow. ... PROCTO-PHANTASMIST: What is this cursed multitude about? Have we not long since proved to demonstration That ghosts move not on ordinary feet? But these are dancing just like men and women. THE GIRL: What does he want then at our ball? FAUST: Oh! he Is far above us all in his conceit: Whilst we enjoy, he reasons of enjoyment; And any step which in our dance we tread, If it be left out of his reckoning, Is not to be considered as a step. There are few things that scandalize him not: And when you whirl round in the circle now, As he went round the wheel in his old mill, He says that you go wrong in all respects, Especially if you congratulate him Upon the strength of the resemblance. PROCTO-PHANTASMIST: Fly! Vanish! Unheard-of impudence! What, still there! In this enlightened age too, since you have been Proved not to exist!--But this infernal brood Will hear no reason and endure no rule. Are we so wise, and is the POND still haunted? How long have I been sweeping out this rubbish Of superstition, and the world will not Come clean with all my pains!--it is a case Unheard of! THE GIRL: Then leave off teasing us so. PROCTO-PHANTASMIST: I tell you, spirits, to your faces now, That I should not regret this despotism Of spirits, but that mine can wield it not. To-night I shall make poor work of it, Yet I will take a round with you, and hope Before my last step in the living dance To beat the poet and the devil together. MEPHISTOPHELES: At last he will sit down in some foul puddle; That is his way of solacing himself; Until some leech, diverted with his gravity, Cures him of spirits and the spirit together. [TO FAUST, WHO HAS SECEDED FROM THE DANCE.] Why do you let that fair girl pass from you, Who sung so sweetly to you in the dance? FAUST: A red mouse in the middle of her singing Sprung from her mouth. MEPHISTOPHELES: That was all right, my friend: Be it enough that the mouse was not gray. Do not disturb your hour of happiness With close consideration of such trifles. FAUST: Then saw I-- MEPHISTOPHELES: What? FAUST: Seest thou not a pale, Fair girl, standing alone, far, far away? She drags herself now forward with slow steps, And seems as if she moved with shackled feet: I cannot overcome the thought that she Is like poor Margaret. MEPHISTOPHELES: Let it be--pass on-- No good can come of it--it is not well To meet itit is an enchanted phantom, A lifeless idol; with its numbing look, It freezes up the blood of man; and they Who meet its ghastly stare are turned to stone, Like those who saw Medusa. FAUST: Oh, too true! Her eyes are like the eyes of a fresh corpse Which no beloved hand has closed, alas! That is the breast which Margaret yielded to me-- Those are the lovely limbs which I enjoyed! MEPHISTOPHELES: It is all magic, poor deluded fool! She looks to every one like his first love. FAUST: Oh, what delight! what woe! I cannot turn My looks from her sweet piteous countenance. How strangely does a single blood-red line, Not broader than the sharp edge of a knife, Adorn her lovely neck! MEPHISTOPHELES: Ay, she can carry Her head under her arm upon occasion; Perseus has cut it off for her. These pleasures End in delusion.Gain this rising ground, It is as airy here as in a... And if I am not mightily deceived, I see a theatre.What may this mean? ATTENDANT: Quite a new piece, the last of seven, for tis The custom now to represent that number. Tis written by a Dilettante, and The actors who perform are Dilettanti; Excuse me, gentlemen; but I must vanish. I am a Dilettante curtain-lifter. ~ Percy Bysshe Shelley, Scenes From The Faust Of Goethe ,

1011:The Kalevala - Rune Xviii THE RIVAL SUITORS Wainamoinen, old and truthful, Long considered, long debated, How to woo and win the daughter Of the hostess of Pohyola, How to lead the Bride of Beauty, Fairy maiden of the rainbow, To the meadows of Wainola, From the dismal Sariola. Now he decks his magic vessel, Paints the boat in blue and scarlet, Trims in gold the ship's forecastle, Decks the prow in molten silver; Sings his magic ship down gliding, On the cylinders of fir-tree: Now erects the masts of pine-wood, On each mast the sails of linen, Sails of blue, and white, and scarlet, Woven into finest fabric. Wainamoinen, the magician, Steps aboard his wondrous vessel, Steers the bark across the waters, On the blue back of the broad-sea, Speaks these words in sailing northward, Sailing to the dark Pohyola: 'Come aboard my ship, O Ukko, Come with me, thou God of mercy, To protect thine ancient hero, To support thy trusting servant, On the breasts of raging billows, On the far out-stretching waters. 'Rock, O winds, this wondrous vessel, Causing not a single ripple; Rolling waves, bear ye me northward, That the oar may not be needed In my journey to Pohyola, O'er this mighty waste of waters.' 317 Ilmarinen's beauteous sister, Fair and goodly maid, Annikki, Of the Night and Dawn, the daughter, Who awakes each morning early, Rises long before the daylight, Stood one morning on the sea-shore, Washing in the foam her dresses, Rinsing out her silken ribbons, On the bridge of scarlet color, On the border of the highway, On a headland jutting seaward, On the forest-covered island. Here Annikki, looking round her, Looking through the fog and ether, Looking through the clouds of heaven, Gazing far out on the blue-sea, Sees the morning sun arising, Glimmering along the billows, Looks with eyes of distant vision Toward the sunrise on the waters, Toward the winding streams of Suomi, Where the Wina-waves were flowing. There she sees, on the horizon, Something darkle in the sunlight, Something blue upon the billows, Speaks these words in wonder guessing: What is this upon the surges, What this blue upon the waters, What this darkling in the sunlight? 'Tis perhaps a flock of wild-geese, Or perchance the blue-duck flying; Then upon thy wings arising, Fly away to highest heaven. 'Art thou then a shoal of sea-trout, Or perchance a school of salmon? Dive then to the deep sea-bottom, In the waters swim and frolic. 'Art thou then a cliff of granite, Or perchance a mighty oak-tree, Floating on the rough sea-billows? May the floods then wash and beat thee Break thee to a thousand fragments.' 318 Wainamoinen, sailing northward, Steers his wondrous ship of magic Toward the headland jutting seaward, Toward the island forest-covered. Now Annikki, goodly maiden, Sees it is the magic vessel Of a wonderful enchanter, Of a mighty bard and hero, And she asks this simple question: 'Art thou then my father's vessel, Or my brother's ship of magic? Haste away then to thy harbor, To thy refuge in Wainola. Hast thou come a goodly distance? Sail then farther on thy journey, Point thy prow to other waters.' It was not her father's vessel, Not a sail-boat from the distance, 'Twas the ship of Wainamoinen, Bark of the eternal singer; Sails within a hailing distance, Swims still nearer o'er the waters, Brings one word and takes another, Brings a third of magic import. Speaks the goodly maid, Annikki, Of the Night and Dawn, the daughter, To the sailor of the vessel: 'Whither sailest, Wainamoinen, Whither bound, thou friend of waters, Pride and joy of Kalevala?' From the vessel Wainamomen Gives this answer to the maiden: 'I have come to catch some sea-trout, Catch the young and toothsome whiting, Hiding in tbese-reeds and rushes.' This the answer of Annikki: 'Do not speak to me in falsehood, Know I well the times of fishing; Long ago my honored father Was a fisherman in Northland, Came to catch the trout and whiting, Fished within these seas and rivers. 319 Very well do I remember How the fisherman disposes, How he rigs his fishing vessel, Lines, and gaffs, and poles, and fish-nets; Hast not come a-fishing hither. Whither goest, Wainamoinen, Whither sailest, friend of waters? Spake the ancient Wainamoinen: 'I have come to catch some wild-geese, Catch the hissing birds of Suomi, In these far-extending borders, In the Sachsensund dominions.' Good Annikki gives this answer: 'Know I well a truthful speaker, Easily detect a falsehood; Formerly my aged father Often came a-hunting hither, Came to hunt the hissing wild-geese, Hunt the red-bill of these waters. Very well do I remember How the hunter rigs his vessel, Bows, and arrows, knives, and quiver, Dogs enchained within the vessel, Pointers hunting on the sea-shore, Setters seeking in the marshes, Tell the truth now Wainamoinen, Whither is thy vessel sailing?' Spake the hero of the Northland: 'To the wars my ship is sailing, To the bloody fields of battle, Where the streams run scarlet-colored, Where the paths are paved with bodies!' These the words of fair Annikki: 'Know I well the paths to battle. Formerly my aged father Often sounded war's alarum, Often led the hosts to conquest; In each ship a hundred rowers, And in arms a thousand heroes, Oil the prow a thousand cross-bows, Swords, and spears, and battle-axes; Know I well the ship of battle. 320 Speak Do longer fruitless falsehoods, Whither sailest, Wainamoinen, Whither steerest, friend of waters? These the words of Wainamoinen: 'Come, O maiden, to my vessel, In my magic ship be seated, Then I'll give thee truthful answer.' Thus Annikki, silver-tinselled, Answers ancient Wainamoinen: 'With the winds I'll fill thy vessel, To thy bark I'll send the storm-winds And capsize thy ship of magic, Break in pieces its forecastle, If the truth thou dost not tell me, If thou dost not cease thy falsehoods, If thou dost not tell me truly Whither sails thy magic vessel.' These the words of Wainamoinen: 'Now I make thee truthful answer, Though at first I spake deception: I am sailing to the Northland To the dismal Sariola, Where the ogres live and flourish, Where they drown the worthy heroes, There to woo the Maid of Beauty Sitting on the bow of heaven, Woo and win the fairy virgin, Bring her to my home and kindred, To the firesides of Walnola.' Then Aunikki, graceful maiden, Of the Night and Dawn, the daughter, As she heard the rightful answer, Knew the truth was fully spoken, Straightway left her coats unbeaten, Left unwashed her linen garments, Left unrinsed her silks and ribbons On the highway by the sea-shore, On the bridge of scarlet color On her arm she threw her long-robes, Hastened off with speed of roebuck To the shops of Ilmarinen, To the iron-forger's furnace, 321 To the blacksmith's home and smithy, Here she found the hero-artist, Forging out a bench of iron, And adorning it with silver. Soot lay thick upon his forehead, Soot and coal upon his shoulders. On the threshold speaks Annikki, These the words his sister uses: 'Ilmarinen, dearest brother, Thou eternal artist-forger, Forge me now a loom of silver, Golden rings to grace my fingers, Forge me gold and silver ear-rings, Six or seven golden girdles, Golden crosslets for my bosom, For my head forge golden trinkets, And I'll tell a tale surprising, Tell a story that concerns thee Truthfully I'll tell the story.' Then the blacksmith Ilmarinen Spake and these the words he uttered: 'If thou'lt tell the tale sincerely, I will forge the loom of silver, Golden rings to grace thy fingers, Forge thee gold and silver ear-rings, Six or seven golden girdles, Golden crosslets for thy bosom, For thy head forge golden trinkets; But if thou shouldst tell me falsely, I shall break thy beauteous jewels, Break thine ornaments in pieces, Hurl them to the fire and furnace, Never forge thee other trinkets.' This the answer of Annikki: 'Ancient blacksmith, Ilmarinen, Dost thou ever think to marry Her already thine affianced, Beauteous Maiden of the Rainbow, Fairest virgin of the Northland, Chosen bride of Sariola? Shouldst thou wish the Maid of Beauty, Thou must forge, and forge unceasing, 322 Hammering the days and nights through; Forge the summer hoofs for horses, Forge them iron hoofs for winter, In the long nights forge the snow-sledge, Gaily trim it in the daytime, Haste thou then upon thy journey To thy wooing in the Northland, To the dismal Sariola; Thither journeys one more clever, Sails another now before thee, There to woo thy bride affianced, Thence to lead thy chosen virgin, Woo and win the Maid of Beauty; Three long years thou hast been wooing. Wainamoinen now is sailing On the blue back of the waters, Sitting at his helm of copper; On the prow are golden carvings, Beautiful his boat of magic, Sailing fleetly o'er the billows, To the never-pleasant Northland, To the dismal Sariola.' Ilmarinen stood in wonder, Stood a statue at the story; Silent grief had settled o'er him, Settled o'er the iron-artist; From one hand the tongs descended, From the other fell the hammer, As the blacksmith made this answer: 'Good Annikki, worthy sister, I shall forge the loom of silver, Golden rings to grace thy fingers, Forge thee gold and silver ear-rings, Six or seven golden girdles, Golden crosslets for thy bosom; Go and heat for me the bath-room, Fill with heat the honey-chambers, Lay the faggots on the fire-place, Lay the smaller woods around them, Pour some water through the ashes, Make a soap of magic virtue, Thus to cleanse my blackened visage, 323 Thus to cleanse the blacksmith's body, Thus remove the soot and ashes.' Then Annikki, kindly sister, Quickly warmed her brother's bath-room, Warmed it with the knots of fir-trees, That the thunder-winds had broken; Gathered pebbles from the fire-stream, Threw them in the heating waters; Broke the tassels from the birch-trees, Steeped the foliage in honey, Made a lye from milk and ashes, Made of these a strong decoction, Mixed it with the fat and marrow Of the reindeer of the mountains, Made a soap of magic virtue, Thus to cleanse the iron-artist, Thus to beautify the suitor, Thus to make the hero worthy. Ilmarinen, ancient blacksmith, The eternal metal-worker, Forged the wishes of his sister, Ornaments for fair Annikki, Rings, and bracelets, pins and ear-drops, Forged for her six golden girdles, Forged a weaving loom of silver, While the maid prepared the bath-room, Set his toilet-room in order. To the maid he gave the trinkets, Gave the loom of molten silver, And the sister thus made answer: 'I have heated well thy bath-room, Have thy toilet-things in order, Everything as thou desirest; Go prepare thyself for wooing, Lave thy bead to flaxen whiteness, Make thy cheeks look fresh and ruddy, Lave thyself in Love's aroma, That thy wooing prove successful.' Ilmarinen, magic artist, Quick repairing to his bath-room, Bathed his head to flaxen whiteness, Made his cheeks look fresh and ruddy, 324 Laved his eyes until they sparkled Like the moonlight on the waters; Wondrous were his form and features, And his cheeks like ruddy berries. These the words of Ilmarinen: 'Fair Annikki, lovely sister, Bring me now my silken raiment, Bring my best and richest vesture, Bring me now my softest linen, That my wooing prove successful.' Straightway did the helpful sister Bring the finest of his raiment, Bring the softest of his linen, Raiment fashioned by his mother; Brought to him his silken stockings, Brought him shoes of marten-leather, Brought a vest of sky-blue color, Brought him scarlet-colored trousers, Brought a coat with scarlet trimming, Brought a red shawl trimmed in ermine Fourfold wrapped about his body; Brought a fur-coat made of seal-skin, Fastened with a thousand bottons, And adorned with countless jewels; Brought for him his magic girdle, Fastened well with golden buckles, That his artist-mother fashioned; Brought him gloves with golden wristlets, That the Laplanders had woven For a head of many ringlets; Brought the finest cap in Northland, That his ancient father purchased When he first began his wooing. Ilmarinen, blacksmith-artist, Clad himself to look his finest, When he thus addressed a servant: 'Hitch for me a fleet-foot racer, Hitch him to my willing snow-sledge, For I start upon a journey To the distant shores of Pohya, To the dismal Sariola.' Spake the servant thus in answer: 325 'Thou hast seven fleet-foot racers, Munching grain within their mangers, Which of these shall I make ready?' Spake the blacksmith, Ilmarinen: 'Take the fleetest of my coursers, Put the gray steed in the harness, Hitch him to my sledge of magic; Place six cuckoos on the break-board, Seven bluebirds on the cross-bars, Thus to charm the Northland maidens, Thus to make them look and listen, As the cuckoos call and echo. Bring me too my largest bear-skin, Fold it warm about the cross-bench; Bring me then my marten fur-robes, As a cover and protection.' Straightway then the trusty servant Of the blacksmith, Ilmarinen, Put the gray steed in the harness, Hitched the racer to the snow-sledge, Placed six cuckoos on the break-board, Seven bluebirds on the cross-bars, On the front to sing and twitter; Then he brought the largest bear-skin, Folded it upon the cross-bench; Brought the finest robes of marten, Warm protection for the master. Ilmarinen, forger-artist, The eternal metal-worker, Earnestly entreated Ukko: 'Send thy snow-flakes, Ukko, father, Let them gently fall from heaven, Let them cover all the heather, Let them hide the berry-bushes, That my sledge may glide in freedom O'er the hills to Sariola!' Ukko sent the snow from heaven, Gently dropped the crystal snow-flakes, Lending thus his kind assistance To the hero, Ilmarinen, On his journey to the Northland. Reins in hand, the ancient artist 326 Seats him in his metal snow-sledge, And beseeches thus his Master: 'Good luck to my reins and traces, Good luck to my shafts and runners! God protect my magic snow-sledge, Be my safeguard on my journey To the dismal Sariola!' Now the ancient Ilmarinen Draws the reins upon the racer, Snaps his whip above the courser, To the gray steed gives this order, And the charger plunges northward: 'Haste away, my flaxen stallion, Haste thee onward, noble white-face, To the never-pleasant Pohya, To the dreary Sariola!' Fast and faster flies the fleet-foot, On the curving snow-capped sea-coast, On the borders of the lowlands, O'er the alder-hills and mountains. Merrily the steed flies onward, Bluebirds singing, cuckoos calling, On the sea-shore looking northward, Through the sand and falling snow-flakes Blinding winds, and snow, and sea-foam, Cloud the hero, Ilmarinen, As he glides upon his journey, Looking seaward for the vessel Of the ancient Wainamoinen; Travels one day, then a second, Travels all the next day northward, Till the third day Ilmarinen Overtakes old Wainamoinen, Rails him in his magic vessel, And addresses thus the minstrel: 'O thou ancient Wainamoinen, Let us woo in peace the maiden, Fairest daughter or the Northland, Sitting on the bow of heaven, Let each labor long to win her, Let her wed the one she chooses, Him selecting, let her follow.' 327 Wainamoinen thus makes answer: 'I agree to thy proposal, Let us woo in peace the maiden, Not by force, nor faithless measures, Shall we woo the Maid of Beauty, Let her follow him she chooses; Let the unsuccessful suitor Harbor neither wrath nor envy For the hero that she follows.' Thus agreeing, on they journey, Each according to his pleasure; Fleetly does the steed fly onward, Quickly flies the magic vessel, Sailing on the broad-sea northward; Ilmarinen's fleet-foot racer Makes the hills of Northland tremble, As he gallops on his journey To the dismal Sariola. Wainamoinen calls the South-winds, And they fly to his assistance; Swiftly sails his ship of beauty, Swiftly plows the rough sea-billows In her pathway to Pohyola. Time had gone but little distance, Scarce a moment had passed over, Ere the dogs began their barking, In the mansions of the Northland, In the courts of Sariola, Watch-dogs of the court of Louhi; Never had they growled so fiercely, Never had they barked so loudly, Never with their tails had beaten Northland into such an uproar. Spake the master of Pohyola: 'Go and learn, my worthy daughter, Why the watch-dogs have been barking, Why the black-dog signals danger.' Quickly does the daughter answer: 'I am occupied, dear father, I have work of more importance, I must tend my flock of lambkins, I must turn the nether millstone, 328 Grind to flour the grains of barley, Run the grindings through the sifter, Only have I time for grinding.' Lowly growls the faithful watch-dog, Seldom does he growl so strangely. Spake the master of Pohyola: 'Go and learn, my trusted consort, Why the Northland dogs are barking, Why the black-dog signals danger.' Thus his aged wife makes answer; 'Have no time, nor inclination, I must feed my hungry household, Must prepare a worthy dinner, I must bake the toothsome biscuit, Knead the dough till it is ready, Only have I strength for kneading.' Spake the master of Pohyola: 'Dames are always in a hurry, Maidens too are ever busy, Whether warming at the oven, Or asleep upon their couches; Go my son, and learn the danger, Why the black-dog growls displeasure,' Quickly does the son give answer: 'Have no time, nor inclination, Am in haste to grind my hatchet; I must chop this log to cordwood, For the fire must cut the faggots, I must split the wood in fragments, Large the pile and small the fire-wood, Only have I strength for chopping.' Still the watch-dog growls in anger, Growl the whelps within the mansion, Growl the dogs chained in the kennel, Growls the black-dog on the hill-top, Setting Northland in an uproar. Spake the master of Pohyola: 'Never, never does my black-dog Growl like this without a reason; Never does he bark for nothing, Does not growl at angry billows, Nor the sighing of the pine-trees.' 329 Then the master of Pohyola Went himself to learn the reason For the barking of the watch-dogs; Strode he through the spacious court-yard, Through the open fields beyond it, To the summit of the uplands. Looking toward his black-dog barking, He beholds the muzzle pointed To a distant, stormy hill-top, To a mound with alders covered; There he learned the rightful reason, Why his dogs had barked so loudly, Why had growled the wool-tail bearer, Why his whelps had signalled danger. At full sail, he saw a vessel, And the ship was scarlet-colored, Entering the bay of Lempo; Saw a sledge of magic colors, Gliding up the curving sea-shore, O'er the snow-fields of Pohyola. Then the master of the Northland Hastened straightway to his dwelling, Hastened forward to his court-room, These the accents of the master: 'Often strangers journey hither, On the blue back of the ocean, Sailing in a scarlet vessel, Rocking in the bay of Lempo; Often strangers come in sledges To the honey-lands of Louhi.' Spake the hostess of Pohyola: How shall we obtain a token Why these strangers journey hither? My beloved, faithful daughter, Lay a branch upon the fire-place, Let it burn with fire of magic If it trickle drops of scarlet, War and bloodshed do they bring us; If it trickle drops of water, Peace and plenty bring the strangers.' Northland's fair and slender maiden, Beautiful and modest daughter, 330 Lays a sorb-branch on the fire-place, Lights it with the fire of magic; Does not trickle drops of scarlet, Trickles neither blood, nor water, From the wand come drops of honey. From the corner spake Suowakko, This the language of the wizard: 'If the wand is dripping honey, Then the strangers that are coming Are but worthy friends and suitors.' Then the hostess of the Northland, With the daughter of the hostess, Straightway left their work, and hastened From their dwelling to the court-yard; Looked about in all directions, Turned their eyes upon the waters, Saw a magic-colored vessel Rocking slowly in the harbor, Having sailed the bay of Lempo, Triple sails, and masts, and rigging, Sable was the nether portion, And the upper, scarlet-colored, At the helm an ancient hero Leaning on his oars of copper; Saw a fleet-foot racer running, Saw a red sledge lightly follow, Saw the magic sledge emblazoned, Guided toward the courts of Louhi; Saw and heard six golden cuckoos Sitting on the break-board, calling, Seven bluebirds richly colored Singing from the yoke and cross-bar; In the sledge a magic hero, Young, and strong, and proud, and handsome, Holding reins upon the courser. Spake the hostess of Pohyola: 'Dearest daughter, winsome maiden, Dost thou wish a noble suitor? Should these heroes come to woo thee, Wouldst thou leave thy home and country, Be the bride of him that pleases, Be his faithful life-companion? 331 'He that comes upon the waters, Sailing in a magic vessel, Having sailed the bay of Lempo, Is the good, old Wainamoinen; In his ship are countless treasures, Richest presents from Wainola. 'He that rides here in his snow-sledge In his sledge of magic beauty, With the cuckoos and the bluebirds, Is the blacksmith, Ilmarinen, Cometh hither empty-handed, Only brings some wisdom-sayings. When they come within the dwelling, Bring a bowl of honeyed viands, Bring a pitcher with two handles, Give to him that thou wouldst follow Give it to old Wainamoinen, Him that brings thee countless treasures, Costly presents in his vessel, Priceless gems from Kalevala.' Spake the Northland's lovely daughter, This the language of the maiden 'Good, indeed, advice maternal, But I will not wed for riches, Wed no man for countless treasures; For his worth I'll choose a husband, For his youth and fine appearance, For his noble form and features; In the olden times the maidens Were not sold by anxious mothers To the suitors that they loved not. I shall choose without his treasures Ilmarinen for his wisdom, For his worth and good behavior, Him that forged the wondrous Sampo, Hammered thee the lid in colors.' Spake the hostess of Pohyola: 'Senseless daughter, child of folly, Thus to choose the ancient blacksmith, From whose brow drips perspiration, Evermore to rinse his linen, Lave his hands, and eyes, and forehead, 332 Keep his ancient house in order; Little use his wit and wisdom When compared with gold and silver.' This the answer of the daughter: 'I will never, never, never, Wed the ancient Wainamoinen With his gold and priceless jewels; Never will I be a helpmate To a hero in his dotage, Little thanks my compensation.' Wainamoinen, safely landing In advance of Ilmarinen, Pulls his gaily-covered vessel From the waves upon the sea-beach, On the cylinders of birch-wood, On the rollers copper-banded, Straightway hastens to the guest-room Of the hostess of Pohyola, Of the master of the Northland, Speaks these words upon the threshold To the famous Maid of Beauty: 'Come with me, thou lovely virgin, Be my bride and life-companion, Share with me my joys and sorrows, Be my honored wife hereafter!' This the answer of the maiden: 'Hast thou built for me the vessel, Built for me the ship of magic From the fragments of the distaff, From the splinters of the spindle?' Wainamoinen thus replying: 'I have built the promised vessel, Built the wondrous ship for sailing, Firmly joined the parts by magic; It will weather roughest billows, Will outlive the winds and waters, Swiftly glide upon the blue-back Of the deep and boundless ocean It will ride the waves in beauty, Like an airy bubble rising, Like a cork on lake and river, Through the angry seas of Northland, 333 Through Pohyola's peaceful waters.' Northland's fair and slender daughter Gives this answer to her suitor: 'Will not wed a sea-born hero, Do not care to rock the billows, Cannot live with such a husband Storms would bring us pain and trouble, Winds would rack our hearts and temples; Therefore thee I cannot follow, Cannot keep thy home in order, Cannot be thy life-companion, Cannot wed old Wainamoinen.' ~ Elias Lönnrot,

1012:The Kalevala - Rune Xxvi ORIGIN OF THE SERPENT. Ahti, living on the island, Near the Kauko-point and harbor, Plowed his fields for rye and barley, Furrowed his extensive pastures, Heard with quickened ears an uproar, Heard the village in commotion, Heard a noise along the sea-shore, Heard the foot-steps on the ice-plain, Heard the rattle of the sledges; Quick his mind divined the reason, Knew it was Pohyola's wedding, Wedding of the Rainbow-virgin. Quick he stopped in disappointment, Shook his sable locks in envy, Turned his hero-head in anger, While the scarlet blood ceased flowing Through his pallid face and temples; Ceased his plowing and his sowing, On the field he left the furrows, On his steed he lightly mounted, Straightway galloped fleetly homeward To his well-beloved mother, To his mother old and golden, Gave his mother these directions, These the words of Lemminkainen: 'My beloved, faithful mother, Quickly bring me beer and viands, Bring me food for I am hungry, Food and drink for me abundant, Have my bath-room quickly heated, Quickly set the room in order, That I may refresh my body, Dress myself in hero-raiment.' Lemminkainen's aged mother Brings her hero food in plenty, Beer and viands for the hungry, 440 For her thirsting son and hero; Quick she heats the ancient bath-room, Quickly sets his bath in order. Then the reckless Lemminkainen Ate his meat with beer inspiring, Hastened to his bath awaiting; Only was the bullfinch bathing, With the many-colored bunting; Quick the hero laved his temples, Laved himself to flaxen whiteness, Quick returning to his mother, Spake in haste the words that follow: 'My beloved, helpful mother, Go at once to yonder mountain, To the store-house on the hill-top, Bring my vest of finest texture, Bring my hero-coat of purple, Bring my suit of magic colors, Thus to make me look attractive, Thus to robe myself in beauty.' First the ancient mother asked him, Asked her son this simple question: 'Whither dost thou go, my hero? Dost thou go to hunt the roebuck, Chase the lynx upon the mountains, Shoot the squirrel in the woodlands?' Spake the reckless Lemminkainen, Also known as Kaukomieli: 'Worthy mother of my being, Go I not to hunt the roebuck, Chase the lynx upon the mountains, Shoot the squirrel on the tree-tops; I am going to Pohyola, To the feasting of her people. Bring at once my purple vestments, Straightway bring my nuptial outfit, Let me don it for the marriage Of the maiden of the Northland.' But the ancient dame dissented, And the wife forebade the husband; Two of all the best of heroes, Three of nature's fairest daughters, 441 Strongly urged wild Lemminkainen Not to go to Sariola, To Pohyola's great carousal, To the marriage-feast of Northland, 'Since thou hast not been invited, Since they do not wish thy presence.' Spake the reckless Lemminkainen. These the words of Kaukomieli: 'Where the wicked are invited, There the good are always welcome, Herein lies my invitation; I am constantly reminded By this sword of sharpened edges, By this magic blade and scabbard, That Pohyola needs my presence.' Lemminkainen's aged mother Sought again to stay her hero: 'Do not go, my son beloved, To the feasting in Pohyola; Full of horrors are the highways, On the road are many wonders, Three times Death appears to frighten, Thrice destruction hovers over!' Spake the reckless Lemminkainen, These the words of Kaukomieli: 'Death is seen by aged people, Everywhere they see perdition, Death can never frighten heroes, Heroes do not fear the spectre; Be that as it may, dear mother, Tell that I may understand thee, Name the first of all destructions, Name the first and last destroyers!' Lemminkainen's mother answered: 'I will tell thee, son and hero, Not because I wish to speak it, But because the truth is worthy; I will name the chief destruction, Name the first of the destroyers. When thou hast a distance journeyed, Only one day hast thou travelled, Comes a stream along the highway, 442 Stream of fire of wondrous beauty, In the stream a mighty fire-spout, In the spout a rock uprising, On the rock a fiery hillock, On the top a flaming eagle, And his crooked beak he sharpens, Sharpens too his bloody talons, For the coming of the stranger, For the people that approach him.' Spake the reckless Lemminkainen, Handsome hero, Kaukomieli: 'Women die beneath the eagle, Such is not the death of heroes; Know I well a magic lotion, That will heal the wounds of eagles; Make myself a steed of alders, That will walk as my companion, That will stride ahead majestic; As a duck I'll drive behind him, Drive him o'er the fatal waters, Underneath the flaming eagle, With his bloody beak and talons. Worthy mother of my being, Name the second of destroyers.' Lemminkainen's mother answered: 'This the second of destroyers: When thou hast a distance wandered, Only two clays hast thou travelled, Comes a pit of fire to meet thee, In the centre of the highway, Eastward far the pit extending, Stretches endless to the westward, Filled with burning coals and pebbles, Glowing with the heat of ages; Hundreds has this monster swallowed, In his jaws have thousands perished, Hundreds with their trusty broadswords, Thousands on their fiery chargers.' Spake the reckless Lemminkainen, Handsome hero, Kaukomieli: 'Never will the hero perish In the jaws of such a monster; 443 Know I well the means of safety, Know a remedy efficient: I will make of snow a master, On the snow-clad fields, a hero, Drive the snow-man on before me, Drive him through the flaming vortex, Drive him through the fiery furnace, With my magic broom of copper; I will follow in his shadow, Follow close the magic image, Thus escape the frightful monster, With my golden locks uninjured, With my flowing beard untangled. Ancient mother of my being, Name the last of the destructions, Name the third of the destroyers.' Lemminkainen's mother answered: 'This the third of fatal dangers: Hast thou gone a greater distance, Hast thou travelled one day longer, To the portals of Pohyola, To the narrowest of gate-ways, There a wolf will rise to meet thee, There the black-bear sneak upon thee-, In Pohyola's darksome portals, Hundreds in their jaws have perished, Have devoured a thousand heroes; Wherefore will they not destroy thee, Since thy form is unprotected?' Spake the reckless Lemminkainen, Handsome hero, Kaukomieli: 'Let them eat the gentle lambkins, Feed upon their tender tissues, They cannot devour this hero; I am girded with my buckler, Girded with my belt of copper, Armlets wear I of the master, From the wolf and bear protected, Will not hasten to Untamo. I can meet the wolf of Lempo, For the bear I have a balsam, For his mouth I conjure bridles, 444 For the wolf, forge chains of iron; I will smite them as the willow, Chop them into little fragments, Thus I'll gain the open court-yard, Thus triumphant end my journey.' Lemminkainen's mother answered: 'Then thy journey is not ended, Greater dangers still await thee, Great the wonders yet before thee, Horrors three within thy pathway; Three great dangers of the hero Still await thy reckless footsteps, These the worst of all thy dangers: When thou hast still farther wandered, Thou wilt reach the Court of Pohya, Where the walls are forged from iron, And from steel the outer bulwark; Rises from the earth to heaven, Back again to earth returning; Double spears are used for railings, On each spear are serpents winding, On each rail are stinging adders; Lizards too adorn the bulwarks, Play their long tails in the sunlight, Hissing lizards, venomed serpents, Jump and writhe upon the rampart, Turn their horrid heads to meet thee; On the greensward lie the monsters, On the ground the things of evil, With their pliant tongues of venom, Hissing, striking, crawling, writhing; One more horrid than the others, Lies before the fatal gate-way, Longer than the longest rafters, Larger than the largest portals; Hisses with the tongue of anger, Lifts his head in awful menace, Raises it to strike none other Than the hero of the islands.' Spake the warlike Lemminkainen, Handsome hero, Kaukomieli: 'By such things the children perish, 445 Such is not the death of heroes; Know I well the fire to manage, I can quench the flames of passion, I can meet the prowling wild-beasts, Can appease the wrath of serpents, I can heal the sting of adders, I have plowed the serpent-pastures, Plowed the adder-fields of Northland; While my hands were unprotected, Held the serpents in my fingers, Drove the adders to Manala, On my hands the blood of serpents, On my feet the fat of adders. Never will thy hero stumble On the serpents of the Northland; With my heel I'll crush the monsters, Stamp the horrid things to atoms; I will banish them from Pohya, Drive them to Manala's kingdom, Step within Pohyola's mansion, Walk the halls of Sariola!' Lemminkainen's mother answered: 'Do not go, my son beloved, To the firesides of Pohyola, Through the Northland fields and fallows; There are warriors with broadswords, Heroes clad in mail of copper, Are on beer intoxicated, By the beer are much embittered; They will charm thee, hapless creature, On the tips of swords of magic; Greater heroes have been conjured, Stronger ones have been outwitted.' Spake the reckless Lemminkainen: 'Formerly thy son resided In the hamlets of Pohyola; Laplanders cannot enchant me, Nor the Turyalanders harm me I the, Laplander will conjure, Charm him with my magic powers, Sing his shoulders wide asunder, In his chin I'll sing a fissure, 446 Sing his collar-bone to pieces, Sing his breast to thousand fragments.' Lemminkainen's mother answered: 'Foolish son, ungrateful wizard, Boasting of thy former visit, Boasting of thy fatal journey! Once in Northland thou wert living, In the homesteads of Pohyola; There thou tried to swim the whirlpool, Tasted there the dog-tongue waters, Floated down the fatal current, Sank beneath its angry billows; Thou hast seen Tuoni's river, Thou hast measured Mana's waters, There to-day thou wouldst be sleeping, Had it not been for thy mother! What I tell thee well remember, Shouldst thou gain Pohyola's chambers, Filled with stakes thou'lt find the court-yard, These to hold the heads of heroes; There thy head will rest forever, Shouldst thou go to Sariola.' Spake the warlike Lemminkainen: 'Fools indeed may heed thy counsel, Cowards too may give attention; Those of seven conquest-summers Cannot heed such weak advising. Bring to me my battle-armor. Bring my magic mail of copper, Bring me too my father's broadsword, Keep the old man's blade from rusting; Long it has been cold and idle, Long has lain in secret places, Long and constantly been weeping, Long been asking for a bearer.' Then he took his mail of copper, Took his ancient battle-armor, Took his father's sword of magic, Tried its point against the oak-wood, Tried its edge upon the sorb-tree; In his hand the blade was bended, Like the limber boughs of willow, 447 Like the juniper in summer. Spake the hero, Lemminkainen: 'There is none in Pohya's hamlets, In the courts of Sariola, That with me can measure broadswords, That can meet this blade ancestral.' From the nail he took a cross-bow, Took the strongest from the rafters, Spake these words in meditation: 'I shall recognize as worthy, Recognize that one a hero That can bend this mighty cross-bow, That can break its magic sinews, In the hamlets of Pohyola.' Lemminkainen, filled with courage, Girds himself in suit of battle, Dons his mighty mail of copper, To his servant speaks as follows: 'Trusty slave, and whom I purchased, Whom I bought with gold and silver, Quick prepare my fiery charger, Harness well my steed of battle; I am going to the feasting, To the banquet-fields of Lempo.' Quick obeys the faithful servant, Hitches well the noble war-horse, Quick prepares the fire-red stallion, Speaks these words when all is I ready: 'I have done what thou hast hidden, Ready harnessed is the charger, Waiting to obey his master.' Comes the hour of the departing Of the hero, Lemminkainen, Right hand ready, left unwilling, All his anxious fingers pain him, Till at last in full obedience, All his members give permission; Starts the hero on his journey, While the mother gives him counsel, At the threshold of the dwelling, At the highway of the court-yard: 'Child of courage, my beloved, 448 Son of strength, my wisdom-hero, If thou goest to the feasting, Shouldst thou reach the great carousal, Drink thou only a half a cupful, Drink the goblet to the middle, Always give the half remaining, Give the worse half to another, To another more unworthy; In the lower half are serpents, Worms, and frogs, and hissing lizards, Feeding on the slimy bottom.' Furthermore she tells her hero, Gives her son these sage directions, On the border of the court-yard, At the portals farthest distant: 'If thou goest to the banquet, Shouldst thou reach the great carousal, Occupy but half the settle, Take but half a stride in walking, Give the second half to others, To another less deserving; Only thus thou'lt be a hero, Thus become a son immortal; In the guest-rooms look courageous, Bravely move about the chambers, In the gatherings of heroes, With the hosts of magic valor.' Thereupon wild Lemminkainen Quickly leaped upon the cross-bench Of his battle-sledge of wonder, Raised his pearl-enamelled birch-rod, Snapped his whip above his charger, And the steed flew onward fleetly, Galloped on his distant journey. He had travelled little distance, When a flight of hazel-chickens Quick arose before his coming, Flew before the foaming racer. There were left some feathers lying, Feathers of the hazel-chickens, Lying in the hero's pathway. These the reckless Lemminkainen 449 Gathered for their magic virtues, Put them in his pouch of leather, Did not know what things might happen On his journey to Pohyola; All things have some little value, In a strait all things are useful. Then he drove a little distance, Galloped farther on the highway, When his courser neighed in danger, And the fleet-foot ceased his running. Then the stout-heart, Lemminkainen, Handsome hero, Kaukomieli, Rose upon his seat in wonder, Craned his neck and looked about him Found it as his mother told him, Found a stream of fire opposing; Ran the fire-stream like a river, Ran across the hero's pathway. In the river was a fire-fall, In the cataract a fire-rock, On the rock a fiery hillock, On its summit perched an eagle, From his throat the fire was streaming To the crater far below him, Fire out-shooting from his feathers, Glowing with a fiery splendor; Long he looked upon the hero, Long he gazed on Lemminkainen, Then the eagle thus addressed him: 'Whither art thou driving, Ahti, Whither going, Lemminkainen?' Kaukomieli spake in answer: 'To the feastings of Pohyola, To the drinking-halls of Louhi, To the banquet of her people; Move aside and let me journey, Move a little from my pathway, Let this wanderer pass by thee, I am warlike Lemminkainen.' This the answer of the eagle, Screaming from his throat of splendor: 'Though thou art wild Lemminkainen, 450 I shall let thee wander onward, Through my fire-throat let thee journey, Through these flames shall be thy passage To the banquet-halls of Louhi, To Pohyola's great carousal!' Little heeding, Kaukomieli Thinks himself in little trouble, Thrusts his fingers in his pockets, Searches in his pouch of leather, Quickly takes the magic feathers, Feathers from the hazel-chickens, Rubs them into finest powder, Rubs them with his magic fingers Whence a flight of birds arises, Hazel-chickens from the feathers, Large the bevy of the young birds. Quick the wizard, Lemminkainen, Drives them to the eagle's fire-mouth, Thus to satisfy his hunger, Thus to quench the fire out-streaming. Thus escapes the reckless hero, Thus escapes the first of dangers, Passes thus the first destroyer, On his journey to Pohyola. With his whip he strikes his courser, With his birch-whip, pearl-enamelled; Straightway speeds the fiery charger, Noiselessly upon his journey, Gallops fast and gallops faster, Till the flying steed in terror Neighs again and ceases running. Lemminkainen, quickly rising, Cranes his neck and looks about him, Sees his mother's words were truthful, Sees her augury well-taken. Lo! before him yawned a fire-gulf, Stretching crosswise through his pathway; Far to east the gulf extending, To the west an endless distance, Filled with stones and burning pebbles, Running streams of burning matter. Little heeding, Lemminkainen 451 Cries aloud in prayer to Ukko: 'Ukko, thou O God above me, Dear Creator, omnipresent, From the north-west send a storm-cloud, From the east, dispatch a second, From the south send forth a third one; Let them gather from the south-west, Sew their edges well together, Fill thou well the interspaces, Send a snow-fall high as heaven, Let it fall from upper ether, Fall upon the flaming fire-pit, On the cataract and whirlpool!' Mighty Ukko, the Creator, Ukko, father omnipresent, Dwelling in the courts of heaven, Sent a storm-cloud from the north-west, From the east he sent a second, From the south despatched a third one, Let them gather from the south-west, Sewed their edges well together, Filled their many interspaces, Sent a snow-fall high as heaven, From the giddy heights of ether, Sent it seething to the fire-pit, On the streams of burning matter; From the snow-fall in the fire-pond, Grows a lake with rolling billows. Quick the hero, Lemminkainen, Conjures there of ice a passage From one border to the other, Thus escapes his second danger, Thus his second trouble passes. Then the reckless Lemminkainen Raised his pearl-enamelled birch-rod, Snapped his whip above his racer, And the steed flew onward swiftly, Galloped on his distant journey O'er the highway to Pohyola; Galloped fast and galloped faster, Galloped on a greater distance, When the stallion loudly neighing, 452 Stopped and trembled on the highway, Then the lively Lemminkainen Raised himself upon the cross-bench, Looked to see what else had happened; Lo I a wolf stands at the portals, in the passage-way a black-bear, At the high-gate of Pohyola, At the ending of the journey. Thereupon young Lemminkainen, Handsome hero, Kaukomieli, Thrusts his fingers in his pockets, Seeks his magic pouch of leather, Pulls therefrom a lock of ewe-wool, Rubs it firmly in his fingers, In his hands it falls to powder; Breathes the breath of life upon it, When a flock of sheep arises, Goats and sheep of sable color; On the flock the black-wolf pounces, And the wild-bear aids the slaughter, While the reckless Lemminkainen Rushes by them on his journey; Gallops on a little distance, To the court of Sariola, Finds the fence of molten iron, And of steel the rods and pickets, In the earth a hundred fathoms, To the azure sky, a thousand, Double-pointed spears projecting; On each spear were serpents twisted, Adders coiled in countless numbers, Lizards mingled with the serpents, Tails entangled pointing earthward, While their heads were skyward whirling, Writhing, hissing mass of evil. Then the stout-heart, Kaukomieli, Deeply thought and long considered: 'It is as my mother told me, This the wall that she predicted, Stretching from the earth to heaven; Downward deep are serpents creeping, Deeper still the rails extending; 453 High as highest flight of eagles, Higher still the wall shoots upward.' But the hero, Lemminkainen, Little cares, nor feels disheartened, Draws his broadsword from its scabbard, Draws his mighty blade ancestral, Hews the wall with might of magic, Breaks the palisade in pieces, Hews to atoms seven pickets, Chops the serpent-wall to fragments; Through the breach he quickly passes To the portals of Pohyola. In the way, a serpent lying, Lying crosswise in the entry, Longer than the longest rafters, Larger than the posts of oak-wood; Hundred-eyed, the heinous serpent, And a thousand tongues, the monster, Eyes as large as sifting vessels, Tongues as long as shafts of javelins, Teeth as large as hatchet-handles, Back as broad as skiffs of ocean. Lemminkainen does not venture Straightway through this host opposing, Through the hundred heads of adders, Through the thousand tongues of serpents. Spake the magic Lemminkainen: 'Venomed viper, thing of evil, Ancient adder of Tuoni, Thou that crawlest in the stubble, Through the flower-roots of Lempo, Who has sent thee from thy kingdom, Sent thee from thine evil coverts, Sent thee hither, crawling, writhing, In the pathway I would travel? Who bestowed thy mouth of venom, Who insisted, who commanded, Thou shouldst raise thy head toward heaven, Who thy tail has given action? Was this given by the father, Did the mother give this power, Or the eldest of the brothers, 454 Or the youngest of the sisters, Or some other of thy kindred? 'Close thy mouth, thou thing of evil, Hide thy pliant tongue of venom, In a circle wrap thy body, Coil thou like a shield in silence, Give to me one-half the pathway, Let this wanderer pass by thee, Or remove thyself entirely; Get thee hence to yonder heather, Quick retreat to bog and stubble, Hide thyself in reeds and rushes, In the brambles of the lowlands. Like a ball of flax enfolding, Like a sphere of aspen-branches, With thy head and tail together, Roll thyself to yonder mountain; In the heather is thy dwelling, Underneath the sod thy caverns. Shouldst thou raise thy head in anger, Mighty Ukko will destroy it, Pierce it with his steel-tipped arrows, With his death-balls made of iron!' Hardly had the hero ended, When the monster, little heeding, Hissing with his tongue in anger, Plying like the forked lightning, Pounces with his mouth of venom At the head of Lemminkainen; But the hero, quick recalling, Speaks the master-words of knowledge, Words that came from distant ages, Words his ancestors had taught him, Words his mother learned in childhood, These the words of Lemminkainen: 'Since thou wilt not heed mine order, Since thou wilt not leave the highway, Puffed with pride of thine own greatness, Thou shall burst in triple pieces. Leave thy station for the borders, I will hunt thine ancient mother, Sing thine origin of evil, 455 How arose thy head of horror; Suoyatar, thine ancient mother, Thing of evil, thy creator!' 'Suoyatar once let her spittle Fall upon the waves of ocean; This was rocked by winds and waters, Shaken by the ocean-currents, Six years rocked upon the billows, Rocked in water seven summers, On the blue-back of the ocean, On the billows high as heaven; Lengthwise did the billows draw it, And the sunshine gave it softness, To the shore the billows washed it, On the coast the waters left it. 'Then appeared Creation's daughters, Three the daughters thus appearing, On the roaring shore of ocean, There beheld the spittle lying, And the daughters spake as follows: 'What would happen from this spittle, Should the breath of the Creator Fall upon the writhing matter, Breathe the breath of life upon it, Give the thing the sense of vision? 'The Creator heard these measures, Spake himself the words that follow: 'Evil only comes from evil, This is the expectoration Of fell Suoyatar, its mother; Therefore would the thing be evil, Should I breathe a soul within it, Should I give it sense of vision.' 'Hisi heard this conversation, Ever ready with his mischief, Made himself to be creator, Breathed a soul into the spittle, To fell Suoyatar's fierce anger. Thus arose the poison-monster, Thus was born the evil serpent, This the origin of evil. 'Whence the life that gave her action'? 456 From the carbon-pile of Hisi. Whence then was her heart created? From the heart-throbs of her mother Whence arose her brain of evil? From the foam of rolling waters. Whence was consciousness awakened? From the waterfall's commotion. Whence arose her head of venom? From the seed-germs of the ivy. Whence then came her eyes of fury? From the flaxen seeds of Lempo. Whence the evil ears for hearing? From the foliage of Hisi. Whence then was her mouth created? This from Suoyatar's foam-currents Whence arose thy tongue of anger r From the spear of Keitolainen. Whence arose thy fangs of poison? From the teeth of Mana's daughter. Whence then was thy back created? From the carbon-posts of Piru. How then was thy tail created? From the brain of the hobgoblin. Whence arose thy writhing entrails? From the death-belt of Tuoni. 'This thine origin, O Serpent, This thy charm of evil import, Vilest thing of God's creation, Writhing, hissing thing of evil, With the color of Tuoni, With the shade of earth and heaven, With the darkness of the storm-cloud. Get thee hence, thou loathsome monster, Clear the pathway of this hero. I am mighty Lemminkainen, On my journey to Pohyola, To the feastings and carousals, In the halls of darksome Northland.' Thereupon the snake uncoiling, Hundred-eyed and heinous monster, Crawled away to other portals, That the hero, Kaukomieli, 457 Might proceed upon his errand, To the dismal Sariola, To the feastings and carousals In the banquet-halls of Pohya. ~ Elias Lönnrot,

1013:The Dunciad: Book Iv Yet, yet a moment, one dim ray of light Indulge, dread Chaos, and eternal Night! Of darkness visible so much be lent, As half to show, half veil, the deep intent. Ye pow'rs! whose mysteries restor'd I sing, To whom time bears me on his rapid wing, Suspend a while your force inertly strong, Then take at once the poet and the song. Now flam'd the Dog Star's unpropitious ray, Smote ev'ry brain, and wither'd every bay; Sick was the sun, the owl forsook his bow'r. The moon-struck prophet felt the madding hour: Then rose the seed of Chaos, and of Night, To blot out order, and extinguish light, Of dull and venal a new world to mould, And bring Saturnian days of lead and gold. She mounts the throne: her head a cloud conceal'd, In broad effulgence all below reveal'd; ('Tis thus aspiring Dulness ever shines) Soft on her lap her laureate son reclines. Beneath her footstool, Science groans in chains, And Wit dreads exile, penalties, and pains. There foam'd rebellious Logic , gagg'd and bound, There, stripp'd, fair Rhet'ric languish'd on the ground; His blunted arms by Sophistry are borne, And shameless Billingsgate her robes adorn. Morality , by her false guardians drawn, Chicane in furs, and Casuistry in lawn, Gasps, as they straighten at each end the cord, And dies, when Dulness gives her page the word. Mad Mathesis alone was unconfin'd, Too mad for mere material chains to bind, Now to pure space lifts her ecstatic stare, Now running round the circle finds it square. But held in tenfold bonds the Muses lie, Watch'd both by Envy's and by Flatt'ry's eye: 191 There to her heart sad Tragedy addres'd The dagger wont to pierce the tyrant's breast; But sober History restrain'd her rage, And promised vengeance on a barb'rous age. There sunk Thalia, nerveless, cold, and dead, Had not her sister Satire held her head: Nor couldst thou, Chesterfield! a tear refuse, Thou weptst, and with thee wept each gentle Muse. When lo! a harlot form soft sliding by, With mincing step, small voice, and languid eye; Foreign her air, her robe's discordant pride In patchwork flutt'ring, and her head aside: By singing peers upheld on either hand, She tripp'd and laugh'd, too pretty much to stand; Cast on the prostrate Nine a scornful look, Then thus in quaint recitativo spoke. 'O Cara! Cara! silence all that train: Joy to great Chaos! let Division reign: Chromatic tortures soon shall drive them hence, Break all their nerves, and fritter all their sense: One trill shall harmonize joy, grief, and rage, Wake the dull Church, and lull the ranting Stage; To the same notes thy sons shall hum, or snore, And all thy yawning daughters cry, encore Another Phoebus, thy own Phoebus, reigns, Joys in my jigs, and dances in my chains. But soon, ah soon, Rebellion will commence, If Music meanly borrows aid from Sense. Strong in new arms, lo! Giant Handel stands, Like bold Briarerus, with a hundred hands; To stir, to rouse, to shake the soul he comes, And Jove's own thunders follow Mars's drums. Arrest him, Empress, or you sleep no more-' She heard, and drove him to th' Hibernian shore. And now had Fame's posterior trumpet blown, 192 And all the nations summoned to the throne. The young, the old, who feel her inward sway, One instinct seizes, and transports away. None need a guide, by sure attraction led, And strong impulsive gravity of head: None want a place, for all their centre found Hung to the Goddess, and coher'd around. Not closer, orb in orb, conglob'd are seen The buzzing bees about their dusky Queen. The gath'ring number, as it moves along, Involves a vast involuntary throng, Who gently drawn, and struggling less and less, Roll in her Vortex, and her pow'r confess. Not those alone who passive own her laws, But who, weak rebels, more advance her cause. Whate'er of dunce in college or in town Sneers at another, in toupee or gown; Whate'er of mongrel no one class admits, A wit with dunces, and a dunce with wits. Nor absent they, no members of her state, Who pay her homage in her sons, the Great; Who false to Phoebus bow the knee to Baal; Or, impious, preach his Word without a call. Patrons, who sneak from living worth to dead, Withhold the pension, and set up the head; Or vest dull Flattery in the sacred gown; Or give from fool to fool the laurel crown. And (last and worst) with all the cant of wit, Without the soul, the Muse's hypocrite. There march'd the bard and blockhead, side by side, Who rhym'd for hire, and patroniz'd for pride. Narcissus, prais'd with all a Parson's pow'r, Look'd a white lily sunk beneath a show'r. There mov'd Montalto with superior air; His stretch'd-out arm display'd a volume fair; Courtiers and Patriots in two ranks divide, Through both he pass'd, and bow'd from side to side: But as in graceful act, with awful eye Compos'd he stood, bold Benson thrust him by: 193 On two unequal crutches propp'd he came, Milton's on this, on that one Johnston's name. The decent knight retir'd with sober rage, Withdrew his hand, and closed the pompous page. But (happy for him as the times went then) Appear'd Apollo's mayor and aldermen, On whom three hundred gold-capp'd youths await, To lug the pond'rous volume off in state. When Dulness, smiling-'Thus revive the Wits! But murder first, and mince them all to bits; As erst Medea (cruel, so to save!) A new edition of old Aeson gave; Let standard authors, thus, like trophies born, Appear more glorious as more hack'd and torn, And you, my Critics! in the chequer'd shade, Admire new light through holes yourselves have made. Leave not a foot of verse, a foot of stone, A page, a grave, that they can call their own; But spread, my sons, your glory thin or thick, On passive paper, or on solid brick. So by each bard an Alderman shall sit, A heavy lord shall hang at ev'ry wit, And while on Fame's triumphal Car they ride, Some Slave of mine be pinion'd to their side.' Now crowds on crowds around the Goddess press, Each eager to present their first address. Dunce scorning dunce beholds the next advance, But fop shows fop superior complaisance, When lo! a spector rose, whose index hand Held forth the virtue of the dreadful wand; His beaver'd brow a birchen garland wears, Dropping with infant's blood, and mother's tears. O'er every vein a shud'ring horror runs; Eton and Winton shake through all their sons. All flesh is humbl'd, Westminster's bold race Shrink, and confess the Genius of the place: The pale boy senator yet tingling stands, And holds his breeches close with both his hands. 194 Then thus. 'Since man from beast by words is known, Words are man's province, words we teach alone. When reason doubtful, like the Samian letter, Points him two ways, the narrower is the better. Plac'd at the door of learning, youth to guide, We never suffer it to stand too wide. To ask, to guess, to know, as they commence, As fancy opens the quick springs of sense, We ply the memory, we load the brain, Bind rebel Wit, and double chain on chain, Confine the thought, to exercise the breath; And keep them in the pale of words till death. Whate'er the talents, or howe'er design'd, We hang one jingling padlock on the mind: A Poet the first day, he dips his quill; And what the last? A very Poet still. Pity! the charm works only in our wall, Lost, lost too soon in yonder house or hall. There truant Wyndham every Muse gave o'er, There Talbot sunk, and was a wit no more! How sweet an Ovid, Murray was our boast! How many Martials were in Pult'ney lost! Else sure some bard, to our eternal praise, In twice ten thousand rhyming nights and days, Had reach'd the work, and All that mortal can; And South beheld that Masterpiece of Man.' 'Oh' (cried the Goddess) 'for some pedant Reign! Some gentle James, to bless the land again; To stick the Doctor's chair into the throne, Give law to words, or war with words alone, Senates and courts with Greek and Latin rule, And turn the council to a grammar school! For sure, if Dulness sees a grateful day, 'Tis in the shade of arbitrary sway. O! if my sons may learn one earthly thing, Teach but that one, sufficient for a king; That which my priests, and mine alone, maintain, Which as it dies, or lives, we fall, or reign: May you, may Cam and Isis, preach it long! 'The Right Divine of Kings to govern wrong'.' 195 Prompt at the call, around the Goddess roll Broad hats, and hoods, and caps, a sable shoal: Thick and more thick the black blockade extends, A hundred head of Aristotle's friends. Nor wert thou, Isis! wanting to the day, Though Christ Church long kept prudishly away. Each staunch polemic, stubborn as a rock, Each fierce logician, still expelling Locke, Came whip and spur, and dash'd through thin and thick On German Crousaz, and Dutch Burgersdyck. As many quit the streams that murm'ring fall To lull the sons of Marg'ret and Clare Hall, Where Bentley late tempestuous wont to sport In troubled waters, but now sleeps in Port. Before them march'd that awful Aristarch; Plow'd was his front with many a deep remark: His hat, which never vail'd to human pride, Walker with rev'rence took, and laid aside. Low bowed the rest: He, kingly, did but nod; So upright Quakers please both man and God. 'Mistress! dismiss that rabble from your throne: Avaunt-is Aristarchus yet unknown? Thy mighty scholiast, whose unwearied pains Made Horace dull, and humbl'd Milton's strains. Turn what they will to verse, their toil is vain, Critics like me shall make it prose again. Roman and Greek grammarians! know your better: Author of something yet more great than letter; While tow'ring o'er your alphabet, like Saul, Stands our Digamma, and o'ertops them all. 'Tis true, on words is still our whole debate, Disputes of Me or Te , of aut or at To sound or sink in 196 cano , O or A, Or give up Cicero to C or K. Let Freind affect to speak as Terence spoke, And Alsop never but like Horace joke: For me, what Virgil, Pliny may deny, Manilius or Solinus shall supply: For Attic Phrase in Plato let them seek, I poach in Suidas for unlicens'd Greek. In ancient sense if any needs will deal, Be sure I give them fragments, not a meal; What Gellius or Stobaeus hash'd before, Or chew'd by blind old Scholiasts o'er and o'er. The critic eye, that microscope of wit, Sees hairs and pores, examines bit by bit: How parts relate to parts, or they to whole, The body's harmony, the beaming soul, Are things which Kuster, Burman, Wasse shall see, When man's whole frame is obvious to a Flea 'Ah, think not, Mistress! more true dulness lies In Folly's cap, than Wisdom's grave disguise. Like buoys, that never sink into the flood, On learning's surface we but lie and nod. Thine is the genuine head of many a house, And much Divinity without a Nous. Nor could a Barrow work on every block, Nor has one Atterbury spoil'd the flock. See! still thy own, the heavy canon roll, And metaphysic smokes involve the pole. For thee we dim the eyes, and stuff the head With all such reading as was never read: For thee explain a thing till all men doubt it, And write about it, Goddess, and about it: So spins the silkworm small its slender store, And labours till it clouds itself all o'er. 'What tho' we let some better sort of fool Thrid ev'ry science, run through ev'ry school? Never by tumbler through the hoops was shown 197 Such skill in passing all, and touching none. He may indeed (if sober all this time) Plague with dispute, or persecute with rhyme. We only furnish what he cannot use, Or wed to what he must divorce, a Muse: Full in the midst of Euclid dip at once, And petrify a Genius to a Dunce: Or set on metaphysic ground to prance, Show all his paces, not a step advance. With the same cement ever sure to bind, We bring to one dead level ev'ry mind. Then take him to develop, if you can, And hew the block off, and get out the man. But wherefore waste I words? I see advance Whore, pupil, and lac'd governor from France. Walker! our hat' -nor more he deign'd to say, But, stern as Ajax' spectre, strode away. In flow'd at once a gay embroider'd race, And titt'ring push'd the Pedants off the place; Some would have spoken, but the voice was drown'd By the French horn, or by the op'ning hound. The first came forwards, with as easy mien, As if he saw St. James's and the Queen. When thus th' attendant Orator begun, Receive, great Empress! thy accomplish'd Son: Thine from the birth, and sacred from the rod, A dauntless infant! never scar'd with God. The Sire saw, one by one, his Virtues wake: The Mother begg'd the blessing of a Rake. Thou gav'st that Ripeness, which so soon began, And ceas'd so soon, he ne'er was Boy, nor Man, Thro' School and College, thy kind cloud o'ercast, Safe and unseen the young AEneas past: Thence bursting glorious, all at once let down, Stunn'd with his giddy Larum half the town. Intrepid then, o'er seas and lands he flew: Europe he saw, and Europe saw him too. There all thy gifts and graces we display, Thou, only thou, directing all our way! To where the Seine, obsequious as she runs, Pours at great Bourbon's feet her silken sons; 198 Or Tyber, now no longer Roman, rolls, Vain of Italian Arts, Italian Souls: To happy Convents, bosom'd deep in vines, Where slumber Abbots, purple as their wines: To Isles of fragrance, lilly-silver'd vales, Diffusing languor in the panting gales: To lands of singing, or of dancing slaves, Love-whisp'ring woods, and lute-resounding waves. But chief her shrine where naked Venus keeps, And Cupids ride the Lyon of the Deeps; Where, eas'd of Fleets, the Adriatic main Wafts the smooth Eunuch and enamour'd swain. Led by my hand, he saunter'd Europe round, And gather'd ev'ry Vice on Christian ground; Saw ev'ry Court, hear'd ev'ry King declare His royal Sense, of Op'ra's or the Fair; The Stews and Palace equally explor'd, Intrigu'd with glory, and with spirit whor'd; Try'd all hors-d' uvres, all Liqueurs defin'd, Judicious drank, and greatly-daring din'd; Dropt the dull lumber of the Latin store, Spoil'd his own Language, and acquir'd no more; All Classic learning lost on Classic ground; And last turn'd Air, the Eccho of a Sound! See now, half-cur'd, and perfectly well-bred, With nothing but a Solo in his head; As much Estate, and Principle, and Wit, As Jansen, Fleetwood, Cibber shall think fit; Stol'n from a Duel, follow'd by a Nun, And, if a Borough chuse him, not undone; See, to my country happy I restore This glorious Youth, and add one Venus more. Her too receive (for her my soul adores) So may the sons of sons of sons of whores, Prop thine, O Empress! like each neighbour Throne, And make a long Posterity thy own. Pleas'd, she accepts the Hero, and the Dame, Wraps in her Veil, and frees from sense of Shame. Then look'd, and saw a lazy, lolling sort, Unseen at Church, at Senate, or at Court, Of ever-listless Loit'rers, that attend No Cause, no Trust, no Duty, and no Friend. 199 Thee too, my Paridel! she mark'd thee there, Stretch'd on the rack of a too easy chair, And heard thy everlasting yawn confess The Pains and Penalties of Idleness. She pity'd! but her Pity only shed Benigner influence on thy nodding head. But Annius, crafty Seer, with ebon wand, And well-dissembl'd Em'rald on his hand, False as his Gems and canker'd as his Coins, Came, cramm'd with Capon, from where Pollio dines. Soft, as the wily Fox is seen to creep, Where bask on sunny banks the simple sheep, Walk round and round, now prying here, now there; So he; but pious, whisper'd first his pray'r. Grant, gracious Goddess! grant me still to cheat, O may thy cloud still cover the deceit! Thy choicer mists on this assembly shed, But pour them thickest on the noble head. So shall each youth, assisted by our eyes, See other C‘sars, other Homers rise; Thro' twilight ages hunt th'Athenian fowl, Which Chalcis Gods, and mortals call an Owl, Now see an Attys, now a Cecrops clear, Nay, Mahomet! the Pigeon at thine ear; Be rich in ancient brass, tho' not in gold, And keep his Lares, tho' his house be sold; To headless Ph be his fair bride postpone, Honour a Syrian Prince above his own; Lord of an Otho, if I vouch it true; Blest in one Niger, till he knows of two. Mummius o'erheard him; Mummius, Fool-renown'd, Who like his Cheops stinks above the ground, Fierce as a startled Adder, swell'd, and said, Rattling an ancient Sistrum at his head. Speak'st thou of Syrian Princes? Traitor base! Mine, Goddess! mine is all the horned race. True, he had wit, to make their value rise; From foolish Greeks to steal them, was as wise; More glorious yet, from barb'rous hands to keep, When Sallee Rovers chac'd him on the deep. Then taught by Hermes, and divinely bold, Down his own throat he risqu'd the Grecian gold; 200 Receiv'd each Demi-God, with pious care, Deep in his Entrails — I rever'd them there, I bought them, shrouded in that living shrine, And, at their second birth, they issue mine. Witness great Ammon! by whose horns I swore, (Reply'd soft Annius) this our paunch before Still bears them, faithful; and that thus I eat, Is to refund the Medals with the meat. To prove me, Goddess! clear of all design, Bid me with Pollio sup, as well as dine: There all the Learn'd shall at the labour stand, And Douglas lend his soft, obstetric hand. The Goddess smiling seem'd to give consent; So back to Pollio, hand in hand, they went. Then thick as Locusts black'ning all the ground, A tribe, with weeds and shells fantastic crown'd, Each with some wond'rous gift approach'd the Pow'r, A Nest, a Toad, a Fungus, or a Flow'r. But far the foremost, two, with earnest zeal, And aspect ardent to the Throne appeal. The first thus open'd: Hear thy suppliant's call, Great Queen, and common Mother of us all! Fair from its humble bed I rear'd this Flow'r, Suckled, and chear'd, with air, and sun, and show'r, Soft on the paper ruff its leaves I spread, Bright with the gilded button tipt its head, Then thron'd in glass, and nam'd it Caroline: Each Maid cry'd, charming! and each Youth, divine! Did Nature's pencil ever blend such rays, Such vary'd light in one promiscuous blaze? Now prostrate! dead! behold that Caroline: No Maid cries, charming! and no Youth, divine! And lo the wretch! whose vile, whose insect lust Lay'd this gay daughter of the Spring in dust. Oh punish him, or to th' Elysian shades Dismiss my soul, where no Carnation fades. He ceas'd, and wept. With innocence of mien, Th'Accus'd stood forth, and thus address'd the Queen. Of all th'enamel'd race, whose silv'ry wing Waves to the tepid Zephyrs of the spring, Or swims along the fluid atmosphere, Once brightest shin'd this child of Heat and Air. 201 I saw, and started from its vernal bow'r The rising game, and chac'd from flow'r to flow'r. It fled, I follow'd; now in hope, now pain; It stopt, I stopt; it mov'd, I mov'd again. At last it fix'd, 'twas on what plant it pleas'd, And where it fix'd, the beauteous bird I seiz'd: Rose or Carnation was below my care; I meddle, Goddess! only in my sphere. I tell the naked fact without disguise, And, to excuse it, need but shew the prize; Whose spoils this paper offers to your eye, Fair ev'n in death! this peerless Butterfly. My sons! (she answer'd) both have done your parts: Live happy both, and long promote our arts. But hear a Mother, when she recommends To your fraternal care, our sleeping friends. The common Soul, of Heav'n's more frugal make, Serves but to keep fools pert, and knaves awake: A drowzy Watchman, that just gives a knock, And breaks our rest, to tell us what's a clock. Yet by some object ev'ry brain is stirr'd; The dull may waken to a Humming-bird; The most recluse, discreetly open'd, find Congenial matter in the Cockle-kind; The mind, in Metaphysics at a loss, May wander in a wilderness of Moss; The head that turns at super-lunar things, Poiz'd with a tail, may steer on Wilkins' wings. 'O! would the sons of men once think their eyes And reason given them but to study flies ! See Nature in some partial narrow shape, And let the Author of the Whole escape: Learn but to trifle; or, who most observe, To wonder at their Maker, not to serve.' 'Be that my task' (replies a gloomy clerk, Sworn foe to Myst'ry, yet divinely dark; Whose pious hope aspires to see the day When Moral Evidence shall quite decay, And damns implicit faith, and holy lies, Prompt to impose, and fond to dogmatize): 'Let others creep by timid steps, and slow, On plain experience lay foundations low, 202 By common sense to common knowledge bred, And last, to Nature's Cause through Nature led. All-seeing in thy mists, we want no guide, Mother of Arrogance, and Source of Pride! We nobly take the high Priori Road, And reason downward, till we doubt of God: Make Nature still encroach upon his plan; And shove him off as far as e'er we can: Thrust some Mechanic Cause into his place; Or bind in matter, or diffuse in space. Or, at one bound o'erleaping all his laws, Make God man's image, man the final Cause, Find virtue local, all relation scorn See all in self , and but for self be born: Of naught so certain as our reason still, Of naught so doubtful as of soul and will . Oh hide the God still more! and make us see Such as Lucretius drew, a god like thee: Wrapp'd up in self, a god without a thought, Regardless of our merit or default. Or that bright image to our fancy draw, Which Theocles in raptur'd vision saw, While through poetic scenes the Genius roves, Or wanders wild in academic groves; That Nature our society adores, Where Tindal dictates, and Silenus snores.' Rous'd at his name up rose the bousy Sire, And shook from out his pipe the seeds of fire; Then snapp'd his box, and strok'd his belly down: Rosy and rev'rend, though without a gown. Bland and familiar to the throne he came, Led up the youth, and call'd the Goddess Dame . Then thus, 'From priestcraft happily set free, Lo! ev'ry finished Son returns to thee: First slave to words, then vassal to a name, Then dupe to party; child and man the same; Bounded by Nature, narrow'd still by art, A trifling head, and a contracted heart. Thus bred, thus taught, how many have I seen, Smiling on all, and smil'd on by a queen. Marked out for honours, honour'd for their birth, 203 To thee the most rebellious things on earth: Now to thy gentle shadow all are shrunk, All melted down, in pension, or in punk! So K-- so B-- sneak'd into the grave, A monarch's half, and half a harlot's slave. Poor W-- nipp'd in Folly's broadest bloom, Who praises now? his chaplain on his tomb. Then take them all, oh take them to thy breast! Thy Magus , Goddess! shall perform the rest.' With that, a Wizard old his Cup extends; Which whoso tastes, forgets his former friends, Sire, ancestors, himself. One casts his eyes Up to a Star , and like Endymion dies: A Feather , shooting from another's head, Extracts his brain, and principle is fled, Lost is his God, his country, ev'rything; And nothing left but homage to a king! The vulgar herd turn off to roll with hogs, To run with horses, or to hunt with dogs; But, sad example! never to escape Their infamy, still keep the human shape. But she, good Goddess, sent to ev'ry child Firm impudence, or stupefaction mild; And straight succeeded, leaving shame no room, Cibberian forehead, or Cimmerian gloom. Kind self-conceit to somewhere glass applies, Which no one looks in with another's eyes: But as the flatt'rer or dependant paint, Beholds himself a patriot, chief, or saint. On others Int'rest her gay liv'ry flings, Int'rest that waves on party-colour'd wings: Turn'd to the sun, she casts a thousand dyes, And, as she turns, the colours fall or rise. Others the siren sisters warble round, And empty heads console with empty sound. No more, Alas! the voice of Fame they hear, The balm of Dulness trickling in their ear. Great C--, H--, P--, R--, K--, Why all your toils? your Sons have learn'd to sing. How quick ambition hastes to ridicule! The sire is made a peer, the son a fool. 204 On some, a Priest succinct in amice white Attends; all flesh is nothing in his sight! Beeves, at his touch, at once to jelly turn, And the huge boar is shrunk into an urn: The board with specious miracles he loads, Turns hares to larks, and pigeons into toads. Another (for in all what one can shine?) Explains the Seve and Verdeur of the vine. What cannot copious sacrifice atone? Thy truffles, Perigord! thy hams, Bayonne! With French libation, and Italian strain, Wash Bladen white, and expiate Hays's stain. Knight lifts the head, for what are crowds undone. To three essential partridges in one? Gone ev'ry blush, and silent all reproach, Contending princes mount them in their coach. Next, bidding all draw near on bended knees, The Queen confers her Titles and Degrees . Her children first of more distinguish'd sort, Who study Shakespeare at the Inns of Court, Impale a glowworm, or vertú profess, Shine in the dignity of F.R.S. Some, deep Freemasons, join the silent race Worthy to fill Pythagoras's place: Some botanists, or florists at the least, Or issue members of an annual feast. Nor pass'd the meanest unregarded, one Rose a Gregorian, one a Gormogon. The last, not least in honour or applause, Isis and Cam made Doctors of her Laws. Then, blessing all, 'Go, Children of my care! To practice now from theory repair. All my commands are easy, short, and full: My sons! be proud, be selfish, and be dull. Guard my prerogative, assert my throne: This nod confirms each privilege your own. The cap and switch be sacred to his Grace; 205 With staff and pumps the Marquis lead the race; From stage to stage the licens'd Earl may run, Pair'd with his fellow charioteer the sun; The learned Baron butterflies design, Or draw to silk Arachne's subtle line; The Judge to dance his brother Sergeant call; The Senator at cricket urge the ball; The Bishop stow (pontific luxury!) An hundred souls of turkeys in a pie; The sturdy Squire to Gallic masters stoop, And drown his lands and manors in a soupe . Others import yet nobler arts from France, Teach kings to fiddle, and make senates dance. Perhaps more high some daring son may soar, Proud to my list to add one monarch more; And nobly conscious, princes are but things Born for first ministers, as slaves for kings, Tyrant supreme! shall three Estates command, And make one mighty Dunciad of the Land! More she had spoke, but yawn'd-All Nature nods: What mortal can resist the yawn of gods? Churches and Chapels instantly it reach'd; (St. James's first, for leaden Gilbert preach'd) Then catch'd the schools; the Hall scarce kept awake; The Convocation gap'd, but could not speak: Lost was the nation's sense, nor could be found, While the long solemn unison went round: Wide, and more wide, it spread o'er all the realm; Even Palinurus nodded at the helm: The vapour mild o'er each committee crept; Unfinish'd treaties in each office slept; And chiefless armies doz'd out the campaign; And navies yawn'd for orders on the main. O Muse! relate (for you can tell alone, Wits have short memories, and Dunces none), Relate, who first, who last resign'd to rest; Whose heads she partly, whose completely blest; What charms could faction, what ambition lull, The venal quiet, and entrance the dull; Till drown'd was sense, and shame, and right, and wrongO sing, and hush the nations with thy song! 206 In vain, in vain-the all-composing hour Resistless falls: The Muse obeys the Pow'r. She comes! she comes! the sable throne behold Of Night primeval, and of Chaos old! Before her, Fancy's gilded clouds decay, And all its varying rainbows die away. Wit shoots in vain its momentary fires, The meteor drops, and in a flash expires. As one by one, at dread Medea's strain, The sick'ning stars fade off th' ethereal plain; As Argus' eyes by Hermes' wand oppress'd, Clos'd one by one to everlasting rest; Thus at her felt approach, and secret might, Art after Art goes out, and all is Night. See skulking Truth to her old cavern fled, Mountains of Casuistry heap'd o'er her head! Philosophy, that lean'd on Heav'n before, Shrinks to her second cause, and is no more. Physic of Metaphysic begs defence, And Metaphysic calls for aid on Sense ! See Mystery to Mathematics fly! In vain! they gaze, turn giddy, rave, and die. Religion blushing veils her sacred fires, And unawares Morality expires. Nor public Flame, nor private , dares to shine; Nor human Spark is left, nor Glimpse divine ! Lo! thy dread Empire, Chaos! is restor'd; Light dies before thy uncreating word: Thy hand, great Anarch! lets the curtain fall; And universal Darkness buries All. ~ Alexander Pope,

1014:The Bush I wonder if the spell, the mystery, That like a haze about your silence clings, Moulding your void until we seem to see Tangible Presences of Deathless Things, Patterned but little to our spirits' woof, Yet from our love or hate not all aloof, Can. be the matrix where are forming slowly Troy tales of Old Australia, to refine Eras to come of ordered melancholy 'Neath lily-pale Perfection's anodyne. For Troy hath ever been, and Homer sang Its younger story for a lodging's fee, While o'er Scamander settlers' axes rang Amid the Bush where Ilium was to be. For Cretan Art, dim centuries before, Minoan Dream-times some Briseis bore. Sumerian Phoebus by a willowed water Song-built a Troy for far Chaldea, where The sons of God, beholding Leda's daughter, Bartered eternal thrones for love of her. Across each terraced aeon Time hath sowed With green tautology of vanished years, Gaping aghast or webbed with shining lode, Achilles' anger's earthquake-rift appears. The towers that Phoebus builds can never fall: Desire that Helen lights can never pall: Yea, wounded Love hath still but gods to fly to, When lust of war inflames Diomedes: Must some Australian Hector vainly die, too? Captives in ships? (0 change that omen, Trees!) Yea, Mother Bush, in your deep dreams abide Cupids alert for man and maid unborn, Apprentice Pucks amid your saplings hide, And wistful gorges wait a Roland horn: Wallet of Sigurd shall this swag replace, And centaurs curvet where those brumbies race. 39 That drover's tale of love shall greaten duly Through magic prisms of a myriad years, Till bums Isolde to Tristram's fervour newly, Or Launcelot to golden Guinevere's. The miner cradling washdirt by the creek, Or pulled through darkness dripping to the plat: The navvy boring tunnels through the peak: The farmer grubbing box-trees on the flat: The hawker camping by the roadside spring: The hodman on the giddy scaffolding: Moths that around the fashion windows flutter: The racecourse spider and the betting fly: The children romping by the city gutter, While baby crows to every passer-byFrom these rough blocks strewn o'er our ancient stream Sculptors shall chisel brownie, fairy, faun, Any myrmidons of some Homeric dream From Melbourne mob and Sydney push be drawn. The humdrum lives that now we tire of, then Romance shall be, and 'we heroic men Treading the vestibule of Golden Ages, The Isthmus of the Land of Heart's Desire: For lo! the Sybil's final volume's pages Ope with our Advent, close when we expire. Forgetful Change in one 'antiquity' Boreal gleams shall drown, and southern glows; Out of some singing woman's heart-break plea Australia's dawn shall flush with Sappho's rose: Strong Shirlow's hand shall trace Mantegna's line, And Soma foam from Victor Daley's wine: Scholars to be our prehistoric drama From Esson's 'Woman Tamer' shall restore, Or find in Gilbert's 'Lotus Stream and Lama' An Austral Nile and Buddhas we adore. The sunlit Satyrs follow Hugh McCrae, Quinn spans the ocean with a Celtic ford, And Williamson the Pan-pipe learns to play From magpie-songs our schoolboy ears ignored: 40 A sweeter woe no keen of Erin gave Than Kendall sings o'er Araluen's grave: Tasmanian Wordsworth to his chapel riding The Burning Bush and Ardath mead shall pass, Or, from the sea-coast of Bohemia gliding On craft of dream, behold a shepherd lass. Jessie Mackay on Southern Highlands sees The elves deploy in kem and gallowglass: Our Gilbert Murray writes 'Euripides': Pirani merges in Pythagoras: Marsyas plunges into Lethe, flayed, From Rhadamanthine Stephens' steady blade: While Benvenuto Morton, drunk with singing, Sees salamanders in a bush-fire's bed, And Spencer sails from Alcheringa bringing Intaglios, totems and Books of the Dead. On Southern fiords shall Brady's Long Snakes hiss, Heavy with brides he wins to Viking troth: O'Reilly's Sydney shall be Sybaris, While Melbourne's Muses sup their Spartan broth: Murdoch, Zenobia's counsellor, in time, Redacts from Burke his book on The Sublime: By Way was Homer into Greek translated: And Shakespeare's self is Sophocles so plain They know the kerb whereon the Furies waited Outside the Mermaid Inn in Brogan's Lane. Vane shall divide with Vern Eureka's fame; Tillett and Mann are Tyler then and Cade: Dowie's entwines with Cagliostro's name, And in Tarpeia's, lo, those fair forms fade Who drug the poor, for social bread and wine, And lift the furtive latch to Catiline: There, where the Longmore-featured Gracchi hurry, And Greek-browed Higinbotham walks, anon, The 'wealthy lower orders' leap the Murray Before the stockwhip cracks of Jardine Don. Cleons in 'Windsor dress at Syracuse Their thin plebeians' promised meal delay; 41 And Archibald begets Australia's Muse Upon an undine red of Chowder Bay: Paterson's swan draws Amphitrite's car, And Sidon learns from Young what purples are: Rose Scott refutes dogmatic Cyril gaily, Hypatia turns the anti-suffrage flank, And Herod's daughter sools her 'morning daily' On John the Baptist by the Yarra Bank. Yon regal bustard, fading hence ere long, Shall seem the guide we followed to the Grail; This lyre-bird on his dancing-mound of song Our mystagogue of some Bacchantic vale, Where feathered Pan guffaws 'Evoe!' above, And Maenad curlews shriek their midnight love: That trailing flight of distant swans is bearing Sarpedon's soul to its eternal joy: This ibis, from the very Nile, despairing, Memnon our own would warn from fatal Troy. Primeval gnomes distilled the golden bribes That have impregnated your musing waste with men; But shall the spell of your pathetic tribes Curl round, in time, our fairer limbs again? Through that long tunnel of your gloom, I see Gardens of a metropolis to be! Out of the depths the mountain ash is soaring To embryon gods of what unsounded space? Out of the heights what influence is pouring Thin desolation on your haunted face? Many there are who see no higher lot For all your writhing centuries of toil Than that the avaricious plough should blot Their wilding burgeon, and the red brand spoil Your cyclopean garniture, to sow The cheap parterres of Europe on your woe. They weave all sorceries but yours, and borrow The tinkling spells of alien winds and seas To drown the chord of purifying sorrow, Bom ere the world, that pulses through your trees. 42 For, save when we, in not o'er-subtle mood, Hear magpies warbling soft November in, Or, hand in hand with Love, a dreaming wood Or bouldered crest of crisper April win, Your harps, unblurred by glozing strings, intone The dirges that behind Creation moan'Where, riding reinless billows, new lives dash on The souring beach of yesterday's decay, Where Love's chord leaps from mandrake shrieks of passion, And groping gods mould man from quivering clay. (Is Nature deaf and blind and dumb? A cruse Unfilled of wine? Clay for an unbreathed soul? Alien to man, till his desires transfuse Their flames through wind and water, leaf and bole, And each crude fane elaborately fit With oracles that echo all his wit? The living wilds of Greece saw death returning When Pan that men had made fell from his throne: Till through her sap our very blood is churning The Bush her lonely alien woe shall moan! Or is she reticent but to be kind? Whispers she not beneath her mask of clods'Who asks he shall receive, who seeks shall find, Who knocks shall open every door of God's?' Dumb Faith's, blind Hope's eternal consort she, Gravid with all that is on earth to be; Corn, wine and oil in hungry granite hiding, All Beauty under sober wings of clay, All life beneath her dead heart long abiding, Yea, all the gods her sons and she obey!) What sin's wan expiation strewed your Vast With mounded pillage of what conquering fire? Slumbering throes of what prodigious Past Exhale these lingering ghosts of its desire? Sunshine that bleached corruption out, that glare? Desolate blue of Purgatory, there? Flagellant winds through guilty Eden scouring? Sahara drowning Prester John's domain? Satumian dam her progeny devouring? Hath dawn-time Hun these footprints left? Hath Cain? 43 Even the human wave, that shall at length To man's endurance key your strident surge, Sings in your poignant tones and sombre strength, And makes, as yet, its own your primal dirge: A gun-shot startles dawn back from the sky, And mourning tea-trees echo Gordon's sigh: Nardoo with Burke's faint sweat is dank for ever: Spectral a tribe round poisoned rations shrieks: Till doomday Leichhardt walks die Never Never: Pensive, of Boake, the circling stock-whip speaks. The wraiths unseen of roadside crimes unnamed About that old-time shanty's ruins roam: This squatter's fenceless acres hide ashamed The hearth and battered zinc of Naboth's home: Deserted 'yam-holes' pit your harmonies With sloughing pock-marks of the gold-disease: The sludgy creek 'mid hungry rushes rambles, Where teal once dived and lowan raised her mound: That tree, with crows, o'erlooks the township shambles: These paddocks, ordure-smeared, the city bound. 0 yield not all to factory and farm! For we, who drew a milk no stranger knows From her scant paps, yearn for the acrid charm That gossamers the Bush Where No Tree Grows. And we have ritual moments when we crave For worship in some messmate-pillared nave, Where contrite 'bears' for woodland sins are kneeling, And, 'mid the censers of the mountain musk, Acolyte bell-birds the Angelus are pealing, And boobooks moan lone vespers in the dusk, And you have Children of the Dreaming Star, Who care but little for the crowded ways Where meagre spirits' vapid prizes are, Or for the paddocked ease of dreamless days And hedges clipped of every sunny growth That plights the soul to God in daily troth: Their wayward love prefers your desolation, Or (where the human trail hath seared its charm) 44 The briar-rose on some abandoned 'station', To all the tilled obedience of the farm. Vineyards that purblind thrift shall never glean The weedy waste and thistly gully hold: No mint shall melt to currency unclean Yon river-rounded hillock's Cape-broom gold: The onion-grass upon that dark green slope Returns our gaze from eyes of heliotrope: But more we seek your underflowered expanses Of scrub monotonous, or, where, O Bush, The craters of your fiery noon's romances, Like great firm bosoms, through the bare plains push. As many. Mother, are your moods and forms As all the sons who love you. Here, you mow Careering grounds for every brood of storms The wild sea-mares to desert stallions throw; Anon, up through a sea of sand you glance With green ephemeral exuberance, And then quick seeds dive deep to years of slumber From hot-hoofed drought's precipitate return: There, league on league, the snow's cold fingers number The shrinking nerves of supple-jack and fern. To other eyes and ears you are a great Pillared cathedral tremulously green, An odorous and hospitable gate To genial mystery, the happy screen Of truants or of lovers rambling there 'Neath sun-shot boughs o'er miles of maidenhair. Wee rubies dot the leaflets of the cherries, The wooing wagtails hop from log to bough, The bronzewing comes from Queensland for the berries, The bell-bird by the creek is calling now. And you can ride, an Eastern queen, they say, By living creatures sumptuously borne, With all barbaric equipages gay, Beneath the torrid blue of Capricorn. That native lotus is the very womb That was the Hindoo goddess' earthly tomb. 45 The gang-gang screams o'er cactus wildernesses, Palm trees are there, and swampy widths of rice, Unguents and odours ooze from green recesses, The jungles blaze with birds of Paradise. But I, in city exile, hear you sing Of saplinged hill and box-tree dotted plain, Or silver-grass that prays the North Wind's wing Convey its sigh to the loitering rain: And Spring is half distraught with wintry gusts, Summer the daily spoil of tropic lusts The sun and she too fiercely shared together Lingering thro' voluptuous Hindoo woods, But o'er my windless, soft autumnal weather The peace that passes understanding broods. When, now, they say 'The Bush!', I see the top Delicate amber leanings of the gum Flutter, or flocks of screaming green leeks drop Silent, where in the shining morning hum The gleaning bees for honey-scented hours 'Mid labyrinthine leaves and white gum flowers. Cantering midnight hoofs are nearing, nearing, The straining bullocks flick the harpy flies, The 'hatter' weeds his melancholy clearing, The distant cow-bell tinkles o'er the rise. You are the brooding comrade of our way, Whispering rumour of a new Unknown, Moulding us white ideals to obey, Steeping whate'er we learn in lore your own, And freshening with unpolluted light The squalid city's day and pallid night, Till we become ourselves distinct, Australian, (Your native lightning charging blood and nerve), Stripped to the soul of borrowed garments, alien To that approaching Shape of God you serve. Brooding, brooding, your whispers murmur plain That searching for the clue to mystery In grottos of decrepitude is vain, That never shall the eye of prophet see 46 In crooked Trade's tumultuous streets the plan Of templed cities adequate to man. Brooding, brooding, you make us Brahmins waiting (While uninspired pass on the hurtling years), Faithful to dreams your spirit is creating, Till Great Australia, born of you, appears. For Great Australia is not yet: She waits (Where o'er the Bush prophetic auras play) The passing of these temporary States, Flaunting their tawdry flags of far decay. Her aureole above the alien mists Beacons our filial eyes to mountain trysts: 'Mid homely trees with all ideals fruited, She shelters us till Trade's Simoom goes by, And slakes our thirst from cisterns unpolluted . For ages cold in brooding deeps of sky. We love our brothers, and to heal their woe Pluck simples from the known old gardens still: We love our kindred over seas, and grow Their symbols tenderly o'er plain and hill; We feel their blood rebounding in our hearts, And speak as they would speak our daily parts: But under all we know, we know that only A virgin womb unsoiled by ancient fear Can Saviours bear. So, we, your Brahmins, lonely, Deaf to the barren tumult, wait your Year. The Great Year's quivering dawn pencils the Night To be the morning of our children's prime, And weave from rays of yet ungathered Light A richer noon than e'er apparelled Time. If it must be, as Tuscan wisdom knew, Babylon's seer, and wistful Egypt too, That mellow afternoon shall pensive guide us Down somnolent Decay's ravine to rest, Then you, reborn, 0 Mother Bush, shall hide us All the long night at your dream-laden breast. Australian eyes that heed your lessons know Another world than older pilgrims may: 47 Prometheus chained in Kosciusko's snow Sees later gods than Zeus in turn decay: Boundless plateaux expand the spirit's sight, Resilient gales uphold her steeper flight: And your close beating heart, 0 savage Mother, Throbs secret words of joy and starker pain Than reach the ears all old deceptions smother In Lebanon, or e'en in Westermain. We marvel not, who hear your undersong, And catch a glimpse in rare exalted hours Of something like a Being gleam along Festooned arcades of flossie creeper flowers, Or, toward the mirk, seem privileged to share The silent rapture of the trees at prayerWe marvel not that seers in other ages, With eyes unstrained by peering logic, saw The desolation glow with Koran pages, Or Sinai stones with Tables of the Law. Homers are waiting in the gum trees now, Far driven from the tarnished Cyclades: More Druids to your green enchantment bow Than 'neath unfaithful Mona's vanished trees: A wind hath spirited from ageing France To our fresh hills the carpet of Romance: Heroes and maids of old with young blood tingling In ampler gardens grow their roses new: And races long apart their manas mingling Prepare the cradle of an Advent due. And those who dig the mounded eld for runes To read Religion's tangled cipher, here, Where all Illusion haunts the fainting noons Of days hysteric with the tireless leer Of ravenous enamoured suns, shall find How May a flings her mantle o'er the mind, Till sober sand to shining water changes, Dodona whispers from the she-oak groves, Afreets upon the tempest cross the ranges, And Fafnir through the bunyip marshes roves. 48 Once, when Uranian Love appeared to glow Through that abysmal Night that bounds our reignLove that a man may scarcely feel and know i Quite the same world as other men againWith earthward-streaming frontier wraiths distraught, Your oracles, 0 Mother Bush, I sought: But found, dismayed, that eerie light revealing Those wraiths already in your depths on sleuth, Termagant Scorns along your hillsides stealing, Remorse unbaring slow her barbed tooth. My own thoughts first from far dispersion flew Back to their sad creator, with the crops Of woes in flower and all the harvests due Till tiring Time the fearful seeding stops: In pigmy forms of friends and foes, anon In my own image, they came, stung, were gone: And then I heard the voice of Him Who Questions, Knowing the faltered answer ere it came, Chilling the soul by hovering suggestions Of wan damnation at a wince of blame. And all your leaves in symbols were arranged, Despairs long dead would leap from bough to bough, A gum-tree buttress to a goblin changed Grinning the warmth of some old broken vow: Furtive desires for scarce-remembered maids Glanced in a fearful bo-peep from your shades: Till you became a purgatory cleansing With rosy flakes in form of manikins, To fiercer shame within my soul condensing, The dim pollution of forgotten sins. And She, the human symbol of that Love, Would, as my cleansed eyes forgot their fear, Comrade beside me. Comforter above, With sunny smile ubiquitous appear: Run on before me to the nooks we knew, Walk hand in hand as glad young lovers do, Gravely reprove me toying with temptation, Show me the eyes and ears in roots and clods, Bend with me o'er some blossom's revelation, 49 Or read from clouds the judgments of the gods. My old ideals She would tune until The grating note of self no longer rang: She drove the birds of gloom and evil will Out of the cote wherein my poems sang. Time at Her wand annulled his calendar, And Space his fallacy of Near and Far, For through my Bush along with me She glided, And crowded days of Beauty made more fair, Though lagging weeks and ocean widths divided Her mortal casing from Her Presence there. Her wetted finger oped my shuttered eyes To boyhood's scership of the Real again: Upon the Bush descended from the skies The rapt-up Eden of primordial men: August Dominions through the vistas strode: On white-maned clouds the smiling cherubs rode: Maltreated Faith restored my jangled hearing Till little seraphs sang from chip and clod: And prayers were radiant children that, unfearing, Floated as kisses to the lips of God. It matters not that for some purpose wise Myopic Reason censored long ago The revelations of that Paradise, When, back of all I feel or will or know, Its silent angels beacon through the Dark And point to harbours new my drifted ark. Nor need we dread the fogs that round us thicken Questing the Bush for Grails decreed for man, When Powers our fathers saw unseen still quicken Eyes that were ours before the world began. 'Twas then I saw the Vision of the Ways, And 'mid their gloom and glory seemed to live, Threaded the coverts of the Dark Road's maze, Toiled up, with tears, the Track Retributive, And, on the Path of Grace, beheld aglow The love-lit Nave of all that wheeled below. And She who flowered, my Mystic Rose, in Heaven, 50 And lit the Purging Mount, my Guiding Star, Trudged o'er the marl, my mate, through Hell's wan levin, Nor shrank, like lonely Dante's love, afar. High towered a cloud over one leafy wild, And to a bridged volcano grew. Above, A great Greek group of father, mother, child, Illumed a narrow round with radiant love. Below, a smoke-pool thick with faces swirled, The mutinous omen. of an Under-world, Defeated, plundered, blackened, but preparing, E'en though that calm, white dominance fell down, To overflow the rim, and, sunward faring, Shape myriad perfect groups from slave and clown. Or thus I read the symbol, though 'twas sent To hound compunction on my wincing pride, That dreamed of raceless brotherhood, content Though all old Charm dissolved and Glory died. For often signs will yield their deeper signs, Virginal Bush, in your untrodden shrines, Than where the craven ages' human clamour Distorts the boldest oracle with fear, Or where dissolving wizards dew with glamour Arden, Broceliande, or Windermere. Once while my mother by a spreading tree Our church's sober rubric bade me con, My vagrant eyes among the boughs would see Forbidden wings and •wizard aprons on Father's 'wee people' from their Irish glades Brighten and darken with your lights and shades. And I would only read again those stern leaves For whispered bribe that, when their tale I told, We would go and look for fairies in the fern-leaves And red-capped leprechauns with crocks of gold. Anon, my boyhood saw how Sunbursts flamed Or filmy hinds lured on a pale Oisin, Where lithe indignant saplings crowding claimed The digger's ravage for their plundered queen: And heard within yon lichened 'mullock-heap' 51 Lord Edward's waiting horsemen moan in sleep: Or flew the fragrant path of swans consoling Lir's exiled daughter wandering with me, And traced below the Wattle River rolling Exuberant and golden toward the sea. Here, would the •wavering wings of heat uplift Some promontory till the tree-crowned pile Above a phantom sea would swooning drift, St. Brendan's vision of the Winged Isle: Anon, the isle divides again, again, Till archipelagos poise o'er the main. There, lazy fingers of a breeze have scattered The distant blur of factory chimney smoke hi poignant groups of all the young lives shattered To feed the ravin of a piston-stroke! Or when I read the tale of what you were Beyond these hungry eyes' home-keeping view, I peopled petrel rocks with Sirens fair, In Maid Mirage the Fairy Morgan knew, Steered Quetzalcoatl's skiff to coral coasts, On Chambers' Pillar throned the Olympian hosts, Heard in white sulphur-crested parrots' screeches Remorseful Peris vent their hopeless rage, Atlantis' borders traced on sunken beaches, m Alcheringa found the Golden Age. Sibyl and Siren, with alternate breaths You read our foetal nation's boon and bane, And lure to trysts of orgiastic Deaths Adventurous love that listens to your strain: Pelsarts and Vanderdeckens of the world Circle your charms or at your feet are hurled: And, Southern witch, whose glamour drew De Quiros O'er half the earth for one unyielded kiss, Were yours the arms that healed the scalded Eros When Psyche's curious lamp darkened their bliss? Ye, who would challenge when we claim to see The bush alive with Northern wealth of wings, Forget that at a common mother's knee 52 We learned, with you, the lore of Silent Things. There is no New that is not older far Than swirling cradle of the first-born star: Our youngest hearts prolong the far pulsation And churn the brine of the primordial sea: The foetus writes the précis of Creation: Australia is the whole world's legatee. Imagination built her throne in us Before your present bodies saw the sky: Your myths were counters of our abacus, And in your brain developed long our eye: We from the misty folk have also sprung Who saw the gnomes and heard the Ever Young: Do Southern skies the fancy disinherit Of moly flower and Deva-laden breeze? Do nerves attuned by old defect and merit Their timbre lose by crossing tropic seas? All mysteries ye claim as yours alone Have wafted secrets over oceans here: Our living soil Antiquity hath sown With just the corn and tares ye love and fear: Romance and song enthral us just as you, Nor change of zenith changes spirit too: Our necks as yours are sore with feudal halters: To the Pole ye know our compasses are set; And shivering years that huddled round your altars Beneath our stars auspicious tremble yet. Who fenced the nymphs in European vales? Or Pan tabooed from all but Oxford dreams? Warned Shakespeare off from foreign Plutarch's tales? Or tethered Virgil to Italian themes? And when the body sailed from your control Think ye we left behind in bond the soul? Whate'er was yours is ours in equal measure, The Temple was not built for you alone, Altho' 'tis ours to grace the common treasure With Lares and Penates of our own! Ye stole yourselves from gardens fragrant long 53 The sprouting seed-pods of your choicest blooms, And wove the splendid garments of your song From Viking foam on grave Hebraic looms: 'Twas Roman nerve and rich Hellenic lymph Changed your pale pixie to a nubile nymph: Yea, breathed at dawn around Atlantis' islands, Wind-home o'er some Hesperidean road, The morning clouds on dim Accadian highlands Spring-fed the Nile that over Hellas flowed! As large-eyed Greek amid Sicilian dews Saw Dis, as ne'er before, pursue the Maid, Or, safe 'neath screening billows, Arethuse Alpheus' rugged sleuth unsoiled evade: We shall complete the tale ye left half-told, Under the ocean lead your fountains old, To slake our sceptic thirst with haunted water, And tame our torrents with a wedding kiss, Shall loose, mayhap, the spell on Ceres' daughter, And show, unclouded, God in very Dis. (Yet, there are moods and mornings when I hear, Above the music of the Bush's breath, The rush of alien breezes far and near Drowning her oracles to very death: Exotic battle-cries the silence mar, Seductive perfumes drive the gum-scent far; And organ-tones august a moment show me Miltonic billows and Homeric gales Until I feel the older worlds below me, And all her wonder trembles, thins and fails.) Yea, you are all that we may be, and yet In us is all you are to be for aye! The Giver of the gifts that we shall get? An empty womb that waits the wedding day? Thus drifting sense by age-long habit buoyed Plays round the thought that knows all nature void! And so, my song alternate would believe her Idiot Bush and Daughter of the Sun, A worthless gift apart from the receiver, An empty womb, but in a Deathless One. 54 To shapes we would of Freedom, Truth and Joy Shall we your willing plasm mould for man: Afresh rebuild the world, and thus destroy What only Ragnarok in Europe can: There is no Light but in your dark blendes sleeps, Drops from your stars or through your ether leaps: Yea, you are Nature, Chaos since Creation, Waiting what human Word to chord in song? Matrix inert of what auspicious nation? For what far bees your nectar hiving long? Exhausted manas of the conquering North Shall rise refreshed to vivid life again At your approach, and in your lap pour forth Grateful the gleanings of his mighty reign: As, when a tropic heat-king southward crawls, Blistering the ranges, till he hears the calls Of some cold high-browed bride, her streaming tresses, Sprinkled with rose-buds, make his wild eyes thrill To such desire for her superb caresses He yields his fiery treasures to her will. 'Where is Australia, singer, do you know? These sordid farms and joyless factories, Mephitic mines and lanes of pallid woe? Those ugly towns and cities such as these With incense sick to all unworthy power, And all old sin in full malignant flower? No! to her bourn her children still are faring: She is a Temple that we are to build: For her the ages have been long preparing: She is a prophecy to be fulfilled! All that we love in olden lands and lore Was signal of her coming long ago! Bacon foresaw her, Campanella, More And Plato's eyes were with her star aglow! Who toiled for Truth, whate'er their countries were, Who fought for Liberty, they yearned for her! No corsair's gathering ground, or tryst for schemers, 55 No chapman Carthage to a huckster Tyre, She is the Eldorado of old dreamers, The Sleeping Beauty of the world's desire! She is the scroll on which we are to write Mythologies our own and epics new: She is the port of our propitious flight From Ur idolatrous and Pharaoh's crew. She is our own, unstained, if worthy we, By dream, or god, or star we would not see: Her crystal beams all but the eagle dazzle; Her wind-wide ways none but the strong-winged sail: She is Eutopia, she is Hy-Brasil, The watchers on the tower of morning hail I Yet she shall be as we, the Potter, mould: Altar or tomb, as we aspire, despair: What wine we bring shall she, the chalice, hold: What word we write shall she, the script, declare: Bandage our eyes, she shall be Memphis, Spain: Barter our souls, she shall be Tyre again: And if we pour on her the red oblation All o'er the world shall Asshur's buzzards throng: Love-lit, her Chaos shall become Creation: And dewed with dream, her silence flower in song. ~ Bernard O'Dowd,

1015:TO MARY (ON HER OBJECTING TO THE FOLLOWING POEM, UPON THE SCORE OF ITS CONTAINING NO HUMAN INTEREST) I. How, my dear Mary, -- are you critic-bitten (For vipers kill, though dead) by some review, That you condemn these verses I have written, Because they tell no story, false or true? What, though no mice are caught by a young kitten, May it not leap and play as grown cats do, Till its claws come? Prithee, for this one time, Content thee with a visionary rhyme. II. What hand would crush the silken-wingd fly, The youngest of inconstant April's minions, Because it cannot climb the purest sky, Where the swan sings, amid the sun's dominions? Not thine. Thou knowest 'tis its doom to die, When Day shall hide within her twilight pinions The lucent eyes, and the eternal smile, Serene as thine, which lent it life awhile. III. To thy fair feet a wingd Vision came, Whose date should have been longer than a day, And o'er thy head did beat its wings for fame, And in thy sight its fading plumes display; The watery bow burned in the evening flame, But the shower fell, the swift Sun went his way And that is dead.O, let me not believe That anything of mine is fit to live! IV. Wordsworth informs us he was nineteen years Considering and retouching Peter Bell; Watering his laurels with the killing tears Of slow, dull care, so that their roots to Hell Might pierce, and their wide branches blot the spheres Of Heaven, with dewy leaves and flowers; this well May be, for Heaven and Earth conspire to foil The over-busy gardener's blundering toil. V. My Witch indeed is not so sweet a creature As Ruth or Lucy, whom his graceful praise Clothes for our grandsonsbut she matches Peter, Though he took nineteen years, and she three days In dressing. Light the vest of flowing metre She wears; he, proud as dandy with his stays, Has hung upon his wiry limbs a dress Like King Lear's 'looped and windowed raggedness.' VI. If you strip Peter, you will see a fellow Scorched by Hell's hyperequatorial climate Into a kind of a sulphureous yellow: A lean mark, hardly fit to fling a rhyme at; In shape a Scaramouch, in hue Othello. If you unveil my Witch, no priest nor primate Can shrive you of that sin, -- if sin there be In love, when it becomes idolatry. THE WITCH OF ATLAS. I. Before those cruel Twins, whom at one birth Incestuous Change bore to her father Time, Error and Truth, had hunted from the Earth All those bright natures which adorned its prime, And left us nothing to believe in, worth The pains of putting into learnd rhyme, A lady-witch there lived on Atlas' mountain Within a cavern, by a secret fountain. II. Her mother was one of the Atlantides: The all-beholding Sun had ne'er beholden In his wide voyage o'er continents and seas So fair a creature, as she lay enfolden In the warm shadow of her loveliness;-- He kissed her with his beams, and made all golden The chamber of gray rock in which she lay-- She, in that dream of joy, dissolved away. III. 'Tis said, she first was changed into a vapour, And then into a cloud, such clouds as flit, Like splendour-wingd moths about a taper, Round the red west when the sun dies in it: And then into a meteor, such as caper On hill-tops when the moon is in a fit: Then, into one of those mysterious stars Which hide themselves between the Earth and Mars. IV. Ten times the Mother of the Months had bent Her bow beside the folding-star, and bidden With that bright sign the billows to indent The sea-deserted sand -- like children chidden, At her command they ever came and went-- Since in that cave a dewy splendour hidden Took shape and motion: with the living form Of this embodied Power, the cave grew warm. V. A lovely lady garmented in light From her own beauty -- deep her eyes, as are Two openings of unfathomable night Seen through a Temple's cloven roof -- her hair Darkthe dim brain whirls dizzy with delight, Picturing her form; her soft smiles shone afar, And her low voice was heard like love, and drew All living things towards this wonder new. VI. And first the spotted cameleopard came, And then the wise and fearless elephant; Then the sly serpent, in the golden flame Of his own volumes intervolved -- all gaunt And sanguine beasts her gentle looks made tame. They drank before her at her sacred fount; And every beast of beating heart grew bold, Such gentleness and power even to behold. VII. The brinded lioness led forth her young, That she might teach them how they should forego Their inborn thirst of death; the pard unstrung His sinews at her feet, and sought to know With looks whose motions spoke without a tongue How he might be as gentle as the doe. The magic circle of her voice and eyes All savage natures did imparadise. VIII. And old Silenus, shaking a green stick Of lilies, and the wood-gods in a crew Came, blithe, as in the olive copses thick Cicadae are, drunk with the noonday dew: And Dryope and Faunus followed quick, Teasing the God to sing them something new; Till in this cave they found the lady lone, Sitting upon a seat of emerald stone. IX. And universal Pan, 'tis said, was there, And though none saw him,through the adamant Of the deep mountains, through the trackless air, And through those living spirits, like a want, He passed out of his everlasting lair Where the quick heart of the great world doth pant, And felt that wondrous lady all alone, And she felt him, upon her emerald throne. X. And every nymph of stream and spreading tree, And every shepherdess of Ocean's flocks, Who drives her white waves over the green sea, And Ocean with the brine on his gray locks, And quaint Priapus with his company, All came, much wondering how the enwombd rocks Could have brought forth so beautiful a birth; Her love subdued their wonder and their mirth. XI. The herdsmen and the mountain maidens came, And the rude kings of pastoral Garamant Their spirits shook within them, as a flame Stirred by the air under a cavern gaunt: Pigmies, and Polyphemes, by many a name, Centaurs, and Satyrs, and such shapes as haunt Wet clefts,and lumps neither alive nor dead, Dog-headed, bosom-eyed, and bird-footed. XII. For she was beautifulher beauty made The bright world dim, and everything beside Seemed like the fleeting image of a shade: No thought of living spirit could abide, Which to her looks had ever been betrayed, On any object in the world so wide, On any hope within the circling skies, But on her form, and in her inmost eyes. XIII. Which when the lady knew, she took her spindle And twined three threads of fleecy mist, and three Long lines of light, such as the dawn may kindle The clouds and waves and mountains with; and she As many star-beams, ere their lamps could dwindle In the belated moon, wound skilfully; And with these threads a subtle veil she wove A shadow for the splendour of her love. XIV. The deep recesses of her odorous dwelling Were stored with magic treasuressounds of air, Which had the power all spirits of compelling, Folded in cells of crystal silence there; Such as we hear in youth, and think the feeling Will never dieyet ere we are aware, The feeling and the sound are fled and gone, And the regret they leave remains alone. XV. And there lay Visions swift, and sweet, and quaint, Each in its thin sheath, like a chrysalis, Some eager to burst forth, some weak and faint With the soft burthen of intensest bliss It was its work to bear to many a saint Whose heart adores the shrine which holiest is, Even Love's -- and others white, green, gray, and black, And of all shapesand each was at her beck. XVI. And odours in a kind of aviary Of ever-blooming Eden-trees she kept, Clipped in a floating net, a love-sick Fairy Had woven from dew-beams while the moon yet slept; As bats at the wired window of a dairy. They beat their vans; and each was an adept, When loosed and missioned, making wings of winds, To stir sweet thoughts or sad, in destined minds. XVII. And liquors clear and sweet, whose healthful might Could medicine the sick soul to happy sleep, And change eternal death into a night Of glorious dreamsor if eyes needs must weep, Could make their tears all wonder and delight, She in her crystal vials did closely keep: If men could drink of those clear vials, 'tis said The living were not envied of the dead. XVIII. Her cave was stored with scrolls of strange device, The works of some Saturnian Archimage, Which taught the expiations at whose price Men from the Gods might win that happy age Too lightly lost, redeeming native vice; And which might quench the Earth-consuming rage Of gold and bloodtill men should live and move Harmonious as the sacred stars above; XIX. And how all things that seem untameable, Not to be checked and not to be confined, Obey the spells of Wisdom's wizard skill; Time, earth, and firethe ocean and the wind, And all their shapes -- and man's imperial will; And other scrolls whose writings did unbind The inmost lore of Lovelet the profane Tremble to ask what secrets they contain. XX. And wondrous works of substances unknown, To which the enchantment of her father's power Had changed those ragged blocks of savage stone, Were heaped in the recesses of her bower; Carved lamps and chalices, and vials which shone In their own golden beams -- each like a flower, Out of whose depth a fire-fly shakes his light Under a cypress in a starless night. XXI. At first she lived alone in this wild home, And her own thoughts were each a minister, Clothing themselves, or with the ocean foam, Or with the wind, or with the speed of fire, To work whatever purposes might come Into her mind; such power her mighty Sire Had girt them with, whether to fly or run, Through all the regions which he shines upon. XXII. The Ocean-nymphs and Hamadryades, Oreads and Naiads, with long weedy locks, Offered to do her bidding through the seas, Under the earth, and in the hollow rocks, And far beneath the matted roots of trees, And in the gnarld heart of stubborn oaks, So they might live for ever in the light Of her sweet presence -- each a satellite. XXIII. 'This may not be,' the wizard maid replied; 'The fountains where the Naiades bedew Their shining hair, at length are drained and dried; The solid oaks forget their strength, and strew Their latest leaf upon the mountains wide; The boundless ocean like a drop of dew Will be consumedthe stubborn centre must Be scattered, like a cloud of summer dust. XXIV. 'And ye with them will perish, one by one; If I must sigh to think that this shall be, If I must weep when the surviving Sun Shall smile on your decay -- oh, ask not me To love you till your little race is run; I cannot die as ye must -- over me Your leaves shall glance -- the streams in which ye dwell Shall be my paths henceforth, and so -- farewell!'-- XXV. She spoke and wept:the dark and azure well Sparkled beneath the shower of her bright tears, And every little circlet where they fell Flung to the cavern-roof inconstant spheres And intertangled lines of light:a knell Of sobbing voices came upon her ears From those departing Forms, o'er the serene Of the white streams and of the forest green. XXVI. All day the wizard lady sate aloof, Spelling out scrolls of dread antiquity, Under the cavern's fountain-lighted roof; Or broidering the pictured poesy Of some high tale upon her growing woof, Which the sweet splendour of her smiles could dye In hues outshining heavenand ever she Added some grace to the wrought poesy. XXVII. While on her hearth lay blazing many a piece Of sandal wood, rare gums, and cinnamon; Men scarcely know how beautiful fire is Each flame of it is as a precious stone Dissolved in ever-moving light, and this Belongs to each and all who gaze upon. The Witch beheld it not, for in her hand She held a woof that dimmed the burning brand. XXVIII. This lady never slept, but lay in trance All night within the fountain -- as in sleep. Its emerald crags glowed in her beauty's glance; Through the green splendour of the water deep She saw the constellations reel and dance Like fire-flies -- and withal did ever keep The tenour of her contemplations calm, With open eyes, closed feet, and folded palm. XXIX. And when the whirlwinds and the clouds descended From the white pinnacles of that cold hill, She passed at dewfall to a space extended, Where in a lawn of flowering asphodel Amid a wood of pines and cedars blended, There yawned an inextinguishable well Of crimson firefull even to the brim, And overflowing all the margin trim. XXX. Within the which she lay when the fierce war Of wintry winds shook that innocuous liquor In many a mimic moon and bearded star O'er woods and lawns -- the serpent heard it flicker In sleep, and dreaming still, he crept afar-- And when the windless snow descended thicker Than autumn leaves, she watched it as it came Melt on the surface of the level flame. XXXI. She had a boat, which some say Vulcan wrought For Venus, as the chariot of her star; But it was found too feeble to be fraught With all the ardours in that sphere which are, And so she sold it, and Apollo bought And gave it to this daughter: from a car Changed to the fairest and the lightest boat Which ever upon mortal stream did float. XXXII. And others say, that, when but three hours old, The first-born Love out of his cradle lept, And clove dun Chaos with his wings of gold, And like an horticultural adept, Stole a strange seed, and wrapped it up in mould, And sowed it in his mother's star, and kept Watering it all the summer with sweet dew, And with his wings fanning it as it grew. XXXIII. The plant grew strong and green, the snowy flower Fell, and the long and gourd-like fruit began To turn the light and dew by inward power To its own substance; woven tracery ran Of light firm texture, ribbed and branching, o'er The solid rind, like a leaf's veind fan-- Of which Love scooped this boat -- and with soft motion Piloted it round the circumfluous ocean. XXXIV. This boat she moored upon her fount, and lit A living spirit within all its frame, Breathing the soul of swiftness into it. Couched on the fountain like a panther tame, One of the twain at Evan's feet that sit-- Or as on Vesta's sceptre a swift flame-- Or on blind Homer's heart a wingd thought,-- In joyous expectation lay the boat. XXXV. Then by strange art she kneaded fire and snow Together, tempering the repugnant mass With liquid love -- all things together grow Through which the harmony of love can pass; And a fair Shape out of her hands did flow-- A living Image, which did far surpass In beauty that bright shape of vital stone Which drew the heart out of Pygmalion. XXXVI. A sexless thing it was, and in its growth It seemed to have developed no defect Of either sex, yet all the grace of both,-- In gentleness and strength its limbs were decked; The bosom swelled lightly with its full youth, The countenance was such as might select Some artist that his skill should never die, Imaging forth such perfect purity. XXXVII. From its smooth shoulders hung two rapid wings, Fit to have borne it to the seventh sphere, Tipped with the speed of liquid lightenings, Dyed in the ardours of the atmosphere: She led her creature to the boiling springs Where the light boat was moored, and said: 'Sit here!' And pointed to the prow, and took her seat Beside the rudder, with opposing feet. XXXVIII. And down the streams which clove those mountains vast, Around their inland islets, and amid The panther-peopled forests, whose shade cast Darkness and odours, and a pleasure hid In melancholy gloom, the pinnace passed; By many a star-surrounded pyramid Of icy crag cleaving the purple sky, And caverns yawning round unfathomably. XXXIX. The silver noon into that winding dell, With slanted gleam athwart the forest tops, Tempered like golden evening, feebly fell; A green and glowing light, like that which drops From folded lilies in which glow-worms dwell, When Earth over her face Night's mantle wraps; Between the severed mountains lay on high, Over the stream, a narrow rift of sky. XL. And ever as she went, the Image lay With folded wings and unawakened eyes; And o'er its gentle countenance did play The busy dreams, as thick as summer flies, Chasing the rapid smiles that would not stay, And drinking the warm tears, and the sweet sighs Inhaling, which, with busy murmur vain, They had aroused from that full heart and brain. XLI. And ever down the prone vale, like a cloud Upon a stream of wind, the pinnace went: Now lingering on the pools, in which abode The calm and darkness of the deep content In which they paused; now o'er the shallow road Of white and dancing waters, all besprent With sand and polished pebbles:mortal boat In such a shallow rapid could not float. XLII. And down the earthquaking cataracts which shiver Their snow-like waters into golden air, Or under chasms unfathomable ever Sepulchre them, till in their rage they tear A subterranean portal for the river, It fledthe circling sunbows did upbear Its fall down the hoar precipice of spray, Lighting it far upon its lampless way. XLIII. And when the wizard lady would ascend The labyrinths of some many-winding vale, Which to the inmost mountain upward tend She called 'Hermaphroditus!'and the pale And heavy hue which slumber could extend Over its lips and eyes, as on the gale A rapid shadow from a slope of grass, Into the darkness of the stream did pass. XLIV. And it unfurled its heaven-coloured pinions, With stars of fire spotting the stream below; And from above into the Sun's dominions Flinging a glory, like the golden glow In which Spring clothes her emerald-wingd minions, All interwoven with fine feathery snow And moonlight splendour of intensest rime, With which frost paints the pines in winter time. XLV. And then it winnowed the Elysian air Which ever hung about that lady bright, With its aethereal vansand speeding there, Like a star up the torrent of the night, Or a swift eagle in the morning glare Breasting the whirlwind with impetuous flight, The pinnace, oared by those enchanted wings, Clove the fierce streams towards their upper springs. XLVI. The water flashed, like sunlight by the prow Of a noon-wandering meteor flung to Heaven; The still air seemed as if its waves did flow In tempest down the mountains; loosely driven The lady's radiant hair streamed to and fro: Beneath, the billows having vainly striven Indignant and impetuous, roared to feel The swift and steady motion of the keel. XLVII. Or, when the weary moon was in the wane, Or in the noon of interlunar night, The lady-witch in visions could not chain Her spirit; but sailed forth under the light Of shooting stars, and bade extend amain Its storm-outspeeding wings, the Hermaphrodite; She to the Austral waters took her way, Beyond the fabulous Thamondocana, XLVIII. Where, like a meadow which no scythe has shaven, Which rain could never bend, or whirl-blast shake, With the Antarctic constellations paven, Canopus and his crew, lay the Austral lake There she would build herself a windless haven Out of the clouds whose moving turrets make The bastions of the storm, when through the sky The spirits of the tempest thundered by: XLIX. A haven beneath whose translucent floor The tremulous stars sparkled unfathomably, And around which the solid vapours hoar, Based on the level waters, to the sky Lifted their dreadful crags, and like a shore Of wintry mountains, inaccessibly Hemmed in with rifts and precipices gray, And hanging crags, many a cove and bay. L. And whilst the outer lake beneath the lash Of the wind's scourge, foamed like a wounded thing, And the incessant hail with stony clash Ploughed up the waters, and the flagging wing Of the roused cormorant in the lightning flash Looked like the wreck of some wind-wandering Fragment of inky thunder-smoke -- this haven Was as a gem to copy Heaven engraven,-- LI. On which that lady played her many pranks, Circling the image of a shooting star, Even as a tiger on Hydaspes' banks Outspeeds the antelopes which speediest are, In her light boat; and many quips and cranks She played upon the water, till the car Of the late moon, like a sick matron wan, To journey from the misty east began. LII. And then she called out of the hollow turrets Of those high clouds, white, golden and vermilion, The armies of her ministering spirits In mighty legions, million after million, They came, each troop emblazoning its merits On meteor flags; and many a proud pavilion Of the intertexture of the atmosphere They pitched upon the plain of the calm mere. LIII. They framed the imperial tent of their great Queen Of woven exhalations, underlaid With lambent lightning-fire, as may be seen A dome of thin and open ivory inlaid With crimson silk -- cressets from the serene Hung there, and on the water for her tread A tapestry of fleece-like mist was strewn, Dyed in the beams of the ascending moon. LIV. And on a throne o'erlaid with starlight, caught Upon those wandering isles of ary dew, Which highest shoals of mountain shipwreck not, She sate, and heard all that had happened new Between the earth and moon, since they had brought The last intelligence -- and now she grew Pale as that moon, lost in the watery night-- And now she wept, and now she laughed outright. LV. These were tame pleasures; she would often climb The steepest ladder of the crudded rack Up to some beakd cape of cloud sublime, And like Arion on the dolphin's back Ride singing through the shoreless air; -- oft-time Following the serpent lightning's winding track, She ran upon the platforms of the wind, And laughed to hear the fire-balls roar behind. LVI. And sometimes to those streams of upper air Which whirl the earth in its diurnal round, She would ascend, and win the spirits there To let her join their chorus. Mortals found That on those days the sky was calm and fair, And mystic snatches of harmonious sound Wandered upon the earth where'er she passed, And happy thoughts of hope, too sweet to last. LVII. But her choice sport was, in the hours of sleep, To glide adown old Nilus, where he threads Egypt and Aethiopia, from the steep Of utmost Axum, until he spreads, Like a calm flock of silver-fleecd sheep, His waters on the plain: and crested heads Of cities and proud temples gleam amid, And many a vapour-belted pyramid. LVIII. By Moeris and the Mareotid lakes, Strewn with faint blooms like bridal chamber floors, Where naked boys bridling tame water-snakes, Or charioteering ghastly alligators, Had left on the sweet waters mighty wakes Of those huge forms -- within the brazen doors Of the great Labyrinth slept both boy and beast, Tired with the pomp of their Osirian feast. LIX. And where within the surface of the river The shadows of the massy temples lie, And never are erased -- but tremble ever Like things which every cloud can doom to die, Through lotus-paven canals, and wheresoever The works of man pierced that serenest sky With tombs, and towers, and fanes, 'twas her delight To wander in the shadow of the night. LX. With motion like the spirit of that wind Whose soft step deepens slumber, her light feet Passed through the peopled haunts of humankind, Scattering sweet visions from her presence sweet, Through fane, and palace-court, and labyrinth mined With many a dark and subterranean street Under the Nile, through chambers high and deep She passed, observing mortals in their sleep. LXI. A pleasure sweet doubtless it was to see Mortals subdued in all the shapes of sleep. Here lay two sister twins in infancy; There, a lone youth who in his dreams did weep; Within, two lovers linkd innocently In their loose locks which over both did creep Like ivy from one stem;and there lay calm Old age with snow-bright hair and folded palm. LXII. But other troubled forms of sleep she saw, Not to be mirrored in a holy song-- Distortions foul of supernatural awe, And pale imaginings of visioned wrong; And all the code of Custom's lawless law Written upon the brows of old and young: 'This,' said the wizard maiden, 'is the strife Which stirs the liquid surface of man's life.' LXIII. And little did the sight disturb her soul.-- We, the weak mariners of that wide lake Where'er its shores extend or billows roll, Our course unpiloted and starless make O'er its wild surface to an unknown goal:-- But she in the calm depths her way could take, Where in bright bowers immortal forms abide Beneath the weltering of the restless tide. LXIV. And she saw princes couched under the glow Of sunlike gems; and round each temple-court In dormitories ranged, row after row, She saw the priests asleepall of one sort-- For all were educated to be so. The peasants in their huts, and in the port The sailors she saw cradled on the waves, And the dead lulled within their dreamless graves. LXV. And all the forms in which those spirits lay Were to her sight like the diaphanous Veils, in which those sweet ladies oft array Their delicate limbs, who would conceal from us Only their scorn of all concealment: they Move in the light of their own beauty thus. But these and all now lay with sleep upon them, And little thought a Witch was looking on them. LXVI. She, all those human figures breathing there, Beheld as living spirits -- to her eyes The naked beauty of the soul lay bare, And often through a rude and worn disguise She saw the inner form most bright and fair-- And then she had a charm of strange device, Which, murmured on mute lips with tender tone, Could make that spirit mingle with her own. LXVII. Alas! Aurora, what wouldst thou have given For such a charm when Tithon became gray? Or how much, Venus, of thy silver heaven Wouldst thou have yielded, ere Proserpina Had half (oh! why not all?) the debt forgiven Which dear Adonis had been doomed to pay, To any witch who would have taught you it? The Heliad doth not know its value yet. LXVIII. 'Tis said in after times her spirit free Knew what love was, and felt itself alone-- But holy Dian could not chaster be Before she stooped to kiss Endymion, Than now this lady -- like a sexless bee Tasting all blossoms, and confined to none, Among those mortal forms, the wizard-maiden Passed with an eye serene and heart unladen. LXIX. To those she saw most beautiful, she gave Strange panacea in a crystal bowl:-- They drank in their deep sleep of that sweet wave, And lived thenceforward as if some control, Mightier than life, were in them; and the grave Of such, when death oppressed the weary soul, Was as a green and overarching bower Lit by the gems of many a starry flower. LXX. For on the night when they were buried, she Restored the embalmers' ruining, and shook The light out of the funeral lamps, to be A mimic day within that deathy nook; And she unwound the woven imagery Of second childhood's swaddling bands, and took The coffin, its last cradle, from its niche, And threw it with contempt into a ditch. LXXI. And there the body lay, age after age, Mute, breathing, beating, warm, and undecaying, Like one asleep in a green hermitage, With gentle smiles about its eyelids playing, And living in its dreams beyond the rage Of death or life; while they were still arraying In liveries ever new, the rapid, blind And fleeting generations of mankind. LXXII. And she would write strange dreams upon the brain Of those who were less beautiful, and make All harsh and crooked purposes more vain Than in the desert is the serpent's wake Which the sand coversall his evil gain The miser in such dreams would rise and shake Into a beggar's lap;the lying scribe Would his own lies betray without a bribe. LXXIII. The priests would write an explanation full, Translating hieroglyphics into Greek, How the God Apis really was a bull, And nothing more; and bid the herald stick The same against the temple doors, and pull The old cant down; they licensed all to speak What'er they thought of hawks, and cats, and geese, By pastoral letters to each diocese. LXXIV. The king would dress an ape up in his crown And robes, and seat him on his glorious seat, And on the right hand of the sunlike throne Would place a gaudy mock-bird to repeat The chatterings of the monkey.Every one Of the prone courtiers crawled to kiss the feet Of their great Emperor, when the morning came, And kissed -- alas, how many kiss the same! LXXV. The soldiers dreamed that they were blacksmiths, and Walked out of quarters in somnambulism; Round the red anvils you might see them stand Like Cyclopses in Vulcan's sooty abysm, Beating their swords to ploughshares; -- in a band The gaolers sent those of the liberal schism Free through the streets of Memphis, much, I wis, To the annoyance of king Amasis. LXXVI. And timid lovers who had been so coy, They hardly knew whether they loved or not, Would rise out of their rest, and take sweet joy, To the fulfilment of their inmost thought; And when next day the maiden and the boy Met one another, both, like sinners caught, Blushed at the thing which each believed was done Only in fancy -- till the tenth moon shone; LXXVII. And then the Witch would let them take no ill: Of many thousand schemes which lovers find, The Witch found one,and so they took their fill Of happiness in marriage warm and kind. Friends who, by practice of some envious skill, Were torn apart -- a wide wound, mind from mind!-- She did unite again with visions clear Of deep affection and of truth sincere. LXXVIII. These were the pranks she played among the cities Of mortal men, and what she did to Sprites And Gods, entangling them in her sweet ditties To do her will, and show their subtle sleights, I will declare another time; for it is A tale more fit for the weird winter nights Than for these garish summer days, when we Scarcely believe much more than we can see. Composed at the Baths of San Giuliano, near Pisa, August 14-16, 1820; published in Posthumous Poems, ed. Mrs. Shelley, 1824. The dedication To Mary first appeared in the Poetical Works, 1839, 1st ed. Note by Mrs. Shelley: 'We spent the summer of 1820 at the Baths of San Giuliano, four miles from Pisa. These baths were of great use to Shelley in soothing his nervous irritability. We made several excursions in the neighbourhood. The country around is fertile, and diversified and rendered picturesque by ranges of near hills and more distant mountains. The peasantry are a handsome intelligent race; and there was a gladsome sunny heaven spread over us, that rendered home and every scene we visited cheerful and bright. During some of the hottest days of August, Shelley made a solitary journey on foot to the summit of Monte San Pellegrino -- a mountain of some height, on the top of which there is a chapel, the object, during certain days of the year, of many pilgrimages. The excursion delighted him while it lasted; though he exerted himself too much, and the effect was considerable lsasitude and weakness on his return. During the expedition he conceived the idea, and wrote, in the three days immediately succeeding to his return, the Witch of Atlas. This poem is peculiarly characteristic of his tastes -- wildly fanciful, full of brilliant imagery, and discarding human interest and passion, to revel in the fantastic ideas that his imagination suggested.' ~ Percy Bysshe Shelley, The Witch Of Atlas ,

1016:A TRAGEDY IN TWO ACTS Translated from the Original Doric 'Choose Reform or Civil War, When through thy streets, instead of hare with dogs, A Consort-Queen shall hunt a King with hogs, Riding on the IONIAN MINOTAUR.' DRAMATIS PERSONAE Tyrant Swellfoot, King of Thebes. Iona Taurina, his Queen. Mammon, Arch-Priest of Famine. Purganax Wizard, Minister of Swellfoot. Dakry Wizard, Minister of Swellfoot. Laoctonos Wizard, Minister of Swellfoot. The Gadfly. The Leech. The Rat. Moses, the Sow-gelder. Solomon, the Porkman. Zephaniah, Pig-butcher. The Minotaur. Chorus of the Swinish Multitude. Guards, Attendants, Priests, etc., etc. SCENE.--THEBES ACT I. Scene I.-- A magnificent Temple, built of thigh-bones and death's-heads, and tiled with scalps. Over the Altar the statue of Famine, veiled; a number of Boars, Sows, and Sucking-Pigs, crowned with thistle, shamrock, and oak, sitting on the steps, and clinging round the Altar of the Temple. Enter Swellfoot, in his Royal robes, without perceiving the Pigs. Swellfoot. Thou supreme Goddess! by whose power divine These graceful limbs are clothed in proud array [He contemplates himself with satisfaction. Of gold and purple, and this kingly paunch Swells like a sail before a favouring breeze, And these most sacred nether promontories Lie satisfied with layers of fat; and these Boeotian cheeks, like Egypt's pyramid, (Nor with less toil were their foundations laid)[1], Sustain the cone of my untroubled brain, That point, the emblem of a pointless nothing! Thou to whom Kings and laurelled Emperors, Radical-butchers, Paper-money-millers, Bishops and Deacons, and the entire army Of those fat martyrs to the persecution Of stifling turtle-soup, and brandy-devils, Offer their secret vows! Thou plenteous Ceres Of their Eleusis, hail! The Swine.             Eigh! eigh! eigh! eigh!             Swellfoot.                          Ha! what are ye, Who, crowned with leaves devoted to the Furies, Cling round this sacred shrine? Swine.                  Aigh! aigh! aigh!                  Swellfoot.                           What! ye that are The very beasts that, offered at her altar With blood and groans, salt-cake, and fat, and inwards, Ever propitiate her reluctant will When taxes are withheld? Swine.              Ugh! ugh! ugh!              Swellfoot.                      What! ye who grub With filthy snouts my red potatoes up In Allan's rushy bog? Who eat the oats Up, from my cavalry in the Hebrides? Who swill the hog-wash soup my cooks digest From bones, and rags, and scraps of shoe-leather, Which should be given to cleaner Pigs than you? The Swine.Semichorus I. The same, alas! the same; Though only now the name Of Pig remains to me. Semichorus II. If 'twere your kingly will Us wretched Swine to kill, What should we yield to thee? Swellfoot. Why, skin and bones, and some few hairs for mortar. Chorus of Swine. I have heard your Laureate sing, That pity was a royal thing; Under your mighty ancestors, we Pigs Were bless'd as nightingales on myrtle sprigs, Or grasshoppers that live on noonday dew, And sung, old annals tell, as sweetly too; But now our sties are fallen in, we catch The murrain and the mange, the scab and itch; Sometimes your royal dogs tear down our thatch, And then we seek the shelter of a ditch; Hog-wash or grains, or ruta-baga, none Has yet been ours since your reign begun. First Sow. My Pigs, 'tis in vain to tug. Second Sow. I could almost eat my litter. First Pig. I suck, but no milk will come from the dug. Second Pig. Our skin and our bones would be bitter. The Boars. We fight for this rag of greasy rug, Though a trough of wash would be fitter. Semichorus.   Happier Swine were they than we,   Drowned in the Gadarean sea I wish that pity would drive out the devils, Which in your royal bosom hold their revels, And sink us in the waves of thy compassion! Alas! the Pigs are an unhappy nation! Now if your Majesty would have our bristles To bind your mortar with, or fill our colons With rich blood, or make brawn out of our gristles, In policyask else your royal Solons You ought to give us hog-wash and clean straw, And sties well thatched; besides it is the law! Swellfoot. This is sedition, and rank blasphemy! Ho! there, my guards! Enter a Guard. Guard.            Your sacred Majesty.            Swellfoot. Call in the Jews, Solomon the court porkman, Moses the sow-gelder, and Zephaniah The hog-butcher. Guard.          They are in waiting, Sire.          Enter Solomon, Moses, and Zephaniah. Swellfoot. Out with your knife, old Moses, and spay those Sows [The Pigs run about in consternation. That load the earth with Pigs; cut close and deep. Moral restraint I see has no effect, Nor prostitution, nor our own example, Starvation, typhus-fever, war, nor prison This was the art which the arch-priest of Famine Hinted at in his charge to the Theban clergy Cut close and deep, good Moses. Moses.                  Let your Majesty Keep the Boars quiet, else Swellfoot.                Zephaniah, cut That fat Hog's throat, the brute seems overfed; Seditious hunks! to whine for want of grains. Zephaniah. Your sacred Majesty, he has the dropsy; We shall find pints of hydatids in's liver, He has not half an inch of wholesome fat Upon his carious ribs Swellfoot.             'Tis all the same, He'll serve instead of riot money, when Our murmuring troops bivouac in Thebes' streets; And January winds, after a day Of butchering, will make them relish carrion. Now, Solomon, I'll sell you in a lump The whole kit of them. Solomon.             Why, your Majesty, I could not give Swellfoot.           Kill them out of the way, That shall be price enough, and let me hear Their everlasting grunts and whines no more! [Exeunt, driving in the Swine. Enter Mammon, the Arch-Priest; and Purganax, Chief of the Council of Wizards. Purganax. The future looks as black as death, a cloud, Dark as the frown of Hell, hangs over it The troops grow mutinousthe revenue fails There's something rotten in usfor the level Of the State slopes, its very bases topple, The boldest turn their backs upon themselves! Mammon. Why what's the matter, my dear fellow, now? Do the troops mutiny?decimate some regiments; Does money fail?come to my mintcoin paper, Till gold be at a discount, and ashamed To show his bilious face, go purge himself, In emulation of her vestal whiteness. Purganax. Oh, would that this were all! The oracle!! Mammon. Why it was I who spoke that oracle, And whether I was dead drunk or inspired, I cannot well remember; nor, in truth, The oracle itself! Purganax.           The words went thus: 'Boeotia, choose reform or civil war! When through the streets, instead of hare with dogs, A Consort Queen shall hunt a King with Hogs, Riding on the Ionian Minotaur.' Mammon. Now if the oracle had ne'er foretold This sad alternative, it must arrive, Or not, and so it must now that it has; And whether I was urged by grace divine Or Lesbian liquor to declare these words, Which must, as all words must, be false or true, It matters not: for the same Power made all, Oracle, wine, and me and youor none 'Tis the same thing. If you knew as much Of oracles as I do Purganax.            You arch-priests Believe in nothing; if you were to dream Of a particular number in the Lottery, You would not buy the ticket? Mammon.                 Yet our tickets Are seldom blanks. But what steps have you taken? For prophecies, when once they get abroad, Like liars who tell the truth to serve their ends, Or hypocrites who, from assuming virtue, Do the same actions that the virtuous do, Contrive their own fulfilment. This Iona Wellyou know what the chaste Pasiphae did, Wife to that most religious King of Crete, And still how popular the tale is here; And these dull Swine of Thebes boast their descent From the free Minotaur. You know they still Call themselves Bulls, though thus degenerate, And everything relating to a Bull Is popular and respectable in Thebes. Their arms are seven Bulls in a field gules; They think their strength consists in eating beef, Now there were danger in the precedent If Queen Iona Purganax.         I have taken good care That shall not be. I struck the crust o' the earth With this enchanted rod, and Hell lay bare! And from a cavern full of ugly shapes I chose a Leech, a Gadfly, and a Rat. The Gadfly was the same which Juno sent To agitate Io[2], and which Ezekiel[3] mentions That the Lord whistled for out of the mountains Of utmost Aethiopia, to torment Mesopotamian Babylon. The beast Has a loud trumpet like the scarabee, His crookd tail is barbed with many stings, Each able to make a thousand wounds, and each Immedicable; from his convex eyes He sees fair things in many hideous shapes, And trumpets all his falsehood to the world. Like other beetles he is fed on dung He has eleven feet with which he crawls, Trailing a blistering slime, and this foul beast Has tracked Iona from the Theban limits, From isle to isle, from city unto city, Urging her flight from the far Chersonese To fabulous Solyma, and the Aetnean Isle, Ortygia, Melite, and Calypso's Rock, And the swart tribes of Garamant and Fez, Aeolia and Elysium, and thy shores, Parthenope, which now, alas! are free! And through the fortunate Saturnian land, Into the darkness of the West. Mammon.                 But if This Gadfly should drive Iona hither? Purganax. Gods! what an if! but there is my gray Rat: So thin with want, he can crawl in and out Of any narrow chink and filthy hole, And he shall creep into her dressing-room, And Mammon.    My dear friend, where are your wits? as if She does not always toast a piece of cheese And bait the trap? and rats, when lean enough To crawl through such chinks Purganax.                 But my Leecha leech Fit to suck blood, with lubricous round rings, Capaciously expatiative, which make His little body like a red balloon, As full of blood as that of hydrogen, Sucked from men's hearts; insatiably he sucks And clings and pullsa horse-leech, whose deep maw The plethoric King Swellfoot could not fill, And who, till full, will cling for ever. Mammon.                       This For Queen Iona would suffice, and less; But 'tis the Swinish multitude I fear, And in that fear I have Purganax.               Done what?               Mammon.                    Disinherited My eldest son Chrysaor, because he Attended public meetings, and would always Stand prating there of commerce, public faith, Economy, and unadulterate coin, And other topics, ultra-radical; And have entailed my estate, called the Fool's Paradise, And funds in fairy-money, bonds, and bills, Upon my accomplished daughter Banknotina, And married her to the gallows[4]. Purganax.                   A good match!                   Mammon. A high connexion, Purganax. The bridegroom Is of a very ancient family, Of Hounslow Heath, Tyburn, and the New Drop, And has great influence in both Houses;oh! He makes the fondest husband; nay, too fond, New-married people should not kiss in public; But the poor souls love one another so! And then my little grandchildren, the gibbets, Promising children as you ever saw, The young playing at hanging, the elder learning How to hold radicals. They are well taught too, For every gibbet says its catechism And reads a select chapter in the Bible Before it goes to play. [A most tremendous humming is heard. Purganax.             Ha! what do I hear?             Enter the Gadfly. Mammon. Your Gadfly, as it seems, is tired of gadding. Gadfly.   Hum! hum! hum! From the lakes of the Alps, and the cold gray scalps Of the mountains, I come!   Hum! hum! hum! From Morocco and Fez, and the high palaces Of golden Byzantium; From the temples divine of old Palestine, From Athens and Rome, With a ha! and a hum! I come! I come!   All inn-doors and windows   Were open to me: I saw all that sin does,   Which lamps hardly see That burn in the night by the curtained bed, The impudent lamps! for they blushed not red, Dinging and singing, From slumber I rung her, Loud as the clank of an ironmonger;    Hum! hum! hum!     Far, far, far! With the trump of my lips, and the sting at my hips, I drove herafar! Far, far, far! From city to city, abandoned of pity, A ship without needle or star; Homeless she passed, like a cloud on the blast, Seeking peace, finding war; She is here in her car, From afar, and afar;   Hum! hum!    I have stung her and wrung her,   The venom is working; And if you had hung her   With canting and quirking, She could not be deader than she will be soon; I have driven her close to you, under the moon, Night and day, hum! hum! ha! I have hummed her and drummed her From place to place, till at last I have dumbed her,    Hum! hum! hum!    Enter the Leech and the Rat. Leech. I will suck Blood or muck! The disease of the state is a plethory, Who so fit to reduce it as I? Rat. I'll slily seize and Let blood from her weasand, Creeping through crevice, and chink, and cranny, With my snaky tail, and my sides so scranny. Purganax. Aroint ye! thou unprofitable worm! [To the Leech. And thou, dull beetle, get thee back to hell! [To the Gadfly. To sting the ghosts of Babylonian kings, And the ox-headed Io Swine (within).             Ugh, ugh, ugh! Hail! Iona the divine, We will be no longer Swine, But Bulls with horns and dewlaps. Rat.                   For, You know, my lord, the Minotaur Purganax (fiercely). Be silent! get to hell! or I will call The cat out of the kitchen. Well, Lord Mammon, This is a pretty business. [Exit the Rat. Mammon.               I will go And spell some scheme to make it ugly then. [Exit. Enter Swellfoot. Swellfoot. She is returned! Taurina is in Thebes, When Swellfoot wishes that she were in hell! Oh, Hymen, clothed in yellow jealousy, And waving o'er the couch of wedded kings The torch of Discord with its fiery hair; This is thy work, thou patron saint of queens! Swellfoot is wived! though parted by the sea, The very name of wife had conjugal rights; Her cursd image ate, drank, slept with me, And in the arms of Adiposa oft Her memory has received a husband's [A loud tumult, and cries of 'Iona for ever!No Swellfoot!'!                     Hark! How the Swine cry Iona Taurina; I suffer the real presence; Purganax, Off with her head! Purganax.           But I must first impanel A jury of the Pigs. Swellfoot.           Pack them then.           Purganax. Or fattening some few in two separate sties, And giving them clean straw, tying some bits Of ribbon round their legsgiving their Sows Some tawdry lace, and bits of lustre glass, And their young Boars white and red rags, and tails Of cows, and jay feathers, and sticking cauliflowers Between the ears of the old ones; and when They are persuaded, that by the inherent virtue Of these things, they are all imperial Pigs, Good Lord! they'd rip each other's bellies up, Not to say, help us in destroying her. Swellfoot. This plan might be tried too;where's General Laoctonos? Enter Laoctonos and Dakry.      It is my royal pleasure That you, Lord General, bring the head and body, If separate it would please me better, hither Of Queen Iona. Laoctonos.        That pleasure I well knew, And made a charge with those battalions bold, Called, from their dress and grin, the royal apes, Upon the Swine, who in a hollow square Enclosed her, and received the first attack Like so many rhinoceroses, and then Retreating in good order, with bare tusks And wrinkled snouts presented to the foe, Bore her in triumph to the public sty. What is still worse, some Sows upon the ground Have given the ape-guards apples, nuts, and gin, And they all whisk their tails aloft, and cry, 'Long live Iona! down with Swellfoot!' Purganax.                      Hark!                      The Swine (without). Long live Iona! down with Swellfoot! Dakry.                     I Went to the garret of the swineherd's tower, Which overlooks the sty, and made a long Harangue (all words) to the assembled Swine, Of delicacy, mercy, judgement, law, Morals, and precedents, and purity, Adultery, destitution, and divorce, Piety, faith, and state necessity, And how I loved the Queen!and then I wept With the pathos of my own eloquence, And every tear turned to a mill-stone, which Brained many a gaping Pig, and there was made A slough of blood and brains upon the place, Greased with the pounded bacon; round and round The mill-stones rolled, ploughing the pavement up, And hurling Sucking-Pigs into the air, With dust and stones. Enter Mammon. Mammon.             I wonder that gray wizards Like you should be so beardless in their schemes; It had been but a point of policy To keep Iona and the Swine apart. Divide and rule! but ye have made a junction Between two parties who will govern you But for my art.Behold this BAG! it is The poison BAG of that Green Spider huge, On which our spies skulked in ovation through The streets of Thebes, when they were paved with dead: A bane so much the deadlier fills it now As calumny is worse than death,for here The Gadfly's venom, fifty times distilled, Is mingled with the vomit of the Leech, In due proportion, and black ratsbane, which That very Rat, who, like the Pontic tyrant, Nurtures himself on poison, dare not touch; All is sealed up with the broad seal of Fraud, Who is the Devil's Lord High Chancellor, And over it the Primate of all Hell Murmured this pious baptism:'Be thou called The GREEN BAG; and this power and grace be thine: That thy contents, on whomsoever poured, Turn innocence to guilt, and gentlest looks To savage, foul, and fierce deformity. Let all baptized by thy infernal dew Be called adulterer, drunkard, liar, wretch! No name left out which orthodoxy loves, Court Journal or legitimate Review! Be they called tyrant, beast, fool, glutton, lover Of other wives and husbands than their own The heaviest sin on this side of the Alps! Wither they to a ghastly caricature Of what was human!let not man or beast Behold their face with unaverted eyes! Or hear their names with ears that tingle not With blood of indignation, rage, and shame!' This is a perilous liquor;good my Lords. [Swellfoot approaches to touch the GREEN BAG. Beware! for God's sake, beware!if you should break The seal, and touch the fatal liquor Purganax.                      There, Give it to me. I have been used to handle All sorts of poisons. His dread Majesty Only desires to see the colour of it. Mammon. Now, with a little common sense, my Lords, Only undoing all that has been done (Yet so as it may seem we but confirm it), Our victory is assured. We must entice Her Majesty from the sty, and make the Pigs Believe that the contents of the GREEN BAG Are the true test of guilt or innocence. And that, if she be guilty, 'twill transform her To manifest deformity like guilt. If innocent, she will become transfigured Into an angel, such as they say she is; And they will see her flying through the air, So bright that she will dim the noonday sun; Showering down blessings in the shape of comfits. This, trust a priest, is just the sort of thing Swine will believe. I'll wager you will see them Climbing upon the thatch of their low sties, With pieces of smoked glass, to watch her sail Among the clouds, and some will hold the flaps Of one another's ears between their teeth, To catch the coming hail of comfits in. You, Purganax, who have the gift o' the gab, Make them a solemn speech to this effect: I go to put in readiness the feast Kept to the honour of our goddess Famine, Where, for more glory, let the ceremony Take place of the uglification of the Queen. Dakry (to Swellfoot). I, as the keeper of your sacred conscience, Humbly remind your Majesty that the care Of your high office, as Man-milliner To red Bellona, should not be deferred. Purganax. All part, in happier plight to meet again. [Exeunt. END OF THE FIRST ACT. ACT II Scene I. The Public Sty. The Boars in full Assembly. Enter Purganax. Purganax. Grant me your patience, Gentlemen and Boars, Ye, by whose patience under public burthens The glorious constitution of these sties Subsists, and shall subsist. The Lean-Pig rates Grow with the growing populace of Swine, The taxes, that true source of Piggishness (How can I find a more appropriate term To include religion, morals, peace, and plenty, And all that fit Boeotia as a nation To teach the other nations how to live?), Increase with Piggishness itself; and still Does the revenue, that great spring of all The patronage, and pensions, and by-payments, Which free-born Pigs regard with jealous eyes, Diminish, till at length, by glorious steps, All the land's produce will be merged in taxes, And the revenue will amount tonothing! The failure of a foreign market for Sausages, bristles, and blood-puddings, And such home manufactures, is but partial; And, that the population of the Pigs, Instead of hog-wash, has been fed on straw And water, is a fact which isyou know That isit is a state-necessity Temporary, of course. Those impious Pigs, Who, by frequent squeaks, have dared impugn The settled Swellfoot system, or to make Irreverent mockery of the genuflexions Inculcated by the arch-priest, have been whipped Into a loyal and an orthodox whine. Things being in this happy state, the Queen Iona [A loud cry from the Pigs.    She is innocent! most innocent!    Purganax. That is the very thing that I was saying, Gentlemen Swine; the Queen Iona being Most innocent, no doubt, returns to Thebes, And the lean Sows and Boars collect about her, Wishing to make her think that we believe (I mean those more substantial Pigs, who swill Rich hog-wash, while the others mouth damp straw) That she is guilty; thus, the Lean-Pig faction Seeks to obtain that hog-wash, which has been Your immemorial right, and which I will Maintain you in to the last drop of A Boar (interrupting him).                     What Does any one accuse her of? Purganax.                Why, no one Makes any positive accusation;but There were hints dropped, and so the privy wizards Conceived that it became them to advise His Majesty to investigate their truth; Not for his own sake; he could be content To let his wife play any pranks she pleased, If, by that sufferance, he could please the Pigs; But then he fears the morals of the Swine, The Sows especially, and what effect It might produce upon the purity and Religion of the rising generation Of Sucking-Pigs, if it could be suspected That Queen Iona [A pause. First Boar.          Well, go on; we long To hear what she can possibly have done. Purganax. Why, it is hinted, that a certain Bull Thus much is known:the milk-white Bulls that feed Beside Clitumnus and the crystal lakes Of the Cisalpine mountains, in fresh dews Of lotus-grass and blossoming asphodel Sleeking their silken hair, and with sweet breath Loading the morning winds until they faint With living fragrance, are so beautiful! Well, I say nothing;but Europa rode On such a one from Asia into Crete, And the enamoured sea grew calm beneath His gliding beauty. And Pasiphae, Iona's grandmother,but she is innocent! And that both you and I, and all assert. First Boar. Most innocent! Purganax.        Behold this BAG; a bag        Second Boar. Oh! no GREEN BAGS!! Jealousy's eyes are green, Scorpions are green, and water-snakes, and efts, And verdigris, and Purganax.            Honourable Swine, In Piggish souls can prepossessions reign? Allow me to remind you, grass is green All flesh is grass;no bacon but is flesh Ye are but bacon. This divining BAG (Which is not green, but only bacon colour) Is filled with liquor, which if sprinkled o'er A woman guilty ofwe all know what Makes her so hideous, till she finds one blind She never can commit the like again. If innocent, she will turn into an angel, And rain down blessings in the shape of comfits As she flies up to heaven. Now, my proposal Is to convert her sacred Majesty Into an angel (as I am sure we shall do), By pouring on her head this mystic water.[Showing the Bag. I know that she is innocent; I wish Only to prove her so to all the world. First Boar. Excellent, just, and noble Purganax. Second Boar. How glorious it will be to see her Majesty Flying above our heads, her petticoats Streaming likelikelike Third Boar.                Anything.                Purganax.                     Oh no! But like a standard of an admiral's ship, Or like the banner of a conquering host, Or like a cloud dyed in the dying day, Unravelled on the blast from a white mountain; Or like a meteor, or a war-steed's mane, Or waterfall from a dizzy precipice Scattered upon the wind. First Boar.              Or a cow's tail.              Second Boar. Or anything, as the learned Boar observed. Purganax. Gentlemen Boars, I move a resolution, That her most sacred Majesty should be Invited to attend the feast of Famine, And to receive upon her chaste white body Dews of Apotheosis from this BAG. [A great confusion is heard of the Pigs out of Doors, which communicates itself to those within. During the first Strophe, the doors of the Sty are staved in, and a number of exceedingly leanPigs and Sows and Boars rush in. Semichorus I. No! Yes! Semichorus II. Yes! No! Semichorus I. A law! Semichorus II. A flaw! Semichorus I. Porkers, we shall lose our wash, Or must share it with the Lean-Pigs! First Boar. Order! order! be not rash! Was there ever such a scene, Pigs! An old Sow (rushing in). I never saw so fine a dash Since I first began to wean Pigs. Second Boar (solemnly). The Queen will be an angel time enough. I vote, in form of an amendment, that Purganax rub a little of that stuff Upon his face. Purganax (his heart is seen to beat through his waistcoat).          Gods! What would ye be at?          Semichorus I. Purganax has plainly shown a Cloven foot and jackdaw feather. Semichorus II. I vote Swellfoot and Iona Try the magic test together; Whenever royal spouses bicker, Both should try the magic liquor. An old Boar (aside). A miserable state is that of Pigs, For if their drivers would tear caps and wigs, The Swine must bite each other's ear therefore. An old Sow (aside). A wretched lot Jove has assigned to Swine, Squabbling makes Pig-herds hungry, and they dine On bacon, and whip Sucking-Pigs the more. Chorus.   Hog-wash has been ta'en away:    If the Bull-Queen is divested,   We shall be in every way    Hunted, stripped, exposed, molested;   Let us do whate'er we may,    That she shall not be arrested. Queen, we entrench you with walls of brawn, And palisades of tusks, sharp as a bayonet: Place your most sacred person here. We pawn Our lives that none a finger dare to lay on it.   Those who wrong you, wrong us;   Those who hate you, hate us;   Those who sting you, sting us;   Those who bait you, bait us; The oracle is now about to be Fulfilled by circumvolving destiny; Which says: 'Thebes, choose reform or civil war, When through your streets, instead of hare with dogs, A Consort Queen shall hunt a King with Hogs, Riding upon the IONIAN MINOTAUR.' Enter Iona Taurina. Iona Taurina (coming forward). Gentlemen Swine, and gentle Lady-Pigs, The tender heart of every Boar acquits Their Queen, of any act incongruous With native Piggishness, and she, reposing With confidence upon the grunting nation, Has thrown herself, her cause, her life, her all, Her innocence, into their Hoggish arms; Nor has the expectation been deceived Of finding shelter there. Yet know, great Boars, (For such whoever lives among you finds you, And so do I), the innocent are proud! I have accepted your protection only In compliment of your kind love and care, Not for necessity. The innocent Are safest there where trials and dangers wait; Innocent Queens o'er white-hot ploughshares tread Unsinged, and ladies, Erin's laureate sings it[5], Decked with rare gems, and beauty rarer still, Walked from Killarney to the Giant's Causeway, Through rebels, smugglers, troops of yeomanry, White-boys and Orange-boys, and constables, Tithe-proctors, and excise people, uninjured! Thus I! Lord Purganax, I do commit myself Into your custody, and am prepared To stand the test, whatever it may be! Purganax. This magnanimity in your sacred Majesty Must please the Pigs. You cannot fail of being A heavenly angel. Smoke your bits of glass, Ye loyal Swine, or her transfiguration Will blind your wondering eyes. An old Boar (aside).                  Take care, my Lord, They do not smoke you first. Purganax.                At the approaching feast Of Famine, let the expiation be. Swine. Content! content! Iona Taurina (aside).          I, most content of all, Know that my foes even thus prepare their fall! [Exeunt omnes. Scene II. The interior of the Temple of Famine. The statue of the Goddess, a skeleton clothed in parti-coloured rags, seated upon a heap of skulls and loaves intermingled. A number of exceedingly fat Priests in black garments arrayed on each side, with marrow-bones and cleavers in their hands. [Solomon, the Court Porkman.] A flourish of trumpets. Enter Mammon as arch-priest, Swellfoot, Dakry, Purganax, Laoctonos, followed by Iona Taurina guarded. On the other side enter the Swine. Chorus of Priests, accompanied by the Court Porkman on marrow-bones and cleavers.   Goddess bare, and gaunt, and pale,   Empress of the world, all hail!   What though Cretans old called thee   City-crested Cybele?    We call thee Famine! Goddess of fasts and feasts, starving and cramming! Through thee, for emperors, kings, and priests and lords, Who rule by viziers, sceptres, bank-notes, words, The earth pours forth its plenteous fruits, Corn, wool, linen, flesh, and roots Those who consume these fruits through thee grow fat, Those who produce these fruits through thee grow lean, Whatever change takes place, oh, stick to that! And let things be as they have ever been;   At least while we remain thy priests,   And proclaim thy fasts and feasts. Through thee the sacred Swellfoot dynasty Is based upon a rock amid that sea Whose waves are Swineso let it ever be! [Swellfoot, etc., seat themselves at a table magnificently covered at the upper end of the Temple. Attendants pass over the stage with hog-wash in pails. A number of Pigs, exceedingly lean, follow them licking up the wash. Mammon. I fear your sacred Majesty has lost The appetite which you were used to have. Allow me now to recommend this dish A simple kickshaw by your Persian cook, Such as is served at the great King's second table. The price and pains which its ingredients cost Might have maintained some dozen families A winter or twonot moreso plain a dish Could scarcely disagree. Swellfoot.               After the trial, And these fastidious Pigs are gone, perhaps I may recover my lost appetite, I feel the gout flying about my stomach Give me a glass of Maraschino punch. Purganax (filling his glass, and standing up). The glorious Constitution of the Pigs! All. A toast! a toast! stand up, and three times three! Dakry. No heel-tapsdarken daylights! Laoctonos.                   Claret, somehow, Puts me in mind of blood, and blood of claret! Swellfoot. Laoctonos is fishing for a compliment, But 'tis his due. Yes, you have drunk more wine, And shed more blood, than any man in Thebes. [To Purganax. For God's sake stop the grunting of those Pigs! Purganax. We dare not, Sire, 'tis Famine's privilege. Chorus of Swine. Hail to thee, hail to thee, Famine! Thy throne is on blood, and thy robe is of rags; Thou devil which livest on damning; Saint of new churches, and cant, and GREEN BAGS, Till in pity and terror thou risest, Confounding the schemes of the wisest; When thou liftest thy skeleton form, When the loaves and the skulls roll about, We will greet theethe voice of a storm Would be lost in our terrible shout! Then hail to thee, hail to thee, Famine! Hail to thee, Empress of Earth! When thou risest, dividing possessions; When thou risest, uprooting oppressions, In the pride of thy ghastly mirth; Over palaces, temples, and graves, We will rush as thy minister-slaves, Trampling behind in thy train, Till all be made level again! Mammon. I hear a crackling of the giant bones Of the dread image, and in the black pits Which once were eyes, I see two livid flames. These prodigies are oracular, and show The presence of the unseen Deity. Mighty events are hastening to their doom! Swellfoot. I only hear the lean and mutinous Swine Grunting about the temple. Dakry.               In a crisis Of such exceeding delicacy, I think We ought to put her Majesty, the Queen, Upon her trial without delay. Mammon.                 THE BAG Is here. Purganax.     I have rehearsed the entire scene With an ox-bladder and some ditchwater, On Lady P-; it cannot fail. (Taking up the Bag.) Your Majesty [To Swellfoot. In such a filthy business had better Stand on one side, lest it should sprinkle you. A spot or two on me would do no harm, Nay, it might hide the blood, which the sad Genius Of the Green Isle has fixed, as by a spell, Upon my browwhich would stain all its seas, But which those seas could never wash away! Iona Taurina. My Lord, I am readynay, I am impatient To undergo the test. [A graceful figure in a semi-transparent veil passes unnoticed through the Temple; the word LIBERTY is seen through the veil, as if it were written in fire upon its forehead. Its words are almost drowned in the furious grunting of the Pigs, and the business of the trial. She kneels on the steps of the Altar, and speaks in tones at first faint and low, but which ever become louder and louder.   Mighty Empress! Death's white wife!   Ghastly mother-in-law of Life!   By the God who made thee such,   By the magic of thy touch,   By the starving and the cramming Of fasts and feasts! by thy dread self, O Famine! I charge thee! when thou wake the multitude, Thou lead them not upon the paths of blood. The earth did never mean her foison For those who crown life's cup with poison Of fanatic rage and meaningless revenge But for those radiant spirits, who are still The standard-bearers in the van of Change. Be they th'appointed stewards, to fill The lap of Pain, and Toil, and Age! Remit, O Queen! thy accustomed rage! Be what thou art not! In voice faint and low Freedom calls Famine,her eternal foe, To brief alliance, hollow truce.Rise now! [Whilst the Veiled Figure has been chanting this strophe, Mammon, Dakry, Laoctonos, and Swellfoot, have surrounded Iona Taurina, who, with her hands folded on her breast, and her eyes lifted to Heaven, stands, as with saint-like resignation, to wait the issue of the business, in perfect confidence of her innocence. [Purganax, after unsealing the Green Bag, is gravely about to pour the liquor upon her head, when suddenly the whole expression of her figure and countenance changes; she snatches it from his hand with a loud laugh of triumph, and empties it over Swellfoot and his whole Court, who are instantly changed into a number of filthy and ugly animals, and rush out of the Temple. The image of Famine then arises with a tremendous sound, the Pigs begin scrambling for the loaves, and are tripped up by the skulls; all those who eat the loaves are turned into Bulls, and arrange themselves quietly behind the altar. The image of Famine sinks through a chasm in the earth, and a Minotaur rises. Minotaur. I am the Ionian Minotaur, the mightiest Of all Europa's taurine progeny I am the old traditional Man-Bull; And from my ancestors having been Ionian, I am called Ion, which, by interpretation, Is John; in plain Theban, that is to say, My name's John Bull; I am a famous hunter, And can leap any gate in all Boeotia, Even the palings of the royal park, Or double ditch about the new enclosures; And if your Majesty will deign to mount me, At least till you have hunted down your game, I will not throw you. Iona Taurina. (During this speech she has been putting on boots and spurs, and a hunting-cap, buckishly cocked on one side, and tucking up her hair, she leaps nimbly on his back.)            Hoa! hoa! tallyho! tallyho! ho! ho! Come, let us hunt these ugly badgers down, These stinking foxes, these devouring otters, These hares, these wolves, these anything but men. Hey, for a whipper-in! my loyal Pigs, Now let your noses be as keen as beagles', Your steps as swift as greyhounds', and your cries More dulcet and symphonious than the bells Of village-towers, on sunshine holiday; Wake all the dewy woods with jangling music. Give them no law (are they not beasts of blood?) But such as they gave you. Tallyho! ho! Through forest, furze, and bog, and den, and desert, Pursue the ugly beasts! tallyho! ho! Full Chorus of Iona and the Swine. Tallyho! tallyho! Through rain, hail, and snow, Through brake, gorse, and briar, Through fen, flood, and mire, We go! we go!   Tallyho! tallyho! Through pond, ditch, and slough, Wind them, and find them, Like the Devil behind them, Tallyho! tallyho! [Exeunt, in full cry; Iona driving on the Swine, with the empty Green Bag. THE END 'Begun at the Baths of San Giuliano, near Pisa, August 24, 1819; published anonymously by J. Johnston, Cheapside (imprint C. F. Seyfang,) 1820. On a threat of prosecution the publisher surrendered the whole impression, seven copies -- the total number sold -- excepted. Oedipus does not appear in the first edition of the Poetical Works, 1839, but it was included by Mrs. Shelley in the second edition of that year.' ~ Percy Bysshe Shelley, Oedipus Tyrannus or Swellfoot The Tyrant ,

1017:Merlin And Vivien A storm was coming, but the winds were still, And in the wild woods of Broceliande, Before an oak, so hollow, huge and old It looked a tower of ivied masonwork, At Merlin's feet the wily Vivien lay. For he that always bare in bitter grudge The slights of Arthur and his Table, Mark The Cornish King, had heard a wandering voice, A minstrel of Caerlon by strong storm Blown into shelter at Tintagil, say That out of naked knightlike purity Sir Lancelot worshipt no unmarried girl But the great Queen herself, fought in her name, Sware by her--vows like theirs, that high in heaven Love most, but neither marry, nor are given In marriage, angels of our Lord's report. He ceased, and then--for Vivien sweetly said (She sat beside the banquet nearest Mark), 'And is the fair example followed, Sir, In Arthur's household?'--answered innocently: 'Ay, by some few--ay, truly--youths that hold It more beseems the perfect virgin knight To worship woman as true wife beyond All hopes of gaining, than as maiden girl. They place their pride in Lancelot and the Queen. So passionate for an utter purity Beyond the limit of their bond, are these, For Arthur bound them not to singleness. Brave hearts and clean! and yet--God guide them--young.' Then Mark was half in heart to hurl his cup Straight at the speaker, but forbore: he rose To leave the hall, and, Vivien following him, Turned to her: 'Here are snakes within the grass; And you methinks, O Vivien, save ye fear The monkish manhood, and the mask of pure 365 Worn by this court, can stir them till they sting.' And Vivien answered, smiling scornfully, 'Why fear? because that fostered at THY court I savour of thy--virtues? fear them? no. As Love, if Love is perfect, casts out fear, So Hate, if Hate is perfect, casts out fear. My father died in battle against the King, My mother on his corpse in open field; She bore me there, for born from death was I Among the dead and sown upon the wind-And then on thee! and shown the truth betimes, That old true filth, and bottom of the well Where Truth is hidden. Gracious lessons thine And maxims of the mud! "This Arthur pure! Great Nature through the flesh herself hath made Gives him the lie! There is no being pure, My cherub; saith not Holy Writ the same?"-If I were Arthur, I would have thy blood. Thy blessing, stainless King! I bring thee back, When I have ferreted out their burrowings, The hearts of all this Order in mine hand-Ay--so that fate and craft and folly close, Perchance, one curl of Arthur's golden beard. To me this narrow grizzled fork of thine Is cleaner-fashioned--Well, I loved thee first, That warps the wit.' Loud laughed the graceless Mark, But Vivien, into Camelot stealing, lodged Low in the city, and on a festal day When Guinevere was crossing the great hall Cast herself down, knelt to the Queen, and wailed. 'Why kneel ye there? What evil hath ye wrought? Rise!' and the damsel bidden rise arose And stood with folded hands and downward eyes Of glancing corner, and all meekly said, 'None wrought, but suffered much, an orphan maid! My father died in battle for thy King, My mother on his corpse--in open field, The sad sea-sounding wastes of Lyonnesse-- 366 Poor wretch--no friend!--and now by Mark the King For that small charm of feature mine, pursued-If any such be mine--I fly to thee. Save, save me thou--Woman of women--thine The wreath of beauty, thine the crown of power, Be thine the balm of pity, O Heaven's own white Earth-angel, stainless bride of stainless King-Help, for he follows! take me to thyself! O yield me shelter for mine innocency Among thy maidens! Here her slow sweet eyes Fear-tremulous, but humbly hopeful, rose Fixt on her hearer's, while the Queen who stood All glittering like May sunshine on May leaves In green and gold, and plumed with green replied, 'Peace, child! of overpraise and overblame We choose the last. Our noble Arthur, him Ye scarce can overpraise, will hear and know. Nay--we believe all evil of thy Mark-Well, we shall test thee farther; but this hour We ride a-hawking with Sir Lancelot. He hath given us a fair falcon which he trained; We go to prove it. Bide ye here the while.' She past; and Vivien murmured after 'Go! I bide the while.' Then through the portal-arch Peering askance, and muttering broken-wise, As one that labours with an evil dream, Beheld the Queen and Lancelot get to horse. 'Is that the Lancelot? goodly--ay, but gaunt: Courteous--amends for gauntness--takes her hand-That glance of theirs, but for the street, had been A clinging kiss--how hand lingers in hand! Let go at last!--they ride away--to hawk For waterfowl. Royaller game is mine. For such a supersensual sensual bond As that gray cricket chirpt of at our hearth-Touch flax with flame--a glance will serve--the liars! Ah little rat that borest in the dyke Thy hole by night to let the boundless deep 367 Down upon far-off cities while they dance-Or dream--of thee they dreamed not--nor of me These--ay, but each of either: ride, and dream The mortal dream that never yet was mine-Ride, ride and dream until ye wake--to me! Then, narrow court and lubber King, farewell! For Lancelot will be gracious to the rat, And our wise Queen, if knowing that I know, Will hate, loathe, fear--but honour me the more.' Yet while they rode together down the plain, Their talk was all of training, terms of art, Diet and seeling, jesses, leash and lure. 'She is too noble' he said 'to check at pies, Nor will she rake: there is no baseness in her.' Here when the Queen demanded as by chance 'Know ye the stranger woman?' 'Let her be,' Said Lancelot and unhooded casting off The goodly falcon free; she towered; her bells, Tone under tone, shrilled; and they lifted up Their eager faces, wondering at the strength, Boldness and royal knighthood of the bird Who pounced her quarry and slew it. Many a time As once--of old--among the flowers--they rode. But Vivien half-forgotten of the Queen Among her damsels broidering sat, heard, watched And whispered: through the peaceful court she crept And whispered: then as Arthur in the highest Leavened the world, so Vivien in the lowest, Arriving at a time of golden rest, And sowing one ill hint from ear to ear, While all the heathen lay at Arthur's feet, And no quest came, but all was joust and play, Leavened his hall. They heard and let her be. Thereafter as an enemy that has left Death in the living waters, and withdrawn, The wily Vivien stole from Arthur's court. She hated all the knights, and heard in thought Their lavish comment when her name was named. 368 For once, when Arthur walking all alone, Vext at a rumour issued from herself Of some corruption crept among his knights, Had met her, Vivien, being greeted fair, Would fain have wrought upon his cloudy mood With reverent eyes mock-loyal, shaken voice, And fluttered adoration, and at last With dark sweet hints of some who prized him more Than who should prize him most; at which the King Had gazed upon her blankly and gone by: But one had watched, and had not held his peace: It made the laughter of an afternoon That Vivien should attempt the blameless King. And after that, she set herself to gain Him, the most famous man of all those times, Merlin, who knew the range of all their arts, Had built the King his havens, ships, and halls, Was also Bard, and knew the starry heavens; The people called him Wizard; whom at first She played about with slight and sprightly talk, And vivid smiles, and faintly-venomed points Of slander, glancing here and grazing there; And yielding to his kindlier moods, the Seer Would watch her at her petulance, and play, Even when they seemed unloveable, and laugh As those that watch a kitten; thus he grew Tolerant of what he half disdained, and she, Perceiving that she was but half disdained, Began to break her sports with graver fits, Turn red or pale, would often when they met Sigh fully, or all-silent gaze upon him With such a fixt devotion, that the old man, Though doubtful, felt the flattery, and at times Would flatter his own wish in age for love, And half believe her true: for thus at times He wavered; but that other clung to him, Fixt in her will, and so the seasons went. Then fell on Merlin a great melancholy; He walked with dreams and darkness, and he found A doom that ever poised itself to fall, An ever-moaning battle in the mist, 369 World-war of dying flesh against the life, Death in all life and lying in all love, The meanest having power upon the highest, And the high purpose broken by the worm. So leaving Arthur's court he gained the beach; There found a little boat, and stept into it; And Vivien followed, but he marked her not. She took the helm and he the sail; the boat Drave with a sudden wind across the deeps, And touching Breton sands, they disembarked. And then she followed Merlin all the way, Even to the wild woods of Broceliande. For Merlin once had told her of a charm, The which if any wrought on anyone With woven paces and with waving arms, The man so wrought on ever seemed to lie Closed in the four walls of a hollow tower, From which was no escape for evermore; And none could find that man for evermore, Nor could he see but him who wrought the charm Coming and going, and he lay as dead And lost to life and use and name and fame. And Vivien ever sought to work the charm Upon the great Enchanter of the Time, As fancying that her glory would be great According to his greatness whom she quenched. There lay she all her length and kissed his feet, As if in deepest reverence and in love. A twist of gold was round her hair; a robe Of samite without price, that more exprest Than hid her, clung about her lissome limbs, In colour like the satin-shining palm On sallows in the windy gleams of March: And while she kissed them, crying, 'Trample me, Dear feet, that I have followed through the world, And I will pay you worship; tread me down And I will kiss you for it;' he was mute: So dark a forethought rolled about his brain, As on a dull day in an Ocean cave The blind wave feeling round his long sea-hall 370 In silence: wherefore, when she lifted up A face of sad appeal, and spake and said, 'O Merlin, do ye love me?' and again, 'O Merlin, do ye love me?' and once more, 'Great Master, do ye love me?' he was mute. And lissome Vivien, holding by his heel, Writhed toward him, slided up his knee and sat, Behind his ankle twined her hollow feet Together, curved an arm about his neck, Clung like a snake; and letting her left hand Droop from his mighty shoulder, as a leaf, Made with her right a comb of pearl to part The lists of such a board as youth gone out Had left in ashes: then he spoke and said, Not looking at her, 'Who are wise in love Love most, say least,' and Vivien answered quick, 'I saw the little elf-god eyeless once In Arthur's arras hall at Camelot: But neither eyes nor tongue--O stupid child! Yet you are wise who say it; let me think Silence is wisdom: I am silent then, And ask no kiss;' then adding all at once, 'And lo, I clothe myself with wisdom,' drew The vast and shaggy mantle of his beard Across her neck and bosom to her knee, And called herself a gilded summer fly Caught in a great old tyrant spider's web, Who meant to eat her up in that wild wood Without one word. So Vivien called herself, But rather seemed a lovely baleful star Veiled in gray vapour; till he sadly smiled: 'To what request for what strange boon,' he said, 'Are these your pretty tricks and fooleries, O Vivien, the preamble? yet my thanks, For these have broken up my melancholy.' And Vivien answered smiling saucily, 'What, O my Master, have ye found your voice? I bid the stranger welcome. Thanks at last! But yesterday you never opened lip, Except indeed to drink: no cup had we: In mine own lady palms I culled the spring 371 That gathered trickling dropwise from the cleft, And made a pretty cup of both my hands And offered you it kneeling: then you drank And knew no more, nor gave me one poor word; O no more thanks than might a goat have given With no more sign of reverence than a beard. And when we halted at that other well, And I was faint to swooning, and you lay Foot-gilt with all the blossom-dust of those Deep meadows we had traversed, did you know That Vivien bathed your feet before her own? And yet no thanks: and all through this wild wood And all this morning when I fondled you: Boon, ay, there was a boon, one not so strange-How had I wronged you? surely ye are wise, But such a silence is more wise than kind.' And Merlin locked his hand in hers and said: 'O did ye never lie upon the shore, And watch the curled white of the coming wave Glassed in the slippery sand before it breaks? Even such a wave, but not so pleasurable, Dark in the glass of some presageful mood, Had I for three days seen, ready to fall. And then I rose and fled from Arthur's court To break the mood. You followed me unasked; And when I looked, and saw you following me still, My mind involved yourself the nearest thing In that mind-mist: for shall I tell you truth? You seemed that wave about to break upon me And sweep me from my hold upon the world, My use and name and fame. Your pardon, child. Your pretty sports have brightened all again. And ask your boon, for boon I owe you thrice, Once for wrong done you by confusion, next For thanks it seems till now neglected, last For these your dainty gambols: wherefore ask; And take this boon so strange and not so strange.' And Vivien answered smiling mournfully: 'O not so strange as my long asking it, Not yet so strange as you yourself are strange, 372 Nor half so strange as that dark mood of yours. I ever feared ye were not wholly mine; And see, yourself have owned ye did me wrong. The people call you prophet: let it be: But not of those that can expound themselves. Take Vivien for expounder; she will call That three-days-long presageful gloom of yours No presage, but the same mistrustful mood That makes you seem less noble than yourself, Whenever I have asked this very boon, Now asked again: for see you not, dear love, That such a mood as that, which lately gloomed Your fancy when ye saw me following you, Must make me fear still more you are not mine, Must make me yearn still more to prove you mine, And make me wish still more to learn this charm Of woven paces and of waving hands, As proof of trust. O Merlin, teach it me. The charm so taught will charm us both to rest. For, grant me some slight power upon your fate, I, feeling that you felt me worthy trust, Should rest and let you rest, knowing you mine. And therefore be as great as ye are named, Not muffled round with selfish reticence. How hard you look and how denyingly! O, if you think this wickedness in me, That I should prove it on you unawares, That makes me passing wrathful; then our bond Had best be loosed for ever: but think or not, By Heaven that hears I tell you the clean truth, As clean as blood of babes, as white as milk: O Merlin, may this earth, if ever I, If these unwitty wandering wits of mine, Even in the jumbled rubbish of a dream, Have tript on such conjectural treachery-May this hard earth cleave to the Nadir hell Down, down, and close again, and nip me flat, If I be such a traitress. Yield my boon, Till which I scarce can yield you all I am; And grant my re-reiterated wish, The great proof of your love: because I think, However wise, ye hardly know me yet.' 373 And Merlin loosed his hand from hers and said, 'I never was less wise, however wise, Too curious Vivien, though you talk of trust, Than when I told you first of such a charm. Yea, if ye talk of trust I tell you this, Too much I trusted when I told you that, And stirred this vice in you which ruined man Through woman the first hour; for howsoe'er In children a great curiousness be well, Who have to learn themselves and all the world, In you, that are no child, for still I find Your face is practised when I spell the lines, I call it,--well, I will not call it vice: But since you name yourself the summer fly, I well could wish a cobweb for the gnat, That settles, beaten back, and beaten back Settles, till one could yield for weariness: But since I will not yield to give you power Upon my life and use and name and fame, Why will ye never ask some other boon? Yea, by God's rood, I trusted you too much.' And Vivien, like the tenderest-hearted maid That ever bided tryst at village stile, Made answer, either eyelid wet with tears: 'Nay, Master, be not wrathful with your maid; Caress her: let her feel herself forgiven Who feels no heart to ask another boon. I think ye hardly know the tender rhyme Of "trust me not at all or all in all." I heard the great Sir Lancelot sing it once, And it shall answer for me. Listen to it. "In Love, if Love be Love, if Love be ours, Faith and unfaith can ne'er be equal powers: Unfaith in aught is want of faith in all. "It is the little rift within the lute, That by and by will make the music mute, And ever widening slowly silence all. 374 "The little rift within the lover's lute Or little pitted speck in garnered fruit, That rotting inward slowly moulders all. "It is not worth the keeping: let it go: But shall it? answer, darling, answer, no. And trust me not at all or all in all." O Master, do ye love my tender rhyme?' And Merlin looked and half believed her true, So tender was her voice, so fair her face, So sweetly gleamed her eyes behind her tears Like sunlight on the plain behind a shower: And yet he answered half indignantly: 'Far other was the song that once I heard By this huge oak, sung nearly where we sit: For here we met, some ten or twelve of us, To chase a creature that was current then In these wild woods, the hart with golden horns. It was the time when first the question rose About the founding of a Table Round, That was to be, for love of God and men And noble deeds, the flower of all the world. And each incited each to noble deeds. And while we waited, one, the youngest of us, We could not keep him silent, out he flashed, And into such a song, such fire for fame, Such trumpet-glowings in it, coming down To such a stern and iron-clashing close, That when he stopt we longed to hurl together, And should have done it; but the beauteous beast Scared by the noise upstarted at our feet, And like a silver shadow slipt away Through the dim land; and all day long we rode Through the dim land against a rushing wind, That glorious roundel echoing in our ears, And chased the flashes of his golden horns Till they vanished by the fairy well That laughs at iron--as our warriors did-Where children cast their pins and nails, and cry, 375 "Laugh, little well!" but touch it with a sword, It buzzes fiercely round the point; and there We lost him: such a noble song was that. But, Vivien, when you sang me that sweet rhyme, I felt as though you knew this cursd charm, Were proving it on me, and that I lay And felt them slowly ebbing, name and fame.' And Vivien answered smiling mournfully: 'O mine have ebbed away for evermore, And all through following you to this wild wood, Because I saw you sad, to comfort you. Lo now, what hearts have men! they never mount As high as woman in her selfless mood. And touching fame, howe'er ye scorn my song, Take one verse more--the lady speaks it--this: '"My name, once mine, now thine, is closelier mine, For fame, could fame be mine, that fame were thine, And shame, could shame be thine, that shame were mine. So trust me not at all or all in all." 'Says she not well? and there is more--this rhyme Is like the fair pearl-necklace of the Queen, That burst in dancing, and the pearls were spilt; Some lost, some stolen, some as relics kept. But nevermore the same two sister pearls Ran down the silken thread to kiss each other On her white neck--so is it with this rhyme: It lives dispersedly in many hands, And every minstrel sings it differently; Yet is there one true line, the pearl of pearls: "Man dreams of Fame while woman wakes to love." Yea! Love, though Love were of the grossest, carves A portion from the solid present, eats And uses, careless of the rest; but Fame, The Fame that follows death is nothing to us; And what is Fame in life but half-disfame, And counterchanged with darkness? ye yourself Know well that Envy calls you Devil's son, And since ye seem the Master of all Art, They fain would make you Master of all vice.' 376 And Merlin locked his hand in hers and said, 'I once was looking for a magic weed, And found a fair young squire who sat alone, Had carved himself a knightly shield of wood, And then was painting on it fancied arms, Azure, an Eagle rising or, the Sun In dexter chief; the scroll "I follow fame." And speaking not, but leaning over him I took his brush and blotted out the bird, And made a Gardener putting in a graff, With this for motto, "Rather use than fame." You should have seen him blush; but afterwards He made a stalwart knight. O Vivien, For you, methinks you think you love me well; For me, I love you somewhat; rest: and Love Should have some rest and pleasure in himself, Not ever be too curious for a boon, Too prurient for a proof against the grain Of him ye say ye love: but Fame with men, Being but ampler means to serve mankind, Should have small rest or pleasure in herself, But work as vassal to the larger love, That dwarfs the petty love of one to one. Use gave me Fame at first, and Fame again Increasing gave me use. Lo, there my boon! What other? for men sought to prove me vile, Because I fain had given them greater wits: And then did Envy call me Devil's son: The sick weak beast seeking to help herself By striking at her better, missed, and brought Her own claw back, and wounded her own heart. Sweet were the days when I was all unknown, But when my name was lifted up, the storm Brake on the mountain and I cared not for it. Right well know I that Fame is half-disfame, Yet needs must work my work. That other fame, To one at least, who hath not children, vague, The cackle of the unborn about the grave, I cared not for it: a single misty star, Which is the second in a line of stars That seem a sword beneath a belt of three, 377 I never gazed upon it but I dreamt Of some vast charm concluded in that star To make fame nothing. Wherefore, if I fear, Giving you power upon me through this charm, That you might play me falsely, having power, However well ye think ye love me now (As sons of kings loving in pupilage Have turned to tyrants when they came to power) I rather dread the loss of use than fame; If you--and not so much from wickedness, As some wild turn of anger, or a mood Of overstrained affection, it may be, To keep me all to your own self,--or else A sudden spurt of woman's jealousy,-Should try this charm on whom ye say ye love.' And Vivien answered smiling as in wrath: 'Have I not sworn? I am not trusted. Good! Well, hide it, hide it; I shall find it out; And being found take heed of Vivien. A woman and not trusted, doubtless I Might feel some sudden turn of anger born Of your misfaith; and your fine epithet Is accurate too, for this full love of mine Without the full heart back may merit well Your term of overstrained. So used as I, My daily wonder is, I love at all. And as to woman's jealousy, O why not? O to what end, except a jealous one, And one to make me jealous if I love, Was this fair charm invented by yourself? I well believe that all about this world Ye cage a buxom captive here and there, Closed in the four walls of a hollow tower From which is no escape for evermore.' Then the great Master merrily answered her: 'Full many a love in loving youth was mine; I needed then no charm to keep them mine But youth and love; and that full heart of yours Whereof ye prattle, may now assure you mine; So live uncharmed. For those who wrought it first, 378 The wrist is parted from the hand that waved, The feet unmortised from their ankle-bones Who paced it, ages back: but will ye hear The legend as in guerdon for your rhyme? 'There lived a king in the most Eastern East, Less old than I, yet older, for my blood Hath earnest in it of far springs to be. A tawny pirate anchored in his port, Whose bark had plundered twenty nameless isles; And passing one, at the high peep of dawn, He saw two cities in a thousand boats All fighting for a woman on the sea. And pushing his black craft among them all, He lightly scattered theirs and brought her off, With loss of half his people arrow-slain; A maid so smooth, so white, so wonderful, They said a light came from her when she moved: And since the pirate would not yield her up, The King impaled him for his piracy; Then made her Queen: but those isle-nurtured eyes Waged such unwilling though successful war On all the youth, they sickened; councils thinned, And armies waned, for magnet-like she drew The rustiest iron of old fighters' hearts; And beasts themselves would worship; camels knelt Unbidden, and the brutes of mountain back That carry kings in castles, bowed black knees Of homage, ringing with their serpent hands, To make her smile, her golden ankle-bells. What wonder, being jealous, that he sent His horns of proclamation out through all The hundred under-kingdoms that he swayed To find a wizard who might teach the King Some charm, which being wrought upon the Queen Might keep her all his own: to such a one He promised more than ever king has given, A league of mountain full of golden mines, A province with a hundred miles of coast, A palace and a princess, all for him: But on all those who tried and failed, the King Pronounced a dismal sentence, meaning by it 379 To keep the list low and pretenders back, Or like a king, not to be trifled with-Their heads should moulder on the city gates. And many tried and failed, because the charm Of nature in her overbore their own: And many a wizard brow bleached on the walls: And many weeks a troop of carrion crows Hung like a cloud above the gateway towers.' And Vivien breaking in upon him, said: 'I sit and gather honey; yet, methinks, Thy tongue has tript a little: ask thyself. The lady never made UNWILLING war With those fine eyes: she had her pleasure in it, And made her good man jealous with good cause. And lived there neither dame nor damsel then Wroth at a lover's loss? were all as tame, I mean, as noble, as the Queen was fair? Not one to flirt a venom at her eyes, Or pinch a murderous dust into her drink, Or make her paler with a poisoned rose? Well, those were not our days: but did they find A wizard? Tell me, was he like to thee? She ceased, and made her lithe arm round his neck Tighten, and then drew back, and let her eyes Speak for her, glowing on him, like a bride's On her new lord, her own, the first of men. He answered laughing, 'Nay, not like to me. At last they found--his foragers for charms-A little glassy-headed hairless man, Who lived alone in a great wild on grass; Read but one book, and ever reading grew So grated down and filed away with thought, So lean his eyes were monstrous; while the skin Clung but to crate and basket, ribs and spine. And since he kept his mind on one sole aim, Nor ever touched fierce wine, nor tasted flesh, Nor owned a sensual wish, to him the wall That sunders ghosts and shadow-casting men Became a crystal, and he saw them through it, 380 And heard their voices talk behind the wall, And learnt their elemental secrets, powers And forces; often o'er the sun's bright eye Drew the vast eyelid of an inky cloud, And lashed it at the base with slanting storm; Or in the noon of mist and driving rain, When the lake whitened and the pinewood roared, And the cairned mountain was a shadow, sunned The world to peace again: here was the man. And so by force they dragged him to the King. And then he taught the King to charm the Queen In such-wise, that no man could see her more, Nor saw she save the King, who wrought the charm, Coming and going, and she lay as dead, And lost all use of life: but when the King Made proffer of the league of golden mines, The province with a hundred miles of coast, The palace and the princess, that old man Went back to his old wild, and lived on grass, And vanished, and his book came down to me.' And Vivien answered smiling saucily: 'Ye have the book: the charm is written in it: Good: take my counsel: let me know it at once: For keep it like a puzzle chest in chest, With each chest locked and padlocked thirty-fold, And whelm all this beneath as vast a mound As after furious battle turfs the slain On some wild down above the windy deep, I yet should strike upon a sudden means To dig, pick, open, find and read the charm: Then, if I tried it, who should blame me then?' And smiling as a master smiles at one That is not of his school, nor any school But that where blind and naked Ignorance Delivers brawling judgments, unashamed, On all things all day long, he answered her: 'Thou read the book, my pretty Vivien! O ay, it is but twenty pages long, But every page having an ample marge, 381 And every marge enclosing in the midst A square of text that looks a little blot, The text no larger than the limbs of fleas; And every square of text an awful charm, Writ in a language that has long gone by. So long, that mountains have arisen since With cities on their flanks--thou read the book! And ever margin scribbled, crost, and crammed With comment, densest condensation, hard To mind and eye; but the long sleepless nights Of my long life have made it easy to me. And none can read the text, not even I; And none can read the comment but myself; And in the comment did I find the charm. O, the results are simple; a mere child Might use it to the harm of anyone, And never could undo it: ask no more: For though you should not prove it upon me, But keep that oath ye sware, ye might, perchance, Assay it on some one of the Table Round, And all because ye dream they babble of you.' And Vivien, frowning in true anger, said: 'What dare the full-fed liars say of me? THEY ride abroad redressing human wrongs! They sit with knife in meat and wine in horn! THEY bound to holy vows of chastity! Were I not woman, I could tell a tale. But you are man, you well can understand The shame that cannot be explained for shame. Not one of all the drove should touch me: swine!' Then answered Merlin careless of her words: 'You breathe but accusation vast and vague, Spleen-born, I think, and proofless. If ye know, Set up the charge ye know, to stand or fall!' And Vivien answered frowning wrathfully: 'O ay, what say ye to Sir Valence, him Whose kinsman left him watcher o'er his wife And two fair babes, and went to distant lands; Was one year gone, and on returning found 382 Not two but three? there lay the reckling, one But one hour old! What said the happy sire?' A seven-months' babe had been a truer gift. Those twelve sweet moons confused his fatherhood.' Then answered Merlin, 'Nay, I know the tale. Sir Valence wedded with an outland dame: Some cause had kept him sundered from his wife: One child they had: it lived with her: she died: His kinsman travelling on his own affair Was charged by Valence to bring home the child. He brought, not found it therefore: take the truth.' 'O ay,' said Vivien, 'overtrue a tale. What say ye then to sweet Sir Sagramore, That ardent man? "to pluck the flower in season," So says the song, "I trow it is no treason." O Master, shall we call him overquick To crop his own sweet rose before the hour?' And Merlin answered, 'Overquick art thou To catch a loathly plume fallen from the wing Of that foul bird of rapine whose whole prey Is man's good name: he never wronged his bride. I know the tale. An angry gust of wind Puffed out his torch among the myriad-roomed And many-corridored complexities Of Arthur's palace: then he found a door, And darkling felt the sculptured ornament That wreathen round it made it seem his own; And wearied out made for the couch and slept, A stainless man beside a stainless maid; And either slept, nor knew of other there; Till the high dawn piercing the royal rose In Arthur's casement glimmered chastely down, Blushing upon them blushing, and at once He rose without a word and parted from her: But when the thing was blazed about the court, The brute world howling forced them into bonds, And as it chanced they are happy, being pure.' 'O ay,' said Vivien, 'that were likely too. 383 What say ye then to fair Sir Percivale And of the horrid foulness that he wrought, The saintly youth, the spotless lamb of Christ, Or some black wether of St Satan's fold. What, in the precincts of the chapel-yard, Among the knightly brasses of the graves, And by the cold Hic Jacets of the dead!' And Merlin answered careless of her charge, 'A sober man is Percivale and pure; But once in life was flustered with new wine, Then paced for coolness in the chapel-yard; Where one of Satan's shepherdesses caught And meant to stamp him with her master's mark; And that he sinned is not believable; For, look upon his face!--but if he sinned, The sin that practice burns into the blood, And not the one dark hour which brings remorse, Will brand us, after, of whose fold we be: Or else were he, the holy king, whose hymns Are chanted in the minster, worse than all. But is your spleen frothed out, or have ye more?' And Vivien answered frowning yet in wrath: 'O ay; what say ye to Sir Lancelot, friend Traitor or true? that commerce with the Queen, I ask you, is it clamoured by the child, Or whispered in the corner? do ye know it?' To which he answered sadly, 'Yea, I know it. Sir Lancelot went ambassador, at first, To fetch her, and she watched him from her walls. A rumour runs, she took him for the King, So fixt her fancy on him: let them be. But have ye no one word of loyal praise For Arthur, blameless King and stainless man?' She answered with a low and chuckling laugh: 'Man! is he man at all, who knows and winks? Sees what his fair bride is and does, and winks? By which the good King means to blind himself, And blinds himself and all the Table Round 384 To all the foulness that they work. Myself Could call him (were it not for womanhood) The pretty, popular cause such manhood earns, Could call him the main cause of all their crime; Yea, were he not crowned King, coward, and fool.' Then Merlin to his own heart, loathing, said: 'O true and tender! O my liege and King! O selfless man and stainless gentleman, Who wouldst against thine own eye-witness fain Have all men true and leal, all women pure; How, in the mouths of base interpreters, From over-fineness not intelligible To things with every sense as false and foul As the poached filth that floods the middle street, Is thy white blamelessness accounted blame!' But Vivien, deeming Merlin overborne By instance, recommenced, and let her tongue Rage like a fire among the noblest names, Polluting, and imputing her whole self, Defaming and defacing, till she left Not even Lancelot brave, nor Galahad clean. Her words had issue other than she willed. He dragged his eyebrow bushes down, and made A snowy penthouse for his hollow eyes, And muttered in himself, 'Tell HER the charm! So, if she had it, would she rail on me To snare the next, and if she have it not So will she rail. What did the wanton say? "Not mount as high;" we scarce can sink as low: For men at most differ as Heaven and earth, But women, worst and best, as Heaven and Hell. I know the Table Round, my friends of old; All brave, and many generous, and some chaste. She cloaks the scar of some repulse with lies; I well believe she tempted them and failed, Being so bitter: for fine plots may fail, Though harlots paint their talk as well as face With colours of the heart that are not theirs. I will not let her know: nine tithes of times 385 Face-flatterer and backbiter are the same. And they, sweet soul, that most impute a crime Are pronest to it, and impute themselves, Wanting the mental range; or low desire Not to feel lowest makes them level all; Yea, they would pare the mountain to the plain, To leave an equal baseness; and in this Are harlots like the crowd, that if they find Some stain or blemish in a name of note, Not grieving that their greatest are so small, Inflate themselves with some insane delight, And judge all nature from her feet of clay, Without the will to lift their eyes, and see Her godlike head crowned with spiritual fire, And touching other worlds. I am weary of her.' He spoke in words part heard, in whispers part, Half-suffocated in the hoary fell And many-wintered fleece of throat and chin. But Vivien, gathering somewhat of his mood, And hearing 'harlot' muttered twice or thrice, Leapt from her session on his lap, and stood Stiff as a viper frozen; loathsome sight, How from the rosy lips of life and love, Flashed the bare-grinning skeleton of death! White was her cheek; sharp breaths of anger puffed Her fairy nostril out; her hand half-clenched Went faltering sideways downward to her belt, And feeling; had she found a dagger there (For in a wink the false love turns to hate) She would have stabbed him; but she found it not: His eye was calm, and suddenly she took To bitter weeping like a beaten child, A long, long weeping, not consolable. Then her false voice made way, broken with sobs: 'O crueller than was ever told in tale, Or sung in song! O vainly lavished love! O cruel, there was nothing wild or strange, Or seeming shameful--for what shame in love, So love be true, and not as yours is--nothing Poor Vivien had not done to win his trust 386 Who called her what he called her--all her crime, All--all--the wish to prove him wholly hers.' She mused a little, and then clapt her hands Together with a wailing shriek, and said: 'Stabbed through the heart's affections to the heart! Seethed like the kid in its own mother's milk! Killed with a word worse than a life of blows! I thought that he was gentle, being great: O God, that I had loved a smaller man! I should have found in him a greater heart. O, I, that flattering my true passion, saw The knights, the court, the King, dark in your light, Who loved to make men darker than they are, Because of that high pleasure which I had To seat you sole upon my pedestal Of worship--I am answered, and henceforth The course of life that seemed so flowery to me With you for guide and master, only you, Becomes the sea-cliff pathway broken short, And ending in a ruin--nothing left, But into some low cave to crawl, and there, If the wolf spare me, weep my life away, Killed with inutterable unkindliness.' She paused, she turned away, she hung her head, The snake of gold slid from her hair, the braid Slipt and uncoiled itself, she wept afresh, And the dark wood grew darker toward the storm In silence, while his anger slowly died Within him, till he let his wisdom go For ease of heart, and half believed her true: Called her to shelter in the hollow oak, 'Come from the storm,' and having no reply, Gazed at the heaving shoulder, and the face Hand-hidden, as for utmost grief or shame; Then thrice essayed, by tenderest-touching terms, To sleek her ruffled peace of mind, in vain. At last she let herself be conquered by him, And as the cageling newly flown returns, The seeming-injured simple-hearted thing Came to her old perch back, and settled there. 387 There while she sat, half-falling from his knees, Half-nestled at his heart, and since he saw The slow tear creep from her closed eyelid yet, About her, more in kindness than in love, The gentle wizard cast a shielding arm. But she dislinked herself at once and rose, Her arms upon her breast across, and stood, A virtuous gentlewoman deeply wronged, Upright and flushed before him: then she said: 'There must now be no passages of love Betwixt us twain henceforward evermore; Since, if I be what I am grossly called, What should be granted which your own gross heart Would reckon worth the taking? I will go. In truth, but one thing now--better have died Thrice than have asked it once--could make me stay-That proof of trust--so often asked in vain! How justly, after that vile term of yours, I find with grief! I might believe you then, Who knows? once more. Lo! what was once to me Mere matter of the fancy, now hath grown The vast necessity of heart and life. Farewell; think gently of me, for I fear My fate or folly, passing gayer youth For one so old, must be to love thee still. But ere I leave thee let me swear once more That if I schemed against thy peace in this, May yon just heaven, that darkens o'er me, send One flash, that, missing all things else, may make My scheming brain a cinder, if I lie.' Scarce had she ceased, when out of heaven a bolt (For now the storm was close above them) struck, Furrowing a giant oak, and javelining With darted spikes and splinters of the wood The dark earth round. He raised his eyes and saw The tree that shone white-listed through the gloom. But Vivien, fearing heaven had heard her oath, And dazzled by the livid-flickering fork, And deafened with the stammering cracks and claps That followed, flying back and crying out, 388 'O Merlin, though you do not love me, save, Yet save me!' clung to him and hugged him close; And called him dear protector in her fright, Nor yet forgot her practice in her fright, But wrought upon his mood and hugged him close. The pale blood of the wizard at her touch Took gayer colours, like an opal warmed. She blamed herself for telling hearsay tales: She shook from fear, and for her fault she wept Of petulancy; she called him lord and liege, Her seer, her bard, her silver star of eve, Her God, her Merlin, the one passionate love Of her whole life; and ever overhead Bellowed the tempest, and the rotten branch Snapt in the rushing of the river-rain Above them; and in change of glare and gloom Her eyes and neck glittering went and came; Till now the storm, its burst of passion spent, Moaning and calling out of other lands, Had left the ravaged woodland yet once more To peace; and what should not have been had been, For Merlin, overtalked and overworn, Had yielded, told her all the charm, and slept. Then, in one moment, she put forth the charm Of woven paces and of waving hands, And in the hollow oak he lay as dead, And lost to life and use and name and fame. Then crying 'I have made his glory mine,' And shrieking out 'O fool!' the harlot leapt Adown the forest, and the thicket closed Behind her, and the forest echoed 'fool.' ~ Alfred Lord Tennyson,

1018:There are who lord it o'er their fellow-men With most prevailing tinsel: who unpen Their baaing vanities, to browse away The comfortable green and juicy hay From human pastures; or, O torturing fact! Who, through an idiot blink, will see unpack'd Fire-branded foxes to sear up and singe Our gold and ripe-ear'd hopes. With not one tinge Of sanctuary splendour, not a sight Able to face an owl's, they still are dight By the blear-eyed nations in empurpled vests, And crowns, and turbans. With unladen breasts, Save of blown self-applause, they proudly mount To their spirit's perch, their being's high account, Their tiptop nothings, their dull skies, their thrones Amid the fierce intoxicating tones Of trumpets, shoutings, and belabour'd drums, And sudden cannon. Ah! how all this hums, In wakeful ears, like uproar past and gone Like thunder clouds that spake to Babylon, And set those old Chaldeans to their tasks. Are then regalities all gilded masks? No, there are throned seats unscalable But by a patient wing, a constant spell, Or by ethereal things that, unconfin'd, Can make a ladder of the eternal wind, And poise about in cloudy thunder-tents To watch the abysm-birth of elements. Aye, 'bove the withering of old-lipp'd Fate A thousand Powers keep religious state, In water, fiery realm, and airy bourne; And, silent as a consecrated urn, Hold sphery sessions for a season due. Yet few of these far majesties, ah, few! Have bared their operations to this globe Few, who with gorgeous pageantry enrobe Our piece of heavenwhose benevolence Shakes hand with our own Ceres; every sense Filling with spiritual sweets to plenitude, As bees gorge full their cells. And, by the feud 'Twixt Nothing and Creation, I here swear, Eterne Apollo! that thy Sister fair Is of all these the gentlier-mightiest. When thy gold breath is misting in the west, She unobserved steals unto her throne, And there she sits most meek and most alone; As if she had not pomp subservient; As if thine eye, high Poet! was not bent Towards her with the Muses in thine heart; As if the ministring stars kept not apart, Waiting for silver-footed messages. O Moon! the oldest shades 'mong oldest trees Feel palpitations when thou lookest in: O Moon! old boughs lisp forth a holier din The while they feel thine airy fellowship. Thou dost bless every where, with silver lip Kissing dead things to life. The sleeping kine, Couched in thy brightness, dream of fields divine: Innumerable mountains rise, and rise, Ambitious for the hallowing of thine eyes; And yet thy benediction passeth not One obscure hiding-place, one little spot Where pleasure may be sent: the nested wren Has thy fair face within its tranquil ken, And from beneath a sheltering ivy leaf Takes glimpses of thee; thou art a relief To the poor patient oyster, where it sleeps Within its pearly house.The mighty deeps, The monstrous sea is thinethe myriad sea! O Moon! far-spooming Ocean bows to thee, And Tellus feels his forehead's cumbrous load. Cynthia! where art thou now? What far abode Of green or silvery bower doth enshrine Such utmost beauty? Alas, thou dost pine For one as sorrowful: thy cheek is pale For one whose cheek is pale: thou dost bewail His tears, who weeps for thee. Where dost thou sigh? Ah! surely that light peeps from Vesper's eye, Or what a thing is love! 'Tis She, but lo! How chang'd, how full of ache, how gone in woe! She dies at the thinnest cloud; her loveliness Is wan on Neptune's blue: yet there's a stress Of love-spangles, just off yon cape of trees, Dancing upon the waves, as if to please The curly foam with amorous influence. O, not so idle: for down-glancing thence She fathoms eddies, and runs wild about O'erwhelming water-courses; scaring out The thorny sharks from hiding-holes, and fright'ning Their savage eyes with unaccustomed lightning. Where will the splendor be content to reach? O love! how potent hast thou been to teach Strange journeyings! Wherever beauty dwells, In gulf or aerie, mountains or deep dells, In light, in gloom, in star or blazing sun, Thou pointest out the way, and straight 'tis won. Amid his toil thou gav'st Leander breath; Thou leddest Orpheus through the gleams of death; Thou madest Pluto bear thin element; And now, O winged Chieftain! thou hast sent A moon-beam to the deep, deep water-world, To find Endymion.          On gold sand impearl'd With lily shells, and pebbles milky white, Poor Cynthia greeted him, and sooth'd her light Against his pallid face: he felt the charm To breathlessness, and suddenly a warm Of his heart's blood: 'twas very sweet; he stay'd His wandering steps, and half-entranced laid His head upon a tuft of straggling weeds, To taste the gentle moon, and freshening beads, Lashed from the crystal roof by fishes' tails. And so he kept, until the rosy veils Mantling the east, by Aurora's peering hand Were lifted from the water's breast, and fann'd Into sweet air; and sober'd morning came Meekly through billows:when like taper-flame Left sudden by a dallying breath of air, He rose in silence, and once more 'gan fare Along his fated way.            Far had he roam'd, With nothing save the hollow vast, that foam'd Above, around, and at his feet; save things More dead than Morpheus' imaginings: Old rusted anchors, helmets, breast-plates large Of gone sea-warriors; brazen beaks and targe; Rudders that for a hundred years had lost The sway of human hand; gold vase emboss'd With long-forgotten story, and wherein No reveller had ever dipp'd a chin But those of Saturn's vintage; mouldering scrolls, Writ in the tongue of heaven, by those souls Who first were on the earth; and sculptures rude In ponderous stone, developing the mood Of ancient Nox;then skeletons of man, Of beast, behemoth, and leviathan, And elephant, and eagle, and huge jaw Of nameless monster. A cold leaden awe These secrets struck into him; and unless Dian had chaced away that heaviness, He might have died: but now, with cheered feel, He onward kept; wooing these thoughts to steal About the labyrinth in his soul of love. "What is there in thee, Moon! that thou shouldst move My heart so potently? When yet a child I oft have dried my tears when thou hast smil'd. Thou seem'dst my sister: hand in hand we went From eve to morn across the firmament. No apples would I gather from the tree, Till thou hadst cool'd their cheeks deliciously: No tumbling water ever spake romance, But when my eyes with thine thereon could dance: No woods were green enough, no bower divine, Until thou liftedst up thine eyelids fine: In sowing time ne'er would I dibble take, Or drop a seed, till thou wast wide awake; And, in the summer tide of blossoming, No one but thee hath heard me blithly sing And mesh my dewy flowers all the night. No melody was like a passing spright If it went not to solemnize thy reign. Yes, in my boyhood, every joy and pain By thee were fashion'd to the self-same end; And as I grew in years, still didst thou blend With all my ardours: thou wast the deep glen; Thou wast the mountain-topthe sage's pen The poet's harpthe voice of friendsthe sun; Thou wast the riverthou wast glory won; Thou wast my clarion's blastthou wast my steed My goblet full of winemy topmost deed: Thou wast the charm of women, lovely Moon! O what a wild and harmonized tune My spirit struck from all the beautiful! On some bright essence could I lean, and lull Myself to immortality: I prest Nature's soft pillow in a wakeful rest. But, gentle Orb! there came a nearer bliss My strange love cameFelicity's abyss! She came, and thou didst fade, and fade away Yet not entirely; no, thy starry sway Has been an under-passion to this hour. Now I begin to feel thine orby power Is coming fresh upon me: O be kind, Keep back thine influence, and do not blind My sovereign vision.Dearest love, forgive That I can think away from thee and live! Pardon me, airy planet, that I prize One thought beyond thine argent luxuries! How far beyond!" At this a surpris'd start Frosted the springing verdure of his heart; For as he lifted up his eyes to swear How his own goddess was past all things fair, He saw far in the concave green of the sea An old man sitting calm and peacefully. Upon a weeded rock this old man sat, And his white hair was awful, and a mat Of weeds were cold beneath his cold thin feet; And, ample as the largest winding-sheet, A cloak of blue wrapp'd up his aged bones, O'erwrought with symbols by the deepest groans Of ambitious magic: every ocean-form Was woven in with black distinctness; storm, And calm, and whispering, and hideous roar Were emblem'd in the woof; with every shape That skims, or dives, or sleeps, 'twixt cape and cape. The gulphing whale was like a dot in the spell, Yet look upon it, and 'twould size and swell To its huge self; and the minutest fish Would pass the very hardest gazer's wish, And show his little eye's anatomy. Then there was pictur'd the regality Of Neptune; and the sea nymphs round his state, In beauteous vassalage, look up and wait. Beside this old man lay a pearly wand, And in his lap a book, the which he conn'd So stedfastly, that the new denizen Had time to keep him in amazed ken, To mark these shadowings, and stand in awe. The old man rais'd his hoary head and saw The wilder'd strangerseeming not to see, His features were so lifeless. Suddenly He woke as from a trance; his snow-white brows Went arching up, and like two magic ploughs Furrow'd deep wrinkles in his forehead large, Which kept as fixedly as rocky marge, Till round his wither'd lips had gone a smile. Then up he rose, like one whose tedious toil Had watch'd for years in forlorn hermitage, Who had not from mid-life to utmost age Eas'd in one accent his o'er-burden'd soul, Even to the trees. He rose: he grasp'd his stole, With convuls'd clenches waving it abroad, And in a voice of solemn joy, that aw'd Echo into oblivion, he said: "Thou art the man! Now shall I lay my head In peace upon my watery pillow: now Sleep will come smoothly to my weary brow. O Jove! I shall be young again, be young! O shell-borne Neptune, I am pierc'd and stung With new-born life! What shall I do? Where go, When I have cast this serpent-skin of woe? I'll swim to the syrens, and one moment listen Their melodies, and see their long hair glisten; Anon upon that giant's arm I'll be, That writhes about the roots of Sicily: To northern seas I'll in a twinkling sail, And mount upon the snortings of a whale To some black cloud; thence down I'll madly sweep On forked lightning, to the deepest deep, Where through some sucking pool I will be hurl'd With rapture to the other side of the world! O, I am full of gladness! Sisters three, I bow full hearted to your old decree! Yes, every god be thank'd, and power benign, For I no more shall wither, droop, and pine. Thou art the man!" Endymion started back Dismay'd; and, like a wretch from whom the rack Tortures hot breath, and speech of agony, Mutter'd: "What lonely death am I to die In this cold region? Will he let me freeze, And float my brittle limbs o'er polar seas? Or will he touch me with his searing hand, And leave a black memorial on the sand? Or tear me piece-meal with a bony saw, And keep me as a chosen food to draw His magian fish through hated fire and flame? O misery of hell! resistless, tame, Am I to be burnt up? No, I will shout, Until the gods through heaven's blue look out! O Tartarus! but some few days agone Her soft arms were entwining me, and on Her voice I hung like fruit among green leaves: Her lips were all my own, andah, ripe sheaves Of happiness! ye on the stubble droop, But never may be garner'd. I must stoop My head, and kiss death's foot. Love! love, farewel! Is there no hope from thee? This horrid spell Would melt at thy sweet breath.By Dian's hind Feeding from her white fingers, on the wind I see thy streaming hair! and now, by Pan, I care not for this old mysterious man!" He spake, and walking to that aged form, Look'd high defiance. Lo! his heart 'gan warm With pity, for the grey-hair'd creature wept. Had he then wrong'd a heart where sorrow kept? Had he, though blindly contumelious, brought Rheum to kind eyes, a sting to human thought, Convulsion to a mouth of many years? He had in truth; and he was ripe for tears. The penitent shower fell, as down he knelt Before that care-worn sage, who trembling felt About his large dark locks, and faultering spake: "Arise, good youth, for sacred Phoebus' sake! I know thine inmost bosom, and I feel A very brother's yearning for thee steal Into mine own: for why? thou openest The prison gates that have so long opprest My weary watching. Though thou know'st it not, Thou art commission'd to this fated spot For great enfranchisement. O weep no more; I am a friend to love, to loves of yore: Aye, hadst thou never lov'd an unknown power I had been grieving at this joyous hour But even now most miserable old, I saw thee, and my blood no longer cold Gave mighty pulses: in this tottering case Grew a new heart, which at this moment plays As dancingly as thine. Be not afraid, For thou shalt hear this secret all display'd, Now as we speed towards our joyous task." So saying, this young soul in age's mask Went forward with the Carian side by side: Resuming quickly thus; while ocean's tide Hung swollen at their backs, and jewel'd sands Took silently their foot-prints. "My soul stands Now past the midway from mortality, And so I can prepare without a sigh To tell thee briefly all my joy and pain. I was a fisher once, upon this main, And my boat danc'd in every creek and bay; Rough billows were my home by night and day, The sea-gulls not more constant; for I had No housing from the storm and tempests mad, But hollow rocks,and they were palaces Of silent happiness, of slumberous ease: Long years of misery have told me so. Aye, thus it was one thousand years ago. One thousand years!Is it then possible To look so plainly through them? to dispel A thousand years with backward glance sublime? To breathe away as 'twere all scummy slime From off a crystal pool, to see its deep, And one's own image from the bottom peep? Yes: now I am no longer wretched thrall, My long captivity and moanings all Are but a slime, a thin-pervading scum, The which I breathe away, and thronging come Like things of yesterday my youthful pleasures. "I touch'd no lute, I sang not, trod no measures: I was a lonely youth on desert shores. My sports were lonely, 'mid continuous roars, And craggy isles, and sea-mew's plaintive cry Plaining discrepant between sea and sky. Dolphins were still my playmates; shapes unseen Would let me feel their scales of gold and green, Nor be my desolation; and, full oft, When a dread waterspout had rear'd aloft Its hungry hugeness, seeming ready ripe To burst with hoarsest thunderings, and wipe My life away like a vast sponge of fate, Some friendly monster, pitying my sad state, Has dived to its foundations, gulph'd it down, And left me tossing safely. But the crown Of all my life was utmost quietude: More did I love to lie in cavern rude, Keeping in wait whole days for Neptune's voice, And if it came at last, hark, and rejoice! There blush'd no summer eve but I would steer My skiff along green shelving coasts, to hear The shepherd's pipe come clear from aery steep, Mingled with ceaseless bleatings of his sheep: And never was a day of summer shine, But I beheld its birth upon the brine: For I would watch all night to see unfold Heaven's gates, and Aethon snort his morning gold Wide o'er the swelling streams: and constantly At brim of day-tide, on some grassy lea, My nets would be spread out, and I at rest. The poor folk of the sea-country I blest With daily boon of fish most delicate: They knew not whence this bounty, and elate Would strew sweet flowers on a sterile beach. "Why was I not contented? Wherefore reach At things which, but for thee, O Latmian! Had been my dreary death? Fool! I began To feel distemper'd longings: to desire The utmost privilege that ocean's sire Could grant in benediction: to be free Of all his kingdom. Long in misery I wasted, ere in one extremest fit I plung'd for life or death. To interknit One's senses with so dense a breathing stuff Might seem a work of pain; so not enough Can I admire how crystal-smooth it felt, And buoyant round my limbs. At first I dwelt Whole days and days in sheer astonishment; Forgetful utterly of self-intent; Moving but with the mighty ebb and flow. Then, like a new fledg'd bird that first doth shew His spreaded feathers to the morrow chill, I tried in fear the pinions of my will. 'Twas freedom! and at once I visited The ceaseless wonders of this ocean-bed. No need to tell thee of them, for I see That thou hast been a witnessit must be For these I know thou canst not feel a drouth, By the melancholy corners of that mouth. So I will in my story straightway pass To more immediate matter. Woe, alas! That love should be my bane! Ah, Scylla fair! Why did poor Glaucus everever dare To sue thee to his heart? Kind stranger-youth! I lov'd her to the very white of truth, And she would not conceive it. Timid thing! She fled me swift as sea-bird on the wing, Round every isle, and point, and promontory, From where large Hercules wound up his story Far as Egyptian Nile. My passion grew The more, the more I saw her dainty hue Gleam delicately through the azure clear: Until 'twas too fierce agony to bear; And in that agony, across my grief It flash'd, that Circe might find some relief Cruel enchantress! So above the water I rear'd my head, and look'd for Phoebus' daughter. Aeaea's isle was wondering at the moon: It seem'd to whirl around me, and a swoon Left me dead-drifting to that fatal power. "When I awoke, 'twas in a twilight bower; Just when the light of morn, with hum of bees, Stole through its verdurous matting of fresh trees. How sweet, and sweeter! for I heard a lyre, And over it a sighing voice expire. It ceasedI caught light footsteps; and anon The fairest face that morn e'er look'd upon Push'd through a screen of roses. Starry Jove! With tears, and smiles, and honey-words she wove A net whose thraldom was more bliss than all The range of flower'd Elysium. Thus did fall The dew of her rich speech: "Ah! Art awake? O let me hear thee speak, for Cupid's sake! I am so oppress'd with joy! Why, I have shed An urn of tears, as though thou wert cold dead; And now I find thee living, I will pour From these devoted eyes their silver store, Until exhausted of the latest drop, So it will pleasure thee, and force thee stop Here, that I too may live: but if beyond Such cool and sorrowful offerings, thou art fond Of soothing warmth, of dalliance supreme; If thou art ripe to taste a long love dream; If smiles, if dimples, tongues for ardour mute, Hang in thy vision like a tempting fruit, O let me pluck it for thee." Thus she link'd Her charming syllables, till indistinct Their music came to my o'er-sweeten'd soul; And then she hover'd over me, and stole So near, that if no nearer it had been This furrow'd visage thou hadst never seen. "Young man of Latmos! thus particular Am I, that thou may'st plainly see how far This fierce temptation went: and thou may'st not Exclaim, How then, was Scylla quite forgot? "Who could resist? Who in this universe? She did so breathe ambrosia; so immerse My fine existence in a golden clime. She took me like a child of suckling time, And cradled me in roses. Thus condemn'd, The current of my former life was stemm'd, And to this arbitrary queen of sense I bow'd a tranced vassal: nor would thence Have mov'd, even though Amphion's harp had woo'd Me back to Scylla o'er the billows rude. For as Apollo each eve doth devise A new appareling for western skies; So every eve, nay every spendthrift hour Shed balmy consciousness within that bower. And I was free of haunts umbrageous; Could wander in the mazy forest-house Of squirrels, foxes shy, and antler'd deer, And birds from coverts innermost and drear Warbling for very joy mellifluous sorrow To me new born delights!              "Now let me borrow, For moments few, a temperament as stern As Pluto's sceptre, that my words not burn These uttering lips, while I in calm speech tell How specious heaven was changed to real hell. "One morn she left me sleeping: half awake I sought for her smooth arms and lips, to slake My greedy thirst with nectarous camel-draughts; But she was gone. Whereat the barbed shafts Of disappointment stuck in me so sore, That out I ran and search'd the forest o'er. Wandering about in pine and cedar gloom Damp awe assail'd me; for there 'gan to boom A sound of moan, an agony of sound, Sepulchral from the distance all around. Then came a conquering earth-thunder, and rumbled That fierce complain to silence: while I stumbled Down a precipitous path, as if impell'd. I came to a dark valley.Groanings swell'd Poisonous about my ears, and louder grew, The nearer I approach'd a flame's gaunt blue, That glar'd before me through a thorny brake. This fire, like the eye of gordian snake, Bewitch'd me towards; and I soon was near A sight too fearful for the feel of fear: In thicket hid I curs'd the haggard scene The banquet of my arms, my arbour queen, Seated upon an uptorn forest root; And all around her shapes, wizard and brute, Laughing, and wailing, groveling, serpenting, Shewing tooth, tusk, and venom-bag, and sting! O such deformities! Old Charon's self, Should he give up awhile his penny pelf, And take a dream 'mong rushes Stygian, It could not be so phantasied. Fierce, wan, And tyrannizing was the lady's look, As over them a gnarled staff she shook. Oft-times upon the sudden she laugh'd out, And from a basket emptied to the rout Clusters of grapes, the which they raven'd quick And roar'd for more; with many a hungry lick About their shaggy jaws. Avenging, slow, Anon she took a branch of mistletoe, And emptied on't a black dull-gurgling phial: Groan'd one and all, as if some piercing trial Was sharpening for their pitiable bones. She lifted up the charm: appealing groans From their poor breasts went sueing to her ear In vain; remorseless as an infant's bier She whisk'd against their eyes the sooty oil. Whereat was heard a noise of painful toil, Increasing gradual to a tempest rage, Shrieks, yells, and groans of torture-pilgrimage; Until their grieved bodies 'gan to bloat And puff from the tail's end to stifled throat: Then was appalling silence: then a sight More wildering than all that hoarse affright; For the whole herd, as by a whirlwind writhen, Went through the dismal air like one huge Python Antagonizing Boreas,and so vanish'd. Yet there was not a breath of wind: she banish'd These phantoms with a nod. Lo! from the dark Came waggish fauns, and nymphs, and satyrs stark, With dancing and loud revelry,and went Swifter than centaurs after rapine bent. Sighing an elephant appear'd and bow'd Before the fierce witch, speaking thus aloud In human accent: "Potent goddess! chief Of pains resistless! make my being brief, Or let me from this heavy prison fly: Or give me to the air, or let me die! I sue not for my happy crown again; I sue not for my phalanx on the plain; I sue not for my lone, my widow'd wife; I sue not for my ruddy drops of life, My children fair, my lovely girls and boys! I will forget them; I will pass these joys; Ask nought so heavenward, so tootoo high: Only I pray, as fairest boon, to die, Or be deliver'd from this cumbrous flesh, From this gross, detestable, filthy mesh, And merely given to the cold bleak air. Have mercy, Goddess! Circe, feel my prayer!" That curst magician's name fell icy numb Upon my wild conjecturing: truth had come Naked and sabre-like against my heart. I saw a fury whetting a death-dart; And my slain spirit, overwrought with fright, Fainted away in that dark lair of night. Think, my deliverer, how desolate My waking must have been! disgust, and hate, And terrors manifold divided me A spoil amongst them. I prepar'd to flee Into the dungeon core of that wild wood: I fled three dayswhen lo! before me stood Glaring the angry witch. O Dis, even now, A clammy dew is beading on my brow, At mere remembering her pale laugh, and curse. "Ha! ha! Sir Dainty! there must be a nurse Made of rose leaves and thistledown, express, To cradle thee my sweet, and lull thee: yes, I am too flinty-hard for thy nice touch: My tenderest squeeze is but a giant's clutch. So, fairy-thing, it shall have lullabies Unheard of yet; and it shall still its cries Upon some breast more lily-feminine. Oh, noit shall not pine, and pine, and pine More than one pretty, trifling thousand years; And then 'twere pity, but fate's gentle shears Cut short its immortality. Sea-flirt! Young dove of the waters! truly I'll not hurt One hair of thine: see how I weep and sigh, That our heart-broken parting is so nigh. And must we part? Ah, yes, it must be so. Yet ere thou leavest me in utter woe, Let me sob over thee my last adieus, And speak a blessing: Mark me! thou hast thews Immortal, for thou art of heavenly race: But such a love is mine, that here I chase Eternally away from thee all bloom Of youth, and destine thee towards a tomb. Hence shalt thou quickly to the watery vast; And there, ere many days be overpast, Disabled age shall seize thee; and even then Thou shalt not go the way of aged men; But live and wither, cripple and still breathe Ten hundred years: which gone, I then bequeath Thy fragile bones to unknown burial. Adieu, sweet love, adieu!"As shot stars fall, She fled ere I could groan for mercy. Stung And poisoned was my spirit: despair sung A war-song of defiance 'gainst all hell. A hand was at my shoulder to compel My sullen steps; another 'fore my eyes Moved on with pointed finger. In this guise Enforced, at the last by ocean's foam I found me; by my fresh, my native home. Its tempering coolness, to my life akin, Came salutary as I waded in; And, with a blind voluptuous rage, I gave Battle to the swollen billow-ridge, and drave Large froth before me, while there yet remain'd Hale strength, nor from my bones all marrow drain'd. "Young lover, I must weepsuch hellish spite With dry cheek who can tell? While thus my might Proving upon this element, dismay'd, Upon a dead thing's face my hand I laid; I look'd'twas Scylla! Cursed, cursed Circe! O vulture-witch, hast never heard of mercy? Could not thy harshest vengeance be content, But thou must nip this tender innocent Because I lov'd her?Cold, O cold indeed Were her fair limbs, and like a common weed The sea-swell took her hair. Dead as she was I clung about her waist, nor ceas'd to pass Fleet as an arrow through unfathom'd brine, Until there shone a fabric crystalline, Ribb'd and inlaid with coral, pebble, and pearl. Headlong I darted; at one eager swirl Gain'd its bright portal, enter'd, and behold! 'Twas vast, and desolate, and icy-cold; And all aroundBut wherefore this to thee Who in few minutes more thyself shalt see? I left poor Scylla in a niche and fled. My fever'd parchings up, my scathing dread Met palsy half way: soon these limbs became Gaunt, wither'd, sapless, feeble, cramp'd, and lame. "Now let me pass a cruel, cruel space, Without one hope, without one faintest trace Of mitigation, or redeeming bubble Of colour'd phantasy; for I fear 'twould trouble Thy brain to loss of reason: and next tell How a restoring chance came down to quell One half of the witch in me.        On a day, Sitting upon a rock above the spray, I saw grow up from the horizon's brink A gallant vessel: soon she seem'd to sink Away from me again, as though her course Had been resum'd in spite of hindering force So vanish'd: and not long, before arose Dark clouds, and muttering of winds morose. Old Eolus would stifle his mad spleen, But could not: therefore all the billows green Toss'd up the silver spume against the clouds. The tempest came: I saw that vessel's shrouds In perilous bustle; while upon the deck Stood trembling creatures. I beheld the wreck; The final gulphing; the poor struggling souls: I heard their cries amid loud thunder-rolls. O they had all been sav'd but crazed eld Annull'd my vigorous cravings: and thus quell'd And curb'd, think on't, O Latmian! did I sit Writhing with pity, and a cursing fit Against that hell-born Circe. The crew had gone, By one and one, to pale oblivion; And I was gazing on the surges prone, With many a scalding tear and many a groan, When at my feet emerg'd an old man's hand, Grasping this scroll, and this same slender wand. I knelt with painreached out my handhad grasp'd These treasurestouch'd the knucklesthey unclasp'd I caught a finger: but the downward weight O'erpowered meit sank. Then 'gan abate The storm, and through chill aguish gloom outburst The comfortable sun. I was athirst To search the book, and in the warming air Parted its dripping leaves with eager care. Strange matters did it treat of, and drew on My soul page after page, till well-nigh won Into forgetfulness; when, stupefied, I read these words, and read again, and tried My eyes against the heavens, and read again. O what a load of misery and pain Each Atlas-line bore off!a shine of hope Came gold around me, cheering me to cope Strenuous with hellish tyranny. Attend! For thou hast brought their promise to an end. "In the wide sea there lives a forlorn wretch, Doom'd with enfeebled carcase to outstretch His loath'd existence through ten centuries, And then to die alone. Who can devise A total opposition? No one. So One million times ocean must ebb and flow, And he oppressed. Yet he shall not die, These things accomplish'd:If he utterly Scans all the depths of magic, and expounds The meanings of all motions, shapes, and sounds; If he explores all forms and substances Straight homeward to their symbol-essences; He shall not die. Moreover, and in chief, He must pursue this task of joy and grief Most piously;all lovers tempest-tost, And in the savage overwhelming lost, He shall deposit side by side, until Time's creeping shall the dreary space fulfil: Which done, and all these labours ripened, A youth, by heavenly power lov'd and led, Shall stand before him; whom he shall direct How to consummate all. The youth elect Must do the thing, or both will be destroy'd." "Then," cried the young Endymion, overjoy'd, "We are twin brothers in this destiny! Say, I intreat thee, what achievement high Is, in this restless world, for me reserv'd. What! if from thee my wandering feet had swerv'd, Had we both perish'd?""Look!" the sage replied, "Dost thou not mark a gleaming through the tide, Of divers brilliances? 'tis the edifice I told thee of, where lovely Scylla lies; And where I have enshrined piously All lovers, whom fell storms have doom'd to die Throughout my bondage." Thus discoursing, on They went till unobscur'd the porches shone; Which hurryingly they gain'd, and enter'd straight. Sure never since king Neptune held his state Was seen such wonder underneath the stars. Turn to some level plain where haughty Mars Has legion'd all his battle; and behold How every soldier, with firm foot, doth hold His even breast: see, many steeled squares, And rigid ranks of ironwhence who dares One step? Imagine further, line by line, These warrior thousands on the field supine: So in that crystal place, in silent rows, Poor lovers lay at rest from joys and woes. The stranger from the mountains, breathless, trac'd Such thousands of shut eyes in order plac'd; Such ranges of white feet, and patient lips All ruddy,for here death no blossom nips. He mark'd their brows and foreheads; saw their hair Put sleekly on one side with nicest care; And each one's gentle wrists, with reverence, Put cross-wise to its heart.                "Let us commence, Whisper'd the guide, stuttering with joy, even now." He spake, and, trembling like an aspen-bough, Began to tear his scroll in pieces small, Uttering the while some mumblings funeral. He tore it into pieces small as snow That drifts unfeather'd when bleak northerns blow; And having done it, took his dark blue cloak And bound it round Endymion: then struck His wand against the empty air times nine. "What more there is to do, young man, is thine: But first a little patience; first undo This tangled thread, and wind it to a clue. Ah, gentle! 'tis as weak as spider's skein; And shouldst thou break itWhat, is it done so clean? A power overshadows thee! Oh, brave! The spite of hell is tumbling to its grave. Here is a shell; 'tis pearly blank to me, Nor mark'd with any sign or charactery Canst thou read aught? O read for pity's sake! Olympus! we are safe! Now, Carian, break This wand against yon lyre on the pedestal." 'Twas done: and straight with sudden swell and fall Sweet music breath'd her soul away, and sigh'd A lullaby to silence."Youth! now strew These minced leaves on me, and passing through Those files of dead, scatter the same around, And thou wilt see the issue."'Mid the sound Of flutes and viols, ravishing his heart, Endymion from Glaucus stood apart, And scatter'd in his face some fragments light. How lightning-swift the change! a youthful wight Smiling beneath a coral diadem, Out-sparkling sudden like an upturn'd gem, Appear'd, and, stepping to a beauteous corse, Kneel'd down beside it, and with tenderest force Press'd its cold hand, and weptand Scylla sigh'd! Endymion, with quick hand, the charm applied The nymph arose: he left them to their joy, And onward went upon his high employ, Showering those powerful fragments on the dead. And, as he pass'd, each lifted up its head, As doth a flower at Apollo's touch. Death felt it to his inwards; 'twas too much: Death fell a weeping in his charnel-house. The Latmian persever'd along, and thus All were re-animated. There arose A noise of harmony, pulses and throes Of gladness in the airwhile many, who Had died in mutual arms devout and true, Sprang to each other madly; and the rest Felt a high certainty of being blest. They gaz'd upon Endymion. Enchantment Grew drunken, and would have its head and bent. Delicious symphonies, like airy flowers, Budded, and swell'd, and, full-blown, shed full showers Of light, soft, unseen leaves of sounds divine. The two deliverers tasted a pure wine Of happiness, from fairy-press ooz'd out. Speechless they eyed each other, and about The fair assembly wander'd to and fro, Distracted with the richest overflow Of joy that ever pour'd from heaven.                   "Away!" Shouted the new-born god; "Follow, and pay Our piety to Neptunus supreme!" Then Scylla, blushing sweetly from her dream, They led on first, bent to her meek surprise, Through portal columns of a giant size, Into the vaulted, boundless emerald. Joyous all follow'd, as the leader call'd, Down marble steps; pouring as easily As hour-glass sandand fast, as you might see Swallows obeying the south summer's call, Or swans upon a gentle waterfall. Thus went that beautiful multitude, nor far, Ere from among some rocks of glittering spar, Just within ken, they saw descending thick Another multitude. Whereat more quick Moved either host. On a wide sand they met, And of those numbers every eye was wet; For each their old love found. A murmuring rose, Like what was never heard in all the throes Of wind and waters: 'tis past human wit To tell; 'tis dizziness to think of it. This mighty consummation made, the host Mov'd on for many a league; and gain'd, and lost Huge sea-marks; vanward swelling in array, And from the rear diminishing away, Till a faint dawn surpris'd them. Glaucus cried, "Behold! behold, the palace of his pride! God Neptune's palaces!" With noise increas'd, They shoulder'd on towards that brightening east. At every onward step proud domes arose In prospect,diamond gleams, and golden glows Of amber 'gainst their faces levelling. Joyous, and many as the leaves in spring, Still onward; still the splendour gradual swell'd. Rich opal domes were seen, on high upheld By jasper pillars, letting through their shafts A blush of coral. Copious wonder-draughts Each gazer drank; and deeper drank more near: For what poor mortals fragment up, as mere As marble was there lavish, to the vast Of one fair palace, that far far surpass'd, Even for common bulk, those olden three, Memphis, and Babylon, and Nineveh. As large, as bright, as colour'd as the bow Of Iris, when unfading it doth shew Beyond a silvery shower, was the arch Through which this Paphian army took its march, Into the outer courts of Neptune's state: Whence could be seen, direct, a golden gate, To which the leaders sped; but not half raught Ere it burst open swift as fairy thought, And made those dazzled thousands veil their eyes Like callow eagles at the first sunrise. Soon with an eagle nativeness their gaze Ripe from hue-golden swoons took all the blaze, And then, behold! large Neptune on his throne Of emerald deep: yet not exalt alone; At his right hand stood winged Love, and on His left sat smiling Beauty's paragon. Far as the mariner on highest mast Can see all round upon the calmed vast, So wide was Neptune's hall: and as the blue Doth vault the waters, so the waters drew Their doming curtains, high, magnificent, Aw'd from the throne aloof;and when storm-rent Disclos'd the thunder-gloomings in Jove's air; But sooth'd as now, flash'd sudden everywhere, Noiseless, sub-marine cloudlets, glittering Death to a human eye: for there did spring From natural west, and east, and south, and north, A light as of four sunsets, blazing forth A gold-green zenith 'bove the Sea-God's head. Of lucid depth the floor, and far outspread As breezeless lake, on which the slim canoe Of feather'd Indian darts about, as through The delicatest air: air verily, But for the portraiture of clouds and sky: This palace floor breath-air,but for the amaze Of deep-seen wonders motionless,and blaze Of the dome pomp, reflected in extremes, Globing a golden sphere.              They stood in dreams Till Triton blew his horn. The palace rang; The Nereids danc'd; the Syrens faintly sang; And the great Sea-King bow'd his dripping head. Then Love took wing, and from his pinions shed On all the multitude a nectarous dew. The ooze-born Goddess beckoned and drew Fair Scylla and her guides to conference; And when they reach'd the throned eminence She kist the sea-nymph's cheek,who sat her down A toying with the doves. Then,"Mighty crown And sceptre of this kingdom!" Venus said, "Thy vows were on a time to Nais paid: Behold!"Two copious tear-drops instant fell From the God's large eyes; he smil'd delectable, And over Glaucus held his blessing hands. "Endymion! Ah! still wandering in the bands Of love? Now this is cruel. Since the hour I met thee in earth's bosom, all my power Have I put forth to serve thee. What, not yet Escap'd from dull mortality's harsh net? A little patience, youth! 'twill not be long, Or I am skilless quite: an idle tongue, A humid eye, and steps luxurious, Where these are new and strange, are ominous. Aye, I have seen these signs in one of heaven, When others were all blind; and were I given To utter secrets, haply I might say Some pleasant words:but Love will have his day. So wait awhile expectant. Pr'ythee soon, Even in the passing of thine honey-moon, Visit my Cytherea: thou wilt find Cupid well-natured, my Adonis kind; And pray persuade with theeAh, I have done, All blisses be upon thee, my sweet son!" Thus the fair goddess: while Endymion Knelt to receive those accents halcyon. Meantime a glorious revelry began Before the Water-Monarch. Nectar ran In courteous fountains to all cups outreach'd; And plunder'd vines, teeming exhaustless, pleach'd New growth about each shell and pendent lyre; The which, in disentangling for their fire, Pull'd down fresh foliage and coverture For dainty toying. Cupid, empire-sure, Flutter'd and laugh'd, and oft-times through the throng Made a delighted way. Then dance, and song, And garlanding grew wild; and pleasure reign'd. In harmless tendril they each other chain'd, And strove who should be smother'd deepest in Fresh crush of leaves.              O 'tis a very sin For one so weak to venture his poor verse In such a place as this. O do not curse, High Muses! let him hurry to the ending. All suddenly were silent. A soft blending Of dulcet instruments came charmingly; And then a hymn.           "KING of the stormy sea! Brother of Jove, and co-inheritor Of elements! Eternally before Thee the waves awful bow. Fast, stubborn rock, At thy fear'd trident shrinking, doth unlock Its deep foundations, hissing into foam. All mountain-rivers lost, in the wide home Of thy capacious bosom ever flow. Thou frownest, and old Eolus thy foe Skulks to his cavern, 'mid the gruff complaint Of all his rebel tempests. Dark clouds faint When, from thy diadem, a silver gleam Slants over blue dominion. Thy bright team Gulphs in the morning light, and scuds along To bring thee nearer to that golden song Apollo singeth, while his chariot Waits at the doors of heaven. Thou art not For scenes like this: an empire stern hast thou; And it hath furrow'd that large front: yet now, As newly come of heaven, dost thou sit To blend and interknit Subdued majesty with this glad time. O shell-borne King sublime! We lay our hearts before thee evermore We sing, and we adore! "Breathe softly, flutes; Be tender of your strings, ye soothing lutes; Nor be the trumpet heard! O vain, O vain; Not flowers budding in an April rain, Nor breath of sleeping dove, nor river's flow, No, nor the Eolian twang of Love's own bow, Can mingle music fit for the soft ear Of goddess Cytherea! Yet deign, white Queen of Beauty, thy fair eyes On our souls' sacrifice. "Bright-winged Child! Who has another care when thou hast smil'd? Unfortunates on earth, we see at last All death-shadows, and glooms that overcast Our spirits, fann'd away by thy light pinions. O sweetest essence! sweetest of all minions! God of warm pulses, and dishevell'd hair, And panting bosoms bare! Dear unseen light in darkness! eclipser Of light in light! delicious poisoner! Thy venom'd goblet will we quaff until We fillwe fill! And by thy Mother's lips"             Was heard no more For clamour, when the golden palace door Opened again, and from without, in shone A new magnificence. On oozy throne Smooth-moving came Oceanus the old, To take a latest glimpse at his sheep-fold, Before he went into his quiet cave To muse for everThen a lucid wave, Scoop'd from its trembling sisters of mid-sea, Afloat, and pillowing up the majesty Of Doris, and the Egean seer, her spouse Next, on a dolphin, clad in laurel boughs, Theban Amphion leaning on his lute: His fingers went across itAll were mute To gaze on Amphitrite, queen of pearls, And Thetis pearly too.              The palace whirls Around giddy Endymion; seeing he Was there far strayed from mortality. He could not bear itshut his eyes in vain; Imagination gave a dizzier pain. "O I shall die! sweet Venus, be my stay! Where is my lovely mistress? Well-away! I dieI hear her voiceI feel my wing" At Neptune's feet he sank. A sudden ring Of Nereids were about him, in kind strife To usher back his spirit into life: But still he slept. At last they interwove Their cradling arms, and purpos'd to convey Towards a crystal bower far away. Lo! while slow carried through the pitying crowd, To his inward senses these words spake aloud; Written in star-light on the dark above: Dearest Endymion! my entire love! How have I dwelt in fear of fate: 'tis done Immortal bliss for me too hast thou won. Arise then! for the hen-dove shall not hatch Her ready eggs, before I'll kissing snatch Thee into endless heaven. Awake! awake! The youth at once arose: a placid lake Came quiet to his eyes; and forest green, Cooler than all the wonders he had seen, Lull'd with its simple song his fluttering breast. How happy once again in grassy nest! (line 1): Woodhouse notes that "Keats said, with much simplicity, 'It will be easily seen what I think of the present ministers, by the beginning of the third Book.'" (line 407): Whether the reference is to the Pillars of Hercules, the confluence of the Mediterranean and Atlantic, or to the scene of the Death of Hercules, is not very clear; but probably "wound up his story" refers rather to his last labour than to his death on Mount ta. (lines 863-65): This simile must surely be a reminiscence of Perrin's Fables Amusantes or some similar book used in Mr. Clarke's School. I remember the Fable of the old eagle and her young stood first in the book I used at school. The draft gives line 860 thus -- 'But soon like eagles natively their gaze...' At the end of this Book Keats wrote in the draft, "Oxf: Sept. 26." ~ Poetical Works of John Keats, ed. H. Buxton Forman, Crowell publ. 1895. by owner. provided at no charge for educational purposes ~ John Keats, Endymion - Book III ,

1019: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 ,

1020:The Witch Of Hebron A Rabbinical Legend Part I. From morn until the setting of the sun The rabbi Joseph on his knees had prayed, And, as he rose with spirit meek and strong, An Indian page his presence sought, and bowed Before him, saying that a lady lay Sick unto death, tormented grievously, Who begged the comfort of his holy prayers. The rabbi, ever to the call of grief Open as day, arose; and girding straight His robe about him, with the page went forth; Who swiftly led him deep into the woods That hung, heap over heap, like broken clouds On Hebron’s southern terraces; when lo! Across a glade a stately pile he saw, With gleaming front, and many-pillared porch Fretted with sculptured vinage, flowers and fruit, And carven figures wrought with wondrous art As by some Phidian hand. But interposed For a wide space in front, and belting all The splendid structure with a finer grace, A glowing garden smiled; its breezes bore Airs as from paradise, so rich the scent That breathed from shrubs and flowers; and fair the growths Of higher verdure, gemm’d with silver blooms, Which glassed themselves in fountains gleaming light Each like a shield of pearl. Within the halls Strange splendour met the rabbi’s careless eyes, Halls wonderful in their magnificance, With pictured walls, and columns gleaming white Like Carmel’s snow, or blue-veined as with life; 222 Through corridors he passed with tissues hung Inwrought with threaded gold by Sidon’s art, Or rich as sunset clouds with Tyrian dye; Past lofty chambers, where the gorgeous gleam Of jewels, and the stainèd radiance Of golden lamps, showed many a treasure rare Of Indian and Armenian workmanship Which might have seemed a wonder of the world: And trains of servitors of every clime, Greeks, Persians, Indians, Ethiopians, In richest raiment thronged the spacious halls. The page led on, the rabbi following close, And reached a still and distant chamber, where In more than orient pomp, and dazzling all The else-unrivalled splendour of the rest, A queenly woman lay; so beautiful, That though upon her moon-bright visage, pain And langour like eclipsing shadows gloomed, The rabbi’s aged heart with tremor thrilled; Then o’er her face a hectic colour passed, Only to leave that pallor which portends The nearness of the tomb. From youth to age The rabbi Joseph still had sought in herbs And minerals the virtues they possess, And now of his medicaments he chose What seemed most needful in her sore estate; “Alas, not these,” the dying woman said, “A malady like mine thou canst not cure, ’Tis fatal as the funeral march of Time! But that I might at length discharge my mind Of a dread secret, that hath been to me An ever-haunting and most ghostly fear, Darkening my whole life like an ominous cloud And which must end it ere the morning come, Therefore did I entreat thy presence here.” The rabbi answered, “If indeed it stand Within my power to serve thee, speak at once 223 All that thy heart would say. But if ’tis vain, If this thy sin hath any mortal taint, Forbear, O woman, to acquaint my soul With aught that could thenceforth with horror chase The memory of a man of Israel.” “I am,” she said “the daughter of thy friend Rabbi Ben Bachai—be his memory blest! Once at thy side a laughing child I played; I married with an Arab Prince, a man Of lofty lineage, one of Ishmael’s race; Not great in gear. Behold’st thou this abode? Did ever yet the tent-born Arab build Thus for his pride or pleasure? See’st thou These riches? An no! Such were ne’er amassed By the grey desert’s wild and wandering son; Deadly the game by which I won them all! And with a burning bitterness at best Have I enjoyed them! And how gladly now Would I, too late, forego them all, to mend My broken peace with a repentant heed In abject poverty!” She ceased, and lay Calm in her loveliness, with dreamy looks Roaming, perhaps, in thought the fateful past; Then suddenly her beauteous countenance grew Bedimm’d and drear, then dark with mortal pangs, While fierce convulsions shook her tortured frame, And from her foaming lips such words o’erran, That rabbi Joseph sank upon his knees, And bowed his head a space in horror down While ardent, pitying prayers for her great woe Rose from his soul; when, lo! The woman’s face Was cloudless as a summer heaven! The late Dark brow was bright, the late pale cheek suffused With roseate bloom; and, wondrous more than all, Here weary eyes were changed to splendours now That shot electric influence, and her lips Were full and crimson, curled with stormy pride. The doubting rabbi stood in wild amaze To see the dying woman bold and fierce 224 In bright audacity of passion’s power. “These are the common changes,” then she said, “Of the fell ailment, that with torments strange, Which search my deepest life, is tearing up The dark foundations of my mortal state, And sinking all its structures, hour by hour, Into the dust of death. For nothing now Is left me but to meet my nearing doom As best I may in silent suffering.” Then as he heard her words and saw her face, The rabbi in his wisdom knew some strong Indwelling evil spirit troubled her, And straighway for an unction sent, wherewith The famous ancestor whose name he bore, Herod the Great’s chief hakim, had expelled The daemon haunter of the dying king. With this he touched her forehead and her eyes And all her finger-tips. Forthwith he made Within a consecrated crucible A fire of citron-wood and cinnamon; Then splashed the flames with incense, mingling all With the strong influence of fervent prayer; And, as the smoke arose, he bowed her head Into its coils, that so she might inhale Its salutary odour—till the fiend That dwelt within her should be exorcised. Her face once more grew pale with pain; she writhed In burning torment, uttering many words Of most unhallowed meaning! Yet her eyes Were fixed the while, and motionless her lips! Whereby the rabbi certainly perceived ’Twas not the woman of herself that spake, But the dread spirit that possessed her soul, And thus it cried aloud. -------------------------------------------------------------------------------- 225 Part II. “WHY am I here, in this my last resort, Perturbed with incense and anointings? Why Compelled to listen to the sound of prayers That smite me through as with the fire of God? O pain, pain, pain! Is not this chamber full Of the implacable stern punishers? Full of avenging angels, holding each A scourge of thunder in his potent hand, Ready to lighten forth! And then, thus armed, For ever chase and wound us as we fly! Nor end with this—but, in each wound they make, Pour venom sweltered from that tree As-gard, Whose deadly shadow in its blackness falls Over the lake of everlasting doom! “Five hundred years ago, I, who thus speak, Was an Egyptian of the splendid court Of Ptolemy Philadelphus. To the top Of mountainous power, though roughened with unrest, And girt with dangers as with thunder-clouds, Had I resolved by all resorts to climb; By truth and falsehood, right and wrong alike; And I did climb! Then firmly built in power Second alone to my imperial lord’s, I crowned with its impunity my lust Of beauty, sowing broadcast everywhere Such sensual baits wide round me, as should lure Through pleasure, or through interest entrap, The fairest daughters of the land, and lo! Their lustrous eyes surcharged with passionate light The chambers of my harem! But at length Wearied of these, though sweet, I set my heart On riches, heaped to such a fabulous sum As never one man’s hoard in all the world Might match; and to acquire them, steeped my life In every public, every private wrong, In lies, frauds, secret murders; till at last A favoured minion I had trusted most, And highest raised, unveiled before the king The dark abysmal badness of my life; But dearly did he rue it; nor till then Guessed I how deadly grateful was revenge! 226 I stole into his chamber as he slept, And with a sword, whose double edge for hours I had whetted for the purpose of the deed, There staked him through the midriff to his bed. I fled; but first I sent, as oft before, A present to the household of the man Who had in secret my betrayer bribed. Twas scented wine, and rich Damascus cakes; On these he feasted, and fell sudden down, Rolling and panting in his dying pangs, A poisoned desert dog! “But I had fled. A swift ship bore me, which my forecast long Had kept prepared against such need as this. Over the waves three days she proudly rode; Then came a mighty storm, and trampled all Her masted bravery flat, and still drove on The wave-swept ruin towards a reefy shore! Meanwhile amongst the terror-stricken crew An ominous murmur went from mouth to mouth; They grouped themselves in councils, and, ere long, Grew loud and furious with surmises wild, And maniac menaces, all aimed at me! My fugitive head it was at which so loud The thunder bellowed! The wild-shrieking winds And roaring waters held in vengeful chase Me only! Me! Whose signal crimes alone Had brought on us this anger of the gods! And thus reproaching me with glaring eyes, They would have seized and slain me, but I sprang Back from amongst them, and, outstriking, stabbed With sudden blow their leader to the heart; Then, with my poniard scaring off the rest, Leaped from the deck, and swimming reached the shore, From which, in savage triumph, I beheld The battered ship, with all her howling crew, Heel, and go down, amid the whelming waves. “Inland my course now lay for many days, O’er barren hills and glens, whose herbless scopes Never grew luminous with a water gleam, 227 Or heard the pleasant bubble of a brook, For vast around the Afric desert stretched. Starving and sun-scorched and afire with thirst, I wandered ever on, until I came To where, amid the dun and level waste, In frightful loneliness, a mouldered group Of ancient tombs stood ghostly. Here at last, Utterly spent, in my despair I lay Down on the burning sand, to gasp and die! When from among the stones a withered man, Old-seeming as the desert where he lived, Came and stood by me, saying ‘get thee up! Not much have I to give, but these at least I offer to thy need, water and bread.’ “Then I arose and followed to his cell,— A dismal cell, that seemed itself a tomb, So lightless was it, and so foul with damp, And at its entrance there were skulls and bones. Long and deep drank I of the hermit’s draught, And munched full greedily the hermit’s bread; But with the strength which thence my frame derived, Fierce rage devoured me, and I cursed my fate! Whereat the withered creature laughed in scorn, And mocked me with the malice of his eyes, That sometimes, like a snake’s, shrank small, and then Enlarging blazed as with infernal fire! Then, on a sudden, with an oath that seemed To wake a stir in the grey musty tombs, As if their silence shuddered, he averred That he could life me once more to the height Of all my wishes—nay, even higher, but On one condition only. Dared I swear, By the dread angel of the second death, I would be wholly his, both body and soul, After a hundred years? “Why should I not? I answered, quivering with a stormy haste, A rampart unreluctance! For so great Was still my fury against all mankind, And my desire of pomp and riches yet 228 So monstrous, that I felt I could have drunk Blood, fire, or worse, to wear again the power That fortune, working through my enemies’ hands, Had stript away from me. So, word by word, I swore the oath as he repeated it; Nor much it moved me, in my eagerness, To feel a damp and earthy odour break Out of each tomb, from which there darkling rose At every word a hissing as of snakes; And yet the fell of hair upon my scalp Rose bristling under a cold creeping thrill: But I failed not, I swore the dread oath through, And then the tombs grew silent as their dead. But through my veins a feeling of strong youth Coursed bold along, and summered in my heart, Till there before him in my pride I stood In stately strength, and swift as is the wind, Magnificant as a desert-nurtured steed Of princeliest pedigree, with nostrils wide Dilated, and with eyes effusing flame. ‘Begone,’ he said, ’and live thy hundred years Of splendour, power, pleasure, ease.’ His voice Sighed off into the distance. He was gone: Only a single raven, far aloft, Was beating outwards with its sable wings; The tombs had vanished, and the desert grey Merged its whole circle with the bending sky. -------------------------------------------------------------------------------- Part III. “OUT of these wilds to Egypt I returned: Men thought that I had perished with the ship, And no one knew me now, because my face And form were greatly changed,—from passing fair To fairer yet; from manly, to a pile So nobly built, that in all eyes I seemed Beauteous as Thammuz! And my heart was changed; Ambition wilder than a leopard’s thirst 229 For blood of roe, or flying hart, possessed My spirit, like the madness of a god! But this I yet even in its fiercest strain Could curb and guide with sovereign strength of will. From small beginnings onward still I worked, Stepping as up a stair from rival head To rival head,—from high to higher still, Unto the loftiest post that might be held Under the Ptolemies; and meantime paid Each old unsettled score, defeating those Who erst had worked against me, sweeping them Out of all posts, all places; for though time And change had wide dispersed them through the land, The sleuth-hounds of my vengeance found them out! Which things not being in a corner done, What wonder was it that all Egypt now, From end to end, even like a shaken hive, Buzzed as disturbed with my portentous fame? “And what to me were secret enemies? Had I not also spies, who could pin down A whisper in the dark and keep it there? Could dash a covert frown by the same means An open charge had challenged? Hence my name Became a sound that struck through every heart Ineffable dismay! And yet behold There more I trampled on mankind, the more Did fawning flatterers praise me as I swept Like a magnificant meteor through the land! The more I hurled the mighty from their seats, And triumphed o’er them prostrate in the dust, The human hounds that licked my master hand But multiplied the more! And still I strode From bad to worse, corrupting as I went, Making the lowly ones more abject yet; Awing as with a thunder-bearing hand The high and affluent; while I bound the strong To basest service, even with chains of gold. All hated, cursed and feared me, for in vain Daggers were levelled at my brazen heart— They glanced, and slew some minion at my side Poison was harmless as a heifer’s milk When I had sipped it with my lips of scorn; 230 All that paraded pomp and smiling power Could draw against me from the envious hearts Of men in will as wicked as myself I challenged, I encountered, and o’erthrew! “But, after many years, exhaustion sere Spread through the branches of my tree of life; My forces flagged, my senses more and more Were blunted, and incapable of joy; The splendours of my rank availed me not; A poverty as naked as a slave’s Peered from them mockingly. The pride of power That glowed so strong within me in my youth Was now like something dying at my heart. To cheat or stimulate my jaded taste, Feasts, choice or sumptuous, were devised in vain; there was disfavour, there was fraud within, Like that which filled the fair-appearing rind Of those delusive apples that of old Grew on the Dead Sea shore. “And yet, though thus All that gave pleasure to my younger life Was withering from my path like summer grass, I still had one intense sensation, which Grew ever keener as my years increased— A hatred of mankind; to pamper which I gloated, with a burning in my soul, Over their degradation; and like one Merry with wine, I revelled day by day In scattering baits that should corrupt them more: The covetous I sharpened into thieves, Urged the vindictive, hardened the malign, Whetted the ruffian with self-interest, And flung him then, a burning brand, abroad. And the decadence of the state in which My fortunes had recast me, served me well. Excess reeled shameless in the court itself, Or, staggering thence, was rivalled by the wild Mad looseness of the crowd. Down to its death The old Greek dynasty was sinking fast; Waste and pale want, extortion, meanness, fraud— 231 These, welling outwards from the throne itself, Spread through the land. “But now there seized my soul A new ambition—from his feeble throne To hurl the king, and mount thereon myself! To this end still I lured him into ill, And daily wove around him cunning snares, That reached and trammelled too his fawning court; And all went well, the end at last was near, But in my triumph one thing I forgot— My name was measured. At a banquet held In the king’s chamber, lo! A guest appeared, Chief of a Bactrian tribe, who tendered gold To pay for some great wrong his desert horde Had done our caravans; his age, men said, Was wonderful; his craft more wondrous still; For this his fame had spread through many lands, And the dark seekers of forbidden lore Knew his decrepit wretch to be their lord. “The first glance that I met of his weird eye Had sent into my soul a fearful doubt That I had seen that cramp-shrunk withered form And strange bright eye in some forgotten past. But at the dry croak of his raven voice Remembrance wok; I knew that I beheld The old man of the tombs: I saw, and fell Into the outer darkness of despair. The day that was to close my dread account Was come at last. The long triumphant feast Of life had ended in a funeral treat. I was to die—to suffer with the damned The hideous torments of the second death! The days, weeks, months of a whole hundred years Seemed crushed into a thought, and burning out In that brief period which was left me now. “Stung with fierce horror, shame, and hate I fled; I seized my sword, to plunge its ready point Into my maddened heart, but on my arm I felt a strong forbidding grasp! I turned; 232 The withered visage of the Bactrian met My loathing eyes; I struggled to be free From the shrunk wretch in vain; his spidery hands Were strong as fetters of Ephesian brass, And all my strength, though now with madness strung, Was as a child’s to his. He calmly smiled: ‘Forbear, thou fool! Am I not Sammael? Whom to resist is vain, and from whom yet Has never mercy flowed; for what to me Are feelings which thou knowest even in men Are found the most in fools. But wide around A prince of lies I reign. ’Tis I that fill the Persian palaces with lust and wrong, Till like the darkling heads of sewers they flow With a corruption that in fretting thence Taints all the region round with rankest ill; ’Tis I that clot the Bactrian sand with blood; And now I come to fling the brands of war Through all this people, this most ill-mixed mob, Where Afric’s savage hordes meet treacherous Greeks, And swarming Asia’s luxury-wasted sons. This land throughout shall be a deluge soon Of blood and fire, till ruin stalk alone, A grisly spectre, in its grass-grown marts.’ The fiery eyes within his withered face Glowed like live coals, as he triumphant spake, And his strange voice, erewhile so thin and dry, Came as if bellowed from the vaults of doom. Prone fell I, powerless to move or speak; And now he was about to plunge me down Ten thousand times ten thousand fathoms deep Through the earth’s crust, and through the slimy beds Of nether ocean—down! Still down, below The darkling roots of all this upper world Into the regions of the courts of hell! “To stamp me downward to the convict dead His heel was raised, when suddenly I heard Him heave a groan of superhuman pain, So deep twas drawn! And as he groaned, I saw A mighty downburst of celestial light 233 Enwrap his shrivelled form from head to foot, As with a robe within whose venomous folds He writhed in torment. Then above him stood A shining shape, unspeakably sublime, And gazed upon him! One of the high sons Of Paradise, who still keep watch and ward O’er Israel’s progeny, where’er dispersed; And now they fought for me with arms that filled The air wide round with flashes and swift gleams Of dazzling light; full soon the Evil One Fell conquered. Then forth sprang he from the ground And with dark curses wrapped him in a cloud That moved aloft, low thundering as it went. “And then the shining son of paradise Came where I lay and spoke, his glorious face Severe with wrath, and yet divinely fair— ‘O Child of Guilt! Should vengeance not be wrought On thee as well? On Sammael’s willing slave?’ I clasped his radiant knees—I wept—I groaned— I beat my bosom in my wild distress. At last the sacred Presence, who had held The blow suspended still, spoke thus: ‘Thou’rt spared; From no weak pity, but because thou art Descended from the line of Israel: For that cause spared;—yet must thou at my hand Find some meet punishment.’ And as he spake, He laid his hand with a life-crushing weight Upon my forehead—and I fell, as dead! -------------------------------------------------------------------------------- Part IV. “AWAKING as from sleep, I bounded up, Stung with a feeling of enormous strength, Though yet half wild with horror. Onward then Ramping I went, out through the palace gates, Down the long streets, and into the highways, Forth to the wilds, amazed at my own speed! 234 And now afar, in long-drawn line appeared A caravan upon its outward way Over the desert of Pentapolis. And strange the instinct seemed that urged me then to rush amongst them—and devour: for I Was fierce with hunger, and inflamed with thirst. “Amidst a laggard company I leaped That rested yet beside a cooling spring; One of those clear springs that, like giant pearls, Inlay the burning borders of the grey Enormous desert. All at once they rose! Some fled, some threw themselves amongst the brakes, Some seized their swords and lances; this to see Filled me at once with a mysterious rage And savage joy! The sternness of their looks, Their fearful cries, the gleaming of their spears Seemed to insult me, and I rushed on them. Then sudden spasms of pain searched deep my side, Wherein a fell lance quivered. On I rushed; I roared a roar that startled e’en myself, So loud and hoarse and terrible its tone, Then bounding, irresistible it seemed As some huge fragment from a crag dislodged, Against the puny wretch that sent the lance, Instantly tore him, as he were a kid, All into gory shreds! The others fled At sight of this, nor would I chase them then, All wearied by my flight. Besides, the well Was gleaming in its coolness by me there. “And as I stooped to quench my parching thirst, Behold, reversed within the water clear, The semblance of a monstrous lion stood! I saw his shaggy mane, I saw his red And glaring eyeballs rolling in amaze, His rough and grinning lips, his long sharp fangs All foul with gore and hung with strings of flesh! I shrank away in horrible dismay. But as the sun each moment fiercer grew, I soon returned to stoop and slake my thirst. Again was that tremendous presence there Standing reversed, as erewhile, in the clear 235 And gleaming mirror of the smiling well! The horrid truth smote like a rush of fire Upon my brain! The dreadful thing I saw Was my own shadow! I was a wild beast.” “They did not fable, then, who held that oft The guilty dead are punished in the shapes Of beasts, if brutal were their lives as men.” “Long lapped I the cool lymph, while still my tongue Made drip for drip against the monstrous one, Which, as in ugly mockery, from below Seemed to lap up against it. But though thirst Was quenched at length, what was there might appease The baffled misery of my fated soul? The thought that I no more was human, ran Like scorpion venom through my mighty frame; Fiercely I bounded, tearing up the sands, That, like a drab mist, coursed me as I went Out on my homeless track. I made my fangs Meet in my flesh, trusting to find in pain Some respite from the anguish of regret. From morn to night, from night to morn, I fled, Chased by the memory of my lost estate; Then, worn and bleeding, in the burning sands I lay down, as to die. In vain!—in vain! The savage vigour of my lion-life Might yield alone to the long tract of time. “From hill to valley rushing after prey, With whirlwind speed, was now my daily wont, For all things fled before me—all things shrank In mortal terror at my shaggy front. Sometimes I sought those close-fenced villages, Wherein the desert-dwellers hide their swart And naked bodies from the scorching heats, Hoping that I might perish by their shafts. And often was I wounded—often bore Their poisoned arrows in my burning flesh— But still I lived. “The tenor of my life 236 Was always this—the solitary state Of a wild beast of prey, that hunted down The antelope, the boar, the goat, the gorged Their quivering flesh, and lapped their steaming blood; Then slept till hunger, or the hunter’s cry, Roused him again to battle or to slay, To flight, pursuit, blood, stratagem, and wounds. And to make this rude life more hideous yet, I still retained a consciousness of all The nobler habits of my eariler time, And had a keen sense of what most had moved My nature as a man, and knew besides That this my punishment was fixed by One Too mighty to be questioned, and too just One tittle of its measure to remit. “How long this haggard course of life went on I might not even guess, for I had lost The human faculty that measures time. But still from night to night I found myself Roaming the desert, howling at the moon, Whose cold light always, as she poured it down, Awoke a drear distemper in my brain: But much I shunned the sunblaze, which at once Inflamed me, and revealed my dread approach. “Homelessly roaming thus for evermore, The tempests beat on my unsheltered bulk, In those bleak seasons when the drenching rains Drove into covert all those gentler beasts That were my natural prey. I swinkt beneath The furnace heats of the midsummer sun, When even the palm of the oasis stood All withered, like a weed: and for how long, Yet knew not. “Thus the sun and moon arose Through an interminable tract of time, And yet though sense was dim, the view of all My human life was ever at my beck, Nay, opened out before me of itself Plain as the pictures in a wizard’s glass! 237 I saw again the trains that round my car Streamed countless, saw its pageants and its pomps, Its faces fair and passionate, and felt Lie’s eager pleasures, even its noble pangs! Then in the anguish of my goaded heart Would I roll howling in the burning sand. “At length this life of horror seemed to near Its fated bourn. The slow but sure approach Of old decay was felt in every limb And every function of my lion frame. My massive strength seemed spent, my speed was gone, The antelope escaped me! Wearily I sought a mountain cavern, shut from day By savage draperies of tangled briers, And only dragged my tardy bulk abroad When hunger urged. It chanced on such a day I sprange amid a herd of buffaloes And tore their leader down, who bellowing fell. When, lo! The chief of those that drove them came Against me, and I turned my rage on him: But though the long lapse of so many years Of ever-grinding wretchedness had dulled My memory, I felt that I had seen His withered visage twice before; and straight A shuddering awe subdued me, and I crouched Beneath him in the dust. My lust of blood, My ruthless joy at sight of mortal pain, Within me died, and if in human speech I might have told the wild desire that filled My being, I had prayed him once for all To crush me out of life, and to consign My misery to the pit of final death! But when, all hopeless, I again looked up, The tawney presence of the desert chief Was gone, and I beheld the shining son Of paradise, from whose majestic brow There flashed the lightings of a wrath divine. Yea, twas the angel that with Sammael Had fought for me in Egypt; and once more He laid his crushing had upon my front; And earth and sky, and all that in them is, 238 Became to me a darkness, swimming blank In the Eternal, round that point where now My body lay, stretched dead upon the sand. -------------------------------------------------------------------------------- Part V. “AGAIN I lived—again I felt. But now The winds of heaven seemed under me, and I Was sweeping, like the spirit of a storm That bellowed round me, in its murky glooms, All heaving with a motion wide and swift That seemed yet mightier than the darkling swells Of ocean, wrestling with a midnight gale! The wild winds tossed me; I was drenched throughout With heavy moisture, and at intervals Amid the ragged gaps of moving cloud, Methought I caught dim glimpses of the sun Hanging aloft, as if in drear eclipse; But as my senses cleared, I saw my limbs Were clothed with plumage; and long-taloned claws Were closing eagerly with fierce desire And sudden hunger after blood and prey! An impulse to pursue and to destroy Both on the earth and in the air, ran quick Out from my heart and shivered in my wings; And as a thing more central yet, I felt Pregnant within me, throned o’er all, a lone And sullen, yet majestic, glow of pride. “’Twas plain that I, who had aforetime been Crushed out of human being into that Of a wild beast, had thence again passed on Into the nature of some mighty thing That now swept sailing on wide van-like wings, Amid the whirls of an aërial gloom, That out extending in one mighty cope Hung heaving, like a black tent-roof, o’er all The floor of Africa. 239 “Still on I swept, And still as far as my keen vision went, That now was gifted with a power that seemed To pierce all space, I saw the vapours roll In dreadful continuous of black And shapeless masses, by the winds convulsed; But soon in the remotest distance came A change: the clouds were touched with sunny light, And, as I nearer drew, I saw them dash, Like the wild surges of an uproused sea Of molten gold, against the marble sides Of lofty mountains, which, though far below My flight, yet pierced up through them all, and stood With splintered cones and monster-snouted crags, Immovable as fate. Beneath me, lo! The grandeur of the kingdom of the air Was circling in its magnitude! It was A dread magnificence of which before I might not even dream. I saw its quick And subtle interchange of forms and hues, Saw its black reservoirs of densest rain, Its awful forges of the thunderstorm. “At last, as onward still I swept, above A milky mass of vapour far outspread, Behold, reflected in its quiet gleam, I saw an image that swept on with me, Reversed as was the lion’s in the well, With van-like wings, with eyeballs seething fire, With taloned claws, and cruel down-bent beak,— The mightiest eagle that had ever sailed The seas of space since Adam named the first! “My fated soul had passed into the form Of that huge eagle which swept shadowed there. Cold horror thrilled me! I was once again Imprisoned in the being of a brute, In the base being of a nature yet Inferior by what infinite descent To that poor remnant of intelligence Which still kept with me,—like a put-back soul Burningly conscious of its powers foregone, 240 Its inborn sovreignty of kind, and yet So latent, self-less; once again to live A life of carnage, and to sail abroad A terror to all birds and gentle beasts That heard the stormy rushings of my wings! A royal bird indeed, who lived alone In the great stillness of the mighty hills, Or in the highest heavens. “But in truth Not much for many seasons had I need To search for prey, for countless hosts of men, Forth mustering over all the face of earth, Cast the quick gleam of arms o’er trampled leagues Of golden corn, and as they onward marched They left behind them seas of raging fire, In whose red surges cities thronged with men And happy hamlets, homes of health and peace, That rang erewhile with rural thankfulness, Were whelmed in one wide doom; or in their strength Confronted upon some set field of fight, Their sullen masses charged with dreadful roar That far out-yelled the fiercest yells of beasts, And with brute madness rushed on wounds and death; Or else about fenced cities they would pitch Their crowded camps, and leaguer them for years, Sowing the fields about them with a slime Of carnage, till their growths were plagues alone. What is the ravage made by brutes on brutes To that man makes on man? “With mingled pain And joy I saw the wondrous ways of men, (For ever when I hungered, close at hand, Some fresh slain man lay smoking in his gore) And though the instincts of the eagle’s life Were fierce within me, yet I felt myself Cast in a lot more capable of joy; Safe from pursuit, from famine, and from wounds. Some solaces, though few and far between, Were added to me; and I argued thence, In the dark musings of my eagle heart, 241 That not for ever was my soul condemned To suffer in the body of a brute; For though remembrance of the towering crimes And matchless lusts, that filled my whole career Of human life, worked in me evermore, No longer did they shed about my life So venomous a blight. Nay, I could think How often I had looked with longing eyes Up at the clear Egyptian heavens, and watched The wings that cleft them, envying every bird That, soaring in the sunshine, seemed to be Exempt from all the grovelling cares of men. I thought how once, when with my hunting train I pierced that region round the cataracts, I watched an eagle as it rose aloft Into the lovely blue, and wished to change My being with it as it floated on, So inaccessible to hate or hurt, So peaceful, at a height in heaven so safe; And then it passed away through gorgeous clouds Against the sunset, through the feathered flags Of royal purple edged with burning gold. “These fields of space were my dominion now; Motion alone within a world so rich Was something noble: but to move at will, Upward or forward, or in circles vast, Through boundless spaces with a rushing speed No living thing might rival, and to see The glory of the everlasting hills Beneath me, and the myriad-peopled plains, Broad rivers, and the towery towns that sate Beside their spacious mouths, with out beyond The lonely strength of the resounding seas— This liberty began to move my sense As something godlike; and in moving made A sure impression that kept graining still Into the texture of my brute estate— Yea, graining in through all its fleshy lusts And savage wonts. “Hence ever more and more 242 The temper of a better spirit grew Within me, as from inkling roots, and moved E’en like an embryon in its moist recess: A sensibility to beauteous things As now I saw them in the heavens displayed, And in the bright luxuriance of the earth; Some power of just comparison, some sense Of how a man would rank them, could he see Those earthly grandeurs from the sovreign height Whence I beheld them. And with this a wish To commune even with the human race, And pour the loftier wonders of my life Into their ears, through a rich-worded song Whose golden periods in mellow flow Should witch all ears that heard them—ev’n old men s, Ev’n jaded monarchs; not to speak of theirs, Those spirit-lovely ones—yea, moons of love, That rise at first in the Circassian hills— And they should tingle all like tiny shells Of roseate whiteness to its perfect chords. “One day amid the mountains of the moon, Behold a sudden storm had gatherd up Out of my view, hid by a neighbouring height, But which, thence wheeling with terrific force, Wide tossed me with its gusts—aloft, and then Downward as far; then whirlingly about, Ev’n like a withered leaf. My strength of wing Availed me nought, so mightily it raged; Then suddenly, in the dim distance, lo! I saw, as from the storm’s Plutonian heart, A mass of white-hot light come writing forth, And then the figure of a withered man Seemed dropping headlong through the lurid clouds; While full within the radiant light, again The conquering son of paradise appeared, Upon whose brow divine I yet might trace Some sing of wrath. Onward the vision rushed, Orbed in white light. I felt a stifling heat, One cruel blasting pang, and headlong then Fell earthward—dead; a plumb descending mass. 243 -------------------------------------------------------------------------------- Part VI. “WITHIN a rustic chamber, dark and low, Thronged with wild-looking men and women strange, I seemed to waken. Inwardly I felt No briskness of existence, but a sense Of languor rather, or revival slow: And evermore the men and women came And gazed upon me, shouting in amaze, Then would they whirl about the room in dance, Abandoned to their barbarous delight. “I turned mine eyes about the low-roofed room, Half fearing and half hoping I might see The mighty angel that now ruled my life; They thought I needed air, and I was borne to a low casement. Like a picture lay The world without. On all sides wide around Nothing but mountains, feathered to their tops With a dense growth of pines, and valleys filled With a cold darkness that was lit alone By the broad flashes of the furious streams That leaped in thunder our of marble gaps! Dull vapours, like a canopy of smoke, Did so obscure the sun, that I had thought The scene that now I saw was not of earth, But for a golden flush that now and then Would touch the highest ranges. What I was I knew not, but I felt my former wants, And oft I made vain efforts to expand The wings I had no longer, and sail off, And through those sullen vapours—up, and up— Into the mighty silence of the blue. “The day was fading, and a blare of horns, With many voices and much trampling noise, Heard from without, aroused me; and, ere long, Women rushed in, each bearing some rich robe Or some gay bauble, wherewithal they next 244 Arrayed me to their taste; and then they held A mirror up before me, and I saw My soul had this time passed into the form Of a fair damsel. She, whose form I now Re-animated, was—so learned I soon— The only child of a Circassian chief, Who had been long regarded by her house As its chief treasure, for her beauty rare; Reserved for him, no matter whence he came, Whose hand could dip into the longest purse. But envy lurks in the Circassian hills As elsewhere, and a dose of opium, Administered by one who had been long The rival beauty of a neighbouring tribe, Had served to quash a bargain quite complete Save in the final payment of the gold, Which had been even offered and told down, And only not accepted, through some old Delaying ceremony of the tribe; And in this luckless circumstances, twas plain That both my admirable parents saw The unkindest turn of all. “On all hands forth Had scouts been sent to summon the whole tribe To attend my obsequies, and then forthwith Exterminate our ancient enemies Through all their tents—such was the fierce resolve. But while these things were pending, lo! The light Had broken like a new morn from the eyes Of the dead beauty; on her cheeks had dawned A roseate colour; from her moistening lips Low murmurs, too, had broken; whereupon My parents in exulting hope transformed The funeral to a general tribal feast, And loaded me with all the ancient gauds And ornaments they held. The Persian, too, Had been invited to renew his suit, And carry me at once beyond the reach Of future opium doses. “Soon he came 245 Galloping back to bear me to the arms Of his long-bearded lord. He paid the price; My worthy parents took a fond farewell Of me, with tears declaring me to be The life-light of their eyes, their rose of joy,— Then stretched their palms out for the stranger’s gold, And hurried off to count it o’er again— The dear recovered treasure they so late Had mourned as lost for ever. On that night I was packed neatly on a camel’s back Beside a precious case of porcelain pipes, And carried Persia-ward, by stages safe, From the Circassian mountains. “At the court I soon became the favourite of the king; Lived sumptuously, but in perpetual fear: For all my luxury and gold and gems, I envied the poor slaves who swept the floors. I was the favourite of my Persian lord For one whole month, perhaps a little more, And then I learned my place was to be filled; And though I loathed him, as we loathe some cold And reptile creature, yet I could not bear To see a newer rival take my place, For I was beautiful, and therefore vain: So, that I might regain his favour past, I now arrayed myself in airy robes, While scarfs of purple like an orient queen’s Barred them with brilliant tints, and gold and pearls Confined the wavelets of my sunny hair. “The harem all applauded, and there seemed Even in his own dull eyes almost a flash As of extorted joy, but this became At the next moment a malignant scowl, Which had its dark cause in such thoughts as these: ‘What! Did so soft and ignorant a thing Hope to enchant again a man so wise As he was—he! The paragon of kings! By floating in before him like a swan, A little better feathered than before?’ 246 And then he waved the harem ladies forth, And with him kept only a Nubian girl, Whom he thought dull, and altogether his: A conclave of those strange demoniac dwarfs Who from their secret dens and crypts would come On given signals forth, was summoned in: Wizard-like beings, with enormous heads, Splay-feet, and monstrous spider-fingered hands. Nor was the council long; I on that night Was to be poisoned with a pomegranate. Then stole the Nubian girl away, and brought Me word of all; yet her news moved me not, So sure I felt that this was not my doom; Or moved me only to prepare for flight With the poor Nubian girl. Unseen I came To my own chamber, where I packed my goods; And whence, unseen by all, we swiftly fled. ’Twas plain and patent to my inmost self That in this last change I had always been Regenerating more and more; for though I had a love of mischief in my head, At heart I was not bad, and they who knew Me closely, or at least the woman sort, Loved me,—nay, served me, as the Nubian did. And now, as no one else might sell me,—lo! I sold myself, and found myself installed Queen of a rude baboon-like Afric king. “Then I was captive to a Bedouin sheik, Was sold in the slave-mart of Astrachan, And carried thence to India, to be crowned A rajahpoot’s sultana; from which state Flying at length, I fell into a worse, Being pounced on by a Turkoman horse-stealer. At Alexandra I became the slave Of a harsh Roman matron, who was wont To flog and famish me to make me good, And when I owned myself converted, then She flogged and famished me the more, to make My goodness lasting; and I finally Fell stabbed in Cairo—slaughtered by a slave. 247 -------------------------------------------------------------------------------- Part VII. “AFTER some short and intermediate terms Of transmigration, all in female forms, In which, through kindly offices performed, It seemed the temper of my spirit much Had humanized, and in the last of which Twas mine to die for once a natural death, Again I had some deep-down hold on being, Dim as an oyster’s in its ocean-bed; Then came a sense of light and air, of space, Of hunger, comfort, warmth, of sight and sound I caught at length the drift of speech, and knew That all who came to see me and admire Called me Ben Bachai’s daughter. “Dark indeed, But lovely as a starry night I grew, A maid, the glory of her father’s house, Her mother’s dovelet, filling all her wonts With tenderness and joy. Still as I grew, By strange degrees the memory of all That I had been came back upon my mind To fill it with wild sorrow and dismay; To know I was a cheat, nor wholly what I seemed to my fond parents—that I was But half their daughter, and the rest a fiend, With a fiend’s destiny,—ah! This, I say, Would smite me even in dreams with icy pangs Or wordless woe, yea, even while I slept So innocently as it seemed, and so Securely happy in the arms of love!” As this was said, the Rabbi looked, and saw That now again the woman seemed to speak As of herself, and not as heretofore With moveless lips, and prisoned voice, that came As from some dark duality within. 248 Her looks had changed, too, with the voice, and now Again she lay, a queen-like creature, racked With mortal sufferings, who, when these grew less, Or for a time remitted, even thus Took up her tale again. “At length upgrown To womanhood, by some mysterious pact Existing twixt my father’s house and that Of an Arabian prince time out of mind, I was now wedded ere I wished, and he, My husband, finally had come to claim And bear me from my home, that happiest home Which I should know no more: a man most fair To look upon, but void of force, in truth The weakling of a worn-out line, who yet (What merit in a prince!) Was not depraved, Not wicked, not the mendicant of lust, But mild, and even affectionate and just. My dowry was immense, and flushed with this The prince had summoned from his vassal tribe Five hundred horse, all spearmen, to escort And guard us desert-ward. And as we went These ever and anon, at signal given, Would whirl around us like a thunder-cloud Wind-torn, and shooting instant shafts of fire! And thus we roamed about the Arabian wastes, Pitching our camp amid the fairest spots. Beneath an awning oft I lay, and gazed Out at the cloudless ether, where it wrapt The silent hills, like to a conscious power Big with the soul of an eternal past. “But long this life might last not, for the prince Sickened and died;—died poor, his wealth and mine Having been squandered on the hungry horde That wont to prance about us; who ere long, Divining my extremity, grew loud And urgent for rewards, till on a day, By concert as it seemed, the tribe entire Came fiercely round me, all demanding gifts, Gifts that I had not; as they nearer pressed, 249 Wearing his way among them, lo! I saw The old man of the tombs! The Bactrian sage! With signs of awe they made him room to pass; He fixed me with his shrunk and serpent eyes, Waved off the abject Arabs, and then asked ‘Why art thou poor? With needs so great upon thee? I offer thee long life and wealth and power.’ “I turned to him and said: ‘Should I not know, By all the past, the nature of thy gifts? Shows and delusions, evil, sin-stained all, And terminating in eternal loss.’ ‘Well, take it as thou wilt,’ he said; ‘my gifts Are not so weighed by all.’ And saying this He went his way, while I retired within My lonely tent to weep. “Next day the tribes Again assembled, and with threats and cries, And insults loud, they raised a passion in me. My blood arose: I chid them angrily, Called them all things but men, till they, alarmed, Fell back in sullen silence for a while, Crouching like tigers ready for a spring. Humbled, perplexed, and frightened, I returned Into my tent, and there within its folds Stood the weird Bactrian with his snaky eyes, And wiry voice that questioned as before: ‘Why art thou poor? Why dost thou suffer wrong, With all this petty baseness brattling round? Am I not here to help thee? I, thy one Sole friend—not empty, but with ample means. Behold the secrets of the inner earth! There, down among the rock-roots of the hills, What seest thou there? Look, as I point, even those Strange miscreations, as they seem to thee, Are demoniac moilers that obey Such arts as I possess; the gnomish brood Of Demogorgon. See them how they moil Amid those diamonds shafts and reefs of gold Embedded in the oldest drifts of time, And in the mire that was the first crude floor 250 And blind extension of the infant earth: Why art thou poor, then, when such slaves as they Might work for thee, and glut thy need with all The matchless values which are there enwombed, Serving thee always as they now serve me? Nor these alone: turn thou thy looks aloft, And watch the stars as they go swimming past. Behold their vastness, each a world,’ he said; ‘The secrets of all these, too, thou shalt know, The spirits of all these shall be thy slaves, If thou wilt swear as erst amid the tombs.’ “The woe of desolation wrapped me round, The joy to know all mysteries tempted me, And with a shudder that shook me to the soul I swore, as erst I swore amid the tombs. “As on my hand he placed a signet-ring, Suddenly loud the desert winds arose, And blew with mighty stress among the tents; And instantly aloft the thunder ran, A mighty issue of miraculous light Burst shaft-like forward, smiting him in twain, Or so it seemed, down through the solid earth. In vain I shrunk into a dim recess; Before me stood the son of paradise. Then leapt the soul to life within my heart— Leapt into life with fear, and pain, and woe— Anger and sadness both were on his brow. “‘Could’st thou no trial bear—all but redeemed; Could’st thou not rest content? A rabbi’s child! Enjoy as best thou may this ill-won power Over the darker agencies of time, And bide the end, which end is punishment But the more terrible, the more delayed; Yet know this also, thou shalt thus no more Be punished in a body built of clay.’ He vanished, leaving me to sharp remorse, And harrowed with the thought of his grieved look. ‘And yet no power in heaven or hell,’ I said, ‘May now annul my deed.’ 251 “And not one day Of joy has brought to me my ‘ill-won power.’ I built vast palaces in quiet view Of ancient cities, or by famous streams; I filled my halls with men and women fair, And with these pages of a beauty rare Like striplings kidnapped from some skirt of heaven; Yet sorrowful of countenance withal, As knowing that their mortal doom is joined With mine irrevocably, that with me ’Tis theirs to own these shows of time, with me To live—with me to die. And as, ’tis said, A hunted roe will evermore beat round Towards whence he started first, I felt at length An ardent longing for my native place; That spot in all the earth where only I, In tasting of it, had divined the worth And Sabbath quality of household peace. Then coming hither, thus constrained, I pitched My dwelling here, even this thou seest; built fair, And filled with splendours such as never yet Under one roof-tree on this earth were stored. See yon surpassing lustres! Could this orb Show such? From Mars came that; from Venus this; And yonder mass of sun-bright glory, that From Mercury came, whence came these viols, too, Instinct with fervent music such as ne’er From earthly instruments might thrill abroad.” Then seizing one of them, even as she spake, Over its chords she moved her ivory hand, And instantly the palace domes throughout Rang resonant, as every hall and crypt Were pulsing music from a thousand shells That still ran confluent with a mellow slide And intercourse of cadence: sweet, and yet Most mournful and most weird, and oft intoned With a wild wilfulness of power that worked For madness more than joy. “Even such, ” she said “Are the delights with which I most converse In the dark loneness of my fated soul, 252 For all is show, not substance. All I hold But darkens more the certainty I have Of wrath to come, from which no change of place, No earthly power, no power of heaven nor hell, May shield me now. I see it shadowing forth Even like a coming night, in whose dark folds My soul would ask to hide itself in vain. And now I go to meet the angel’s face; I will not claim my hundred years of pride, I trample underneath my feet the gift For which I sold my soul; I will not touch The ring of Sammael, nor use his power To stay the torments that devour my life; Misery, shame, remorse, and dread are mine; Yet shall the angel see repentent eyes, And know at last I could one trial bear; Too late, too late.” As thus the woman spake, Her brow grew dark, and suddenly she shrieked In her great agony. “Oh pray for me! Pray, rabbi! For the daughter of thy friend! The hour is coming, nay, the hour is come!” There was a rustle as of wings aloft, A sudden flicker in the lights below, And she, who until now seemed speaking, sank Back on her pillow and in silence lay Beautiful in the marble calm of death. The rabbi gazed on her, and thought the while Of those far times, when, as a child, her grace Had filled with pleasantness her father’s house. Then to her servants gave in charge the corpse, And forth he paced, much musing as he went. At length he turned to gaze once more upon The silent house of death. Can such things be? All had evanished like a morning mist! Only the woods that hung like clouds about The steeps of Hebron, in the whitening dawn Lay dark against the sky! Only a pool Gleamed flat before him, where it seemed erewhile The splendid palace had adorned the view! 253 Perplexed in mind, the rabbi turned again And hurried homeward, muttering as he went: Was it a vision? Can such marvels be? But what in truth are all things, even those That seem most solid—dust and air at last ~ Charles Harpur,

1021:The Golden Age Long ere the Muse the strenuous chords had swept, And the first lay as yet in silence slept, A Time there was which since has stirred the lyre To notes of wail and accents warm with fire; Moved the soft Mantuan to his silvery strain, And him who sobbed in pentametric pain; To which the World, waxed desolate and old, Fondly reverts, and calls the Age of Gold. Then, without toil, by vale and mountain side, Men found their few and simple wants supplied; Plenty, like dew, dropped subtle from the air, And Earth's fair gifts rose prodigal as prayer. Love, with no charms except its own to lure, Was swiftly answered by a love as pure. No need for wealth; each glittering fruit and flower, Each star, each streamlet, made the maiden's dower. Far in the future lurked maternal throes, And children blossomed painless as the rose. No harrowing question `why,' no torturing `how,' Bent the lithe frame or knit the youthful brow. The growing mind had naught to seek or shun; Like the plump fig it ripened in the sun. From dawn to dark Man's life was steeped in joy, And the gray sire was happy as the boy. Nature with Man yet waged no troublous strife, And Death was almost easier than Life. Safe on its native mountains throve the oak, Nor ever groaned 'neath greed's relentless stroke. No fear of loss, no restlessness for more, Drove the poor mariner from shore to shore. No distant mines, by penury divined, Made him the sport of fickle wave or wind. Rich for secure, he checked each wish to roam, And hugged the safe felicity of home. Those days are long gone by; but who shall say Why, like a dream, passed Saturn's Reign away? Over its rise, its ruin, hangs a veil, 486 And naught remains except a Golden Tale. Whether 'twas sin or hazard that dissolved That happy scheme by kindly Gods evolved; Whether Man fell by lucklessness or pride,Let jarring sects, and not the Muse, decide. But when that cruel Fiat smote the earth, Primeval Joy was poisoned at its birth. In sorrow stole the infant from the womb, The agëd crept in sorrow to the tomb. The ground, so bounteous once, refused to bear More than was wrung by sower, seed, and share. Ofttimes would ruthless winds or torrents raze The ripening fruit of toilsome nights and days. Each one in turn grew jealous of his own, And fenced his patch with ditch and churlish stone. As greed uprose, and greed engendered strife, Contention raged coincident with life. Man against man, maid against maiden turned, And the soft breast with envious passions burned. The loss of one was hailed as others' gain, And pleasure took unnatural birth from pain. Goaded by woe, and through tradition's lore Mindful of all the blissfulness of yore, The Human Race, its sorrows to assuage, Dreamed afar off a second Golden Age; Not in the dim irrevocable Past, But in a Future just as vague and vast. The prophet's lips, the poet's flattering pen, Revelled in forecasts of that golden Then. The days should come when grief would be no more, And Peace and Plenty rule from shore to shore; All men alike enjoy what none did earn, And even more than Saturn's Reign return. As years rolled on, as centuries went by, And still that Promised Time seemed no more nigh, Mankind at length, outwearied with delays, Gave up all hope of those seductive days. Then other prophets, other scribes arose, A nearer, surer Eden to disclose. `O, long-befooled!' they said, `awake, and deem The Past a tale, the Future but a dream. 487 Here, in the living Present, act your part, Straining its vulgar blessings to your heart. Let hand with hand and brain with brain contend, And each one labour to some selfish end. In wealth and riot, luxury and power, Baffle the mockery of the transient hour. If thousands fall, if tens of thousands bleed, Will not a hundred, or a score, succeed? Let those who cannot yield to those who canFate has its piles of victims; why not Man? Better a furious fight where some one wins, Than sluggish life which ends as it begins. Vain was the bard who, whilst the World was new, 'Twixt men and beasts the fond distinction drew, That these confine their downward gaze to earth, Whilst man looks up, enamoured of his birth. Not in the skies, but deep beneath the soil, There will you find your happiness and spoil. Enough for brutes its simple face to know, But godlike man must pierce and delve below. Deep in its bowels seek the shining ore, And at its touch shall Saturn reign once more. For him whose thews are sound, whose vision clear, Whose purpose firm, the Golden Age is here.' Never from cave or tripod, mount or glade, Issued a voice so welcomed, so obeyed. From zone to zone the Golden Gospel flew, And in its train mankind obedient drew. See from their seats the ancient Gods dethroned, Altars upset, and oracles disown'd. The Muses, scared, conceal the smothered lyre; No longer prized, the Graces swift retire; Virtue, a butt for ribalds, seeks her shroud, And even Venus veils herself in cloud. Religion, Ethics, all men erst adored, Hymned on the harp, or fought for with the sword, All lofty scopes, all ends esteemed of old, Dissolve like mist before the rage for gold. The priest for gold makes traffic of his robe; For gold the soldier desolates the globe; The poet shapes for gold his venal lays; 488 Through gold Vice stalks caparisoned with praise. Tempted by gold, the virgin sells her charms, Though no Immortal slips into her arms. Saddled with gold, the adventurer can buy Titles, precedence, place, and dignity. High, middle, low, the young, the ripe, the old, Man, woman, child, live, die, are damned for Gold. Soon as the youthful mind begins to ope, It searches Life's significance and scope; And, fed by generous impulse year by year, Dreams for itself some glorious career. Its shall it be, instructed by the Muse, Truth to abet, and beauty to diffuse; With full-blown sail, and genius at the helm, To steer men's thoughts to a serener realm. Perhaps the ingenuous boy would fain recall Tintoret's canvas, Memmi's fresco'd wall; With godlike pencil purify the mart, And life ennoble with the breath of Art. Maybe he burns, by Plato's failure fired, To scale the heights which every wing have tired, Seize first each part, then comprehend the whole, And solve the eternal problem of the Soul. Be these his aims, or, nobler still, to train His kind to mutiny till Virtue reign, Soon doth he learn to count his lovely schemes A host of bubbles in a world of dreams. Experience whispers early, Have a care! Who with the Muse would live must live on air. The tempting maid is but a poet's lie, `Who gave to song what gold could never buy.' Confront the world, take counsel with the throng; Their verdict what? `The thing's not worth a song.' Are you content you now have learnt your price? Come, sink the Muse, and don't be quite so nice. Start a new Company, and float the shares, Then lunch with Ministers and dine with Mayors. Pimp for a Party, praise a Premier's heart, Head a subscription, and then shine-a Bart. Return your income fifty thousand clearThe devil's in it, or you'll die a peer. 489 Success so great is never done by halves'Tis only virtue, when 'tis greatest, starves. Perhaps his breast, untutored yet to serve, Spurns the base counsel with a proud reserve; For Youth is stubborn, and when Nature draws, In vain a parent's warning, wisdom's saws. Let cravens straight their impotence confess, And sell their birthright for a filthy mess; In flowers see, bee-like, nought but stuff for hives, And for foul lucre prostitute their lives; They have not failed who never once have tried, Or, if they failed, they failed for want of pride. He, he at least his soul will ne'er demean, But 'mong the foul will keep his honour clean. O touching sight, to witness day by day His splendid generous day-dreams fade away! His sire reproaches, and his brothers scoff, His mother doubts, his sisters e'en fall off. The neighbours pity, strangers deem him mad; Girls, smiling, whisper, What a foolish lad! Meanwhile his compeers, started in the race, Are swiftly marching on to power and place. One makes a coup, and weds a wife of rank; Another's junior partner in a bank. A third in sugar with unscriptural hand, Traffics, and builds a lasting house on sand. A fourth, for beer and piety renowned, Owns all the publics in the country round; Its drink adulterates with face demure, But burns with zeal to keep opinion pure; Cares not one jot for bodies drunk or sick, But scans your soul like a new Dominick. The fifth, the patron of a new balloon, Projects a Company to reach the moon; Baits his prospectus with a batch of peers, And vows nought pays like money in the Spheres. Shares in the moon advanced-advancing still. Then comes a crash-stock guaranteed at nil. But sure, the man is ruined? Not at all; He scarce can tumble who has sense to crawl. 490 Your modern Icarus is much too wise On his own pinions to attempt the skiesOn others' soaring follies doth he rise. Long ere the bubble burst his shares were sold; Just at that moment he had need of gold. Singed wings, you know, are but for simple folk; He, with his peers, 'scapes safe from flame and smoke, And buys a borough with the happy stroke. Few are the souls who die for Cato's creed: To fail seems base, when all around succeed. Foiled in his purpose, both by foe and friend, Through noble means to reach a noble end, The baffled boy forswears his cherished dream, And learns to swim, like others, with the stream. Keen to recover precious moments lost, And taught by bitter tasks what Virtue cost, He midst the rush, whilst others rise and fall, Swims on, the most unscrupulous of all. Let others chouse with care, he cheats with pluck, And millions stake their all upon his luck. His daring overawes the small, the great, And whilst he plunders they but peculate. He lures the easy, makes the fat his spoil, Pares the lean wage of proletarian toil; Swindles the widow of her hoarded mite, Drags the poor pensioner once more to fight; Robs age of rest, and youth of prospects fair, Plunges the sanguine bridegroom in despair; Severs the ties made sacred long by home, And sends the son from sire across the foam; Dashes the faith of plighted swain and maid, And helps alone the cynic sexton's spade: Does all that well beseems a Fallen StarIt needs a Lucifer to fall so far! Sometimes will Fortune on the traitor scowl, And e'en with gold not pay a deed so foul. He who was born a glittering child of light, Trenchant as Raphael, as Ithuriel bright, Yet sells his soul a vulgar prize to reap, And for brute guerdons holds his honour cheap, 491 Too often finds that he who, grovelling, flies From unrewarded reverie in the skies, And seeks in venal efforts to employ The gifts God formed for beauty and for joy, Makes but a barren barter of his birth, And Heaven foregoes, without securing earth. See how he sinks! The more he strains to clutch Terrestrial spoil, unworthy of his touch, It seems, for him, to take elusive shapes, And like a shadow from his grasp escapes. As baser wax his aims, more mean his scope, More and still more he sprawls-the sport of Hope. Still as he tries to suffocate his soul, Farther beyond him seems the carnal goal. In vain he turns to catch the favouring gale; Becalmed he lies-he labours but to fail. Poor and despised, he now would fain retrace His erring steps to his first dwelling-place, But finds, alas! baseness hath borne its fruit; Wings long unused have withered at the root. He who in vain has crawled in vain would fly, And rots abandoned both by earth and sky. Meaner his end than that poor tradesman's doom, Who, asked what words of honour on his tomb His friends should place, with cynic touch replied, `Here lies who, born a man, a grocer died!' Whom doth this foe of human virtue spare? Look round! More sweet its victims, the more fair. Its natural slaves, who, spawned from wealth, are born To Traffic's tricks they lack the soul to scorn, Whose lust for lucre is their proper lot, It just as oft impoverishes as not. 'Tis those in whom the Unseen God inspires The restless leaven of divine desires; Who, from the moment that they lisp, betray An alien spirit housed within their clay; Whose fretful youth life's narrow limits chafe, And yearns for worlds more spacious, if less safe; Striving to reach, despite its fleshly thrall, That larger Something which surrounds us all;These, these the souls-and not that baser band- 492 To whom Gold loves to stretch a helping hand; With early smiles their generous aims to bless, And lead them, blind, to ruinous success. When Lelius chanted first his fragrant lays, Men praised, and he was amply paid with praise. Not salons' sycophant, nor Fashion's bard, No glittering heaps did his sweet notes reward. He was content with audience fit, though few, When to his side the cunning demon drew. `Your pen's worth gold; you need but blunt its point; Come, cut the Muse; the times are out of joint. Fame's well enough, but comfort has its laws; You'll make a damned poor supper off applause. Sing, be select, and starve. Prose is the thingThe thing that pays. The Million now is King. Write gossip, scandal, slander-what you will; A well-filled purse awaits a ready quill.' The curst insidious demon has his way, And Grub-street swallows Lelius for aye. Turn from the pen, and for a while survey The wide domains which brush and canvas sway. Enter those realms, and what do we behold? Art, heavenly Art, the slave and pimp of gold! Time was when its poor votaries were too proud To sate the itch of a vain-glorious crowd, Serve the mean aims of narrow personal pelf, And swell the ignoble retinue of Self. Only the State, which merges private ends, Or sacred Church, which lifts them and extends, Might then presume the artist's craft to claim, And paid him, happy, with immortal Fame. Here, Friendship's guest, where fairest Florence lies, A dream in stone, stretched out before mine eyes, I think of all the treasures there enshrined, And what small dole nurtured each master mind; Or led by memory o'er the classic chain Which Umbrian slope divides from Tuscan plain, I all the priceless unbought gems recall That link with heaven Assisi's frescoed wall; Then, borne on wings of weakness, I repair To mine own land, and groan to think that there, 493 Debased by Fashion to a venal trade, Art counts its triumphs by its fortunes made; Spurned by the State, and by the Church unsought, Works but for wealth, and by the base is bought; Stranger to altars, palaces, or domes, Pampers the pomp of ostentatious homes. How changed the days since Duccio's hand of old On Saints and Virgins lavished costly gold; But for himself asked but a few poor crowns, Less than we give to harlequins and clowns. Now do our mercenary tricksters grudge Almost the very canvas that they smudge; Yet scan with greedy eyes the glittering heap That opulent folly holds, for once, so cheap. See, too, how Genius, when its touch was true, On humble walls its lasting fancies drew; Whose modern apes, ridiculously bold, Hang their ephemeral daubs in frames of gold. In vain doth Heaven, while Gold thus rules the earth, With generous instincts sow the soul at birth. Swift in the genial soil the seed takes root, Then seeks the sun with many a venturous shoot. But, ah, how soon the cruel outer air Checks the brave growth and nips its promise fair! Warmed by the glow of Tasso's splendid lay, Or borne by Dante to the gates of Day; Softly seduced by Scott's romantic strain To deem all ends, excepting honour, vain; Or nobly trained by Shelley's burning song To cherish an eternal feud with wrong,The simple girl constructs a future fair, Rears a whole world of castles in the air, And nowhere warned, or deaf to warning, deems That life will clothe and justify her dreams. As year by year the maiden grows apace, And half the woman mantles in her face, With sickening sense, sad eye, and sinking heart, She sees her forecasts one by one depart. Slowly, but, ah, too surely doth she find That poets' tales no longer rule mankind; That Peace is homeless as the hunted hare, 494 And Love far less a shelter than a snare; That godlike Valour meets a demon's doom, Whilst Prudence prospers even from the tomb; That Youth, save schooled in Mammon's miry ways, Groans o'er the lapse of unrequited days; That Beauty, Genius, all are vain and cold, Till foully touched and fertilised by Gold. Soon as the time so dear to mother's vows Draws nigh, to find the maid some fitting spouse, Then most of all she learns what leading part Is played by Gold in dramas of the heart. Chance to young Hylas, beautiful as Dawn, And sweet as fair, she feels her fancy drawn. Are you a nymph? one whispers. Let him pass. He doth but gather daisies in the grass. Where your cool wave, hidden from human eyes, In which to lure and love him till he dies? Bid him rejoin his Hercules, and seize The golden apples of the Hesperides; And then perchance, should none more rich than he Engage your love, you may his Hera be. Alas, poor Hylas! worse than Mysian fate Doth his meandering flowery feet await. If that a Solon, versed in every art Of song and science, touch the maiden's heart, The neighbours softly whisper, Have a care; Can Erudition keep a chaise and pair? Pundits, alas, like fools, must pay their bills, And Knowledge figures sorrily in wills. For single life learning is well enough, But marriage should be made of sterner stuff. Should Cato's fame her pious soul attract, The whole world cries, The woman must be cracked. What! wed with Virtue! Is the girl awake? Sure, she confounds the altar with the stake. Send for the doctor. Try a change of air. Swear Cato drinks. In war and love all's fair. Bring Croesus to the front. At four he's freeThere's no one left to swindle after three. In one brief hour behold him curled and drest, And borne on wings of fashion to the West! 495 What though to regions fondly deemed refined, He brings his City manners, City mind, And cynics titter?-he laughs best who wins,A Greenwhich dinner covers many sins. What! dine with Croesus? Surely. Is a feast One jot the worse because the host's a beast? He's worse than that-a snob-a cad. Agreed; But then his goblets smack of Ganymede? Do some strange freaks his conversation mar? He stops your censure with a prime cigar. A Norway stream, a shooting-lodge in Perth, In practice look uncommonly like worth. The Town to hear some new soprano flocks. You long to go? Well, Croesus has a box. How at this hour are tickets to be got For the Regatta? Croesus has a yacht. Goodwood is here. Your hopes begin to flag. One chance awaits you: Croesus has a drag. You doat on Flower-shows: Croesus has a bone. Be friends with Croesus, and the World's your own. Who could resist seductions such as these? Or what could charm, if Croesus failed to please? Blinded and bribed, the critical are cured, And loud extol whom late they scarce endured. Caressed and courted, Croesus grows the rage, The type and glory of our Golden Age; And Cato, Hylas, Solon, shoved aside, Our heavenly maid is hailed as Croesus' bride. Shade of Lucretius! if thy lyre waxed wild With sacred rage for Clytemnestra's child, And nought could hold thee as thy soul surveyed The cursëd ills Religion can persuade, How would thy verse impetuously shower Sonorous scorn on Gold's atrocious power; Embalm its victims with a touch divine, And damn the monster in one sounding line! Can honeyed forms or stereotyped applause Alter the scope of Heaven's eternal laws? What though with gifts should massive sideboards groan, And every heart be glad except her own, 496 And troops of blooming girls behold with pride, Perchance with envy, this resplendent bride; Though vieing voices hail her Fashion's queen, And even a Bishop's blessing crown the scene, No rites, no rings, no altars, can avail To make a sacred contract of a sale, Stir the far depths of the reluctant mind, Or join the hearts which love hath failed to bind. If soul stands passive whilst the flesh is sold, Is there no foul aroma in the gold? Is the base barter covered by the price, And do huge figures make the nasty nice? The nameless outcast, prowling for her prey, Renews her filthy bargain day by day; Let Croesus give her what he gave his wife, She's virtuous too-at least, she's his for life. Croesus-but hold! Let Charity presume That Croesus' wife but dimly knew her doom. The luckless maid, since knowledge comes too late, In splendour seeks oblivion of her fate; Of every tender pious aim bereft, Hugs in despair the only idol left; In alien worship seeks to be consoled, And builds her hopes of happiness on Gold. Gold rules her steps, determines her desiresMere puppet she, whilst Mammon jerks the wires. Futile to ask if London suits her healthWould you consult her doctor, not her wealth? You soon are answered: Whether ill or well, A house in Town is indispensable. Where shall it be? On gravel or on clay? Wherever tenants have the most to pay. Price is the thing, not soil. If Fashion's camp Be pitched just here, what matter dry or damp? But, health apart, 'tis known that Croesus' wife, If left to choose, prefers a country life. Well, she shall have it when the Parks are brown, And Fashion, wearied, hath dispersed the Town. But whilst the woods are leafy, and the lanes With lush wild-flowers rob life of half its pains; While sweetest scents and softest sounds combine 497 To make existence, did they last, divine; Not for the world must Croesus' wife be missed From fetid streets, foul rooms, and Fashion's list; And only thence to rural refuge flies As, self-exhausted, pleasant Summer dies. Say, shall we marvel, amid scenes like these, With all to dazzle, but with nought to please, If links of simple gold should fail to cleave, And tempters prompt their webs not vainly weave? See, Plutus, first in each ignoble strife, Battered and bored, bethinks him of a wife. The happy tidings, spreading through the West, Fires each maternal mercenary breast. The soaring dames parade their daughters' charms, To lure the hug of Plutus' palsied arms; And as brave Eld for one fair woman fought, For one foul man our world to rage is wrought. At last, opining he might chance do worse, Plutus to proud Olympia flings his purse. Olympia lifts it with triumphant smile, Whilst round her crowds congratulating guile, Escorts her to the altar, decks her brows With orange-buds, then leaves her with her spouse, Who, though his suit by golden showers throve, Can grasp his Danaë with no thews of Jove. O, who shall tell Olympia's tale aright, Each splendid day, each miserable night; Her thirst divine by human draughts but slaked, Her smiling face whilst the heart sorely ached, Or note the edge whence one we loved so well To sweet, seductive, base perdition fell? I cast no stone, but half by rage consoled, I snatch the lyre and curse this fiendish Gold. Though Beauty's fame oft spreads through all the land, Splendour is far more curiously scanned; And they who once upon Olympia threw A passing glance, since she was fair to view, Now gilded pomp and Ostentation's choir Attend her path, of gazing never tire; Suck up her speech, translate her silent eyes, 498 Each movement, look, and posture scrutinise, Stalk all her steps, as matron, friend, and wife, And feed in greedy gossip on her life. Not mine to follow to the noisome den Where woman's frailty stands the gaze of men, And well-coached menials, limed with gold, detail The piteous scenes that pass behind the veil. Enough to know that, thanks to wealth, once more Plutus can woo, e'en richer than before. The tottering cuckold leaves the court consoled; Considerate juries tip his horns with Gold! Sure some malicious demon in the brain It needs must be, drives men reputed sane To spurn the joys adjacent to their feet, In the fond chase of this receding cheat? Say, when the Stoic on his tranquil height, And swinish crowd, sweating in miry fight, In every age a like conclusion reach, And sage and simple one same sermon preachThat whether Heaven hath made one serf or king, Reason alone true happiness can bringCan we but stand astounded as we scan This race untaught, unteachable, called Man? Would you be truly rich, how small the heap Your aims require, the price how passing cheap! A modest house, from urban jars removed, By thrist selected, yet by taste approved; Whose walls are gay with every sweet that blows, Whose windows scented by the blushing rose; Whose chambers few to no fine airs pretend, Yet never are too full to greet a friend; A garden plot, whither unbidden come Bird's idle pipe and bee's laborious hum; Smooth-shaven lawn, whereon in pastime's hours The mallet rings within a belt of flowers; A leafy nook where to enjoy at will Gibbon's rich prose or Shakespeare's wizard quill; A neighbouring copse wherein the stock-doves coo, And a wild stream unchecked sings all day through; Two clean bright stalls, where midday, night, and morn, Two good stout roadsters champ their well-earned corn; 499 A few learned shelves from modern rubbish free, Yet always, Mill, with just a place for Thee; Head ne'er at dawn by clownish bouts obscured, And limbs by temperate exercise inured; A few firm friendships made in early life, Yet doubly fastened by a pleasant wife; A wholesome board, a draught of honest wine;This is true wealth; and this, thank Heaven, is mine! And though you ransacked worlds from shore to shore, From sea to sky, you could not give me more. And if, all these beyond, I still should crave Something impossible this side the grave, Let humbler souls my soaring hopes forgiveAfter my life still in my verse to live. Well would it be if Mammon's feverish rage Did but the vulgar and the base engage; If those alone whose undistinguished name, Haply if fouled, would shed no slur on Fame, Sought in this sordid, despicable strife, To find the good and snatch the crown of life. But in the mire of venal fight embroiled, Have we not seen the noblest scutcheons soiled? Not the proud thought that many a splendid fray, When crowns obeyed the fortunes of the day, To stalwart arms its pregnant issue owed, Whose glorious blood in their own body flowed; Not the remembrance that their sires did share The toils that made this England great and fair; Not their resplendent pedigree, nor all The line of haught fierce faces on the wall, That tells the tale of their ancestral hall, Have yet availed, in days like these, to hold Men, thus seduced, from the coarse race for Gold. Have we not seen the generous beast, whose sires Once bore their fathers into battle's fires, By titled gamblers' mercenary taste His once stout loins to nimble flanks debased, Made for curst gold to sweat through all his pores, The panting pet of blacklegs, lords, and whores? On such a course what dismal woes await, 500 Let the world learn by young Lucullus' fate. Whilst yet the bloom of boyhood matched his cheek, And all his duty was to master Greek. Make a long score, bound o'er the running brook, Cleave the clear wave, Lucullus had a book. No glorious volume was't, whose subtle page The wisdom breathed of many a studious age. No wealth of wit, no Learning's garnered sheaves Lay, like a treasure, lurking in its leaves. But, in their place, crabbed Calculation scrawled Symbols which shocked and figures that appalled. Not for sweet Fancy, nor the simple stake Of generous sports, did he his tasks forsake. Ere sentiment could move, or sense control, Adventurous Greed had swallowed up his soul. If Gold Acrisius' Tower of Brass could flout, How will the playground shut the monster out? Thus by his own base instincts first betrayed, The race of harpies lend their shameful aid, With evil eye his smiling lands behold, And smooth his path to infamy with gold. At length behold him grown to man's estate, Rich, noble, noted, lord of his own fate. Here Duty beckons, Honour there incites, And Love entices to its saving rites. He heeds them not; he joins the madding crowd, King of the base, the vulgar, and the loud; Builds his most precious friendships on a bet, And through the gutter trails his coronet. Vain fool! inflamed by flattery and conceit, He marks no pitfalls yawning at his feet; But, winning, deems the cunning snare his luck, And losing, pays, to plume him on his pluck; Accepts each challenge, doubles every stake, While tipsy plaudits follow in his wake. But what avails, if Fortune quits his side? Curse on the jade, he cries, she always lied! Well, now's an end! . . . A comrade plucks his gown: An end as yet, man! cut the timber down. The luck will turn; you lost for want of skill; Come, play again-you'll win. . . . By G-, I will! 501 Done soon as said. The swift sure axe resounds Through the green stretch of his ancestral grounds. The soaring elm, whose topmost boughs defied The scaling valour of his boyish pride; The umbrageous beech, beneath whose courtly shade The loves that issued in his life were made; The lordly oak, young when his line was young, To which with pride inherited had clung His sires and they from whom his sires were sprung; Behold them now, around the naked hall, One after one in fell succession fall. Lo, the wide woods which centuries had seen By frosts unmoved, mid thunder-fugues serene, By thousand suns, by tens of thousand showers, Fostered and fed, one greedy day devours. And all in vain! Lured by the severed spoil, The foul fierce harpies fasten on the soil. `My lands on luck.' We take you. Clear the course; Twenty to one upon Lucullus' horse! One minute more, and poor Lucullus flies, The beggared heir of all the centuries. Then scoffed, and scourged, and stripped of all his wealth, His last friends leave him-energy and health. Anxiety and fierce Excitement's flame Have scorched his blood and shrivelled up his frame. `Plum to a pony!' hear the cripple call; `Ere six months pass, the grave will end it all.' Lucky at last, he wins his bootless bet, And dies of drink, debauchery, and debt. Gone are the times indeed when savage Might Usurped the throne and claimed the wage of Right. No longer now the tiller of the soil Sees his fair fields the lusty robber's spoil; No timid burgher now grows rich by stealth, Lest some rude noble swoop upon his wealth; The quiet citizen no longer fears A raid upon his money or his ears, That local turmoil or imperial strife Will wreck his home or leave him bare for life. But say, is Force the only fearful foe, 502 Or the keen Sword worst source of human woe? Wielding base weapons Violence disdained, Cunning prevails where once Compulsion reigned. The tyrant's lance, Oppression's piercing shaft, Torment no more, but abdicate to Craft. Could feudal despot swooping on his prey, Could bandit burning for the unequal fray, Could fire, sword, famine, spread more wreck abroad, Than marks the path of Greed allied with Fraud; Or waits on life, where no rude signs portend When the dread bolt of Ruin will descend? See the poor father, who for years has toiled, At one fell stroke of all his store despoiled. His was the pious wish, by daily care And safe degrees to make his hearth more fair; His the ambition-far too meek to roamTo swell the simple luxuries of home; By loving thrift to deck his comely spouse With some poor gem, the summit of her vows; To instruct his boys in every generous art Which trains the man to act a shining part; By culture's aid to see his daughters armed With each fair grace that in their mother charmed; Year after year, as strength and vigour waned, To find his fondest forecasts all attained; And then, since faithful to the final stage, Doff the hard harness from the back of age. But watchful Greed with jealous eye beheld Day after day his little earnings swelled; Studied the tender workings of his mind, Marked the fond aims to which his heart inclined; With specious lips his trusting senses stole, And with false visions fired his prudent soul. Poor wretch! but yesterday in modest state He lived, secure from every bolt of Fate. To-day, he wanders feverish and depressed, As though whole Andes weighed upon his breast. To-morrow, back unto his home he crawls, A beggared man, and at the threshold falls. Now will no more his trustful wife behold The gladsome face returning as of old, 503 And read in sparkling eye and smiling cheek The day's good tidings e'en before he speak; Never again in hastening footsteps guess Some pretty love-gift, token of success. Their blooming boys, for whom parental hope So oft had cast the fairest horoscope, And seen with fond anticipating eyes Each proud successive civic honour rise, Torn from their noble studies, have to crave From base pursuits the pittance of a slave, Pour the soul's wine into the body's sieve, And grand life lose in mean attempts to live. Perchance, at home their humble wants denied, Gaunt Hunger drives them from their mother's side; Leaves her to weep alone o'er what hath been, And places ocean, pitiless, between. The tender girls, their father's pride and joy, Whose dreams a fiend had scrupled to destroy; From childhood's earliest days whose only care Was to be gracious, virtuous, and fair, And who from Heaven could nothing else implore Save to be all their mother was before; Who pictured as their perfect scheme of life A clinging daughter and a helpful wife,At one rude flash behold the world enlarge, And stand, pale victims, trembling on the marge. Little, alas, now boots it where they roam, Since they must leave the tranquil shores of home. Whether, poor slaves, they crawl with aching feet Hour after hour from dreary street to street, Or, as in mockery of home, alas! Beneath the stranger's icy portal pass, And thankless task and miserable wage Their exiled cheerless energies engage, Their youth, their life, is blasted at the core, And Hope's sweet sap will mount their veins no more. Should every door their humble prayers repel, Scorning to buy what Hunger kneels to sell, And they, half thankful that the strangers spurn, To their own roof be driven to return, How strange the scene that meets their wearied gaze! How changed the hearth, the home, of other days! 504 Contracting Care usurps the mother's face, Whose smiles of old spread sunshine through the place. Alone she weeps; but should she chance to hear Her husband's steps, she hides the furtive tear; Follows his movements with an anxious dread, Studies his brow, and scans his restless tread; Assails his woe with every female wile, Prattles of hope, and simulates a smile. He, broken man, wrapt in perpetual gloom, Wanders anon from vacant room to room; Then, creeping back, the image of despair, With a deep sigh he sinks into his chair. He seldom speaks; and when his voice is heard, Peevish its tone, and querulous his word; And vain laments and childish tears attest The lamp of life is dying in his breast. Perhaps his death some timely pittance frees, Secured by prudence in their days of ease; And, O the pity! posthumous relief Stanches love's wounds, and blunts the edge of grief. Unless, indeed-for this too hath been knownAll-grasping Greed hath made that mite its own, Filched from the widow her last hopes of bread, And whom it ruined living, plunders dead! These are thy triumphs, Gold! thy trophies these, To nurture fraud, and rob the world of ease, Faith to befool, young genius to seduce, And blight at once its beauty and its use. Thine is the bait, as loveless hearths avouch, Which drags fresh victims to the venal couch; Thine the foul traps wherewith our ways are rife, That lure them first, then close upon their life; Thine, thine the springes, set in regions fair, Whose unseen nooses strangle whom they snare; The cynic glory thine to lie in wait To make men little who had else been great, Frustrate our plenty, aggravate our dearth, And keep eternal feud 'twixt Heaven and Earth! Lo, where huge London, huger day by day, 505 O'er six fair counties spreads its hideous sway, A tract there lies by Fortune's favours blest, And at Fame's font yclept the happy West. There, as by wizard touch, for miles on miles, Rise squares, streets, crescents of palatial piles. In the brave days when England's trusty voice Made grappling rivals tremble or rejoice; When, foremost shield of Weakness or of Right, She scorned to warn unless resolved to smite; When, few but firm, her stalwart children bore The terror of her Flag from shore to shore, Purged Christ's dear tomb from sacrilege and shame, And made the Moslem quake at Richard's name; Taught the vain Gaul, though gallant, still to kneel, And Spain's proud sons the weight of northern steel;Then were her best in no such splendour nursed As now awaits her basest and her worst. No kingly Harry glittering with renown, No Edward radiant in a peaceful crown, Was housed as now, at turn of Fortune's wrist, Some lucky navvy turned capitalist, Some convict's bastard who a-sudden shines In the bright splendour of Australian mines, Or subtle Greek, who, skilled in Eastern ways, Exposes all Golconda to our gaze. These, as to Pomp's pretentious peaks they rush, Heed not the crowds their sordid conquests crush: Secure in glaring opulence, they scan With placid eyes the miseries of man; Fat units, watch the leanness of the whole, And gag remonstrance with a paltry dole: Mid harrowing want, with conscience unafraid, Die on the golden dirt-heaps they have made. Here Plenty gorges gifts from every zone, There thankful Hunger gnaws its meagre bone; Profusion here melts more than pearls in wine, There craves gaunt Penury some shucks from swine; And whilst rich rogues quaff deep round roaring fires, At Dives' portal Lazarus expires! Betwixt these fierce extremes of wealth and woe, A crowd of strugglers hustles to and fro, 506 Whose one sole aim and only hope in life Are just to wrench subsistence from the strife. To what base shifts these hideous straits compel The straining wretches, let our records tell. Victims of greedy Competition's craft, We drain cheap poison in each sparkling draught, Purchase a lie in every vaunted ware, And swallow filth in the most frugal fare. Building a refuge for our age, we find The crumbling mortar lets in wet and wind; Face the rude waves, by science freed from awe, To sink, poor dupes, on life-belts made of straw! Nor this the worst! When ripened Shame would hide Fruits of that hour when Passion conquered Pride, There are not wanting in this Christian land The breast remorseless and the Thuggish hand, To advertise the dens where Death is sold, And quench the breath of baby-life for gold! Nor man alone, case-hardened man, surveys These shocking contrasts with a careless gaze. Fair melting woman of the tender breast Here finds no room for pity as her guest. Unsexed, she strains to Ostentation's goal, While Splendour's dreams demoralise her soul; Drains, like a goddess, hecatombs of lives, Nor heeds who lags, provided she arrives. See Claribel, by every gift designed Mid anguish keen to be an angel kind, Once plunged in rival factions' golden fight, Turned to a demon in her own despite. Behold, to-morrow in the Royal smile Will bask the birth and wealth of all the Isle. She, long abroad, received the summons late. What's to be done? Nor time nor tide will wait. She turns her wardrobe over, racks her brain; Nothing will do. She wants a dress and train. Drive to the modiste's. Not a finger free. There's only Clara. Clara let it be. But Clara's sick and sorry. Give her gold; Her aches will cease, her sorrows be consoled. 507 It must be done. Sure Lilian there will glow In gorgeous newness decked from top to toe; Shall it be said that Claribel did less? To-morrow, then, in time the train and dress. So Clara drags her weary limbs from bed, O'er the brave finery hangs her throbbing head; Still as her senses swim sews on and on, Till day dies out and twilight pale is gone. Then, by the taper's soft and silent light, Like a pale flower that opens most by night, Her pace she quickens, and the needle moves Subtler and swifter through the gauzy grooves; But as the dawn on guttering sockets gains, Her tired lids drop, and sleep arrests her pains. But sleep how short! She feels her shoulder clutched: `Clara, awake! the train's not even touched! Day strides apace. See, there's the morning sun, And ere again he sinks, 't must all be done.' Again, again, the shooting thread she plies, In silent agony of smothered sighs. She seems to breathe her breath into the gown, To give it life the while she lays hers down. Fast as the task advances set by pride, So fast within her ebbs the vital tide. The daylight goes, and softly comes the moon's, And then poor Clara over the last stitch swoons. Meanwhile, the panting Claribel awaits The precious gown within her golden gates. It comes-it comes. Now who shall shine her down? Not Lilian, surely? No, not the entire Town. She not for worlds had lost this courtly chance; And Clara dies that Claribel may dance! If private worth, thus languishing, expires, Will public Virtue keep alive her fires? The slaves of wealth, in Britain as in Rome, Bring to the Forum vices formed at home. First the community, and then the State, Falls to their fangs, which naught can satiate. Not born nor bred to rule, of culture void, 508 And by no wave of young ambition buoyed, Anxious on heights conspicuous to flaunt Nought but the tawdry trophies they can vaunt, They woo the grasping crowd with golden guile, And spread Corruption's canker through the Isle. You want a seat? Then boldly sate your itch. Be very radical, and very rich. Sell your opinions first to please the pure, Then buy the sordid, and your triumph's sure. Do all, in brief, that honest men abhor, And England hails another Senator. See the vain Tribune who, in lust of power, Bows to the base exactions of the hour, And, fooled by sycophants, stands forth at last A devotee turned sworn iconoclast! Behind him sit dense rows of golden mutes, Deaf to whate'er demonstrates or refutes, Ready to vote, rescind, obey in all The whip demands, as hounds the huntsman's call. They neither know nor reck what helpful deeds In this grave hour their perilled Country needs. They want to see their daughters nobly wed, Their wives at Court, their own names trumpeted, Their private Bills advanced another stage, Their schemes of plunder foisted on the age. Leave them but these, the gamblers come to call, Nor heed an Empire nodding to its fall! When Power is built on props like these, how vain The hope that Law the giddy will restrain! Spoilt by twin sops, servility and gold, The headstrong crowd is then but ill controlled. In vain they now would sway who lately served, And Riot cows Authority unnerved. Better that such base compromise should end, And the dread bolt of Anarchy descend! Goths of the gutter, Vandals of the slum, Thieves and Reformers, come! Barbarians, come! Before your might let rails and rules be hurled, And sweep Civilisation from the world! 509 Nor now, alas, do Commoners alone To private ends the public weal postpone. Those too, whom worth ancestral plants on seats High above where all vulgar Clamour beats, With paltry fear to their clipped ermine cling, And shrink from right, lest right should ruin bring. The Peers stand firm; the Commons disagree. The Peers be-well, it now is close on three. By five, a world of reasons will be found. Throw Jonas over, or the ship's aground. You know the fury of the hand that steers; And what were Britain with no House of Peers? Would Primogeniture its fall survive, Or even Property be kept alive? Let Herbert fume, or frantic Cecil chafe, Better a deal to choose the side that's safe; Bow to the will of Finlen and his hordes, And still thank Heavën for a House of Lords! Thus may the British breast exult to think. That noble names can sell ignoble ink; That ill-got gains, if deftly spent, unlock Birth's choicest circles to the ambitious smock; That Dives foul mounts fine Aristo's stairs, If but Aristo Dives' plunder shares; And half Debrett urbanely flocks to White's, To back the boor who saves them from the kites. His son succeeds him. `Make the son a Peer. Why not? His income's eighty thousand clear. New blood is wanted. Here's the very stuff. Besides, he wields the county vote.' Enough. But hold! there's Cato. `Cato! are you sane? Why, Cato's means but one small hearth sustain. Ennoble Cato, you'll have Peers for life, Or else forbid the man to take a wife. He can't maintain the necessary state, And would you have a poor name legislate? No, Dives' son's the very man we need. What says the Crown?' The Crown! Of course, Agreed. And the young fool, enriched by parent knaves, From Ruin's jaws our Constitution saves! Is there no path of honour for the great, 510 No sound and clean salvation for the State? Must we for ever fly to shifts like this, And trust to Gold to save us from the abyss? Must honours old by new-got wealth be vamped, And Valour's stock by plutocrats be swamped? Back to your lands, base sons of splendid sires! From spendthrift squares back to your native shires! Back, back from Baden, and leave Homburg's shades To dazzling Jews and mercenary jades. Leave London's round of vulgar joys to those Who seek in such from base pursuits repose. Cease to contend with upstart Wealth's parade, To wring your lands to vie with tricks of trade; And, proudly spurning Glitter's transient lies, At least be honest, if you can't be wise! Worship your household gods, and spend at home The solid earnings of the generous loam. Delve, fence, and drain; the dripping waste reclaim; With spreading woodlands multiply your fame. Yours let it be to screen the reverent hind, Who loves your presence, 'gainst the frost and wind; Scorning to count the profit, raise his lot; Lure the shy Graces to his lowly cot; Be, one and all, acknowledged, far and wide, Patriarchs and patterns of the country side. And whether demagogues shall rise or fall, A Cleon mount, or Boänerges bawl, True to yourselves and native duty, thus Save this poor England by being virtuous! And you, Sir, hope of this once famous isle, Round whom its halo plays, its favours smile, Hark to the Muse, which, poised on Candour's wings, Flouts the base crowd, but scorns to flatter kings. Hark, while she tells you, nor her counsel spurn, From giddy Pleasure's gilded toys to turn; That not from minions opulent or coarse Do Princes gain their lustre and their force; That Reverence anchors not in deep carouse, And that a Crown fits only kingly brows! Fired by each bright example, shun the shade, Where Scandal best can ply her noxious trade. 511 Learn from your pious Father how to share With hands, too lonely now, a Kingdom's care. Be by your fair loved Consort's pattern moved, And like your virtuous Mother, stand approved; Do for this England all the Sceptre can, And be at least a stainless gentleman. Be this too much, you well may live to find That firmest Thrones can fail the weak and blind, And, though no Samson, sharing half his fate, Pull down the pillars of a mighty State! Whilst our domestic fortunes thus obey All-searching Gold's demoralising sway, We hug the limits of our puny shore, And Glory knows our once great name no more. First are we still in every bloodless fray, Where piles of gold adventurous prows repay; But when flushed Honour sets the world on fire, We furl our sails and to our coasts retire; And, basely calm whilst outraged nations bleed, Invent new doctrines to excuse our greed. When gallant Denmark, now the spoiler's prey, Flashed her bright blade, and faced the unequal fray, And, all abandoned both by men and gods, Fell, faint with wounds, before accursèd odds,Where, where was England's vindicating sword, Her promised arm, to stay the invading horde; Bid the rude German drop his half-clutched spoil, And scare the robber from ancestral soil? The fair young Dane, beloved by every Grace, And all the Virtues shining in her face, Who, more an angel than a princess deemed, Withal was even sweeter than she seemed, With noisy throats we summoned o'er the foam, And with cheap cheers escorted to her home. But when with streaming eye and throbbing breast She, pious child, her loving fears confessed, And, leagued with Honour's voice and Valour's ire, Prayed us to save her country and her sire, We turned away, and opulently cold, Put back our swords of steel in sheaths of gold! 512 And yet what sandy base doth Gold afford, Though crowned by Law, and fenced round by the Sword, Learn from that Empire which, a scorn for aye, Grew in a night and perished in a day! Helped by a magic name and doubtful hour, See the Adventurer scale the steeps of Power. Upon him groups of desperate gamesters wait, To snatch their profit from a sinking State. Folly, and Fate which Folly still attends, Conspire to shape and expedite their ends. The Hour, the Man are here! No pulse? No breath? Wake, Freedom, wake! In vain! She sleeps like Death. The impious hands, emboldened by her swoon, Choke in the night, and slay her in the noon! Then, when vain crowds with dilatory glaive Rush to avenge the life they would not save, The prompt conspirators with lavish hand Fling their last pieces to a pampered band, Bribe cut-throat blades Vengeance' choked ways to hold, And bar the avenues of rage with gold! Then mark how soon, amid triumphant hymns, The Imperial purple girds the blood-stained limbs. The perjured hands a golden sceptre gain, A crown of gold screens the seared brow of Cain, And golden eagles, erst of simpler ore, Assert the Caesar, and his rod restore. See round his throne Pomp's servile tributes swell, Not Nero knew, e'er Rome to ruin fell, Far from his feet the lust of glitter spread, And the vain herd on Splendour's follies fed! Nor they alone, the shallow, base, and gay, Bend to this Idol with the feet of clay: Statesmen and soldiers kneel with flattering suit, Kings are his guests, e'en queens his cheeks salute; Senates extol him, supple priests caress, And even thou, O Pius, stoop'st to bless! And the World's verdict, ever blind as base, Welcomes the `Second Saviour' of the race! And yet how weak this Empire girt with gold Did prove to save when Battle's torrents rolled, 513 Have we not seen in ruin, rout, and shame, Burnt deep in Gaul's for ever broken fame? What then availed her courts of pomp and pride, What her bright camps with glittering shows allied? What, in that hour, the luxury which passed To soldiers' lips the sybarite repast? Did all her gold suffice, when steel withstood Her stride, to make her rash, vain challenge good? Behold her Chief, in comfort longwhile slung, By War's rough couch and random fare unstrung His vaunted Leaders, who to Power had mown Their path with swords that propped a venal Throne, Brandishing rival blades, his brain confound, While still, but sure, the solid foe press round. See her soft sons, whom arms enervate lead, Spurn the long marches which to victory speed, And, fondly deeming Science served by Wealth Will snatch the fight at distance and by stealth, Smitten with fear at Valour's downright face, And taught swift limbs in Flight's ignoble chase! See one, see all, before the Victor fleet, Then lay their swords, submissive, at his feet! O hapless France! e'en then insurgent ire Had your soiled scutcheon lifted from the mire, Placed the bright helm on Honour's front once more, And laurels reaped more lasting than of yore, Had not rich ease your manhood's marrow stole, And gold emollient softened all your soul. O, what a sight-a sight these eyes beheldHer fair green woods by the invader felled; Her fields and vineyards by the Teuton trod, Those she once smote encamped upon her sod; Her homes, in dread, abandoned to the foe, Or saved from rapine by obsequience low; Her cities ransomed, provinces o'erawed, Her iron strongholds wrenched by force or fraud; Her once proud Paris grovelling in the dust, And-crowning irony, if lesson justThe grasping victor, loth to quit his hold, Coaxed slowly homewards o'er a bridge of gold! 514 Is there no warning, England, here, for thee? Or are Heaven's laws balked by a strip of sea? Are thy foundations, Albion, so approved, Thou canst behold such downfall all unmoved? Have we not marked how this Briarean Gold Doth all our life and energies enfold? And as our practice, so our doctrines tooWe shape new ethics for our vices new; Our sires forswear, our splendid Past defame, And in high places glory in our shame! Hear our loud-tinkling Tribunes all declare Once lavish England hath no blood to spare, No gold to spend; within her watery wall She needs to roll and wallow in it all. Doth towering Might some poor faint Cause oppress, They bid her turn, impartial, from distress; Indulge her tears, but hide her ire from sight, Lest a like doom her angry front invite. And when this craven caution fails to save Her peaceful fortunes from the braggart glaive, They bid her still be moral and be meek, Hug tight her gold, and turn the other cheek. Her very sons, sprung from her mighty loins, We aliens make, to save some paltry coins; With our own hands destroy our Empire old, And stutter, `All is lost, except our gold!' With languid limbs, by comfortable fire, We see our glories, one by one, expire; A Nelson's flag, a Churchill's flashing blade, Debased to menials of rapacious Trade; Lost by a Cardwell what a Wellesley won, And by a Gladstone Chatham's world undone! Pale, gibbering spectres fumbling at the helm, Whilst dark winds howl, and billowy seas o'erwhelm. Yet deem you, England, that you thus will save, Even your wealth from rapine or the grave? Will your one chain of safety always hold, Or `silver streak' for ever guard your gold? If through long slumbrous years the ignoble rust Of selfish ease your erst bright steel encrust, When Storm impends, you vainly will implore The Gods of Ocean to protect your shore. 515 Bribed by the foe, behold Britannia stand At Freedom's portals with a traitress hand, Help the Barbarian to its sacred hold, Then, like Tarpeia, sink oppressed with Gold! Perish the thought! O, rather let me see Conspiring myriads bristling on the sea, Our tranquil coasts bewildered by alarms, And Britain, singly, face a World in arms! What if a treacherous Heaven befriend our foes? Let us go down in glory, as we rose! And if that doom-the best that could betideBe to our Fame by envious Fate denied, Then come, primeval clouds and seasons frore, And wrap in gloom our luckless land once more! Come, every wind of Heaven that rudely blows, Plunge back our Isle in never-ending snows! Rage, Eurus, rage! fierce Boreas, descend! With glacial mists lost Albion befriend! E'en of its name be every trace destroyed, And Dark sit brooding o'er the formless Void! ~ Alfred Austin,

1022: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,