proofreading team series two: _essays on poetry_ no. rapin's _de carmine pastorali_, prefixed to thomas creech's translation of the _idylliums_ of theocritus ( ) with an introduction by j.e. congleton and a bibliographical note the augustan reprint society july, price: c * * * * * general editors richard c. boys, university of michigan edward niles hooker, university of california, los angeles h.t. swedenberg, jr., university of california, los angeles advisory editors emmett l. avery, state college of washington louis i. bredvold, university of michigan benjamin boyce, university of nebraska cleanth brooks, louisiana state university james l. clifford, columbia university arthur friedman, university of chicago samuel h. monk, university of minnesota james sutherland, queen mary college, london lithoprinted from copy supplied by author by edwards brothers, inc. ann arbor, michigan, u.s.a. * * * * * introduction recent students of criticism have usually placed rapin in the school of sense. in fact rapin clearly denominates himself a member of that school. in the introduction to his major critical work, _reflexions sur la poetique d'aristote_ ( ), he states that his essay "is nothing else, but nature put in method, and good _sense_ reduced to principles" (_reflections on aristotle's treatise of poesie_, london, , ii, ). and in a few passages as early as "a treatise de carmine pastorali" ( ), he seems to imply that he is being guided in part at least by the criterion of "good _sense_." for example, after citing several writers to prove that "brevity" is one of the "graces" of pastoral poetry, he concludes, "i could heap up a great many more things to this purpose, but i see no need of such a trouble, since no man can rationally doubt of the goodness of my observation" (p. ). the basic criterion, nevertheless, which rapin uses in the "treatise" is the authority of the ancients--the poems of theocritus and virgil and the criticism of aristotle and horace. because of his constant references to the ancients, one is likely to conclude that he (like boileau and pope) must have thought they and nature (good sense) were the same. in a number of passages, however, rapin depends solely on the ancients. two examples will suffice to illustrate his absolutism. at the beginning of "_the second_ part," when he is inquiring "into the nature of _pastoral,_" he admits: and this must needs be a hard task, since i have no guide, neither _aristotle_ nor _horace_ to direct me.... and i am of opinion that none can treat well and clearly of any kind of _poetry_ if he hath no helps from these two (p. ). in "_the third_ part," when he begins to "lay down" his _rules for writing_ pastorals," he declares: yet in this difficulty i will follow _aristotle's_ example, who being to lay down rules concerning _epicks_, propos'd _homer_ as a pattern, from whom he deduc'd the whole art; so i will gather from _theocritus_ and _virgil_, those fathers of _pastoral_, what i shall deliver on this account (p. ). these passages represent the apogee of the neoclassical criticism of pastoral poetry. no other critic who wrote on the pastoral depends so completely on the authority of the classical critics and poets. as a matter of fact, rapin himself is not so absolute later. in the section of the _réflexions_ on the pastoral, he merely states that the best models are theocritus and virgil. in short, one may say that in the "treatise" the influence of the ancients is dominant; in the _réflexions_, "good _sense_." reduced to its simplest terms, rapin's theory is virgilian. when deducing his theory from the works of theocritus and virgil, his preference is almost without exception for virgil. finding virgil's eclogues refined and elegant, rapin, with a suggestion from donatus (p. and p. ), concludes that the pastoral "belongs properly to the _golden age_" (p. )--"that blessed time, when sincerity and innocence, peace, ease, and plenty inhabited the plains" (p. ). here, then, is the immediate source of the golden age eclogue, which, being transferred to england and popularised by pope, flourished until the time of dr. johnson and joseph warton. in france the most prominent opponent to the theory formulated by rapin is fontenelle. in his "discours sur la nature de l'eglogue" ( ) fontenelle, with studied and impertinent disregard for the ancients and for "ceux qui professent cette espèce de religion que l'on s'est faite d'adorer l'antiquité," expressly states that the basic criterion by which he worked was "les lumières naturelles de la raison" (_oeuvres_, paris, , v, ). it is careless and incorrect to imply that rapin's and fontenelle's theories of pastoral poetry are similar, as pope, joseph warton, and many other critics and scholars have done. judged by basic critical principles, method, or content there is a distinct difference between rapin and fontenelle. rapin is primarily a neoclassicist in his "treatise"; fontenelle, a rationalist in his "discours." it is this opposition, then, of neoclassicism and rationalism, that constitutes the basic issue of pastoral criticism in england during the restoration and the early part of the eighteenth century. when fontenelle's "discours" was translated in , the first phrase of it quoted above was translated as "those pedants who profess a kind of religion which consists of worshipping the ancients" (p. ). fontenelle's phrase more nearly than that of the english translator describes rapin. though rapin's erudition was great, he escaped the quagmire of pedantry. he refers most frequently to the scholiasts and editors in "_the first part_" (which is so trivial that one wonders why he ever troubled to accumulate so much insignificant material), but after quoting them he does not hesitate to call their ideas "pedantial" (p. ) and to refer to their statements as grammarian's "prattle" (p. ). and, though at times it seems that his curiosity and industry impaired his judgment, rapin does draw significant ideas from such scholars and critics as quintilian, vives, scaliger, donatus, vossius, servius, minturno, heinsius, and salmasius. rapin's most prominent disciple in england is pope. actually, pope presents no significant idea on this subject that is foreign to rapin, and much of the language--terminology and set phrases--of pope's "discourse" comes directly from rapin's "treatise" and from the section on the pastoral in the _reflections_. contrary to his own statement that he "reconciled" some points on which the critics disagree and in spite of the fact that he quotes fontenelle, pope in his "discourse" is a neoclassicist almost as thoroughgoing as rapin. the ideas which he says he took from fontenelle are either unimportant or may be found in rapin. pope ends his "discourse" by drawing a general conclusion concerning his _pastorals_: "but after all, if they have any merit, it is to be attributed to some good old authors, whose works as i had leisure to study, so i have not wanted care to imitate." this statement is diametrically opposed to the basic ideas and methods of fontenelle, but in full accord with and no doubt directly indebted to those of rapin. the same year, , that pope 'imitated' rapin's "treatise," thomas purney made a direct attack on rapin's neoclassic procedure. in the "preface" to his own _pastorals_ he expresses his disapproval of rapin's method, evidently with the second passage from rapin quoted above in mind: _rapine's_ discourse is counted the best on this poem, for 'tis the longest. you will easily excuse my not mentioning all his defects and errors in this preface. i shall only say then, that instead of looking into the true nature of the pastoral poem, and then judging whether _theocritus_ or any of his followers have brought it to it's utmost perfection or not. _rapine_ takes it for granted that _theocritus_ and _virgil_ are infallible; and aim's at nothing beyond showing the rules which he thinks they observ'd. facetious head! (_works_, oxford, , pp. - . the peroy reprints, no. xii) the influence of rapin on the development of the pastoral, nevertheless, was salutary. finding the genre vitiated with wit, extravagance, and artificiality, he attempted to strip it of these renaissance excrescencies and restore it to its pristine purity by direct reference to the ancients--virgil, in particular. though rapin does not have the psychological insight into the esthetic principles of the genre equal to that recently exhibited by william empson or even to that expressed by fontenelle, he does understand the intrinsic appeal of the pastoral which has enabled it to survive, and often to flourish, through the centuries in painting, music, and poetry. perhaps his most explicit expression of this appreciation is made while he is discussing horace's statement that the muses love the country: and to speak from the very bottome of my heart... methinks he is much more happy in a wood, that at ease contemplates this universe, as his own, and in it, the sun and stars, the pleasing meadows, shady groves, green banks, stately trees, flowing springs, and the wanton windings of a river, fit objects for quiet innocence, than he that with fire and sword disturbs the world, and measures his possessions by the wast that lys about him (p. ). rené rapin ( - ), in spite of his duties as a jesuit priest and disputes with the jansenists, became one of the most widely read men of his time and carried on the celebrated discussions about the ancients with maimbourg and vavasseur. his _chef-d'oeuvre_ without contradiction is _hortorum libri iv_. like virgil, spenser, pope, and many aspiring lesser poets, he began his literary career by writing pastorals, _eclogae sacrae_ ( ), to which is prefixed in latin the original of "a treatise de carmine pastorali." j.e. congleton university of florida reprinted here from the copy owned by the boston athenaeum by permission. * * * * * * * * * * * * * * a treatise de carmine pastorali written by rapin. _the first part_. to be as short as possible in my discourse upon the present subject, i shall not touch upon the excellency of _poetry_ in general; nor repeat those high _encomiums_, (as that tis the most divine of all human arts, and the like) which _plato_ in his _jone_, _aristotele_ in his _poetica_, and other learned men have copiously insisted on: and this i do that i might more closely and briefly pursue my present design, which, no doubt will not please every man; for since i treat of that part of _poetry_, which (to use _quintilian's_ words,) by reason of its clownishness, is affraid of the court and city; some may imagine that i follow _nichocaris_ his humor, who would paint only the most ugly and deform'd, and those too in the meanest and most frightful dress, that real, or fancy'd poverty could put them in. { } for some think that to be a sheapard is in it self mean, base, and sordid; and this i think is the first thing that the graver and soberer sort will be ready to object. but if we consider how honorable that employment is, our objectors from that topick will be easily answer'd, for as _heroick_ poems owe their dignity to the quality of _heroes_, so _pastorals_ to that of _sheapards_. now to manifest this, i shall not rely on the authority of the _fabulous_, and _heroick_ ages, tho, in the former, a god fed sheep in _thessaly_, and in the latter, _hercules_ the prince of _heroes_, (as _paterculus_ stiles him) graz'd on mount _aventine_: these examples, tis true, are not convinceing, yet they sufficiently shew that the employment of a sheapard was sometime look'd upon to be such, as in those fabulous times was not alltogether unbecomeing the _dignity_ of a _heroe_, or the _divinity_ of a _god_: which consideration if it cannot be of force enough to procure excellence, yet certainly it may secure it from the imputation of baseness, since it was sometime lookt upon as fit for the greatest in earth or heaven. but not to insist on the authority of _poets_, _sacred writt_ tells us that _jacob_ and _esau_, two great men, were sheapards; and _amos_, one of the royal family, asserts the same of himself, for _he was_ among _the sheapards of tecua_, following that employment: the like by gods own appointment { } prepared _moses_ for a scepter, as _philo_ intimates in his life, when he tells us, _that a sheapards art is a suitable preparation to a kingdome_; the same he mentions in the life of _joseph_, affirming that the care a sheapard hath over his cattle, very much resembles that which a king hath over his subjects: the same _basil_ in his homily de _s. mamm. martyre_ hath concerning _david_, who was taken from following the ews great with young ones to feed _israel_, for he says that the art of feeding and governing are very near akin, and even sisters: and upon this account i suppose twas, that kings amongst the _greeks_ reckoned the name of sheapard one of their greatest titles, for, if we believe _varro_, amongst the antients, the best and bravest was still a sheapard: every body knows that the _romans_ the worthiest and greatest nation in the world sprang from _sheapards_: the augury of the twelve vulturs plac't a scepter in _romulus's_ hand which held a crook before; and at that time, as _ovid_ says, his own small flock each senator did keep. _lucretius_ mentions an extraordinary happiness, and as it were divinity in a _sheaperd's_ life, thro sheapards ease, and their divine retreats. and this is the reason, i suppose, why the solitude of the country, the shady groves, and security of that happy quiet was so grateful to the muses, for thus _horace_ represents them, { } the muses that the country love. which observation was first made by _mnasalce_ the _sicyonian_ in his epigram upon _venus_ the rural muse upon the mountains feeds. for sometimes the country is so raveshing and delightful, that twill raise wit and spirit even in the dullest clod, and in truth, amongst so many heats of lust and ambition which usually fire our citys, i cannot see what retreat, what comfort is left for a chast and sober muse. and to speak from the very bottome of my heart, (not to mention the integrity and innocence of sheapards upon which so many have insisted, and so copiously declaimed) methinks he is much more happy in a wood, that at ease contemplates this universe, as his own, and in it, the sun and stars, the pleasing meadows, shady groves, green banks, stately trees, flowing springs, and the wanton windings of a river, fit objects for quiet innocence, than he that with fire and sword disturbs the world, and measures his possessions by the wast that lys about him: _augustus_ in the remotest east fights for peace, but how tedious were his voyages? how troublesome his marches? how great his disquiets? what fears and hopes distracted his designs? whilst _tityrus_ contented with a little, happy in the enjoyment of his love, and at ease under his spreading beech. taught trees to sound his _amaryllis_ name. { } on the one side _meliboeus_ is forc't to leave his country, and _antony_ on the other; the one a sheapard, the other a great man, in the common-wealth; how disagreeable was the event? the sheapard could endure himself; and sit down contentedly under his misfortunes, whilst lost _antony_, unable to hold out, and quitting all hopes both for himself and his queen, became his own barbarous executioner: than which sad and deplorable fall i cannot imagine what could be worse, for certainly nothing is so miserable as a wretch made so from a flowrishing & happy man; by which tis evident how much we ought to prefer before the gaity of a great and shining state, that idol of the crowd, the lowly simplicity of a sheapards life: for what is that but a perfect image of the state of innocence, of that golden age, that blessed time, when sincerity and innocence, peace, ease, and plenty inhabited the plains? take the poets description here lowly innocence makes a sure retreat, a harmless life, and ignorant of deceit, and free from fears with various sweet's encrease, and all's or'e spread with the soft wings of peace: here oxen low, here grots, and purling streams, and spreading shades invite to easy dreams. and thus horace, happy the man beyond pretence such was the state of innocence, &c. { } and from this head i think the dignity of _bucolicks_ is sufficiently cleared, for as much as the golden age is to be preferred before the _heroick_, so much _pastorals_ must excell _heroick_ poems: yet this is so to be understood, that if we look upon the majesty and loftiness of _heroick_ poems, it must be confest that they justly claim the preheminence; but if the unaffected neatness, elegant, graceful smartness of the expression, or the polite dress of a poem be considered, then they fall short of _pastorals_: for this sort flows with sweet, elegant, neat and pleasing fancies; as is too evident to every one that hath tasted the sweeter muses, to need a farther explication: for tis not probable that _asinius pollio_, _cinna_, _varius_, _cornelius gallus_, men of the neatest wit, and that lived in the most polite age, or that _augustus cæsar_ the prince of the _roman_ elegance, as well as of the common wealth, should be so extreamly taken with _virgils bucolicks_, or that _virgil_ himself a man of such singular prudence, and so correct a judgment, should dedicate his eclogues to those great persons; unless he had known that there is somewhat more then ordinary elegance in those sort of composures, which the wise perceive, tho far above the understanding of the crowd: nay if _ludovicus vives_, a very learned man, and admired for politer studies may be believed, there is somewhat more sublime and excellent in those _pastorals_, than the common { } sort of grammarians imagine: this i shall discourse of in an other place, and now inquire into the antiquity of pastorals. since _linus_, _orpheus_, and _eumolpus_ were famous for their poems, before the _trojan_ wars; those are certainly mistaken, who date poetry from that time; i rather incline to their opinion who make it as old as the world it self; which assertion as it ought to be understood of poetry in general, so especially of _pastoral_, which, as _scaliger_ delivers, was the most antient kind of poetry, and resulting from the most _antient_ way of liveing: _singing first began amongst sheapards as they fed their flocks, either by the impulse of nature, or in imitation of the notes of birds, or the whispering of trees._ for since the first men were either _sheapards_ or _ploughmen_, and _sheapards_, as may be gathered out of _thucydides_ and _varro_, were before the others, they were the first that either invited by their leisure, or (which _lucretius_ thinks more probable) in imitation of birds, began a tune. thro all the woods they heard the pleasing noise of chirping birds, and try'd to frame their voice, and imitate, thus birds instructed man, and taught them songs before their art began. in short, tis so certain that verses first began in the country that the thing is in it self evident, and this _tibullus_ very plainly signifies, { } first weary at his plough the labouring hind in certain feet his rustick words did bind: his dry reed first he tun'd at sacred feasts to thanks the bounteous gods, and cheer his guests. _in certain feet_ according to _bern cylenius_ of _verona_ his interpretation _in set measures_: for _censorinus_ tells us, that the antient songs were loose and not ty'd up to any strict numbers, and afterwards by certain laws and acknowledged rules were confin'd to such and such measures: for this is the method of nature in all her works, from imperfect and rude beginnings things take their first rise, and afterwards by fit and apposite additions are polish't, and brought to perfection: such were the verses which heretofore the _italian_ sheapards and plough-men, as _virgil_ says, sported amongst themselves. italian plough-men sprung from antient _troy_ did sport unpolish't rhymes-- _lucretius_ in his fifth book _de natura rerum_, says, that sheapards were first taught by the rushing of soft breezes amongst the canes to blow their reeds, and so by degrees to put their songs in tune. for whilst soft evening gales blew or'e the plains and shook the sounding reeds, they taught the swains, and thus the pipe was fram'd, and tuneful reed, and whilst the flocks did then securely feed, the harmless sheapards tun'd their pipes to love, { } and amaryllis name fill'd every grove. from all which tis very plain that _poetry_ began in those days, when sheapards took up their employment: to this agrees _donatus_ in his life of _virgil_, and _pontanus_ in his fifth book of stars, as appears by these verses. here underneath a shade by purling springs the sheapards dance, whilst sweet _amyntas_ sings; thus first the new found pipe was tun'd to love, and plough-men taught their sweet hearts to the grove, thus the _fescennine_ jests when they sang harvest-home, and then too the grape gatherers and reapers songs began, an elegant example of which we have in the tenth _idyllium_ of _theocritus_. from this birth, as it were, of _poetry_, verse began to grow up to greater matters; for from the common discourse of _plough-men_ and _sheapards_, first _comedy_, that mistress of a private life, next _tragedy_, and then _epick poetry_ which is lofty and _heroical_ arrose, this _maximus tyrius_ confirms in his twenty first dissetation, where he tells us that plough-men just comeing from their work, and scarce cleansed from the filth of their employment, did use to flurt out some sudden and _extempore_ catches; and from this beginning plays were produc'd and the stage erected: thus { } much concerning the _antiquity_, next of the _original_ of this sort. about this learned men cannot agree, for who was the first author, is not sufficiently understood; _donatus_, tis true, tells us tis proper to the golden age, and therefore must needs be the product of that happy time: but who was the author, where, what time it was first invented hath been a great controversy, and not yet sufficiently determined: _epicharmus_ one of _pythagoras_ his school, in his *alkyoni* mentions one _diomus_ a _sicilian_, who, if we believe _athænæus_ was the first that wrote _pastorals: those that fed cattle had a peculiar kind of poetry, call'd bucolicks, of which dotimus a sicilian was inventer:_ _diodorus siculus_ *en tois mythologoumenois*, seems to make _daphnis_ the son of _mercury_ and a certain _nymph_, to be the author; and agreeable to this, _theon_ an old _scholiast_ on _theocritus_, in his notes upon the first _idyllium_ mentioning _daphnis_, adds, _he was the author of bucolicks_, and _theocritus himself_ calls him _the muses darling_: and to this opinion of _diodorus siculus polydore virgil_ readily assents. but _mnaseas_ of _patara_ in a discourse of his concerning _europa_, speaks thus of a son of _pan_ the god of sheapards: _panis filium bubulcum à quo & bucolice canere:_ now whether _mnaseas_ by that _bubulcum_, means only a _herds-man_, or one skilled in _bucolicks_, is uncertain; but if _valla's_ { } judgment be good, tis to be taken of the latter: yet _Ælian_ was of another mind, for he boldly affirms that _stesichorus_ called _himeræus_ was the first, and in the same place adds, that _daphnis_ the son of _mercury_ was the first subject of _bucolicks_. some ascribe the honor to _bacchus_ the president of the _nymphs, satyrs_, and the other country gods, perhaps because he delighted in the country; and others attribute it to _apollo_ called _nomius_ the god of sheapards, and that he invented it then when he served _admetus_ in _thessaly_, and fed his herds: for, tis likely, he to recreate himself, and pass away his time, applied his mind to such songs as were best suitable to his present condition: many think we owe it to _pan_ the god of sheapards, not a few to _diana_ that extreamly delighted in solitude and woods; and some say _mercury_ himself: of all which whilst _grammarians_ prattle, according to their usual custome they egregiously trifle; they suffer themselves to be put upon by fables, and resign their judgment up to foolish pretentions, but things and solid truth is that we seek after. as about the author, so concerning the place of its birth there is a great dispute, some say _sparta_, others _peloponesus_, but most are for _sicily_. _valla the placentine_, a curious searcher into antiquity, thinks this sort of poetry first appear'd amongst the _lacedemonians_, for when the _persians_ had wasted allmost all _greece_, the _spartans_ say { } that they for fear of the _barbarians_ fled into caves and lurking holes; and that the country youth then began to apply themselves in songs to _diana caryatis_, together with the maids, who midst their songs offerd flowers to the goddess: which custome containing somewhat of religion was in those places a long time very scrupulously observed. _diomedes_ the grammarian, in his treatise of _measures_, declares _sicily_ to be the place: for thus he says, the _sicilian_ sheapards in time of a great _pestilence_, began to invent new ceremonies to appease incensed _diana_, whom afterward, for affording her help, and stopping the plague they called *lyên*: _i.e._ the _freer_ from their miserys. this grew into custom, and the sheapards used to meet in companies, to sing their deliverer _diana's_ praise, and these afterwards passing into _italy_ were there named _bucoliastæ_. _pomponius sabinus_ tells the story thus: when the hymns the virgins us'd to sing in the country to _diana_ were left off, because, by reason of the present wars, the maidens were forc't to keep close within the towns; the shepherds met, and sang these kind of songs, which are now call'd _bucolicks_, to _diana_; to whom they could not give the usual worship by reason of the wars: but _donatus_ says, that this kind of verses was first sung to _diana_ by _orestes_, when he wandred about _italy_; after he fled from _scythia taurica_, and had { } taken away the image of the goddess and hid it in a bundle of sticks, whence she receiv'd the name of _fascelina_, or _phacelide_ *apo tou phakelou* at whose altar, the very same _orestes_ was afterward expiated by his sister _iphigenia_: but how can any one rely on such fables, when the inconsiderable authors that propose them disagree so much amongst themselves? some are of opinion that the shepherds, were wont in solem and set songs about the fields and towns to celebrate the goddess _pales_; and beg her to bless their flocks and fields with a plenteous encrease and that from hence the name, and composure of _bucolicks_ continued. other prying ingenious men make other conjectures, as to this mazing controversy thus _vossius_ delivers himself; _the antients cannot be reconcil'd, but i rather incline to their opinion who think_ bucolicks _were invented either by the_ sicilians _or_ peloponesians, _for both those use the_ dorick _dialect, and all the_ greek bucolicks _are writ in that_: as for my self i think, that what _horace_ says of _elegies_ may be apply'd to the present subject. but who soft elegies was the first that wrote grammarians doubt, and cannot end the doubt: for i find nothing certain about this matter, since neither _valla_ a diligent inquirer after, and a good judge in such things, nor any of the late writers produce any thing upon which i can safely rely; yet what beginning this kind of poetry { } had, i think i can pretty well conjecture: for tis likely that first shepherds us'd songs to recreate themselves in their leisure hours whilst they fed their sheep; and that each man, as his wit served, accommodated his songs to his present circumstances: to this solitude invited, and the extream leisure that attends that employment absolutely requir'd it: for as their retirement gave them leisure, and solitude a fit place for meditation, meditation and invention produc'd a verse; which is nothing else but a speech fit to be sung, and so songs began: thus _hesiod_ was made a poet, for he acknowledges himself that he receiv'd his inspiration; whilst under _helicon_ he fed his lambs. for either the leisure or fancy of shepherds seems to have a natural aptitude to verse. and indeed i cannot but agree with _lucretius_ that accurate searcher into nature, who delivers that from that state of innocence the golden age, pastorals continued down to his time, for after he had in his fifth book describ'd that most happy age, he adds, for then the rural muses reign'd. from whence 'tis very plain, that as _donatus_ himself observ'd, pastorals were the invention of the simplicity and innocence of that golden age, if there was ever any such, or certainly of that time which succeeded the beginning of the world: for tho the golden age must be acknowledged { } to be only in the fabulous times, yet 'tis certain that the manners of the first men were so plain and simple, that we may easily derive both the innocent imployment of shepherds, and pastorals from them. { } _the second_ part. now let us inquire into the nature of _pastoral_, in what its excellencies consist, and how it must be made to be exact: and this must needs be a hard task, since i have no guide, neither _aristotle_ nor _horace_ to direct me; for both they, whatever was the matter, speak not one word of this sort of verse. and i am of opinion that none can treat well and clearly of any kind of _poetry_ if he hath no helps from these two: but since they lay down some general notions of _poetry_ which may be useful in the present case, i shall follow their steps as close as possible i can. not only _aristotle_ but _horace_ too hath defin'd that _poetry_ in general is imitation; i mention only these two, for tho _plato_ in his second book _de rep._ and in his _timæus_ delivers the same thing, i shall not make use of his authority at all: now as _comedy_ according to _aristotle_ is the _image and representation of a gentiel and city life_, so is _pastoral poetry_ of a county and _sheapards_ life; for since _poetry_ in general is imitation; its several _species_ must likewise imitate, take _aristotles_ own words _cap._ . *pasai tynchanousin ousa mimêseis*; and these _species_ are { } differenc't either by the subject matter, when the things to be imitated are quite different, or when the manner in which you imitate, or the mode of imitation is so: *en trisi dê tautais diaphorais hê mimêsis estin, en hois kai ha, kai hôs*: thus tho of _epick_ poetry and _tragedy_ the subject is the same, and some great illustrious action is to be _imitated_ by both, yet since one by representation, and the other by plain narration imitates, each makes a different _species_ of imitation. and _comedy_ and _tragedy_, tho they agree in this, that both represent, yet because the matter is different, and _tragedy_ must represent some brave action, and _comedy_ a humor; these two sorts of imitation are _specifically different_. and upon the same account, since _pastoral_ chooses the mannes of sheapards for its imitation, it takes from its matter a peculiar difference, by which it is distinguish'd frõ all others. but here _benius_ in his comments upon _aristotle_ hath started a considerable query: which is this; whether _aristotle_, when he reckons up the different _species_ of poetry _cap_ . doth include _pastoral,_ or no? and about this i find learn'd men cannot at all agree: which certainly _benius_ should have determin'd, or not rais'd: some refer it to that sort which _was sung to pipes_, for that _pastorals_ were so _apuleius_ intimates, when at the marriage feast of _phyche_ he brings in _paniscus_ singing _bucolicks_ to his pipe; but since they did not seriously enough consider, what _aristotle_ { } meant by that which he calls *aulêtikên* they trifle, talk idly, and are not to be heeded in this matter; for suppose some _musitian_ should sing _virgils Ænæis_ to the harp, (and _ant. lullus_ says it hath been done,) should we therefore reckon that divine and incomparable master of _heroick_ poetry amongst the _lyricks_? others with _cæsius bassus_ and _isacius tzetzes_ hold that that distribution of _poetry_, which _aristotle_ and _tully_ hath left us, is deficient and imperfect; and that only the chief species are reckoned, but the more inconsiderable not mention'd: i shall not here interest my self in that quarrel of the _criticks_, whether we have all _aristotles_ books of poetry or no; this is a considerable difficulty i confess, for _laertius_ who accurately weighs this matter, says that he wrote two books of _poetry_, the one lost, and the other we have, tho _mutinensis_ is of an other mind: but to end this dispute, i must agree with _vossius_, who says the philosopher comprehended these species not expressly mentioned, under a higher and more noble head: and that therefore _pastoral_ was contain'd in _epick_. for these are his own words, _besides there are epicks of an inferior rank, such as the writers of bucolicks_. _sincerus_, as _minturnus_ quotes him, is of the same mind, for thus he delivers his opinion concerning _epick verse_: _the matters about which these numbers may be employed is various; either mean and low, as in pastorals, great and lofty, as when { } the subject is divine things, or heroick actions, or of a middle rank, as when we use them to deliver precepts in:_ and this likewise he signifys before, where he sets down three sorts of _epicks_: _one of which, says he, is divine, and the most excellent by much in all poetry_; the _other the lowest but most pure, in which theocritus excelled, which indeed shews nothing of poetry beside the bare numbers_: these points being thus settled, the remaining difficultys will be more easily dispatched. for as in _dramatick_ poetry the dignity and meanness of the _persons_ represented make two different _species of imitation_ the one _tragick_, which agrees to none but great and illustrious persons, the other _comick_, which suits with common and gentile humors: so in _epick_ too, there may be reckoned two sorts of _imitation_, one of which belongs to _heroes_, and that makes the _heroick_; the other to _rusticks_ and _sheapards_ and that constitutes the _pastoral_, now as a _picture_ imitates the features of the face, so _poetry_ doth action, and tis not a representation of the person but the action. from all which we may gather this definition of pastoral: _it is the imitation of the action of a sheapard, or of one taken under that character_: thus _virgil's gallus_, tho not really a _sheapard_, for he was a man of great quality in _rome_, yet belongs to _pastoral_, because he is represented like a sheapard: hence the poet: { } the goatherd and the heavy heardsmen came, and ask't what rais'd the deadly flame. the _scene_ lys amongst sheapards, the _swains_ are brought in, the _herdsmen_ come to see his misery, and the fiction is suited to the real condition of a _sheapard_; the same is to be said for his _silenus_, who tho he seems lofty, and to sound to loud for an oaten reed, yet since what he sings he sings to _sheapards_, and suits his subject to their apprehensions, his is to be acknowledged _pastoral_. this rule we must stick to, that we might infallibly discern what is stricktly _pastoral_ in _virgil_ and _theocritus_, and what not: for in _theocritus_ there are some more lofty thoughts which not having any thing belonging to sheapards for their subject, must by no means be accounted _pastoral_, but of this more in its proper place. my present inquiry must be what is the _subject matter_ of a _pastoral_, about which it is not easy to resolve; since neither from _aristotle_, nor any of the _greeks_ who have written _pastorals_, we can receive certain direction. for sometimes they treat of high and sublime things, like _epick poets_; what can be loftier than the whole _seaventh idyllium of bias_ in which _myrsan_ urges _lycidas_ the sheapard to sing the loves of _deidamia_ and _achilles_. for he begins from _helen's_ rape, and goes on to the revengful fury of the _atrides_, and shuts up in one _pastoral_, all that is great and sounding in _homers iliad_. { } sparta was fir'd with rage and gather'd greece to prosecute revenge. and _theocritus_ his verses are sometimes as sounding and his thoughts as high: for upon serious consideration i cannot mind what part of all the _heroicks_ is so strong and sounding as that _idyllium_ on _hercules_ *leontophonô* in which _hercules_ himself tells _phyleus_ how he kill'd the lyon whose skin he wore: for, not to mention many, what can be greater than this expression. and gaping hell received his mighty soul: why should i instance in the *dioskouroi*, which hath not one line below heroick; the greatness of this is almost inexpressible. *anêr hyperoplos enêmeros, endiaaske deinos idein* and some other pieces are as strong as these, such is the _panegyrick on ptolemy_, _helen's epithalamium_, and the fight of young _hercules_ and the snakes: now how is it likely that such subjects should be fit for _pastorals_, of which in my opinion, the same may be said which _ovid_ doth of his _cydippe_. cydippe, homer, doth not fit thy muse. for certainly _pastorals_ ought not to rise to the majesty of _heroicks_: but who on the other side { } dares reprehend such great and judicious authors, whose very doing it is authority enough? what shall i say of _virgil_? who in his sixth _eclogue_ hath put together allmost all the particulars of the fabulous age; what is so high to which _silenus_ that master of mysterys doth not soar? for lo! he sung the worlds stupendious birth, how scatter'd seeds of sea, of air, and earth, and purer fire thro universal night and empty space did fruitfully unite: from whence th' innumerable race of things by circular successive order springs: and afterward how pyrra's stony race rose from the ground, and saturn reign'd with golden plenty crown'd, how bold _prometheus_ (whose untam'd desire, rival'd the sun with his own heavenly fire) now doom'd the _scythian_ vulturs endless prey severely pays for animating clay: so true, so certain 'tis, that nothing is so high and lofty to which _bucolicks_ may not successfully aspire. but if this be so, what will become of _macrobius, georgius valla, julius scaliger, vossius,_ and the whole company of grammarians? who all affirm that simplicity and meanness is so essential to _pastorals_, that it ought to be confin'd to the state, manners, apprehension and even common phrases of sheapards: for nothing can { } be said to be _pastoral_, which is not accommodated to their condition; and for this reason _nannius alcmaritanus_ in my opinion is a trifler, who, in his comments on _virgils eclogues_, thinks that those sorts of composures may now and then be lofty, and treat of great subjects: where he likewise divides the matter of _bucolicks_, into _low_, _middle_, and _high_: and makes _virgil_ the author of this division, who in his fourth _eclogue_, (as he imagines) divides the matter of _bucolicks_ into three sorts, and intimates this division by these three words: _bushes_, _shrubs_ and _woods_. sicilian muse begin a loftier strain, the bushes and the shrubs that shade the plain delight not all; if i to woods repair my song shall make them worth a consuls care. by woods, as he fancys, as _virgil_ means high and stately trees, so he would have a great and lofty subject to to be implyed, such as he designed for the _consul_: by bushes, which are almost even with the ground, the meanest and lowest argument; and by shrubs a subject not so high as the one, nor so low as the other, as the thing it-self is, and therefore these lines if i to woods repair my song shall make them worth a _consuls_ care. { } are thus to be understood, that if we choose high and sublime arguments, our work will be fit for the patronage of a _consul_, this is _nanniu's_ interpretation of that place; too pedantial and subtle i'me affraid, for tis not credible that ever _virgil_ thought of reckoning great and lofty things amongst the subjects of _bucolicks_ especially since when his _thalia_ rais'd her bolder voice and kings and battles were her lofty choice, _phoebus_ did twitch his ear, mean thoughts infuse, and with this whisper check't th' inspiring muse. a sheapard, tityrus, his sheep should feed, and choose a subject suited to his reed, this certainly was a serious admonition, implyed by the twitching of his ear, and i believe if he had continued in this former humor and not obey'd the smarting admonition. he had still felt it: so far was he from thinking kings and battels fit themes for a _sheapards_ song: and this evidently shows that in _virgils_ opinion, contrary to _nanniu's_ fancy, great things cannot in the least be comprehended within the subject matter of _pastorals;_ no, it must be low and humble, which _theocritus_ very happily expresseth by this word *boukoliasdên* _i.e._ as the interpreters explain it, sing humble strains. theefore let _pastoral_ never venture upon a { } lofty subject, let it not recede one jot from its proper matter, but be employ'd about rustick affairs: such as are mean and humble in themselves; and such are the affairs of shepherds, especially their loves, but those must be pure and innocent; not disturb'd by vain suspitious jealousy, nor polluted by rapes; the rivals must not fight, and their emulations must be without quarrellings: such as _vida_ meant. whilst on his reed he shepherd's stifes conveys, and soft complaints in smooth sicilian lays. to these may be added _sports_, _jests_, _gifts_, and _presents_; but not _costly_, such are yellow apples, young stock-doves, milk, flowers, and the like; all things must appear delightful and easy, nothing vitious and rough: a perfidious pimp, a designing jilt, a gripeing usurer, a crafty factious servant must have no room there, but every part must be full of the simplicity of the _golden-age_, and of that candor which was then eminent: for as _juvenal affirms_ baseness was a great wonder in that age; sometimes _funeral-rites_ are the subject of an _eclogue_, where the shepherds scatter flowers on the tomb, and sing rustick songs in honor of the dead: examples of this kind are left us by _virgil_ in his _daphnis_, and _bion_ in his _adonis_, and this hath nothing disagreeable to a shepherd: in { } short whatever, the decorum being still preserv'd, can be done by a _sheapard_, may be the subject of a _pastoral_. now there may be more kinds of subjects than _servius_ or _donatus_ allow, for they confine us to that number which _virgil_ hath made use of, tho _minturnus_ in his second book _de poetâ_ declares against this opinion: but as a glorious _heroick_ action must be the subject of an _heroick_ poem, so a _pastoral_ action of a _pastoral_; at least it must be so turn'd and wrought, that it might appear to be the action of a _shepherd_; which caution is very necessary to be observ'd, to clear a great many difficulties in this matter: for tho as the interpreters assure us; most of _virgils_ eclogues are about the civil war, planting colonys, the murder of the emperor, and the like, which in themselves are too great and too lofty for humble _pastoral_ to reach, yet because they are accomodated to the genius of shepherds, may be the subject of an _eclogue_, for that sometimes will admit of gods and heroes so they appear like, and are shrouded under the persons of shepherds: but as for these matters which neither really are, nor are so wrought as to seem the actions of shepherds, such are in _moschus's_ _europa_, _theocritus's_ _epithalamium of helen_, and _virgil's_ _pollio_, to declare my opinion freely, i cannot think them to be fit subjects for _bucolicks_: and upon this account i suppose 'tis that _servius_ in his { } comments on _virgil's_ _bucoliks_ reckons only seven of _virgil's_ ten eclogues, and onely ten of _theocritus's_ thirty, to be pure pastorals, and _salmasius_ upon _solinus_ says, that _amongst theocritus's_ _poems there are some which you may call what you please beside pastorals_: and _heinsius_ in his _scholia_ upon _theocritus_ will allow but ten of his _idylliums_ to be _bucoliks_, . . . . . . . . . . for all the rest are deficient either in matter or form, and from this number of pure pastoral _idylliums_ i am apt to think, that _theocritus_ seems to have made that pipe, on which he tun'd his _pastorals_ and which he consecrated to _pan_ of ten reeds, as _salmasius_ in his notes on _theocritus's_ pipe hath learnedly observed: _in which two verses always make one reed of the pipe, therefore all are so unequal, like the unequal reeds of a pipe, that if you put two equals together which make one reed, the whole inequality consists in ten pairs_; when in the common pipes there were usually no more then seven reeds, and this the less curious observers have heedlessly past by. some are of opinion that whatever is done in the country, and in one word, every thing that hath nought of the city in it may be treated of in _pastorals_; and that the discourse of fishers, plow-men, reapers, hunters, and the like, belong to this kind of poetry: which according to the rule that i have laid down cannot be true for, as i before hinted nothing but the action of a { } shepherd can be the subject of a pastoral. i shall not here enquire, tho it may seem proper, whether we can decently bring into an eclogue reapers, vine-dressers, gardners, fowlers, hunters, fishers, or the like, whose lives for the most part are taken up with too much business and employment to have any vacant time for songs, and idle chat, which are more agreeable to the leisure of a sheapards life: for in a great many rustick affairs, either the hardship and painful labor will not admit a song, as in plowing, or the solitude as in hunting, fishing, fowling, and the like; but of this i shall discourse more largely in another place. now 'tis not sufficient to make a poem a true _pastoral_, that the subject of it is the action of a shepherd, for in _hesiods_ *erga* and _virqils georgicks_ there are a great many things that belong to the employment of a shepherd, yet none fancy they are pastorals; from whence 'tis evident, that beside the _matter_, which we have defin'd to be the action of a sheapard, there is a peculiar _form_ proper to this kind of _poetry_ by which 'tis distinguish'd from all others. of poetry in general _socrates_, as _plato_ tells us, would have _fable_ to be the _form_: _aristotle_ imitation: i shall not dispute what difference there is between these two, but only inquire whether imitation be the _form_ of _pastoral_: 'tis certain that _epick_ poetry is differenc't from _tragick_ only by { } the manner of imitation, for the latter imitates by _action_, and the former by bare _narration_: but _pastoral_ is the imitation of a _pastoral_ action either by bare narration, as in _virgil's_ _alexis_, and _theocritus's_ th _idyllium_, in which the poet speaks all along in his own person: or by action as in _virgil's_ _tityrus_, and the first of _theocritus_, or by both mixt, as in the second and eleventh _idylliums_, in which the poet partly speaks in his own person, and partly makes others speak, and i think the old _scholiast_ on _theocritus_ took an hint from these when he says, that pastoral is a mixture made up of all sorts, for 'tis narrative, dramatick, and mixt, and _aristotle_, tho obscurely, seems to hint in those words, _in every one of the mentioned arts there is imitation, in some simple, in some mixt_; now this latter being peculiar to _bucolicks_ makes its very form and essence: and therefore _scaliger_, in the th chapter of his first book of poetry, reckons up three species of _pastorals_, the first hath but one person, the second several, which sing alternately; the third is mixt of both the other: and the same observation is made by _heinsius_ in his notes on _theocritus_, for thus he very plainly to our purpose, _the character of_ bucolicks _is a mixture of all sorts of characters, dramatick, narrative, or mixt_: from all which 'tis very manifest that the manner of _imitation_ which is proper to _pastorals_ is the mixt: for in other kinds of poetry 'tis one and simple, at least { } not so manifold; as in _tragedy action_: in _epick_ poetry _narration_. now i shall explain what sort of _fable_; _manners_, _thought_, _expression_, which four are necessary to constitute every kind of poetry, are proper to this sort. concerning the fable which _aristotle_ calls, *synthesin tôn pragmatôn*, i have but one thing to say: this, as the philosopher hints, as of all other sorts of poetry, so of pastoral is the very soul. and therfore _socrates_ in _plato_ says, that in those verses which he had made there was nothing wanting but the _fable_: therefore pastorals as other kinds of poetry must have their fable, if they will be poetry: thus in _virgil's_ _silenus_ which contains the stories of allmost the whole fabulous age, two shepherds whom _silenus_ had often promis'd a song, and as often deceived, seize upon him being drunk and asleep, and bind him with wreath'd flowers; _Ægle_ comes in and incourages the timorous youths, and stains his jolly red face with blackberries, _silenus_ laughs at their innocent contrivance, and desires to be unbound, and then with a premeditated song satisfies the nymph's and boys curiosity; the incomparable poet sings wonders, the rocks rejoyce, the vales eccho, and happy _eurotas_ as if _phoebus_ himself sang, hears all, and bids the laurels that grow upon his banks listen to, and learn the song. { } happy _eurotas_ as he flow'd along heard all, and bad the laurels learn the song. thus every eclogue or idyllium must have its fable, which must be the groundwork of the whole design, but it must not be perplext with sudden and unlookt for changes, as in _marinus's_ _adonis_: for that, tho the _fable_ be of a shepherd, yet by reason of the strange bombast under plots, and wonderful occurences, cannot be accounted _pastoral_; for that it might be agreeable to the person it treats of, it must be plain and simple, such as _sophocles's_ _ajax_, in which there is not so much as one change of fortune. as for the manners, let that precept, which _horace_ lays down in his epistle to the _pisones_, be principally observed. let each be grac't with that which suits him best. for this, as 'tis a rule relateing to _poetry_ in general, so it respects this kind also of which we are treating; and against this _tasso_ in his _amyntas_, _bonarellus_ in his _phyllis_, _guarinus_ in his _pastor fido_, _marinus_ in his _idylliums_, and most of the _italians_ grievously offend, for they make their _shepherds_ too polite, and elegant, and cloth them with all the neatness of the town, and complement of the court, which tho it may seem very pretty, yet amongst good _critics_, let _veratus_ { } say what he will in their excuse, it cannot be allowed: for 'tis against _minturnus's_ opinion, who in his second book _de poetâ_ says thus: _mean persons are brought in, those in comedy indeed more polite, those in pastorals more unelegant, as suppos'd to lead a rude life in solitude_; and _jason denor_ a doctor of _padua_ takes notice of the same as a very absurd error: _aristotle_ heretofore for a like fault reprehended the _megarensians_, who observ'd no _decorum_ in their _theater_, but brought in mean persons with a train fit for a _king_ and cloath'd a cobler or tinker in a purple robe: in vain doth _veratus_ in his dispute against _jason denor_, to defend those elaborately exquisite discourses, and notable sublime sentences of his _pastor fido_, bring some lofty _idylliums_ of _theocritus_, for those are not acknowledged to be pastoral; _theocritus_ and _virgil_ must be consulted in this matter, the former designdly makes his shepherds discourse in the _dorick_ i. e. the rustick dialect, sometimes scarce true grammar; & the other studiously affects ignorance in the persons of his shepherds, as _servius_ hath observ'd, and is evident in _melibæus_, who makes _oaxes_ to be a river in _crete_ when 'tis in _mesopotamia_: and both of them take this way that the manners may the more exactly suit with the persons they represent, who of themselves are rude and unpolisht: and this proves that they scandalously err, who make their shepherds appear polite and elegant; nor can i imagine what _veratus_ { } who makes so much ado about the polite manners of the _arcadian_ shepherds, would say to _polybius_ who tells us that _arcadians_ by reason of the mountainousness of the country and hardness of the weather, are very unsociable and austere. now as too much neatness in _pastoral_ is not to be allow'd, so rusticity (i do not mean that which _plato_, in his third book of a commonwealth, mentions which is but a part of a down right honesty) but clownish stupidity, such as _theophrastus_, in his character of a _rustick_, describes; or that disagreeable unfashionable roughness which _horace_ mentions in his epistle to _lollius_, must not in my opinion be endur'd: on this side _mantuan_ errs extreamly, and is intolerably absur'd, who makes shepherds blockishly sottish, and insufferably rude: and a certain interpreter blames _theocritus_ for the same thing, who in some mens opinion sometimes keeps too close to the _clown_, and is rustick and uncouth; but this may be very well excus'd because the age in which he sang was not as polite as now. but that every part may be suitable to a shepherd, we must consult unstain'd, uncorrupted nature; so that the manners might not be too clownish nor too caurtly: and this mean may be easily observed if the manners of our shepherds be represented according to the _genius_ of the _golden age_, in which, if _guarinus_ may be believ'd { }, every man follow'd that employment: and _nannius_ in the preface to his comments on _virgil's_ _bucolicks_ is of the same opinion, for he requires that the manners might represent the golden age: and this was the reason that _virgil_ himself in his _pollio_ describes that age, which he knew very well was proper to _bucolicks_: for in the whole course of a shepherds life there can be no form more excellent than that which was the practise of the golden age; and this may serve to moderate and temper the affections that must be exprest in this sort of poetry, and sufficiently declare the whole essence of it, which in short must be taken from the nature of a shepherds life to which a courtly dress is not agreeable. that the thought may be commendable, it must be suitable to the _manners_; as those must be plain and pure that must be so too: nor must contain any, deep, exquisite, or elaborate fancies: and against this the _italians_ offend, who continually hunt after smart witty sayings, very foolishly in my opinion; for in the country, where all things should be full of plainess and simplicity who would paint or endeavor to be gawdy when such appearances would be very disagreeable and offend? _pontanus_ in this matter hath said very well, _the thought must not be to exquisite and witty, the comparisons obvious and common, such as the state of persons and things require_: yet tho too scrupulous a curiosity in ornament ought to be rejected, { } yet lest the thought be cold and flat, it must have some quickness of passion, as in these. cruel _alexis_ can't my verses move? hast thou no pitty? i must dye for love_. and again, he neither gods, nor yet my verse regards. the sense must not be long, copious, and continued, for _pastoral_ is weak, and not able to hold out; but of this more when i come to lay down rules for its composure: but tho it ought to imitate _comedy_ in its common way of discourse, yet it must not chose _old comedy_ for its pattern, for that is too impudent, and licentiously abusive: let it be free and modest, honest and ingenuous, and that will make it agreeable to the golden age. let the expression be plain and easy, but elegant and neat, and the purest which the language will afford; _pontanus_ upon _virgils_ bucolicks gives the very same rule, _in bucolicks the expression must be humble, nearer common discourse than otherwise, not very spirituous and vivid, yet such as shows life and strength_: tis certain that _virgil_ in his _bucolicks_ useth the same words which _tully_ did in the _forum_ or the _senate_; and _tityrus_ beneath his shady beech speaks as pure and good _latin_ as _augustus_ in his palace, as _modicius_ in his _apology_ for _virgil_ hath excellently observ'd: { } this rule, 'tis true; _theocritus_ hath not so strictly follow'd, whose rustick and pastoral muse, as _quintilian_ phraseth it, _not only is affraid to appear in the_ forum, _but the city_, and for the very same thing an _alexandrian_ flouts the _syracucusian weomen_ in the fifteenth _idyllium_ of _theocritus_, for when they, being then in the city, spoke the _dorick_ dialect, the delicate citizen could not endure it, and found fault with their distastful, as he thought, pronunciation: and his reflection was very smart. like pidgeons you have mouths from ear to ear. so intolerable did that broad way of pronunciation, tho exactly fit for a clowns discourse, seem to a citizen: and hence _probus_ observes that 'twas much harder for the _latines_ to write _pastorals_ than for the _greeks_; because the _latines_ had not some _dialects_ peculiar to the country, and others to the city, as the _greeks_ had; besides the _latine_ language, as _quintilian_ hath observ'd, is not capable of the neatness which is necessary to bucolicks, no, that is the peculiar priviledge of the _greeks_: _we cannot_, says he, _be so low, they exceed us in subtlety, and in propriety they are at more certainty than we_: and again, _in pat and close expressions we cannot reach the greeks_: and, if we believe _tully_, _greek is much more fit for ornament than latin_ for it hath much more of that neatness, { } and ravishing delightfulness, which _bucolicks_ necessarily require. yet of pastoral, with whose nature we are not very well acquainted, what that _form_ is which the _greeks_ call the _character_, is not very easy to determine; yet that we may come to some certainty, we must stick to our former observation, _viz._ that _pastoral_ belongs properly to the _golden age_: for as _tully_ in his treatise _de oratore_ says, _in all our disputes the subject is to be measur'd by the most perfect of that kind_, and _synesius_ in his _encomium_ on _baldness_ hints the very same, when he tells us that poetry fashions its subject as men imagine it should be, and not as really it is: *pros doxan, ou pros alêtheian*: now the life of a shepherd, that it might be rais'd to the highest perfection, is to be referr'd to the manners and age of the world whilst yet innocent, and such as the fables have describ'd it: and as simplicity was the principal vertue of that age, so it ought to be the peculiar grace, and as it were _character_ of _bucolicks_: in which the fable, manners, thought, and expression ought to be full of the most innocent simplicity imaginable: for as innocence in life, so purity and simplicity in discourse was the glory of that age: so as gravity to _epicks_, sweetness to _lyricks_, humor to _comedy_, softness to _elegies_ and smartness to _epigrams_, so simplicity to _pastorals_ is proper; and one upon _theocritus_ says, _that the idea of his bucolicks is in every part pure, and in all { } that belongs to simplicity very happy_: such is this of _virgil_, unwholsome to us singers is the shade of juniper, 'tis an unwholsome shade: than which in my opinion nothing can be more simply; nothing more rustically said; and this is the reason i suppose why _macrobius_ says that this kind of poetry is creeping and upon mean subjects; and why too _virgils tityrus_ lying under his shady beech displeaseth some; excellent criticks indeed, whom i wish a little more sense, that they might not really be, what they would not seem to be, _ridiculous_: _theocritus_ excells _virgil_ in this, of whom _modicius_ says, _theocritus deserves the greatest commendation for his happy imitation of the simplicity of his shepherds_, virgil _hath mixt allegories, and some other things which contain too much learning, and deepness of thought for persons of so mean a quality_: yet here i must obviate their mistake who fancy that this sort of _poetry_, because in it self low and simple, is the proper work of _mean_ wits, and not the most _sublime_ and _excellent_ perfections: for as i think there be can nothing more elegant than easy naked simplicity, so likewise nothing can require more strength of wit, and greater pains; and he must be of a great and clear judgment, who attempts _pastoral_, and comes of with honor. for there is no part of _poetry_ that requires more spirit, for if any part is not close and well compacted the whole fabrick will be ruin'd, and the { } matter, in it self humble, must creep; unless it is held up by the strength and vigor of the _expression_. another qualification and excellence of _pastoral_ is to imitate _timanthes's_ art, of whom _pliny_ writes thus; _timanthes was very ingenious, in all his peices more was to be understood than the colours express'd, and tho his art was very extraordinary yet his fancy exceeded it_: in this _virgil_ is peculiarly happy, but others, especially raw unexperienced writers, if they are to describe a rainbow, or a river, pour out their whole stock, and are unable to contain: now 'tis properly requisite to a pastoral that there should be a great deal coucht in a few words, and every thing it says should be so short, and so close, as if its chiefest excellence was to be spareing in expression: such is that of _virgil_; these fields and corn shall a barbarian share? see the effects of all our civil war. how short is that? how concise? and yet how full of sense in the same _eclogue_. i wonder'd why all thy complaints were made, absent was _tityrus_: and the like you may every where meet with, as _mopsus_ weds _nisa_, what may'nt lovers hope? and in the second _eclogue_, { } whom dost thou fly ah frantick! oft the woods hold gods, and _paris_ equal to the gods. this grace _virgil_ learn'd from _theocritus_, allmost most all whose periods; especially in the third _idyllium_, have no conjunction to connect them, that the sense might be more close, and the affection vehement and strong: as in this let all things change, let pears the firs adorn now _daphnis_ dyes. and in the third _eclogue_. but when she saw, how great was the surprize! &c. and any one may find a great many of the like in _theocritus_ and _virgil_, if with a leisurely delight he nicely examines their delicate composures: and this i account the greatest grace in _pastorals_, which in my opinion those that write _pastorals_ do not sufficiently observe: 'tis true ours (the _french_) and the _italian_ language is to babling to endure it; this is the rock on which those that write _pastorals_ in their _mother_ tongue are usually split, but the _italians_ are inevitably lost; who having store of _wit_, a very subtle invention and flowing fancy, cannot contain; everything that comes into their mind must be poured out, nor are they able to endure the least restraint: as is evident from _marinus's_ _idylliums_, and a great many of that nation who have ventur'd on such composures; for unless there are many { } stops and breakings off in the series of a _pastoral_, it can neither be pleasing nor artificial: and in my opinion _virgil_ excells _theocritus_ in this, for _virgil_ is neither so continued, nor so long as _theocritus_; who indulges too much the garrulity of his _greek_; nay even in those things which he expresseth he is more close, and more cautiously conceals that part which ought to be dissembled: and this i am sure is a most admirable part of eloquence; as _tully_ in his epistle to _atticus_ says, _'tis rare to speak eloquently, but more rare to be eloquently silent_: and this unskillful _criticks_ are not acquainted with, and therefore are wont oftner to find fault with that which is not fitly exprest, than commend that which is prudently conceal'd: i could heap up a great many more things to this purpose, but i see no need of such a trouble, since no man can rationally doubt of the goodness of my observation. therefore, in short, let him that writes pastorals think brevity, if it doth not obscure his sense, to be the greatest grace which he can attain. now why _bucolicks_ should require such brevity, and be so essentially sparing in _expression_, i see no other reason but this: it loves _simplicity_ so much that it must be averse to that pomp and ostentation which _epick_ poetry must show, for that must be copious and flowing, in every part smooth, and equal to it self: but _pastoral_ must dissemble, and hide even that which it would { } show, like _damon's_ _galatea_, who flies then when she most desires to be discovered. and to the bushes flys, yet would be seen. and this doth not proceed from any malitious ill-natur'd coyness, as some imagine, but from an ingenuous modesty and bashfulness, which usually accompanies, and is a proof of _simplicity: tis very rare_, says pliny, _to find a man so exquisitely skillful, as to be able to show those features in a picture which he hides_, and i think it to be so difficult a task, that none but the most excellent wits can attempt it with success: for small wits usually abound with a multitude of words. the third grace of _bucolicks_ is _neatness_, which contains all the taking prettiness and sweetness of expression, and whatsoever is call'd the delicacies of the more delightful and pleasing _muses_: this the rural _muses_ bestow'd on _virgil_, as _horace_ in the tenth _satyr_ of his first book says, and _virgils_ happy muse in eclogues plays, soft and facetious; which _fabius_ takes to signify the most taking neatness and most exquisite elegance imaginable: for thus he explains this place, in which he agrees with _tully_, who in his _third book de oratore_, says, the _atticks_ are facetious _i.e._ elegant: tho the common interpreters of these words are not of the same mind: but if by _facetious horace_ had meant _jesting_, and such as is design'd to make men laugh, and apply'd that to _virgil_, nothing { } could have been more ridiculous; 'tis the design of _comedy_ to raise laughter, but _eclogue_ should only delight, and charm by its takeing _prettiness_: all ravishing _delicacies_ of thought, all sweetness of expression, all that salt from which _venus_, as the poets fable, rose; are so essential to this kind of _poetry_, that it cannot endure any thing that is scurillous, malitiously biteing, or ridiculous: there must be nothing in it but _hony, milk, roses, violets_, and the like sweetness, so that when you read you might think that you are in _adonis's_ gardens, as the _greeks_ speak, _i.e._ in the most pleasant place imaginable: for since the subject of _eclogue_ must be mean and unsurprizing, unless it maintains purity and neatness of expression, it cannot please. therefore it must do as _tully_ says his friend _atticus_ did, who entertaining his acquaintance with leeks and onions, pleas'd them all very well, because he had them serv'd up in wicker chargers, and clean baskets; so let an _eclogue_ serve up its fruits and flowers with some, tho no costly imbellishment, such as may answer to the wicker chargers, and baskets; which may be provided at a cheap rate, and are agreeable to the country: yet, (and this rule if you aim at exact simplicity, can never be too nicely observ'd,) you must most carefully avoid all paint and gawdiness of expression, and, (which of all sorts of elegancies is the most difficult to be avoided) { } you must take the greatest care that no scrupulous trimness, or artificial finessess appear: for, as _quintilian_ teaches, _in some cases diligence and care most most troublesomly perverse_; and when things are most sweet they are next to loathsome and many times degenerate: therefore as in weomen a careless dress becomes some extreamly. thus _pastoral_, that it might not be uncomely, ought sometimes to be negligent, or the finess of its ornaments ought not to appear and lye open to every bodies view: so that it ought to affect a studied carelessness, and design'd negligence: and that this may be, all gawdiness of dress, such as paint and curls, all artificial shining is to be despis'd, but in the mean time care must be taken that the expression be bright and simply clean, not filthy and disgustful, but such as is varnisht with wit and fancy: now to perfect this, _nature_ is chiefly to be lookt upon, (for nothing that is disagreeable to nature can please) yet that will hardly prevail naked, by it self, and without the polishing of art. then there are three things in which, as in its parts, the whole _character_ of a _pastoral_ is contain'd: _simplicity_ of thought and expression: _shortness_ of periods full of sense and spirit: and the _delicacy_ of a most elegant ravishing unaffected neatness. next i will enquire in to the _efficient_, and then into the _final_ cause of _pastorals_. { } _aristotle_ assigns two efficient causes of _poetry_, the natural desire of imitation in man whom he calls the most imitative creature; and pleasure consequent to that imitation: which indeed are the _remote_ causes, but the _immediate_ are _art_ and _nature_; now according to the differences of _genius's_ several _species_ of poetry have been introduced. for as the _philosopher_ hath observ'd, *diespathê kata ta oikeia êthê hê poiêsis* thus those that were lofty imitated great and illustrious; those that were low spirited and groveling mean actions: and every one, according to the various inclination of his _nature_, follow'd this or that sort of _poetry_: this the _philosopher_ expresly affirms, and _dio chrysostomus_ says of _homer_ that he received from the gods a nature fit for all sorts of verse: but this is an happiness which none partake but, as he in the same place intimates, godlike minds. not to mention other kinds of _poetry_, what particular genius is requir'd to _pastoral_ i think, is evident from the foregoing discourse, for as every part of it ought to be full of simple and inartificial neatness, so it requires a wit naturally neat and pleasant, born to delight and ravish, which are the qualifications certainly of a great and most excellent nature: for whatsoever in any kind is delicate and elegant, that is usually most excellent: and such a _genius_ that hath a sprightfulness of nature, and is well instructed { } by the rules of art, is fit to attempt _pastorals_. of the end of pastorals tis not so easy to give an account: for as to the end of poetry in general: the enemies of poets run out into a large common place, and loudly tell us that poetry is frivolous and unprofitable. excellent men! that love _profit_ perchance, but have no regard for _honesty_ and _goodness_; who do not know that all excellent _arts_ sprang from _poetry_ at first. which what is honest, base, or just, or good, better than _crantor_, or _chrysippus_ show'd. for tis _poetry_ that like a chast unspotted virgin, shews men the way, and the means to live happily, who afterward are deprav'd by the immodest precepts of vitiated and impudent _philosophy_. for every body knows, that the _epick_ sets before us the highest example of the bravest man; the _tragedian_ regulates the affections of the mind; the _lyrick_ reforms manners, or sings the praises of gods, and heroes; so that there's no part of _poetry_ but hath it's proper end, and profits. but grant all this true, _pastoral_ can make no such pretence: if you sing a _hero_, you excite mens minds to imitate his actions, and notable exploits; but how can _bucolicks_ apply these or the like advantages to its self? _he that reads { } heroick poems, learns what is the vertue of a hero, and wishes to be like him; but he that reads pastorals, neither learns how to feed sheep, nor wishes himself a shepherd:_ and a great deal more to this purpose you may see in _modicius_, as _pontanus_ cites him in his notes on _virgil's_ _eclogues_. but when tis the end of _comedy_, as _jerom_ in his epistle to _furia_ says, to know the humors of men, and to describe them; and _demea_ in _terence_ intimates the same thing, to look on all mens lives as in a glass, and take from those examples for our own, so that our humors and conversations may be better'd, and improv'd; why may not _pastoral_ be allow'd the same priviledge, and be admitted to regulate and improve a _shepherd's_ life by its _bucolicks_? for since tis a product of the golden age, it will shew the most innocent manners of the most ancient simplicity, how plain and honest, and how free from all varnish, and deceit, to more degenerate, and worse times: and certainly for this tis commendable in its kind, since its design in drawing the image of a country and shepherd's life, is to teach honesty, candor, and simplicity, which are the vertues of _private_ men; as _epicks_ teach the highest fortitude, and prudence, and conduct, which are the vertues of _generals_, and _kings_. and tis necessary { } to government, that as there is one kind of _poetry_ to instruct the _citizens_, there should be another to fashion the manners of the _rusticks_: which if _pastoral_, as it does, did not do, yet would it not be altogether frivolous, and idle, since by its taking prettinesses it can delight, and please. it can scarce be imagin'd, how much the most flourishing times of the _roman_ common- wealth, in which _virgil_ wrote, grew better and brisker by the use of _pastoral_: with it were _augustus_, _mecænas_, _asinius pollio_, _alphenus varus_, _cornelius gallus_, the most admired wits of that happy age, wonderfully pleas'd; for whatever is sweet, and ravishing, is contain'd in this sweetest kind of poetry. but if we must slight every thing, from which no _profit_ is to be hop'd, all pleasures of the eye and ear are presently to be laid aside; and those excellent arts, _musick_, and _painting_, with which the best men use to be delighted, are presently to be left off. nor is it indeed credible, that so many excellent wits, as have devoted themselves to poetry, would ever have medled with it, if it had been so empty, idle, and frivolous, as some ridiculously morose imagine; who forsooth are better pleas'd with the severity of _philosophy_, and her harsh, deform'd impropriety of expressions. but the judgments of such men are the most contemptible in the world; for when by _poetry_ mens minds are fashioned to generous { } humors, kindness, and the like: those must needs be strangers to all those good qualites, who hate, or proclaim _poetry_ to be frivolous, and useless. { } _the third_ part _rules for writing_ pastorals. in delivering rules for writing _pastorals_, i shall not point to the _streams_, which to look after argues a small creeping _genius_, but lead you to the _fountains_. but first i must tell you, how difficult it is to write _pastorals_, which many seem not sufficiently to understand: for since its matter is low, and humble, it seems to have nothing that is troublesome, and difficult. but this is a great mistake, for, as _horace_ says of _comedy_, "it is by so much the more difficult, by how much the less pardonable are the mistakes committed in its composure": and the same is to be thought of every thing, whose end is to please, and delight. for whatsoever is contriv'd for pleasure, and not necessarily requir'd, unless it be exquisite, must be nauseous, and distastful; as at a supper, scraping musick, thick oyntment, or the like, because the entertainment might have been without all these; for the sweetest things, and most delicious, are most apt to satiate; for tho the sense may sometimes be pleas'd, yet it presently disgusts that which is { } luscious, and, as _lucretius_ phraseth it, e'en in the midst and fury of the joys, some thing that's better riseth, and destroys. beside, since _pastoral_ is of that nature, that it cannot endure too much negligence, nor too scrupulous diligence, it must be very difficult to be compos'd, especially since the expression must be neat, but not too exquisite, and fine: it must have a simple native beauty, but not too mean; it must have all sorts of delicacies, and surprizing fancies, yet not be flowing, and luxuriant. and certainly, to hit all these excellencies is difficult enough, since wit, whose nature it is to pour it self forth, must rather be restrain'd than indulg'd; and that force of the mind, which of it self is so ready to run on, must be checkt, and bridled: which cannot be easily perform'd by any, but those who have a very good judgment, and practically skill'd in arts, and sciences: and lastly, a neat, and as it were a happy wit; not that curious sort, i mean, which _petronius_ allows _horace_, lest too much _art_ should take off the beauty of the _simplicity_. and therefore i would not have any one undertake this task, that is not very polite by _nature_, and very much at leisure. for what is more hard than to be always in the _country_, and yet never to be _clownish_? to sing of _mean_, and _trivial_ matters, { } yet not _trivially_, and _meanly_? to pipe on a _slender_ reed, and yet keep the sound from being _harsh_, and _squeaking_? to make every thing _sweet_, yet never _satiate_? and this i thought necessary to premise, in order to the better laying down of such rules as i design. for the naked _simplicity_ both of the matter and expression of a _pastoral_, upon bare contemplation, might seem easily to be hit, but upon trial 'twill be found a very hard task: nor was the difficulty to be dissembled, lest _ignorance_ should betray some into a rash attempt. now i must come to the very rules; for as nothing excellent can be brought to perfection without _nature_, (for art unassisted by that, is vain, and ineffectual,) so there is no _nature_ so excellent, and happy, which by its own strength, and without _art_ and _use_ can make any thing excellent, and great. but tis hard to give _rules_ for that, for which there have been none already given; for where there are no footsteps nor path to direct, i cannot tell how any one can be certain of his way. yet in this difficulty i will follow _aristotle's_ example, who being to lay down rules concerning _epicks_, propos'd _homer_ as a pattern, from whom he deduc'd the whole art: so i will gather from _theocritus_ and _virgil_, those fathers of _pastoral_, what i shall deliver on this account. for all the rules that are to be given of any art, are to be given of it as excellent, and perfect, and { } therefore ought to be taken from them in whom it is so. the first rule shall be about the _matter_, which is either the _action_ of a _shepherd_, or contriv'd and fitted to the _genius_ of a shepherd; for tho _pastoral_ is simple, and bashful, yet it will entertain lofty subjects, if it can be permitted to turn and fashion them to its own proper circumstances, and humor: which tho _theocritus_ hath never done, but kept close to _pastoral_ simplicity, yet _virgil_ hath happily attempted; of whom almost the same _character_ might be given, which _quintilian_ bestow'd on _stesichorus_, who _with his harp bore up the most weighty subjects of_ epick _poetry_; for _virgil_ sang great and lofty things to his oaten reed, but yet suited to the humor of a shepherd, for every thing that is not agreeable to that, cannot belong to _pastoral_: of its own nature it cannot treat of lofty and great matters. therefore let _pastoral_ be smooth and soft, not noisy and bombast; lest whilst it raiseth its voice, and opens its mouth, it meet with the same fate that, they say, an _italian_ shepherd did, who having a very large mouth, and a very strong breath, brake his pipe as often as he blow'd it. this is a great fault in one that writes _pastorals_: for if his words are too sounding, or his sense too strong, he must be absurd, because indecently loud. and this is not the rule of an unskilful { } impertinent adviser, but rather of a very excellent master in this _art_; for _phoebus_ twitcht _virgil_ by the ear, and warn'd him to forbear great subjects: but if it ventures upon such, it may be allow'd to use some short _invocations_, and, as _epicks_ do, modestly implore the assistance of a muse. this _virgil_ doth in his _pollio_, which is a composure of an unusual loftiness: _sicilian_ muse begin a loftier strain. so he invocates _arethusa_, when _cornelius gallus proconsul of Ægypt_ and his _amours_, matters above the common reach of _pastoral_, are his subject. one labor more o _arethusa_ yield. why he makes his application to _aretheusa_ is easy to conjecture, for she was a _nymph_ of _sicily_, and so he might hope that she could inspire him with a _genius_ fit for _pastorals_ which first began in that _island_, thus in the seventh and eighth _eclogue_, as the matter would bear, he invocates the nymphs and muses: and _theocritus_ does the same, tell goddess, you can tell. from whence 'tis evident that in _pastoral_, tho it never pretends to any greatness, _invocations_ { } may be allow'd: but whatever subject it chooseth, it must take care to accommodate it to the genius and circumstances of a shepherd. concerning the form, or mode of _imitation_, i shall not repeat what i have already said, _viz._ that this is in it self _mixt_; for _pastoral_ is either _alternate_, or hath but _one person_, or is _mixt_ of both: yet 'tis properly and chiefly _alternate_. as is evident from that of _theocritus_. sing _rural_ strains, for as we march along we may delight each other with a song. in which the _poet_ shows that _alternate_ singing is proper to a _pastoral_: but as for the _fable_, 'tis requisite that it should be simple, lest in stead of _pastoral_ it put on the form of a _comedy_, or _tragedy_ if the _fable_ be great, or intricate: it must be _one_; this _aristotle_ thinks necessary in every _poem_, and _horace_ lays down this general rule, be every _fable_ simple, and but one: for every poem, that is not _one_, is imperfect, and this _unity_ is to be taken from the _action_: for if that is _one_, the poem will be so too. such is the passion of _corydon_ in _virgil's_ second eclogue, _meliboeus's_ expostulation with _tityrus_ about his fortune; _theocritus's_ _thyrsis, cyclops_, and _amaryllis_, of which perhaps in its proper place i may treat more largely. { } let the third rule be concerning the _expression_, which cannot be in this kind excellent unless borrow'd from _theocritus's_ _idylliums_, or _virgil's_ _eclogues_, let it be chiefly simple, and ingenuous: such is that of _theocritus_, a kid belongs to thee, and kids are good, or that in _virgil's_ seventh eclogue, this pail of milk, these cakes (_priapus_) every year expect; a little garden is thy care: thou'rt marble now, but if more land i hold, if my flock thrive, thou shalt be made of gold, than which i cannot imagine more simple, and more ingenuous expressions. to which may be added that out of his _palemon_, and i love _phyllis_, for her charms excell; at my departure o what tears there fell! she sigh'd, farewell dear youth, a long farewell. now, that i call an ingenuous expression which is clear and smooth, that swells with no insolent words, or bold metaphors, but hath something familiar, and as it were obvious in its composure, and not disguis'd by any study'd and affected dress: all its ornament must be like the corn and fruits in the country, easy to { } be gotten, and ready at hand, not such as requires care, labor, and cost to be obtain'd: as _hermogenes_ on _theocritus_ observes; _see how easie and unaffected this sounds_, pines murmurings, goatherd, are a pleasing sound, _and most of his expressions, not to say all, are of the same nature_: for the ingenuous simplicity both of thought and expression is the natural _characteristick_ of _pastoral_. in this _theocritus_ and _virgil_ are admirable, and excellent, the others despicable, and to be pittied; for they being enfeebled by the meanes of their subject, either creep, or fall flat. _virgil_ keeps himself up by his choice and curious words, and tho his matter for the most part (and _pastoral_ requires it) is mean, yet his expressions never flag, as is evident from these lines in his _alexis_: the glossy plums i'le bring, and juicy pear, such as were once delightful to my dear: i'le crop the laurel, and the myrtle tree, confus'dly set, because their sweets agree. for since the matter must be low, to avoid being abject, and despicable, you must borrow some light from the expression; not such as is dazling, but pure, and lambent, such as may shine thro the whole matter, but never flash, and blind. { } the words of such a _stile_ we are usually taught in our nurses armes, but 'tis to be perfected and polished by length of time, frequent use, study, and diligent reading of the most approved authors: for pastoral is apt to be slighted for the meaness of its matter, unless it hath some additional beauty, be pure, polisht, and so made pleasing, and attractive. therefore never let any one, that designs to write _pastorals_, corrupt himself with foreign manners; for if he hath once vitiated the healthful habit, as i may say, of expression, which _bucolicks_ necessarily require, 'tis impossible he should be fit for that task. yet let him not affect pompous or dazling expressions, for such belong to _epicks_, or _tragedians_. let his words sometimes tast of the country, not that i mean, of which _volusius's_ annals, upon which _catullus_ hath made that biting _epigram_, are full; for though the thought ought to be rustick, and such as is suitable to a shepherd, yet it ought not to be clownish, as is evident in _corydon_, when he makes mention of his goats. young sportive creatures, and of spotted hue, which suckled twice a day, i keep for you: these_ thestilis _hath beg'd, and beg'd in vain, but now they're hers, since you my gifts disdain. for what can be more rustical, than to design those _goats_ for _alexis_, at that very time when { } he believes _thestylis's_ winning importunity will be able to prevail? yet there is nothing clownish in the words. in short, _bucolicks_ should deserve that commendation which _tully_ gives _crassus_, of whose orations he would say, _that nothing could be more free from childish painting, and affected finery_. so let the expression in _pastoral_ be without gawdy trappings, and all those little fineries of art, which are us'd to set off and varnish a discourse: but let an ingenuous simplicity. and unaffected pleasing neatness appear in every part; which yet will be flat, if 'tis drawn out to any length, if not close, short, and broken, as that in _virgil_, he that loves _bavius_ verses, hates not thine: and in the same _eclogue_, --it is not safe to drive too nigh, the bank may fail, the ram is hardly dry: and in _corydon_, to learn this art what won't _amyntas_ do? and in _theocritus_ much of the same nature may be seen; as in his other _pastoral idylliums_, so chiefly in his fifth. thus _battus_ in the fourth _idyllium_, complaining for the loss of _amaryllis_, { } dear nymph, dear as my goats, you dy'd. and how soft and tender is that in the third _idyllium_, and she may look on me, she may be won, she may be kind, she is not perfect stone, and in this _concise_, close way of expression lies the chiefest grace of _pastorals_: for in my opinion there's nothing in the whole composition that can delight more than those frequent stops, and breakings off. yet lest in these too it become dull and sluggish, it must be quickned by frequent lively touches of concernment: such as that of the goatherd in the third idyllium, --i see that i must die: or _daphnis's_ despair, which _thyrsis_ sings in the first _idyllium_, ye wolves, and pards, and mountain bores adieu, the herdsmen now must walk no more with you. how tender are the lines, and yet what passion they contain! and most of _virgil's_ are of this nature, but there are likewise in him some touches of despairing love, such as is this of _alphesiboeus_, nor have i any mind to be reliev'd: { } or that of _damon_, i'le dy, yet tell my love e'en whilst i dy: or that of _corydon_, he lov'd, but could not hope for love again. for tho _pastoral_ doth not admit any violent passions, such as proceed from the greatest extremity, and usually accompany despair; yet because despairing love is not attended with those frightful and horrible consequences, but looks more like _grief to be pittied_, and a _pleasing madness_, than _rage_ and _fury_, _eclogue_ is so far from refusing, that it rather loves, and passionately requires them. therefore an unfortunate _shepherd_ may be brought in, complaining of his successless love to the _moon, stars_, or _rocks_, or to the woods, and purling streams, mourning the unsupportable anger, the frowns and coyness of his proud _phyllis_; singing at his _nymphs_ door, (which _plutarch_ reckons among the signs of passion) or doing any of those fooleries, which are familiar to lovers. yet the passion must not rise too high, as _polyphemus's_, _galateas's_ mad lover, of whom _theocritus_ divinely thus, as almost of every thing else: his was no common flame, nor could he move in the old arts, and beaten paths of love, no flowers nor fruits sent to oblige the fair, { } his was all rage, and madness: for all violent perturbations are to be diligently avoided by _bucolicks_, whose nature it is to be _soft_, and _easie_: for in small matters, and such must all the strifes and contentions of shepherds be, to make a great deal of adoe, is as unseemly, as to put _hercules's_ vizard and buskins on an infant, as _quintilian_ hath excellently observ'd. for since _eclogue_ is but weak, it seems not capable of those commotions which belong to the _theater_, and _pulpit_; they must be soft, and gentle, and all its passion must seem to flow only, and not break out: as in _virgil's gallus_, ah, far from home and me you wander o're the _alpine_ snows, the farthest western shore, and frozen _rhine_. when are we like to meet? ah gently, gently, lest thy tender feet sharp ice may wound. to these he may sometimes joyn some short interrogations made to _inanimate beings_, for those spread a strange life and vigor thro the whole composure. thus in _daphnis_, did not you streams, and hazels, hear the nymphs? or give the very trees, and fountains sense, as in _tityrus_, thee (_tityrus_) the pines, and every vale, the fountains, hills, and every shrub did call: for by this the concernment is express'd; and of the like nature is that of _thyrsis_, in _virgil's_ _meliboeus_, { } when _phyllis_ comes, my wood will all be green. and this sort of expressions is frequent in _theocritus_, and _virgil_, and in these the delicacy of _pastoral_ is principally contain'd, as one of the old _interpreters_ of _theocritus_ hath observ'd on this line, in the eighth _idyllium_, ye vales, and streams, a race divine: but let them be so, and so seldom us'd, that nothing appear vehement, and bold, for boldness and vehemence destroy the sweetness which peculiarly commends _bucolicks_, and in those composures a constant care to be soft and easie should be chief: for _pastoral_ bears some resemblance to _terence_, of whom _tully_, in that poem which he writes to _libo_, gives this character, his words are soft, and each expression sweet. in mixing _passion_ in _pastorals_, that rule of _longinus_, in his golden treatise *peri hypsous*, must be observ'd, _never use it, but when the matter requires it, and then too very sparingly_. concerning the _numbers_, in which _pastoral_ should be written, this is my opinion; the _heroick_ measure, but not so strong and sounding as in _epicks_, is to be chosen. _virgil_ and _theocritus_ have given us examples; for tho _theocritus_ hath in one idyllium mixt other numbers, yet that can be of no force against all the rest; and _virgil_ useth no numbers but _heroick_, from whence it may be inferr'd, that those are the fittest. { } _pastoral_ may sometimes admit plain, but not long _narrations_ such as _socrates_ in _plato_ requires in a poet; for he chiefly approves those who use a plain _narration_, and commends that above all other which is short, and fitly expresseth the nature of the thing. some are of opinion that _bucolicks_ cannot endure narrations, especially if they are very long, and imagine there are none in _virgil_: but they have not been nice enough in their observations, for there are some, as that in _silenus_. young _chromis_ and _mnasylus_ chanct to stray, where (sleeping in a cave) _silenus_ lay, whose constant cups fly fuming to his brain, and always boyl in each extended vein: his trusty flaggon, full of potent juice, was hanging by, worn out with age, and use, &c. but, because _narrations_ are so seldom to be found in _theocritus_, and _virgil_, i think they ought not to be often us'd; yet if the matter will bear it, i believe such as _socrates_ would have, may very fitly be made use of. the composure will be more suitable to the genius of a shepherd, if now and then there are some short turns and digressions from the purpose: such is that concerning _pasiphae_ in _silenus_, although tis almost too long; but we may give _viogil_ a little leave, who takes so little liberty himself. { } concerning _descriptions_ i cannot tell what to lay down, for in this matter our guides, _virgil_, and _theocritus_, do not very well agree. for he in his first _idyllium_ makes such a long immoderate description of his _cup_, that _criticks_ find fault with him, but no such description appears in all _virgil_; for how sparing is he in his description of _meliboeus's_ beechen pot, the work of divine _alcimedon_? he doth it in _five_ verses, _theocritus_ runs out into _thirty_, which certainly is an argument of a wit that is very much at leisure, and unable to moderate his force. that _shortness_ which _virgil_ hath prudently made choice of, is in my opinion much better; for a shepherd, who is naturally incurious, and unobserving, cannot think that tis his duty to be exact in particulars, and describe every thing with an accurate niceness: yet _roncardus_ hath done it, a man of most correct judgment, and, in imitation of _theocritus_, hath, considering the then poverty of our language, admirably and largely describ'd _his_ cup; and _marinus_ in his idylliums hath follow'd the same example. he never keeps within compass in his descriptions, for which he is deservedly blam'd; let those who would be thought accurate, and men of judgment, follow _virgil's_ prudent moderation. nor can the others gain any advantage from _moschus's_ _europa_, in which the description of the _basket_ is very long, for that idyllium is not _pastoral_; yet i confess, that some { } descriptions of such trivial things, if not minutely accurate, may, if seldom us'd, be decently allow'd a place in the discourses of _shepherds_. but tho you must be sparing in your _descriptions_, yet your _comparisons_ must be frequent, and the more often you use them, the better and more graceful will be the composure; especially if taken from such things, as the shepherds must be familiarly acquainted with: they are frequent in _theocritus_ but so proper to the country, that none but a _shepherd_ dare use them. thus _menalcas_ in the eighth idyllium: rough storms to trees, to birds the treacherous snare, are frightful evils; springes to the hare, soft virgins love to man, &c. and _damoetas_ in _virgil's_ _palæmon_, woolves sheep destroy, winds trees when newly blown, storms corn, and me my _amaryllis_ frown. and that in the eighth _eclogue_, as clay grows hard, wax soft in the same fire, so _daphnis_ does in one extream desire. and such _comparisons_ are very frequent in him, and very suitable to the genius of a shepherd; as likewise often _repetitions_, and doublings of some words: which, if they are luckily plac'd have an unexpressible quaintness, and make the numbers extream sweet, and the turns ravishing and delightful. an instance of this we have in _virgil's_ _meliboeus_, _phyllis_ the hazel loves; whilst _phyllis_ loves that tree, { } myrtles than hazels of less fame shall be. as for the _manners_ of your _shepherds_, they must be such as theirs who liv'd in the islands of the happy or golden age: they must be candid, simple, and ingenuous; lovers of goodness, and justice, affable, and kind; strangers to all fraud, contrivance, and deceit; in their love modest, and chast, not one suspitious word, no loose expression to be allowed: and in this part _theocritus_ is faulty, _virgil_ never; and this difference perhaps is to be ascrib'd to their ages, the times in which the latter liv'd being more polite, civil, and gentile. and therefore those who make wanton love-stories the subject of pastorals, are in my opinion very unadvis'd; for all sort of lewdness or debauchery are directly contrary to the _innocence_ of the _golden_ age. there is another thing in which _theocritus_ is faulty, and that is making his shepherds too sharp, and abusive to one another; _comatas_ and _lacon_ are ready to fight, and the railing between those two is as bitter as _billingsgate_: now certainly such raillery cannot be suitable to those sedate times of the happy age. as for _sentences_, if weighty, and philosophical, common sense tells us they are not fit for a _shepherd's_ mouth. here _theocritus_ cannot be altogether excus'd, but _virgil_ deserves no reprehension. but _proverbs_ justly challenge admission into _pastorals_, nothing being more common in { } the mouths of countrymen than old sayings. thus much seem'd necessary to be premis'd out of _rapin_, for the direction and information of the reader. * * * * * errata. p. . l. . _read_ the wind. p. . l. . _read_ fight. p. . l. . _read_ shoes. p. . l. . _read_ whilst all. p. . l. . _read_ of my love. [ transcriber's note: the listed errata appear to belong to the translation of theocritus, not included in this reprint. the following uncorrected words in the rapin text are probably misprints: p. dissetation. p. mannes. p. theefore. p. stifes. p. finessess [uncertain reading]. p. viogil. ] * * * * * * * * * * * * * * rapin's _discourse of pastorals_ was first published in latin, with his eclogues, under the title: eclogae, cum dissertatione de carmine pastorali. parisiis, apud s. cramoisy, . the english translation by thomas creech, prefixed to his translation of the _idylliums_ of theocritus, appeared in . a second edition "to which is prefix'd, the life of theocritus. by basil kennet", was printed at london for e. curll, at the dial and bible against st. dunstan's church in fleet-street, in , and a third edition, also printed for curll, appeared in . ella m. hymans curator of rare books, general library, university of michigan * * * * * announcing the _publications_ of the augustan reprint society _general editors_ richard c. boys edward niles hooker h.t. swedenberg, jr. * * * * * _the augustan reprint society_ makes available _inexpensive reprints of rare materials_ from english literature of the seventeenth and eighteenth centuries students, scholars, and bibliographers of literature, history, and philology will find the publications valuable. _the johnsonian news letter_ has said of them: "excellent facsimiles, and cheap in price, these represent the triumph of modern scientific reproduction. be sure to become a subscriber; and take it upon yourself to see that your college library is on the mailing list." the augustan reprint society is a non-profit, scholarly organization, run without overhead expense. by careful management it is able to offer at least six publications each year at the unusually low membership fee of $ . per year in the united states and canada, and $ . in great britain and the continent. libraries as well as individuals are eligible for membership. since the publications are issued without profit, however, no discount can be allowed to libraries, agents, or booksellers. new members may still obtain a complete run of the first year's publications for $ . , the annual membership fee. during the first two years the publications are issued in three series: i. essays on wit; ii. essays on poetry and language; and iii. essays on the stage. * * * * * publications for the first year ( - ) may, : series i, no. --richard blackmore's _essay upon wit_ ( ), and addison's _freeholder_ no. ( ). july, : series ii, no. --samuel cobb's _of poetry_ and _discourse on criticism_ ( ) sept., : series iii, no. --anon., _letter to a.h. esq.; concerning the stage_ ( ), and richard willis' _occasional paper_ no. ix ( ). nov., : series i, no. --anon., _essay on wit_ ( ), together with characters by flecknoe, and joseph warton's _adventurer_ nos. and . jan., : series ii, no. --samuel wesley's _epistle to a friend concerning poetry_ ( ) and _essay on heroic poetry_ ( ). march, : series iii, no. --anon., _representation of the impiety and immorality of the stage_ ( ) and anon., _some thoughts concerning the stage_ ( ). publications for the second year ( - ) may, : series i, no. --john gay's _the present state of wit_; and a section on wit from _the english theophrastus_. with an introduction by donald bond. july, : series ii, no. --rapin's _de carmine pastorali_, translated by creech. with an introduction by j. e. congleton. sept., : series iii, no. --t. hanmer's (?) _some remarks on the tragedy of hamlet_. with an introduction by clarence d. thorpe. nov., : series i, no. --corbyn morris' _essay towards fixing the true standards of wit_, etc. with an introduction by james l. clifford. jan., : series ii, no. --thomas purney's _discourse on the pastoral_. with an introduction by earl wasserman. march, : series iii, no. --essays on the stage, selected, with an introduction by joseph wood krutch. the list of publications is subject to modification in response to requests by members. from time to time bibliographical notes will be included in the issues. each issue contains an introduction by a scholar of special competence in the field represented. the augustan reprints are available only to members. they will never be offered at "remainder" prices. proofreading team. series two: _essays on poetry_ no. thomas purney, _a full enquiry into the true nature of pastoral_ ( ) with an introduction by earl wasserman the augustan reprint society january, _price_: $ . _general editors_ richard c. boys, _university of michigan_ edward niles hooker, _university of california, los angeles_ h. t. swedenberg, jr., _university of california, los angeles_ _assistant editor_ w. earl britton, _university of michigan_ _advisory editors_ emmett l. avery, _state college of washington_ benjamin boyce, _university of nebraska_ louis i. bredvold, _university of michigan_ cleanth brooks, _yale university_ james l. clifford, _columbia university_ arthur friedman, _university of chicago_ samuel h. monk, _university of minnesota_ ernest mossner, _university of texas_ james sutherland, _queen mary college, london_ lithoprinted from copy supplied by author by edwards brothers, inc. ann arbor, michigan, u.s.a. introduction in the preface to each of his volumes of pastorals (_pastorals. after the simple manner of theocritus, _; _pastorals. viz. the bashful swain: and beauty and simplicity, _) thomas purney rushed into critical discussions with the breathlessness of one impatient to reveal his opinions, and, after touching on a variety of significant topics, cut himself short with the promise of a future extensive treatise on pastoral poetry. in mr. h.o. white, unable to discover the treatise, was forced to conclude that it probably had never appeared (_the works of thomas purney_, ed. h.o. white, oxford, , p. ), although it had been advertised at the conclusion of purney's second volume of poetry as shortly to be printed. a copy, probably unique, of _a full enquiry into the true nature of pastoral_ ( ) was, however, recently purchased by the william andrews clark memorial library of the university of california, and is here reproduced. despite the obvious failure of the essay to influence critical theory, it justifies attention because it is the most thorough and specific of the remarkably few studies of the pastoral in an age when many thought it necessary to imitate virgil's poetic career, and because it is, in many respects, a contribution to the more liberal tendencies within neoclassic criticism. essentially, the _full enquiry_ is a coherent expansion of the random comments collected in the poet's earlier prefaces. purney belongs to the small group of early eighteenth-century critics who tended to reject the aesthetics based upon authority and pre-established definitions of the _genres_, and to evolve one logically from the nature of the human mind and the sources of its enjoyment; in other words, who turned attention from the objective work of art to the subjective response. these men, such as dennis and addison, were not searching for an aesthetics of safety, one that would produce unimpeachable correctness; purney frequently underscored his preference for a faulty and irregular work that is alive to a meticulous but dull one. this is not to be understood as praise of the irregular: the rules of poetry must be established, but they must be founded rationally on the ends of poetry, pleasure and profit, and the psychological process by which they are received, and not solely on the practices and doctrines of the ancients. taking his cue from the hobbesian and lockian methodology of addison's papers of the pleasures of the imagination without delving into addison's sensational philosophy, purney outlined an extensive critical project to investigate ( ) "the nature and constitution of the human mind, and what pleasures it is capable of receiving from poetry"; ( ) the best methods of exciting those pleasures; ( ) the rules whereby these methods may be incorporated into literary form (_works_, ed. white, p. ). it is this pattern of thought that regulates the _full enquiry_. perhaps more than any other poetic type, the pastoral of the restoration and the early eighteenth century was dominated by classical tradition; the verse composed was largely imitative of the eclogues of theocritus and virgil, especially the latter, and criticism of the form was deduced from their practices or from an assumption that the true pastoral of antiquity was the product of the golden age. of this mode of criticism rapin and pope were the leading exemplars. in opposition, fontenelle, tickell (if he was the author of the _guardian_ essays on the pastoral), and purney developed their theories empirically and hence directed the pastoral away from the classical tradition. (on these two schools see j.e. congleton, "theories of pastoral poetry in england, - ," _sp_, xli, , pp. - .) although purney adopted a modification of aristotle's critical divisions into fable, character, sentiment, and diction, and took for granted the doctrine of the distinction of _genres_, he otherwise rejected traditional formulae and critical tenets, and began with the premise that man is most delighted by the imaginative perception of the states of life for which he would willingly exchange his own. these are "the busy, great, or pompous" (depicted in tragedy and the epic) and "the retir'd, soft, or easy" (depicted in the pastoral). from this analysis of "the nature of the human mind," the characteristics of the true pastoral, such as the avoidance of the hardships and vulgarities of rural life, follow logically. similarly, since a minutely drawn description deprives the reader's fancy of its naturally pleasurable exercise, pastoral descriptions should only set "the image in the finest light." rapin, on the other hand, had determined the proper length of descriptions by examining virgil and theocritus. for the association of the pleasure afforded by the pastoral with the natural human delight in ease, purney was indebted to the essays on the pastoral in _the guardian_ (see no. ), from which he borrowed extensively for many of his principles, and to fontenelle, who constructed his theory of the pastoral upon the premise that all men are dominated "par une certaine paresse." by contrast, although pope adopted fontenelle's premise, he tested its validity by relating it to the accepted definition of the _genre_. one of purney's major purposes in the essay was to dignify the pastoral by demonstrating that it admits all the components generally reserved for tragedy and the epic. most critics had considered the pastoral a minor form and consequently had narrowed their attention to a few frequently debated questions, mainly the state of rural life to be depicted and the level of the style to be adopted. all agreed that the poem should be brief and simple in its fable, characters, and style. but it was therefore a poetic exercise, no more significant, purney complained, than a madrigal. he was intent upon investing the pastoral with all the major poetic elements--extended, worthy fable; moral; fully-drawn characters; and appropriate expression. for in his mind the poem best incorporates one of the only two true styles, the tender, and therefore warrants a literary status beneath only tragedy and the epic. like his critical method, purney's decision that the pastoral should depict contemporary rural life divested of what is vulgar and painful in it, rather than either the life of the golden age or true rustic existence places him on the side of addison, tickell, ambrose philips, and fontenelle (indeed, his statement is a paraphrase of fontenelle's), and in opposition to the school of rapin, pope, and gay, who argued for a portrait of the golden age. both schools campaigned for a simplicity removed from realistic rusticity (which they detected in spenser and theocritus) and refinement (as in virgil's eclogues); but to one group the term meant the innocence of those remote from academic learning and social sophistication, and to the other the refined simplicity of an age when all men--including kings and philosophers--were shepherds. with reservations, the first group tended to prefer theocritus and spenser; and the second, virgil. hence, too, the first group approved of philips' efforts to create a fresh and simple pastoral manner. as a poet, purney moved sharply away from the classical pastoral by curiously blending an entirely original subject matter with a sentimentalized realism and a naive, diffuse expression; and as a critic he pointed in the direction of shenstone and allan ramsay by emphasizing the tender, admitting the use of earthy realism in the manner of gay, and recommending for pastoral such "inimitably pretty and delightful" tales as _the two children in the wood_. had his contemporaries read the treatise, how they would have been amused to contemplate the serious literary treatment of chapbook narratives, despite addison's praise of this ballad. in his usual nervous manner, the critic did not confine himself to his topic, but touched on a number of significant peripheral subjects. he showed the virtue of concrete and specific imagery at a time when most poets sought the sanctuary of abstractions and universals; commented cogently on the styles of chaucer, spenser, and shakespeare; anticipated the later doctrine of the power of the incomplete and the obscure to suggest and therefore to compel the imagination to create; adopted and expanded addison's distinction between the sublime and the beautiful; and, borrowing a suggestion that he probably found in dennis (_critical works_, ed. edward n. hooker, baltimore, , i, ), developed a profitable distinction between the sublime image and the sublime thought by examining their different psychological effects. but, because they run counter to the accepted opinions of his age, it is purney's comments on matters of style that are especially striking, although it must be remembered that most of them have to do with the pastoral alone and do not constitute a general theory of poetics. perhaps his most original contribution is his attack upon the cautious contemporary styles of poetry: "strong lines," a term that originally defined the style of the metaphysical poets, but that now described the compact and pregnant manner of dryden's satires, for example, and the "fine and agreeable," exemplified, let us say, by pope's _pastorals_ or prior's _vers de société_. to these purney preferred the bolder though less popular styles, the sublime and the tender, corresponding to the two pure artistic manners that addison had distinguished. how widely purney intended to diverge from current poetry can be judged by his definition of the sublime image as one that puts the mind "upon the stretch" as in lady macbeth's apostrophe to night; and by his praise of the simplicity of desdemona's "mine eyes do itch." both passages were usually ridiculed by purney's contemporaries as indecorous. equally original is purney's concept of simplicity, which he insisted should appear in the style and the nature of the characters, not in denuding the fable and in divesting the poem of the ornaments of poetry, as pope had argued in the preface of his _pastorals_. it was this concept that also led purney to his unusual theory of enervated diction. how unusual it was can be judged by comparing with the then-current practices and theories of poetic diction his recommendation of monosyllables, expletives, the archaic language of chaucer and spenser, and current provincialisms--devices that gay had used for burlesque--as means of producing the soft and the tender. but it is hardly true that purney's "true kinship is with the romantics," as mr. white claims, for there is a wide chasm between a romantic and a daring and extravagant neoclassicist. rather, purney's search for a subjective psychological basis for criticism is one of the elements out of which the romantic aesthetics was eventually evolved, and it frequently led him to conclusions that reappear later in the eighteenth century. * * * * * in addition to editing purney's pastorals, mr. h.o. white has published an exhaustive study of "thomas purney, a forgotten poet and critic of the eighteenth century" in _essays and studies by members of the english association_, xv ( ), - . university of illinois. earl. r. wasserman a full enquiry into the true nature of pastoral. the proeme or first chapter of which contains a summary of all that the criticks, ancient or modern, have hitherto deliver'd on that subject. after which follows what the author has farther to advance, in order to carry the poem on to its utmost perfection. * * * * * written by mr. _purney_. * * * * * [illustration] * * * * * _london_ printed by _h.p._ for jonas brown, at the _black swan_ without _temple-bar_. . proeme. _cubbin_ (ye know the kentish swain) was basking in the sun one summer-morn: his limbs were stretch'd all soft upon the sands, and his eye on the lasses feeding in the shade. the gentle paplet peep'd at colly thro' a hedge, and this he try'd to put in rhime, when he saw a person of unusual air come tow'rd him. yet neither the novelty of his dress, nor the fairness of his mien could win the mind of the swain from his rural amusement, till he accosted the thoughtful shepherd thus. if you are the _cubbin_, said he, i enquire for, as by the peculiarity of your countenance, and the firmness of your look, you seem, young boy, to be; i would hold some discourse with you. the pastorals of your performance i have seen; and tho' i will not call 'em perfect, i think they show a genius not wholly to be overlookt. my name, continued he, is sophy, nor is it unknown in the world. in this book (and here he pluckt it out of his pocket) i have pen'd some rules for your future guidance. _cubbin_ was strangely taken with the mild address and sweetness of sophy. a thousand times he thanked him, as often smil'd upon him, and spread his coat for him to set more soft upon the sands. sophy was a true-born _britton_, and admir'd a forward _spirit_. the _french_ he little loved; their poets dare not (said he) think without the ancients, and their criticks make use of their eyes instead of their understandings. 'twas his way to pardon, nay admire a critick, who for every fifty errors would give him but one remark of use, or good discovery. but always read one sheet, then burnt those dull insipid rogues, who thought that to write a good was to write a faultless piece. by which means their whole work becomes one general fault. this censure, i fear, would fall pretty heavy on the [a]_criticks_ of _france_; if this were a proper place to persue the argument in. but sophy thus resum'd his talk. [footnote a: _in the preface to the second part of our_ pastorals, _viz._ the bashful-swain, _and_ beauty and simplicity, _we have shown to what perfection the whole science of_ criticism _was brought by the ancients, then what progress the_ french criticks _have further made, and also what remains as yet untouch'd, and uncompleat_.] in this, said he, i like your temper, cubbin. by those few pieces we have seen of your's, and those i hear you have in manuscript, you seem determin'd to engage in those kinds of poetry and those subjects in criticism, which the ancients have left us most imperfect. here, if you fail, you may be still some help to him who shall attempt it next; and if all decline it, apprehensive of no fair success, how should it ever attain perfection. then cubbin told the _critick_, that the reason of his entering upon pastoral, where the labour was excessive and the honour gain'd minute, was this; he had unhappily reflected on that thing, we call a name, so thoroughly, and weigh'd so closely what like happiness it would afford, that he could now receive no pleasure from the thoughts of growing famous; nor would write one hour in any little kind of poetry, which was not able to take up and possess his mind with pleasure, tho' it would procure him the most glaring character in christendom. this temper was especially conspicuous while he tarried at the fountain where he imbibed the little knowledge he possesses. he seem'd as out of humour with applause, and dafted aside the wreath if ever any seem'd dispos'd to offer it. i' faith, said _cubbin_, i am nothing careful whether any pastorals be cry'd up or not. were i dispos'd to write for a name, no whit would i engage in either the sublime or soft in writing: for as the middle way, made up of both, is vastly easiest to attain; so is it pleasant to the most imaginations, and acquires the widest character. there are originally, answer'd sophy, no perfect and real kinds of writing but them two. as for the strong lines, 'tis supplying the want of the sublime with the courtly and florid stile; as what we usually call the fine and agreeable is but bastard and degenerate from the truly tender. but yet it must be added that this suits the populace the best. here cubbin answer'd sophy, that these were pretty ways of making verses, but his mind was of such a peculiar turn, that it requir'd some greater design, and more laborious to occupy it, or else it would not be sufficiently engag'd to be delighted. twould not be taken off from reflecting on what a stupid dream is life; and what trifling and impertinent creatures all mankind. unless, said he, i'm busy'd, and in a hurry, i can't impose upon my self the thought that i am a being of some little significance in the creation; i can't help looking forward and discovering how little better i shall be if i write well, or ill, or not at all. i would fain perswade my self, continued he, that a _shakespear_ and a _milton_ see us now take their works in hand with pleasure and read with applause. tis certain, answer'd sophy, that the less we know of nature and our selves, the more is life delightful. if we take all things as we see 'em, life is a good simple kind of dream enough, but if we awaken out of the dull lethargy, we are so unhappy as to discover, that tis all and every thing folly, and nonsense and stupidity.--but we walk in a vain shadow and disquiet our selves in vain. here cubbin fell with his face to the ground, and said, i prethee now no more of this; your book you open'd but forgot to give me the contents. sophy recollected him; and told the swain, that book contain'd some rules for his direction. but as i have not patience, added he, to make a treatise of some hundred pages, which consists of other persons hints, but flourish'd and dilated on; or the rules and observations of the anciants set in a different light; i shall first sum up the whole discoverys the _french_ or any other criticks yet have made in pastoral; and where they have left it i shall take the subject, and try how far beyond i am able to carry it. for after that, every single thought will be the free sentiment of my own mind. and i desire all to judge as freely as i write; and (if, after a strict examination of the rules, they see any reason) to condemn as peremtorily; for we cannot get out of an error too soon. _ruaeus_ say's, the pastoral sentiments must have a connection plain and easy. affirming that tho' incoherence, may add a neglegence and simple loosness to pastoral, yet 'tis not such a negligence or simplicity as pastoral delight's in. _dryden_ observe's, that the dialect proper for pastoral, must have a relish of the fascion of speaking in the country. _fontenell_ that most excellent _frenchman_ takes notice, that no passion is so proper for pastoral as that of love. he mean's as to what we are to describe in our swains; not mentioning those passions that poem is to raise in the reader. _rapin_ observe's, the fable should be one. the swains not abusive, or full of raillery. the sence should not be extended or long. this author has other observations new, but you may guess of what a nature, when he confesses he walk'd but as _theocritus_ and _virgil_ lead him. therefore he cannot have carried the poem to any perfection beyond the condition they left it in; and so much any reader may see from the authors themselves, without reading a large volume to find it out. mr. _dryden_, in another place, has an observation which carrys the knowledge of pastoral still farther. pastorals, says he, must contain an agreeable variety after the manner of a landscape. but in the _guardians_, vol. i. the reader may see the nature of pastoral more explain'd and enter'd into, in a few dissertations, than by all these authors have deliver'd on the subject. as these are books in every bodies hands, i shall not trouble my self to extract the summary of 'em. but he will find the criticism on phillips and the other observations are extreamly ingenious. chap. i _of the parts of pastoral; and of the several sorts of that poem_. pastoral, in it's imitation of the lives of shepherds, makes use of fable, characters, sentiments and language; and by these four parts conjoyntly obtain's it's end; that is, excites our pity, or our joy, or both. for in fable i include the moral; in sentiments both image and thought; and in language i comprehend the harmony. these four parts of pastoral would lead us into an easy and natural enumeration of the several kinds or sorts of that poem: according as they have more or fewer of those parts; and as they do or do not excite the pastoral passions. not that all those kinds are perfect pastorals, or even poems, but only such as authors have given us examples of, from _theocritus_ and _virgil_. but i omit this division for another more material. a difference more fundamental, arises in the pastorals written by different authors, according to the age which the poet chuses to describe, or the different descriptions which he gives us of the country. for he may draw it as 'tis suppos'd to have been in the golden age; or be may describe his own country, but touching only what is agreable in it; or lastly, may depaint the life of swains exactly as it is, their fatigues and pleasures being equally blended together. and this, last kind most writers have given into; for _theocritus's_ rude unmanner'd muse (as many criticks have stiled it, not much amiss) naturally led him into this method; and then, tis easy to conceive why the latter pastoral-writers chose the same. but as the second method is plainly more delightful than the last, as it collect's the most beautiful images and sweetest thoughts the country afford's; so i shall show that 'tis preferable on many other accounts; and even finer for pastoral than the golden age. but this when i speak of the characters. i would only settle now in short the most compleat kind of pastoral; and such, i think, is that which most beautifully draw's the present life of shepherds, and raises pity or joy, by the four parts of pastoral, fable, characters, sentiments, and language. and since 'tis these which constitute a perfect pastoral, i shall crave leave to speak separately of 'em all. and first of the fable. chap. ii. _of the fable; and the means of making a perfect one_. a fable proper for pastoral, and best adapted to delight, must have these following qualities to render it compleat. _first_, it must be one entire _action_, having a beginning, a middle, and an end. _secondly_, a perfect _fable_ must have a due _length_. and not consist of only a mournful speech which a shepherd find's occasion to make; or the like. _thirdly_, and since all poetry is an imitation of the most considerable, or the most delightful actions in the person's life we undertake; not any trifling action can be sufficient to constitute the _fable_. _fourthly_, another quality which a pastoral fable should have to be the most compleat is a _moral result_. i shall speak to all these heads, except the first, concerning the _unity_; for without that quality, it's self-evident that 'tis no fable. by _unity_ i mean the same with aristotle.[a] [footnote a: _see his th chapter_.] sect. . _what length a perfect pastoral should have_. all _pastoral-writers_ have used the same _length_ which _theocritus_ at first happen'd into. i shall be therefore obliged, i doubt, to dwell longer, on this head, than the importance of it may seem to require; and must premise, that tho' a _fable_ would need, finely carry'd on, to be three or four hundred lines, yet let no writer be under any concern about this: if a _fable_ have unity, shews a delightful story, paints proper characters, and contains a moral, i shall not doubt to call the poem a perfect and compleat _pastoral_, tho' the length exceeds not fifty lines. but my reasons for extending it are these: some author i have seen, ingeniously observes, that even in telling common stories, 'twere best to give some short account of the persons first, to be heard with delight and attention; for, says he, 'tis not so much this being said, but its being said on such a particular occasion, or by such a particular person. as this is true in a common story, so 'tis more so in a poem. the strongest pleasure that the mind receives from poetry, flows from its being engaged and concerned in the progress and event of the story. we naturally side in parties, and interest our selves in their affairs of one side or the other. then 'tis, our care pursues our favourite character, where're he goes. we anticipate all his successes, and make his misfortunes our own. were the catastrophe in a tragedy to appear in the first act, but little should we be moved by it, not having as yet imbibed a favourable opinion of the hero, nor learn'd to be in pain as often as he is in danger. now, we may read, i fear, some number of the _pastorals_ of the ordinary length, before we shall meet with this pleasure. the truth is, we are commonly past a hundred lines, the length of these pieces, before the mind and attention is entirely fix'd, and has lost all its former and external thoughts. all the pleasure therefore which proceeds from the story is lost in these short pieces. 'tis true indeed, i think it possible for a novel, or perhaps a poem, to contain a story in a hundred lines which shall be able to engage the mind so as to delight it from the _fable_ it self, stript of all its ornaments. but how few in a hundred ages have had genius's capable of this. and if 'tis difficult in a novel or poem, which may couch the circumstances close together, how much more difficult must it be in _pastoral_. in the former pieces nothing is to be observed but the story itself, in the latter a thousand beauties are to be adjoyn'd and as many rules observ'd. sect . _the proper length of pastoral further collected from the consideration of the_ characters. another pleasure which the brevity of these pieces robs us of, is this. the characters cannot finely and distinctly be depainted in so short a compass. and 'tis observable, we are concern'd for the personages in no poetry so much as those of pastoral. simplicity and innocence have charms for every mind, and we pity most, where most our pity's wanted. so that the two noblest beauties, and which constitute the main difference between poetry and versification, between a perfect poem and a madrigal, epigram or elegy, are entirely lost in those pieces, and the only pleasure they can raise, must proceed alone from sentiment and diction. sect . _the length of pastoral, yet further shown from the passions it raises_. in every rational and consistent piece, the writer has some aim in view; as, to work every thing up to one end and a moral result; or to excite some passion, or the like. otherwise it is but an assay of wit, a flirt of the imagination, and no more. too trifling to detain the rational mind. now, that these short pieces are not capable of having a moral, or raising any passion, i need trouble my self for no other proof than there never having been such one produced. but give me leave to instance in the usual method of forming a pastoral. one shepherd meets another; tells him some body is dead; upon which, they begin the mournful dialogue, or elegy. but in such an elegy, there is but one thing can raise a fine pleasure; which can be the only solid reason for the writers performing such a work; and that is the raising pity, without which no end is obtain'd by such a dialogue. and 'tis only a school-boy tryal of wit; like a single description. unless the poet think's it enough that the scene is laid in the country, and the very talk of shepherds is enough to support a piece. and the truth is, of a nature so exceeding pleasant is pastoral, that a piece which has but fields and hedges repeated pretty often in it, is at least tolerable; whereas in any other poetry, we see every day far better poems cast out of the world as soon as they enter into it. but another reason of their success proceeds from the little knowledge most people have of pastoral; all poets having gone in exactly the same track, without one endeavouring to raise the poem to any greater perfection than they found it in; whereas epick poetry, tragedy, and comedy, arriv'd by slow degrees to the perfection they now bear; and this writer still went beyond the last of an equal genius. but i was going to give an instance how incapable these pieces are of raising the passions. a mournful dialogue, or elegy is formed upon the death of some person. but if this elegy raises not our pity, 'tis a trifle, and only a childish copy of verses. but in order to raise that most delightful passion, should not the reader be first prepossess'd in favour of the party dead? can i pity a person because deceas'd, without knowing any thing of his while alive? 'tis the same in that other well-known way of drawing up a pastoral. i mean, where two shepherds sing alternately. _theocritus_ haply light upon this, and every pastoral writer since his time, (that i have seen) has been so unfortunate as to happen exactly upon the same. and i believe it has as often been indifferent to the readers which of the shepherds overcame. our joy in this case is equal to our grief in the other. sect. . _from the length by nature prescribed to all pieces, epick, tragick, &c. is shown, that pastoral will, at least, admit of the length of three or four hundred lines_. thus far of the necessity of extending a pastoral to the length of three or four hundred lines, if we would not deprive our selves of the opportunities of being as delightful as poetry will permit. but if any commentator, who think's himself oblig'd to defend _theocritus_ and _virgil_ in every particular, should not only not allow this length to be preferable, but even condemn it as faulty, it would oblige us to come more close to the point, and to take the question from the bottom. what is the length by nature fix'd for all pieces? and why mayn't an epick be as short as a tragick poem? methink's a poet should not be content to take these things on trust, and tye himself down to brevity or length only because _theocritus_ wrote short and _homer_ long pieces. i have not leisure to enter fully into this question, but would recommend it to some person who has, as a subject that would prove as entertaining to the reader as the writer. however, i shall speak just what i have at present in my mind upon it. without considering tragedy as drawn into representation, it is plain it would not endure the length of epick poetry, without being wearious in the reading, for these reasons among others: it's nature is more heated and violent than the epick poem, and consists of only dialogue; whereas the former has the variety of dialogue and narration both. besides, the under-actions which work up to the main action in heroick poetry, are each as great and as different from each other, as the main actions of different tragedies. nor would pastoral bear the length of even tragedy. for it admits not both those two kinds of writing, the sublime and the beautiful, which are the most different of any in nature, having only the last. but these two give so sweet a variety to the same piece, when they are artfully blended together, that a good tragedy or epick poem can never tire. soon as we begin to be sated and cloy'd with passion and sublime images, the poet changes the scene; all is, on a sudden soft and beautiful, and we seem in another world. yet is pastoral by no means ty'd down by nature to the length used by _theocritus_ and all his followers. 'tis only example has introduc'd that method. for, 'tis a poem capable of raising two passions, and those tho' all consistent with one another, yet what raise pleasures, the most widely different of any, in the mind. when we have tir'd the reader with a mournful and pitious scene, we may relieve and divert his mind with agreeable and joyous images. and these the poet may diversify and vary as often as he pleases. and so different are the passions of pity and joy, that he may all thro' the poem please in an equal degree, yet all thro' the poem in a different manner. besides, this poem changes the general scene, which is more than even tragedy does. a poet who has form'd a perfect notion of the beautiful, and furnished his mind with a sufficient number of delightful images, before he set's down to write a pastoral, will lead the reader thro' so sweet a variety of amusing scenes, and show so many beautiful pictures to his imagination, that he will never think the tenth part of a tragedy's length too much for a pastoral. 'tis true indeed that they who make a pastoral no more considerable than a song or ballad (as _theocritus_, _virgil_, &c.) without passions, characters, a delightful fable, or any moral, do well to make it of no greater extent than a song or ballad. where there is nought to delight but the sentiments, (for they aim at neither the soft nor the sublime language) a reader cannot attend to more than a hundred lines; but where the mind is engag'd and concern'd for the issue of the story, and eager to know the event, 'tis insensibly drawn on, and haveing some aim in view, is much less weary'd, tho' led on to a greater extent. chap. iii. _that the pastoral action must not be very little and minute; also that several under-actions must run thro' the poem_. a third quality, laid down as necessary to constitute a fable wholly perfect, was this, that as there must be but one action, that action may not be any trifling, silly circumstance of a shepherd's life. as one swain's telling the other how poor and bare he is grown. or one complaining to the other, that his flock has had some mischance, or the like; which is as much as can be gather'd out of the pastorals form'd after the ordinary way. for if you take the actions of any of 'em, divested of the ornaments of poetry, and the constant repetition of the pleasing words, grove, breeze, mead, &c. you will find nothing, even nothing at all in any of 'em. so that, tho' these pastorals mostly may have actions, nay, and unity of action; yet are they actions no more proper for a poem, than a proposition of euclid, turn'd into verse, would be. there is nothing, (not even the telling how the sow and pigs swallow'd their wash, and fought the while,) but might be call'd one action, with a beginning, middle and end. so that 'tis nothing to have unity of fable, if the fable be not proper. shepherds are indeed suppos'd to be happy, and devoid of stir, and noise, and bustle; but does it follow, that there are no actions or incidents in a shepherd's life? if there are delightful actions, 'tis plain we don't run counter to a shepherd's life in drawing 'em into poetry; and poetry imitates the actions of men. which show's that these ordinary pastorals are no more poetry, than lucretius is, or than any other philosopher, if turn'd into verse, would be. sure i think, as we allow an epick writer to take his hero in that part or character of his life, where he will make the best figure in poetry, so we should allow a pastoral-writer the same opportunity of pleasing. 'tis necessary also that several lesser actions work up to the main one; that the whole piece may be fill'd with circumstances. 'tis the very soul of poetry to imitate actions; to lead the mind thro' a variety of scenes; and to present a number of pictures before it. 'tis plain a shepherd's life has as many incidents, as other person's; only one kind are in low life, the other not. the simplicity of pastoral is nothing touch'd by this, if these incidents are pastoral: for the difference between epick or tragick poetry, and pastoral, must not proceed from the one haveing many, the other no under-actions, but rather from the different actions, which a hero and a swain are engag'd in. a shepherd's leading his lass to a shade, and there sticking her bosom with flowers, is the same in pastoral, as an hero's hurling a javelin, is in epick poetry. and a variety of circumstances and actions is equally necessary in both pieces. or perhaps in pastoral most; since the coolness and sedateness of pastoral is very apt to sate and tire the reader, if he dwell's long on one action; and we can bear a longer description of a battle than of two shepherd's sitting together; because the first fill's and actuate's the mind the most; and where it is so much employ'd, it cannot so easily flag and grow dull. sect. . _whether the pastoral fable should be simple or complex; and how it must differ from the epick fable_. the implex fables are to me, in all poetry, the finest. and even pastoral may receive an additional beauty from a change of fortune in the chief character, if manag'd with discretion. 'tis not easy to give direct proofs for things of this nature. but what little i have to offer for pastoral's requiring an implex fable, is as follows. pastoral, like all poetry, should aim at pleasure and profit. pleasure is best produc'd, if the poem raises pity, or joy, or both; and profit by its having a moral. now the implex fable attain's it's end the easiest. for we pity misfortunes no where so much as in one we saw but lately happy: nor do we joy to see a man flourish; but to see him rise from ills to a flourishing condition, rejoyces the mind. and as for the other end of poetry, which is profit, every one may see that implex fables are greatly best for producing a moral. but great care must be taken in this way. whereas the catastrophe in epick poetry, is work'd up by violent means, as machines, and the like; in pastoral it must be produced so easy and natural, as to seem to proceed from it self. nor must the change of fortune be produced by any sudden contrast, as in most tragedies it is; since surprize (unless very weak) is a fault in pastoral, tho' a beauty in other poetry. 'tis also evident that the ills which a shepherd falls into, from some slight, and almost inevitable slip (from which the moral is form'd) must be infinitely less than those which embarrass a hero; because ills must be proportion'd to the fault; and 'tis plain, the faults of a swain are suppos'd to be very minute. a hundred observations, like this last, might be made, too inconsiderable to enumerate; but the poet, when he form's his fable, cannot avoid observing 'em. otherwise, 'tis best he keep to the simple fable; which, tho' a better may, by industry, be form'd, is far enough from being faulty. sect. . _what circumstances or actions of a shepherd's life are properest for the poet to go upon_. we cannot be pleas'd with the description of any state, or life, which at that time we would not willingly exchange our present state for. nor is it possible to be pleas'd with any thing that is very low and beggarly. therefore, methinks, i would raise my shepherd's life to a life of pleasure; contrary to the usual method. for when a citizen or person in business divert's himself in the country, 'tis not from seeing the swains employ'd or at labour; he visits the country for the easy and agreeable retiredness of it; and i believe the pleasure of seeing a shepherd folding his sheep, proceeds from the prospect of evening, of the woods and fields, and from the innocence we conceive in the sheep, and the like; not from the action of the shepherd folding them. so of reapers, we conceive 'em filling the following year with plenty; we have, while we see 'em, the thought of fulness, and the time when every thing is brought to perfection; and these, and the like thoughts, rather raise the delight of seeing those particular labours, than the actions themselves. for we see, that if we behold sheep, or the like, in a city, tho' countrymen are ordering them, we have no such delight; because there the silence of evening, the prospect of fields, &c. are not added. i would therefore omit the labour of shepherds, if i could invent a life more agreeable; but the latter must be form'd from a man's imagination, the former from observation; and _virgil_ could draw that almost as well as _theocritus_. i wonder the writers of pastoral should be so fond of showing their shepherds beating their ronts, or scolding with each other, or the like; when they might describe 'em sleeping upon violets; plaiting rosy chaplets by a lovely rivulet; getting _strawberries_ for a lass, &c. 'tis observable, that no tragedy can be well constituted without a mixture of love; and even _shakespear_, (who seem's to have had so little of the soft or tender in his genius) was obliged to have some recourse to that passion, in forming his most regular tragedy; i mean othello. not that an hero should be soften'd, much less drawn in his most degenerate hours, when he is in love. for, methinks, the french seem a little too fond of introduceing love, when they draw their greatest hero's as amorous love-sops, and omit all that is truly great in their characters. now if love, with reason manag'd, appear so well in tragedy, it must sure be extreamly proper for pastoral. in the first we are to be rais'd and heated; in the latter sooth'd and soften'd: the one has to do with personages, all gentle and tender; the subject of the other is fury and bravery. i would therefore have, methinks, a sprinkling of love thro' all my pastorals; and 'twill give the writer an opportunity of showing the tenderness, and the simplicity of his characters in the finest manner: yet must it be so diversify'd and broken, by other incidents interfering, as not to cloy and nauseate the reader, with the repetition of nothing but love and love. the vulgar notion is, that wrestling, and such like incidents are properest for pastoral; but if a writer introduces such, he'll find 'em so few, that 'twill be necessary to touch upon love besides. but methinks, i would not show my _characters_ in so low and clownish a degree of life; for if i draw 'em so rough, and porter-like, in one place, i cannot give 'em tenderness and simplicity in another; without breaking in upon the manners. so that if i was compell'd to put this circumstance of wrestling into a pastoral, i would have recourse, even there, to love, to render it pleasurable to the mind; as thus: a tender-hearted lass should be plac'd spectator of her wrestling lover: by this means the poet might make it shine in poetry; if he described her behaviour, her soft concern and joyous smiles, occasioned by every little failure, and every prospect of success. but this is a subject of so great extent, that i have not time to go thro' with it. take therefore this general rule for all. those circumstances or actions in the fable, which show barely the delightfulness of the country, are good. those which give us a sight of also the sprightliness and vigour of it, are better; and those which comprehend further, the simplicity and the tenderness of the young lasses, are best. and from hence a writer or reader will be able to make a judgment of any circumstance that may occur. sect. . _that this variety of actions does by no means impair the simplicity of pastoral_. there is nothing in pastoral, of which persons have a wronger notion than of the word simplicity. because the poem should be simple, they strip it of all beauty and delightfulness; that is, they lay the simplicity where it should not so much be (in the fable) and deprive it of all simplicity, where 'twould be beautiful (in the sentiments and diction.) if all the incidents or actions, that are truly simple and delightful, thro' the whole number of _theocritus_'s idylls, were collected into one pastoral, so as to follow naturally each other, and work up to one general end, i think that pastoral would be more truly simple than any we have at present. 'tis true, a poet may thrust into pastoral as great a multitude of actions, and as surprizingly brought about, as we find in tragedy, but there is no necessity, because he must use a number sufficient to please, that therefore he must fall into that fault. yet for mine own part, i had rather see too much, than too little action, as i cannot help preferring a faulty writer before a dull one. but a poet of genius will diversify and adorn his fable, as much as he lawfully may; and as for the simple, he will draw such soft and tender characters, as will furnish his poem with enough of that, and of the most delightful kind. the generality of pastoral writers seem to think they must make their pieces simple, by divesting them of all the ornaments of poetry; and the less and more inconsiderable sketches they are, the more simple they are. a strange conception sure of simplicity. while their sentiments are false almost in every line; either in their own nature; or with respect to pastoral; or to the person speaking; or some other foreign cause. but i shall always wave the being particular in such cases as these. to point at faults directly, i think the business of a carper, not a critick. chap. iv. _of the moral; and what kind of moral pastoral require's_. the fourth quality that a fable ask's, to render it compleat, is a moral result. i need not trouble you with a proof of a moral's being necessary; 'tis plain that every poem should be made as perfect as 'tis capable of being, and no one will ever affirm a moral to be unnatural in pastoral. but if any one should demand a proof, 'tis thus: poetry aim's at two ends, pleasure and profit; but pastoral will not admit of direct instructions; therefore it must contain a moral, or lose one end, which is profit. we might as easy show that the other end of poetry, _viz_. pleasure, is also impair'd, if the moral be neglected; but the thing is plain. to hasten therefore to enquire what kind of moral is proper for pastoral, we must look back into the reasons prescribed by nature for the morals in all sorts of poetry. epick poetry and tragedy are conversant about hero's, kings, and princes, therefore the morals there, should be directed to persons engaged in affairs of state, and at the helm, and be of such a nature as these; _a crown will not render a person happy, if he does not pursue his duty towards god and man; the best method of securing a government, is to occasion unity in it_, and the like. again, comedy's subject is to expose the ill habits in low life. it's moral therefore should contain instructions to the middle sort of people: as, _what ills attend on covetousness_. or, _on a parent's being too severe_, or the like. * * * * * but so easy and gentle a kind of poetry is pastoral, that 'tis not very pleasant to the busy part of the world. men in the midst of ambition, delight to be rais'd and heated by their images and sentiments. pastoral therefore addresses it self to the young, the tender, and particularly those of the _soft-sex_. the characters also in pastoral are of the same nature; _an innocent swain_; or _tender-hearted lass_. from such characters therefore we must draw our morals, and to such persons must we direct them; and they should particularly aim at regulating the lives of virgins and all young persons. * * * * * what nature i would have a moral of, cannot so well be explain'd as by examples; but i do not remember at present any such pastoral. you are not widely deficient, cubbin, i think, in this particular. your first show's us, that the best preservative a young lass can have against love and our deluding sex, is, to be wholly unacquainted therewith. little paplet is eager of listning to soflin's account of men and love; but that first set's her _heart_ on the flutter; then she is taken with soflin's _sweet-heart_; tho' all the while she is ignorant of the cause of her uneasiness. the moral to your second pastoral, which contain's instructions to _coquetts_, warning them not to take pleasure in giving pain, is, i think, not worst than this. but the moral to your third (call'd the bashful swain), methinks, is not so good. it is also directed to the _coquetts_; and instruct's 'em not to give a lover any hopes, whom they do not intend to make happy. if the young lass there, had jilted cuddlett, she had mist of her good fortune; and her unwillingness to encrease the number of her admirers, is the cause of her happiness. but, i know not how, this like's me not so well as the other three; or, perhaps it is not produced so naturally by the fable, and that may prevent it's pleasing. sect. . _how to form the most regular kind of moral_. if a writer's only aim was the preserving poetical justice in his moral, he would have nothing to do but to show a person defective in some slight particular, and from thence unhappy; but as a poet always reaches at perfection, these following rules are to be observ'd. the inadvertency or fault which the character commit's, must be such a fault as is the natural or probable consequence of his temper. and his misfortune such an one as is the natural or probable consequence of his fault. as in othello: (for how can i instance in pastoral.) i rather suppose the moor's fault, to be a too rash and ungrounded jealousy; than that fault, common to almost all our tragedies, of marrying without the parent's consent. a rash _jealousy_ then, is the natural consequence of an open and impetuous temper; and the murder of his wife is a probable consequence of such a jealousy, in such a temper. so that the hero's temper naturally produces his fault, and his fault his misfortunes. if you allow that the fault should be the natural or probable consequence of the temper; let me ask you then, if those tragedies or pastorals can be so perfect, where the original natural temper of the hero or heroine is not drawn into the piece. i mean, where all that we see of the mind of the chief character, is his mind or temper, as alter'd entirely, by some foreign or accidental means. as, who will tell me what hamlet's natural temper was? throughout that admirable tragedy, we see not his bare temper once; but before he appear's, he's in wild distraction, which proceed's from former accidents. this method mr. _row_ too has taken, especially in that ingenious tragedy, call'd _jane shore_. we do not see any thing of her temper but grief and sorrow; but grief cannot be natural to any person's mind, but must be accidental. however, i think, this method may be, at least, very good; whether 'tis the best, i leave others to determine. but as to the fault, whether 'tis in the action, or out of it, is of no moment to the perfectness of a pastoral. tho' i must needs say, i am for what aristotle call's the peripatie, or change of fortune in pastoral; but i think the action that produces the change may be either in the poem, or have happen'd some time before, but so that it's influence does not reach the persons till they have been a while engaged in the actions of the tragedy or pastoral. sect. _last_. here sophy closed his book; for the heat of the day came on, and an house or an arbour began to be more agreeable than the open fields. sophy told the swain he would meet him there agen in the evening, and read him some more of the minutes he had put down for his direction, and withdrew; and the shepherd drove his lambs to the covert of the shades. accordingly, as the day began to decline, the critick again appear'd; and opening his book, pursued the argument he had made some progress in. _the end of the first part_. part ii. chap. i. _of the pastoral characters or manners, in general_. i should but tire the reader, if i endeavour'd to prove that pastoral does require the manners, or characters to be preserved. if our method of ordering pastoral be admitted, the necessity thereof will be easily perceived. but if any one prefer's the ordinary method, i must tell him, that 'tis not proper to draw characters in a piece of an hundred lines. it is to be observ'd, that tho' a fable and moral are essential to every poem; yet a poem may subsist without the manners. in epick poetry the machinery, the sublime descriptions, &c. are such strong and poetical ornaments, that a very fine piece of the heroick kind, might be form'd without the ornament of characters. but pastoral is in it self, (if i may so speak) less poetical; and therefore more want's the additional ornaments of art. 'tis naturally low and mean, and therefore should be as much rais'd as possible. whereas epick-poetry is of a nature so warm and heated, that it's own proper strength and violence is able to support it. if this could want a proof, i might say in short, that we can bear with epick-poetry, even without any kind of verse, and _cambray_ has succeeded in such; but every one will judge that should a pastoral appear in prose, nay even without the feminine ornament of jangle, 'twould not be born with; which show's that epick poetry can support it self with fewer foreign assistances than pastoral. another observation i shall make, relating to the manners or characters in general, is this; and 'tis equally applicable to epick poetry, tragedy, and pastoral: there are three different ways of drawing characters; which in tragedy form the poem, as 'twere, of three different kinds or natures. the first, and finest is, where the natural temper of the hero's mind is drawn in the former part of the poem, but after the peripatie alter's. as timon of athens is drawn at first all free and well-natur'd to a fault; but after his change of fortune, is described as a quite different man; morose, and in hatred with himself and all the world. and so in other tragedies. the second sort is, where the temper of mind is the same in the former and latter part of the play; but all along forced from it's natural bent. every where inclin'd and leaning to a different temper; yet is no where wholly carry'd off, or alter'd, as in _venice-preserv'd_; _jaffeir's_ temper is generous, faithful, and tender, but thro' want and enticement being drawn into a conspiracy, this temper is half effac'd in him: but the strugglings which the poet has so fine an opportunity of describing, between his present actions and his natural temper, are carry'd thro' the whole piece; and he condemn's himself the same for ungenerously betraying his friend at the end, as for entring into the conspiracy against his country, at the beginning of the play. the last kind of character is, where the natural temper of the mind is neither drawn in the latter part of the poem; nor retain'd thro' the whole, but clouded and broken; but instead thereof some casual and accidental humour, which from some misfortune, or the like, has quite changed the natural temper before the person appear's on the stage, or in the poem. as in the distress'd-mother, the character that give's name to the tragedy, is all along in tears and grief for _hector_; and what her temper was before his death, does not appear, that is, what her natural temper was. i need not detain you to apply what i have here observ'd to pastoral in particular; 'tis enough to affirm, that the method which appears most beautiful in tragedy, will be equally finest in pastoral poetry. chap. ii. _what condition of life our shepherds should be supposed in. and whether the_ golden-age, _or the present state of the country should be drawn_. there are three different methods, (as we hinted in the first chap. of the first book) of describing the country. for it may be drawn, as 'tis suppos'd to have been in the golden-age; or, as 'tis now, but only the pleasant and delightful images extracted, and touch'd upon; or, lastly, we may draw the country in it's true and genuine colours, the deformities as well as the beauties having admittance into our poem. this last sort run's upon the labours and fatigues of the rusticks; and gives us direct clowns and country-folk. we alway see 'em sweating with a sicle in their hands; beating their cows from the corn; or else at scolding. yet doubtless a kind of pastorals of this nature might be made extreamly delightful, if the writer would dare to write himself, and not be lead so much by _theocritus_ and _virgil_. but a method preferable to this, i think, is a description of the golden-age; and there is very little difference between this, and that which we hold the best. it draw's the swains, all innocent and tender. show's us shepherds, who are so, not for their poverty, but their pleasure; or the custom of those unrefin'd ages, when the sons and daughters of kings were of that employ, as we read in the scripture of the ladies of greatest quality, drawing water for their flocks, and the like. i am therefore nothing averse to this kind of pastoral. it draw's such a life as we could easily wish our selves in; and such, and only such, can bear a pleasurable description. but all the opportunities that the supposition of the golden-age gives the reader of the beautiful in his descriptions, and being entertaining in his characters; in short, all the delightful scenes, arborets and shades, as well as all the gentleness and simplicity of that age, may be drawn into the other, namely the middle state, which we prefer; if the characters be proper. besides, i should not be fond of describing the golden-age, because we are not so much interested and concern'd in what was only some thousand years ago, and ne're will be again. if the poet possesses us with agreeable sentiments of our own country (by describing it, but omitting all that is not delightful in it) we are doubly pleas'd with the consideration that it may be in our own power to enjoy the sweet amusement: and we are apt to fancy while we are reading, that were we among those swains, we could solace our selves in their easy retirements, and on their tender banks in the same manner that they do. and since poetry, the more naturally it deceives, the more fully it pleases; i should be very desirous, methinks, of giving my pieces as great an appearance of probability, as possible. and in our way, the poet may, to add yet more to the probability, mention several places in the country, which actually are to be found there; and will have several opportunities of giving his stories an air of truth. sect. . _the method of_ theocritus, _and all his followers, shown to be inferiour, from the nature of the human mind_. but further, to shew that we should not describe the country in it's fatigues, it's roughness, or it's meanest, take these few considerations. for, as no writer whom i have read (but that excellent frenchman _fontenel_,) has raised his shepherds and shepherdesses above the vulgar and common sort of neat-herds and ploughers, i am oblig'd to dwell a little the longer on this head. it may be observ'd, i think, that there are but two states of life which are particularly pleasant to the mind of man; the busy, great, or pompous; and the retir'd, soft, or easy. more are delighted with the former than with the latter kind, which affoard's a calm pleasure, that does not strike so sensibly, but proceeds much from the imagination. perhaps this may be the reason why epick and tragick poetry are more universally pleasing than pastoral; for they describe the actions of such persons, as most men are dazled and enamour'd with; and would willingly quit their own stations in life for. but tho' this state of life may perhaps be more generally engaging than the soft and retir'd; 'tis certain the soft is the next eligible, and consequently will shine the most next in poetry. as no one would much desire to be one of theocritus's shepherds, so 'tis plain, no one can be much delighted with being concern'd, as 'twere, with such; of having their actions take up our minds, and their manner of life set before us. as a love of grandeur, show and pageantry is implanted naturally in our minds, so we cannot be pleas'd with any thing that is mean, low and beggarly; and as we dislike what is mean and beggarly, how can we love to have our minds conversant about, direct ploughmen, _&c_? we love the country for it's soft retirements, it's silence, and it's shades, and can we love a description of it that sets none of these before us? if i read a pastoral, i would have it give me such a prospect of the country, and stop me upon those objects, where i should myself stay, were i there; but would not that be (at least generally) upon the most beautiful images. if the toils of the country-folk took my observance, 'twould only be for variety, because those images which a poet can so plentifully raise out of his own brain, can hardly be met with in reality. but methinks were i determin'd to describe the labours and hardships of the country, and not to collect the beauties; i would e'en observe the manner of the fellows and wenches in the country, and put down every thing that i observ'd them act; as mr. gay has very well done; and than we shall have at least this pleasure, of seeing how exactly the copy and the original agree; which is the same that we receive from such a picture as show's us the face of a man we know. again, 'tis natural to the mind of man to delight in the happiness of it's fellow-creatures; and no pleasure can be imbibed from the prospect of another's misery; unless it is so calculated as to excite pity. the pleasure, that comes the nearest such of any, is a comick one, which delight's to see the human form distorted and debased, and turn'd into that of a beast. and as for pity, the most delightful passion of all, it can't be excited by this means. for those swains are inured to labour, and acquainted with fatigue; but we pity those who fall from greatness to a state of hardships. chap. iii. _what personages are most proper for pastoral. and what passions we may allot our shepherds; and what degree of knowledge_. since simplicity and tenderness are universally allow'd to constitute the very soul and essence of pastoral, there la nothing scarce in the proceedings of pastoral-writers more surprizing to me, than that no one has allotted any part of characters in their pieces to the _soft-sex_: but have, to a writer, introduc'd only men, and even the roughest of that sex. i can no otherways account for that their conduct, but that _theocritus_ happen'd not to make any true female characters, nor to introduce any such of the fair-sex, as would shine in pastoral, and they pretend to nothing farther than the copying after him. this is the more strange, since even epick-poetry and tragedy, whose nature is violence and warmth, cannot well subsist without the tender characters. 'tis they that sprinkle so sweet a variety thro' those pieces, and relax the minds of the readers, with the beautiful and soft, after it is sated with the sublime. now if even the warmest kinds of poetry delight in female personages, how much more pastoral, which is all tenderness and simplicity? whose design is to sooth and spread a calm over the mind, as the higher poems are to elevate and strike it. but 'tis not enough that we introduce some characters drawn from the _soft-sex_: our male characters must be also of the same nature, far from rough or unmanner'd. every character must also be of such a kind as will be entertaining to the mind. for there are some more, some less delightful, among those female _characters_, which at first sight seem equally proper to pastoral. of this kind is a prudish _character_, or excessively reserv'd. for, besides that frankness and openness of heart, is what we imagine natural to shepherds, a poet can never raise delight from such a character. her fault is too hateful to excite pity in her punishment; and too small to raise joy in beholding bar unfortunate. besides that such a joy were not proper for pastoral. of the same nature is a finical, or squeamish character, and many others, at first sight agreeable to pastoral. sect. _what passions we may allot our shepherds_. although i am for raising the characters in pastoral somewhat above the degree of boors and clowns; yet no one is more for retaining the pastoral simplicity. our characters of young and tender innocents, give, i think, a better opportunity of introducing the true pastoral simplicity, than those very mean and low personages, which rather lead us to an unmanner'd clownishness, than an agreeable simplicity. to preserve this simplicity, we must avoid attributing to our swains, any of those passions or desires, which engage busy and active part of mankind; as ambition, and the like. _theocritus_ therefore, and _virgil_, and the generality of his followers, have rather made their shepherds sing alternately for a leathern pouch, or a goat, than for the desire of praise. and nothing, i believe, but his being unwilling to make his swains sing for exactly the same reward, that all since _theocritus_, have done, could have made our excellent phillips alter the pouch and the kid, for praise, in his sixth pastoral. _let others meanly stake upon their skill. or kid, or lamb, or goat, or what they will; for praise we sing, nor wager ought beside; and, whose the praise, let_ geron's, _lips decide_. there are few of even the most violent passions but may be introduc'd into pastoral, if artfully manag'd and qualify'd by the poet: as hatred, if it be not carried to it's height; which is an excess in pastoral. and i observe, _cubbin_, you make your shepherd _colly_, inconstant; and have an aversion to his former sweet-heart _soflin_, on account of her frankness, and too great forwardness. but yet i think it is not faulty, because you make his affections vary, against his inclination, and he is angry with himself for his dislike to _soflin_; but no reason can stop unruly love. so revenge, if admitted, must be very ingeniously manag'd, or 'twill be intolerable. there is a cunning thought in _tasso_, that may perhaps let the reader something into the manner in which i would have it order'd. a female warriour, opposed to her lover in aims, for his inconstancy shoot's a dart at him, yet wishes it may not strike him. but what comes nigher to the explaining the manner of introducing revenge into pastoral, is what we find in the sixth idyll of _theocritus_. _polyphemus's_ mistress had been unkind; and how do's he propose to take revenge: why, he will not take notice of her as she walk's before his cave to be seen, and pelt's his flock. after which follow's the most simple, and i had almost said, finest thought in any pastoral-writer. the whole beauty of which no one will conceive, but who has a soul as tender as _theocritus_ had, and could touch the _soft_ as well. poliphemus threaten's several punishments, after which, follows this. 'tis as fine in _creech's_ version as the original. _besides, my dog, he is at my command, shall bark at her, and gently bite her hand_. what i have said of this, might be said of the other passions; but i shall insist no longer on this head. as for the passions most proper for pastoral, they are discuss'd elsewhere. sect. . _what degree of knowledge we may attribute to our swains_. the difference between the knowledge of our shepherds, and that of politer persons, must not proceed in the least from any difference in their natural endowments, but entirely from the manner of their educations. the poet therefore, has nothing to do in this case, but to consider what is most probable for nature to effect, unassisted by art. as for a shepherd's knowing what the ancient poets have deliver'd, concerning the different ages, and other things, i shall not determine whether 'tis natural or not: because not only _theocritus_, whose shepherds are as well vers'd in history as other men, and _virgil_, whose shepherds are often philosophers, have gone in this way, but our countryman mr. phillips also, whose excellency is his correctness. (lang.) _thrice happy shepherds now! for_ dorset _loves the country muse, and our delightful groves. while_ anna _reigns. o ever may she reign!_ and bring on earth a golden-age again. _pastor_. . i shall leave the reader also to determine concerning the following piece of knowledge. (hob.) _full fain, o blest_ eliza! _would i praise thy maiden rule, and albion's golden days_. then gentle _sidney_ liv'd, the shepherds friend: _eternal blessings on his shade descend!_ the same is to be said of other the like passages, but the most ordinary capacity may judge what knowledge is, or is not, consistent with the banner of a shepherd's education. chap. iv. _how to form the pastoral characters, and the great difficulty of doing it_. a poet, who would write up to the perfection of pastoral, will find nothing more difficult (unless the dialect) than the inventing a sufficient number of pastoral characters; such as are both faultless and beautiful. that difficulty proceeds from hence. in epick and tragick poetry we have the whole scope of all men's tempers and passions to draw; which are widely various and different: as, the savage and wild; the ambitious; the simple and tender-hearted; the subtle, &c. thus in the epick and tragick poems, you draw the general qualities of all men's minds. but in pastoral, you are pinn'd down to one of these common qualities (which is simplicity and tenderness.) and laying that as a foundation, from thence draw your particular characters. in every character still supposing that at the bottom of it, and to accompany it. but rules of this nature, are like mathematical assertions, not easily explain'd, but by examples. tho' i think, _cubbin_, i need not insist long on this to you; for your characters are not much faulty in this particular. if i remember aright; some of your characters are these: paplet has simplicity and tenderness: but her distinguishing character is, that she is a may, so young, as to be entirely ignorant of love; but extreamly curious to be let into the nature of men and lovers. collikin has simplicity and tenderness: but withal a tincture of inconstancy in his nature. soflin, with her simplicity and tenderness, is excessive easy, and complying, to a fault; open and too free-hearted. florey has simplicity; and tenderness for his lass; but he is almost out of humour with himself for being so soft. he is suppos'd to be brought up in the lonely cave with paplet; and his natural tamper is wild and excessive brisk; hating the house, and delighting in hunting. but you show, i see, only a glimpse of his natural temper, which breaks out at times; but he is drawn as tender, being all the time in love with poppit. the rest of your characters have the same foundation; nor break in, i think, upon simplicity and tenderness. 'tis true indeed, as to the difficulty of forming pastoral characters, beyond those of epick poetry; that even there, one general character should diffuse it self thro' all the rest, and that is bravery. (for _homer_ might, i think, as well have brought in a baboon, or a hedge-hog, for heroick characters, as a _vulcan_ and a _thirsites_.) but bravery will coincide with greatly more tempers than pastoral simplicity and tenderness; nor does it lay the poet under a restraint comparably so great. 'tis farther observable, as to the difficulty of forming the pastoral characters, that if we wou'd write up to the perfection of pastoral, 'tis necessary that whatever habit or temper of mind distinguishes any character in the first pastoral, wherever that character afterwards appears, thro' the whole set of pastorals, it must appear with the same temper as before; that is, 'tis not enough to have the characters uniform and just thro' one and the same pastoral, but what is the character of any swain or lass in the first and second pastoral, that must be their character in all the rest, if they are nam'd or introduc'd, tho' never so slightly. for by this means, not only every single pastoral will make a regular piece, but the whole set of pastorals also constitute together one uniform and ample poem; if the reader delights to fill his mind with a large and ample scheme. the set of pastorals would be still more perfect, if the characters were also all continued on from the first to the last pastoral, and none drop'd, as 'twere, in silence; but in the pastorals which draw towards the end, the characters should be all disposed of in pastoral, and after an entertaining manner; so that the two or three last pastorals will be like the fifth act in a tragedy, where the catastrophe is drawn up. the reasonableness of this appear's from hence. i suppose the poet to form his story so, and so to draw his characters, that the reader's mind may be engag'd and concern'd for the personages. now the mind is uneasy if 'tis not let into the issue of the affairs of the person it has been long intent upon, and given to know whether he is finally unfortunate, or happy. sect. _last_. thus far proceeded sophy, when night drew on. he shut his book; and cubbin told him, he had not pass'd many days with so much delight as that. if you have found my discourse, said sophy, entertaining, do not fail of being here again early to morrow morning, and i will continue it to you. the shepherd express'd his satisfaction, and they hasted home together. the following morn was fair and inviting; they both appear'd when the lark began his mattin song; and sophy thus proceeded. _the end of the second part_. p a r t iii. chap. i. _of the sentiments in general_. i must crave leave to extend the signification of the word sentiment, to the including tooth image and thought. for i think the criticks should by all means have, before now, made that division, and the omission has occasion'd the greatest obscurity and confusion in the writings of those who have discours'd on any particular kind of sentiment. but that the reader may take the more care to keep this distinction in his head, we will give one instance of the confusion it occasion'd in the mind of _longinus_, who treated the sublime, and certainly ought to have had a clear notion of the subject he wrote so largely, and so floridly upon. now in his sixth _section_, he make's it a question, and discourses largely, whether passion can go along with a sublime sentiment. but any one who has divided sentiment into image and thought would laugh at this question; it being so plain that passion is consistent with a sublime thought, and is not with a sublime image. would not any person who desired to acquire a true and thorough notion of a sublime sentiment, so as to know one, wherever met, be puzzled at _longinus_'s telling him, _homer_'s sentiment is sublime, where he make's the _giant_'s heap ossa on olympus, and on ossa wood-top'd pelion; and a little after telling him that _alexander_'s to _parmeno_ is a sublime sentiment. _parmeno_ say's, _were i alexander, i would embrace these proposals of peace_. _alexander_ reply'd, _and i, by the gods, were i parmeno_. these sentiments of _homer_ and _alexander_ (tho' equally sublime) are as different as a bright and a tender sentiment. if then i have settled one in my mind, as sublime, how shall i conceive the other as such? but there is no other way of avoiding this confusion, and of being equally certain of all sublime sentiments, but by knowing that the first of these is a sublime image, and the last a sublime thought or sentiment. and you will find, if you consider the nature of _homer_'s image, all sublime images are like it; and the same of _alexander_'s sublime thought. altho' the sublime sentiments in general are so different. but since we are accidentally engag'd in considering the sublime; i will endeavour to show you how to judge infallibly of a sublime sentiment. for i think it cannot be gotten from _longinus_; or at least, i could never learn it from that most florid and ingenious author. and it may be shown in three lines, as well as in so many volumes. a sublime image always dilate's and widen's the mind, and put's it upon the stretch. it comprehends somewhat almost too big for it's reach; and where the mind is most stretch'd, the image is most sublime; if we consider no foreign assistances. as _homer_ say's, _the horses of the gods, sprung as far at every stride, as a man can see who sit's upon the sea-shore_. but foreign assistances, as a figurative turn, &c. may raise a passage to an equal degree of sublimity, which yet does not so largely dilate the mind; as this of _shakespear_'s is more sublime than that of _homer_'s. --_heaven_'s cherubs, _hors'd upon the sightless_ curriers _of the air, shall blow the horrid deed in every eye_. _macbeth_. act. . scen. the not having a perfect idea of the sentiment, make's us conceive something the greater of it. a sublime thought always gives us a greater and more noble conception of either the person speaking; the person spoken of; or, the thing spoken of. i need not instance; but if you apply this to any of the thoughts of _homer_, or _shakespear_, generally call'd sublime, you'll find it will always square. here let me make one observation: that you may never be mistaken in judging of a sublime passage, _cubbin_, take notice; that there are some thoughts so much imaged in the turn that is given to 'em, by the figurative expression, that they lose the name of thoughts, and commence images. i will mention one out of _shakespear_, (who uses this method the most of any author, and 'tis almost the only thing that raises his language) i will mention it, because, being in it self a low and common sentiment, he has made it the most sublime, i think, of any he has. _macbeth_'s lady say's, before the murther of the king. --_come, thick night. and pall thee in the dunnest smoak of hell, that my keen knife see not the wound it makes nor heav'n peep thro' the blanket of the dark, to cry, hold! hold!_ _macbeth_ act. . scen. . but i run the digression too far. chap. ii. _of the images. and which are proper for pastoral, which not_. let us proceed to consider what images will shine most in pastoral. and here i shall not consider all kinds of images, both good and vicious, but only those which are in their own nature good; and among those show which may, and which may not, be introduc'd into pastoral. of images, in their own nature good, only the beautiful, and the [a]gloomy are, properly speaking, fit for pastoral. the uncommon, the terrible, and the sublime, being improper. [footnote a: _the division of the images and thoughts is made, and the nature of the_ gloomy _consider'd, in the critical preface to the second part of our pastorals_.] if any other kinds of images are introduced, they must be artfully qualify'd, or else be faulty; the methods to be used in so qualifying them, are too numerous to recount. but give me leave to put down one, which relates to the language. suppose you was to describe some lovelads and lasses roving a little by the sea-shore in a guilded boat; when, on a sudden, the wind arises, drives 'em into the middle of the main at once, and dashes the _gondola_ on a rock. might you not describe such a boistrous circumstance in an easy and pastoral manner. _sore raven the fell sea (oh sorry sight!) and strait (most wofull word) the boat doth split_. but these are things which are better left to the writer's own genius, than to rule and criticism. as to the gloomy images, i shall only caution the pastoral writer, that they must be of a very different nature from those in epick poetry or tragedy: that is, the gloomy must not be so strong; but the images must rather contain a pleasing amusement. and that they'll do, if they are drawn from the country: as _fairies_; _will-o'-wisps_; _the evening_; _falling stars_; and the like, will all furnish images exactly agreeable to pastoral. having made this observation on the _gloomy images_, let us now proceed to the consideration of the beautiful, which will detain us somewhat longer. sect. . _of beautiful images. and of those; which are more, which less fine_. in my usual way of considering beautiful images; for the greater clearness, i rank 'em into three several classes. this division i do not desire to impose on any one else; but the mentioning it, cannot be amiss. of the three sorts or kinds of beautiful images, the first, and least delightful is, where only a simple image is exhibited to the reader's mind. as of a fair shepherdess. the second sort is, where there is the addition of the scene; as suppose we give the picture of the fair shepherdess, sitting on the banks of a pleasant streamlet. the third, and finest kind of beautiful images is, where the picture contain's a still further addition of action. as, the image of a fair shepherdess, on the banks of a pleasant stream asleep, and her innocent lover harmlessly smoothing her cloaths as flutter'd by the wind. and the most beautiful image in phillips, or i think any pastoral-writer, is of this nature. _once_ delia _lay, on easy moss reclin'd; her lovely limbs half bare, and rude the wind. i smooth'd her coats, and stole a silent kiss; condemn me, shepherds, if i did amiss_. _past_. . the last line contains a pastoral thought, of the best sort; as the three first a pastoral image. the middle of this last pastoral is full of beautiful images, and has therefore proved so entertaining to all readers, that i wonder mr. phillips would not give us the beautiful in his four first pieces also. of all the persons who have written in the english language, no one ever had a mind so well form'd by nature for pleasurable writing, as spencer. yet as he wrote his pastorals when very young, this does not appear so much from them, as from his fairy queen; thro' which, (like ovid, in his metamorphoses) he has perpetually recourse to pastoral. especially in his second book; in which there are more pleasurable pastoral images in every eight lines, than in all his pastorals. we have knights basking in the sun by a pleasant stream, rambling among the shepherdesses, entering delightful groves surrounded with trees, or the like, almost in every stanza; but thro' all his pastorals, we have not half a dozen beautiful images. 'tis therefore the pastoral language that support's 'em, which he took excessive pains about. chap. iii. _of pastoral descriptions. and what authors have the finest_. of images are form'd descriptions, as by a combination of thoughts a speech is composed. and a description is good or bad, chiefly as the images or circumstances are judiciously, or otherwise, chosen; and artfully put together. as to the putting them together, i shall only observe, that in descriptions of the heat of love, not in pastoral, but in such pieces as sapho's, or the like, the circumstances should be couch'd extreamly close; in epick poetry the circumstances should be somewhat less closely heap'd together; and that pastoral requires 'em the most diffuse of any; being of a nature extreamly calm and sedate. hence we may learn what length pastoral will admit of in it's descriptions. and certain it is, that as we are easily wearied by a cold speech, so are we by a cold description, unless very concise. but as those poets whose minds have delighted in pastoral images have always been men of pleasurable fancies, and who never would bring their minds under the regulation of art; all who have touch'd pastoral the finest have egregiously offended in this particular. the only writers, i think, who have ever had genius's form'd for pastoral images, are _ovid_ and _spencer_; which appear's from the _metamorphoses_ of the first, and the _fairy-queen_ of the latter. as for _theocritus_, he seem's to me to be better in the pastoral thought than image; and as i rank together _ovid_ and _spencer_, so i put _theocritus_ in the same class with _otway_. and i think any one of these four, if he had form'd his mind aright by art, (that is, had either thoroughly understood criticism in all it's branches, or else never vitiated his natural genius by any learning) was capable of giving the world a perfect sett of pastorals. the former two would have run most upon beautiful images, and the latter two upon agreeable thoughts. i need not instance in the tedious descriptions of _theocritus_, _ovid_ and _spencer_. but certainly, if long descriptions are faulty in epick poetry, as they prevent the curiosity of the reader, and leave him nothing to invent, or to imploy his own mind upon, they are in pastoral much more disagreeable. tho' if any thing would excuse a long description, there is in _ovid_ and _spencer_, that inimitable delightfulness, which would make 'em pass. virgil has no descriptions in his pastorals so long as spencer, and heavens deliver us if he had; for as 'tis, i can better read the longest of _spencer_'s, than the shortest of his, in his pastorals. sect. . _the proper length for descriptions adjusted, from several considerations_. what i have laid down seem's in its self plain and evident; but because _rapin_, and some other criticks, famous for the niceness of their judgments, have made it a considerable question, and at last own'd themselves unable to decide it, i shall further consider the matter. 'tis best, i think, only just to exhibit the picture of an object to the reader's mind; for if 'tis rightly set and well given, he will himself supply the minute particulars better to please himself than any poet can do; as no different fancies are equally delighted with one and the same thing, the poet in an extended description must needs hit upon many circumstances not pleasant to every fancy; even tho' he touches all the best particulars. but if the poet only set's the image in the finest light, by enumerating two or three circumstances, the reader's mind in that very instant it sees the image or picture, fill's up all the omissions with such particulars, as are most suitable to it's own single fancy. which farther conceives something beyond, and something out of the way, if all is not told. whereas descending to particulars cool's the mind, which in those cases ever finds less than it expected. to instance in painting, for that's the same. when i first cast my eye on a beauteous landscape, and take in a view of the whole and all it's parts at once, i am in rapture, not knowing distinctly what it is that pleases me; but when i come to examine all the several parts, they seem less delightful. pleasure is greatest if we know not whence it proceeds. and such is the nature of man, that if he has all he desires he is no longer delighted; but if ought is with-held, he is still in eagerness, and full of curiosity. besides, descriptions in pastoral should be particularly short, because it draw's into description nought but the most common tho' the most beautiful of nature's works: whereas epick poetry, whose business is to astonish, represents monsters and things unheard of before, and a _polyphemus_ or a _cyclops_ will bear, nay require, a more particular description, than a beauteous grott, or falling water; because the one is only calling up into our mind what we knew before, the other is creation. besides that in epick poetry the descriptions are generally more necessary than in pastoral. to describe the fair bank where your lovers sate to talk does not help the _fable_; but if _homer_ had not prepared us, by a particular description of _polyphemus_'s hugeness, he would not have been credited, when he afterwards said, _that he hurl'd such a piece of a rock after_ ulysses'_s ship, as drove it back, tho' it touch'd it not, but only plung'd into the waves, and made 'em roll with so great violence_. i shall only add one observation on this head, and proceed. pastoral admits of _narration_ and _dialogue_, but in _narration_ we may be greatly more diffuse in our descriptions than in the _dialogue_ part of the piece. for nothing in poetry is to be preserv'd with more care than probability, especially in pastoral. now for a shepherd to be relating an accident of concern, and to dwell on a description of place or person for four or five lines in the midst, does it not look as if 'twere only verses written, and not a tale actually told by the swain, since in such a case 'tis natural to hast to the main point, and not to dwell so particularly on matters of no consideration. i might give several other reasons for the shortness of pastoral descriptions, as that 'tis the manner of shepherds not to dwell on one matter so precisely, but to run from one thing to another; also, that the reader's mind is delighted when it has scope to employ it self; and the like. but the clearness of the question prevents me. sect. . _what pastoral images will shine most in a description_. we have just shown which images are the finest; and 'tis evident that by an accumulation of the best images is form'd the best description. 'tis not here my business particularly to show which circumstances, in any description, are best, which worst; 'tis enough, that in general we affirm the most beautiful to be finest in pastoral, and the most sublime in epick poetry; which are most beautiful, and which are most sublime i have elsewhere shown. yet there are several foreign assistances or adjuncts, which do greatly add to a beautiful circumstance; as for instance; if along with a beautiful image, we by any means show at once the happiness and innocence of the rural inhabiters, it renders the circumstance greatly more delightful. this can't so well be explain'd as by an instance. _ovid_ describes _proserpina_, as she is gathering flowers in a meadow among her play-fellows, hurried away by _pluto_, in order to her ravishment. among the misfortunes, which that violence brought upon the innocent young creature, this is one; _and oh, out lap the pretty florets fell_. there is no circumstance in any author, nor any one will be ever invented, more proper for pastoral than this line: as it contains not only a most beautiful image, but show's us at once the simplicity, and happiness of the country, where even such accidents are accounted misfortunes. but this is a circumstance that would but just bear the touching upon; and _ovid_ by his two next lines, has, i think, spoil'd it. in mr. _sewel_'s translation they run thus. _oft on her_ mates, _oft on her mother call's, and from her lap her fragrant treasure fall's; and she (such innocence in youth remains) of that small loss, among the rest, complains_. if he had stopt with the second line he had put himself, as 'twere, in the place of a shepherd, and spoke of the misfortune as if it came from his heart, and he was interested for the beauteous innocent. but in the two last lines he takes upon him the author, is grave and reflecting; but nothing is so beautiful in these kind of descriptions, as for a writer to put himself as 'twere in the place of the person he speaks of; and unless a writer delights to do this, and takes pleasure in his characters, and has, as 'twere, a love and kindness for 'em, he'll never excell in pastoral. and i have been told, cubbin, by some of your acquaintance, that they can easily tell what sort of characters you were fondest of when your wrote your pastorals; for there is one you never mention but with an unusual pleasure and alacrity; and it appear's from your description of her that your heart was on the flutter when you drew it. and if you read it over now, so long after, you'll observe it. but it has made you excell your self. sect. . _cautions for the avoiding some faults which_ theocritus, ovid, spencer, tasso, &c. have fallen into in their descriptions_. the generality of our narrative poets under their general descriptions, bring in the descriptions of particular and lesser things. this is very faulty. i might instance in _ovid_, _spencer_, _chaucer_, &c, but there is an example of this so very flagrant in _tasso_, that i can't forbear mentioning it, as i think 'tis the most monstrous one i ever saw, and these observations relate alike to epick poetry and pastoral. this author has occasion in the thirteenth book of his hierusalem to describe a drought, which he does in six and fifty lines, and then least we might mistake what he's describing tell's us in eight lines more, how the soldiers panted and languished thro' excessive heat, then in eight more describes the horses panting and languishing; then in eight more gives us a description of the dogs, who lay before the tents also panting and languishing, and so on. this is what i mean by bringing one description within another; and 'tis the greatest of faults. we lose all thoughts of the general description, and are so engaged in under-ones, that we have forgot what he at first propos'd to describe. another observation i would make, is, that a pastoral writer should be particularly careful not to proceed too far, or dwell too minutely on circumstances, in his most pleasurable descriptions, which we may term the luscious. such as _spencer_'s, where he makes his knight lye loll'd in pleasures, and damsels stripping themselves and dancing around for his diversion. this, _spencer_ methinks carries to an excess; for he describes 'em catching his breath as it steam'd forth; distilling the sugar'd liquor between his lips, and the like. such descriptions will grow fulsome if more than just touch'd, as the most delicious things the soonest cloy. chap. iv. _that pastoral should image almost every thing_. there is nothing more recommends the tragedys of mr. _row_, than his language, which i think is (in it's own nature) particularly beautiful. as i cannot forbear looking into the springs and means by which our best poets attain their excellence in the several dialects they touch the finest, what 'tis that constitutes the difference between the language of one and that of another; and also what rank or class each dialect belongs to; i have done the same as to the writings of mr. _row_. and i observe that the chiefest means he makes use of to render his tragick language at once uncommon and delightful, is the figurative way of considering things as persons. what i mean is this. ----_comfort dispels the sullen shades with her sweet influence_. and again: ----_my wrongs will tear their way, and rush at once upon thee_. jane shore: _act_ . and this is extreamly frequent, especially in jane shore. and nothing can be more beautiful in heroick language; and this author has some sentiments dress'd, by this figurative way, as finely as most of _shakespear_'s; as this _care only wakes, and moping pensiveness; with meagre, discontented looks they sit, and watch the wasting of the mid-night taper_. now what is this but imaging almost every thing, or turning as many thoughts as possible into images? now if the thoughts in strong lines, (as they call 'em) appear best in imagery, how much more will pastoral thoughts. the former have passion and heat to support 'em, the latter are entirely simple. and if heroick writers are fond of images, how much more should pastoral writers avoid a long series of bare thoughts, and endeavour to address the mind of the reader with a constant variety of pictures. what i have here delivered may seem trifling to the reader. but if he looks into the modern pastoral-writers he'll observe that the scarcity of images goes a great way towards making their pieces flat and insipid. and 'tis impossible indeed to have a sufficient variety of images in a pastoral that is compos'd by nought but a mournful speech or complaint. therefore a writer who would not only write regular, but also delightful pastorals, should doubtless run very much upon description. i need not make the distinction between an epick and a pastoral writer's manner of imaging. they are widely different; nor can a pastoral image so many things as an epick writer. for he cannot consider things as persons, nor use the other methods that heroick poetry takes to effect it. chap. v. _of the thoughts. and which are proper for pastoral, which not_. i shall not consider those thoughts which are, in their own nature, vicious; as the ambiguous, the pointed, the insipid, the refined, the bombast, and the rest. but of those kind of thoughts which are in themselves good, only these three do properly belong to pastoral; namely, the agreeable, or joyous; the mournful, or piteous; and the soft or tender. yet the rest of those thoughts which are in their own nature good, may be so order'd as to bear a part in pastoral. for as we may make a shepherd false to his mistress, if he be offended with the levity of his nature; so we may make a lass ill-natured and satyrical, for instance, if 'tis not in her temper, but assumed only for a good purpose. sect. . _of those thoughts which are proper for pastoral, how to judge which are finest_. i need only observe, that where is the greatest combination of those things which make the best figure in pastoral, that is always the best thought. as a thought that is not only agreeable or beautiful, but has also simplicity. the two finest passages that i remember in _theocritus_ for their simplicity, are these. which are exceeding well translated by _creech_; whose language (next to some of _spencer's_) is vastly the best we have, for pastoral. i will quote the whole passage. daph.) _and as i drove my herd, a lovely maid stood peeping from a cave; she smil'd, and said, daphnis is lovely, ah! a lovely youth; what smiles, what graces sit upon his mouth! i made no sharp returns, but hung my head and went my way, yet pleas'd with what she said_. idyll. . of the same nature is what _comatas_ says in another place. com.) _i milk two goats; a maid in yonder plain lookt on, and sigh'd_, dost milk thy self poor swain! and what follows soon after. com.) _the fair calistria, as my goats i drove, with apples pelts me, and still murmurs love_. idyll. . tho' these thoughts are so exceeding beautiful thro' their simplicity, i rather take 'em to be agreeable thoughts; and simplicity to be only an adjunct or addition to 'em; as passion is an addition and embellishment to the sublime thoughts. the mournful thought, with the addition of simplicity, is as pleasing, i think, as the agreeable with simplicity. the finest of this kind that i remember in _theocritus_, are in his _idyll_. a shepherd resolves to hang himself, being scorn'd by the fair he ador'd. for the more he was frown'd upon the more he loved. _but when o'recome, he could endure no more, he came and wept before the hated dora; he wept and pin'd, he hung the sickly head, the threshold kist, and thus at last he said_. many thoughts in the complaint are as fine as this. as, of the following lines, the d and th. _unworthy of my love, this rope receive. the last, most welcome present i can give. i'll never vex thee more. i'll cease to woe. and whether you condemned, freely go; where dismal shades and dark_ oblivion _dwell_. of the same nature also is what soon after follows. _yet grant one kindness and i ask no more; when you shall see me hanging at the door. do not go proudly by, forbear to smile. but stay,_ sweet fair, _and gaze, and weep a while; then take me down, and whilst some tears are shed, thine own soft garment o're my body spread. and grant one kiss,--one kiss when i am dead. then dig a grave, there let my love be laid; and when you part, say thrice,_ my friend is dead. all these thoughts contain simplicity as an addition to the mournful. and 'tis impossible for any thoughts to be more natural. 'twere endless to enumerate all the several kinds of beautiful pastoral thoughts, but from these any one may discover the rest; and the general rule we gave at the beginning of the chapter will be a direction for his ranging them into distinct classes. yet give me leave to mention one kind, which i think we may term the finest. 'tis where the agreeable thought, and the tender, meet together, and have besides, the addition of simplicity. i would explain my meaning by a quotation out of some pastoral writer, but i am at a loss how to do it; give me leave therefore to bring a passage out of the orphan. a thought may contain the tender, either with regard to some person spoken of, or the person speaking. the first is common, this play is full of it. i will therefore instance in the latter. and first where 'tis chiefly occasion'd by the turn that is given to it in the expression. chamont presses his sister to tell him who has abused her. mon.) _but when i've told you, will you keep your fury within it's bound? will you not do some rash and horrid mischief? for indeed_, shamont, _you would not think how hardly i've been used from a near friend_. cham.) _i will be calm; but has_ castalio _wrong'd thee?_ mon.) _oh! could you think it!_ (cham.) _what?_ mon.) _i fear he'll kill me_. (cham.) _hah!_ mon.) _indeed i do; he's strangely cruel too me. which if it lasts, i'm sure must break my heart_. act. . in the other passage the tender lyes more in the thought. mon.) _alas my brother! what have i done? and why do you abuse me? my heart quakes in me; in your settled face and clouded brow methink's i see my fate; you will not kill me!_ cham.) _prithee, why dost talk so?_ mon.) _look kindly on me then, i cannot bear severity; it daunts and does amaze me. my heart's so tender, should you charge me rough. i should but weep, and answer you with sobing. but use me gently, like a loving brother, and search thro' all the secrets of my soul_. chap. vi. _of three kind of thoughts which seem to be false, yet are admitted and valued by pastoral writers_. tho' i proposed not to consider those thoughts which are false, either in their own nature, or with respect to pastoral; yet there are some such, that yet are thought good, by the generality of writers, which i shall therefore just mention; since pastoral-writers are especially fond of 'em, and seem to look upon 'em as beautys. of these false thoughts there are, i think, three sorts. the emblematical, the allegorical, and the refined. of the first sort, or the emblematical, _spencer_ was so fond, that he makes it run all thro' his first and last pastoral; which two come the nearest of any he has to true pastorals; and contain thoughts more pleasant than those in his other (especially his allegorical) pieces. but these pleasant thoughts are mostly emblematical, as this, which i think, is in spencer. _my leaf is dry'd, my summer season's done, and winter, blasting blossoms, hieth on_. meaning that his happy time of life was past, and old age drew on. i need not prove these thoughts to be improper for pastoral. the second sort, or the allegorical, is also what _spencer_ delighted equally in. his every pastoral almost has under the plain meaning a hidden one. let all judge of allegorical pastorals as they please, but in my opinion, they are not consistent with the simplicity of that poem. the third sort i mention'd was the _refined_. and of this our modern swains are as fond, as _spencer_ was of the two first. but all the difficulty is to show that their thoughts are refin'd; for all allow a refin'd thought to be faulty. but those i am going to mention are not at present look't upon as such. as that apostrophe, where the shepherd calls upon the works of nature to assist him in his grief. this thought being us'd by all pastoral-writers show's how beautiful they thought it: and the generality of them, 'tis plain, took delight in the affectation of it, because they have put it as affected as they could. if 'tis possible for any, the finest turn, that can be given it, to prevent the affectation, i think the ingenious mr. _row_ has done it, in his excellent tragedy, call'd _jane shore_. _give me your drops, ye soft-descending rains, give me your streams, ye never-ceasing springs, &c_. but the very best turn, methinks, that can possibly be given to this thought, mr. _philips_, in his pastorals, has hit upon. _teach me to grieve, with bleating moan, my sheep, teach me, thou ever-flowing stream, to weep; teach me, ye faint, ye hollow winds, to sigh, and let my sorrows teach me how to dye_. the thought likewise of the heavens and the works of nature wailing along with the swain, is what pastoral-writers all aim at. i need not quote different authors, for the different turns that are given to this thought; i remember mr. _congreve_ has it in four several places. the best express'd, i think, is this. _the rocks can melt, and air in mists can mourn, and floods can weep, and winds to sighs can turn, &c_. it seem's to be turn'd the best next in these lines. _and now the winds, which had so long been still, began the swelling air, with sighs to fill, &c_. the affectation of the thought show's it self rather more, i think, in the following lines. _and see, the heav'ns to weep in dew prepare. and heavy mists obscure the burd'ned air on ev'ry tree the blossoms turn to tears, and every bough a weeping moisture bears_. but give me leave to quote the thought once more and i have done. _the marble weep's, and with a silent pace, it's trickling tears distil upon her face. falsely ye weep, ye rocks, and falsely mourn! for never will ye let the nymph return!_ if any should have a curiosity to see these thoughts at large, for we have not quoted the whole of 'em, he may find 'em in _congreve_'s pastoral, call'd _the mourning muse of_ alexis. i shall trouble you with but one thought more of those which we reduce under the denomination of refin'd, and that is the antithesis. i do not just now remember a line of this nature in any author but mr. _philips_; otherwise, i avoid hinting at particular faults in a writer who is generally regular and correct, in his sentiments. _in vain thou seek'st the cov'rings of the grove, in the cool shades to sing the heats of love_. sect. . _of_ simple thoughts. _and the finest quoted out of_ shakespear _and_ philips. 'twould be well if pastoral-writers would leave aiming at such thoughts as these, and endeavour to introduce the simple ones in their stead. but what is most surprizing, is, that their false thoughts are as seldom their own, as their true ones, and they steal all indifferently from _theocritus_ and _virgil_. which shows how necessary it is to be a thorough critick, if you would be a good poet. pastoral-writers are sufficiently for simplicity; nay so much, that they form their storys or fables so little and triffling as to afford no pleasure; is it not strange then that they should be so averse to simplicity in their thoughts; where simplicity would be the greatest beauty in their poetry? pastoral-writers have all sorts of false thoughts but those which we may call the too simple. i do not indeed know any author who has such a thought unless it be our wide-thoughted _shakespear_. and indeed 'tis scarce possible to rise to simplicity enough, in pastoral, much less to have a thought too simple. _shakespear_'s is this. des.) _mine eyes do itch, doth that boad weeping?_ emil.) _'tis neither here nor there_. des.) _i have heard it said so: o these men, these men! dost thou in conscience think, tell me_ emilia, _that there be women do abuse their husbands, in such gross kind_? &c. othello. act. . sc. last. but if this passage is too simple, 'tis for tragedy so, not for pastoral; and because _desdemona_ was a senators daughter, and educated in so polite a place as _venice_; but in pastoral, i think, we may introduce a character so young, simple and innocent, that there is no thought so simple but will square with it; at least, we have no instance of any such one as yet. the simplicity of this scene would be inimitable for pastoral; and i think, it shows as great if not a greater genius, in the writing it, than any one in _shakespear_. but a scene so truly simple and innocent cannot well be represented. besides, what is best writ is most open to the ridicule of little genius's; and more, i doubt, look upon this scene in _othello_ as comedy, than have a taste of that sweet simplicity, that is in it, if we consider the sentiments only in themselves. yet must we not carry the reflection too far, of pastoral-writers having no such thing as the simple in any of their thoughts, for there are passages in mr. _philips pieces_ truly simple. and 'tis worthy observation how beautiful a figure they make, tho' we don't consider 'em as being in a pastoral. such is the celebrated one, contain'd in the last of these lines. _i smooth'd her coats, and stole a silent kiss: condemn me shepherds if i did amiss_. _phllips past_. . but we have greatly more simple thoughts in other pieces than in pastorals. the finest of all which, is this famous one in _othello_. _why i should fear i know not, since guiltiness i know not: but yet i feel i fear_. yet need we not much wonder at the scarcity of these simple thoughts; since there is nothing requires so great a genius as finely to touch the simple; and the greatest genius's never attempt pastoral; it being a form so mean, little and trifling, without the ornaments of poetry, fable, manners, moral, &c. and of a confused imperfect nature. chap. vii. _of comparisons in pastoral. and how much our modern pastoral-writers have fail'd therein_. similies in pastoral must be managed with an exceeding deal of care, or they will be faulty. as a poet may range nature for comparisons; this gives a pastoral-writer a very easy opportunity of introducing rural thoughts. _virgil_ therefore, and those swains who have written pastorals more by art and imitation than genius, generally heap three or four similies together for the same thing; and which is of no moment; nor wanted any comparison. as i have hinted that _theocritus_ had a genius capable of writing a perfect set of pastorals, his similies are infinitely the best of any swain's. the chief rule, i think, to be observ'd is (if rules can be given for such things as these) that similies be contain'd in three or four words. as this of _philips_'s. _whilon did i, all as this_ pop'lar _fair, up-raise my heedless head devoid of care_, &c. or at most they ahould not exceed a line. as this is a very beautiful one in the same author. and also in his st pastoral. _a girland, deck't with all the pride of_ may, _sweet as her breath, and as her beauty gay_, &c. i shall not give my opinion of the following similies; yet i might say that i think 'em not altogether so fine as the foregoing two. altho' they contain delightful images _as milk-white swans on silver streams do show, and silver streams to grace the meadows flow; as corn the vales and trees the hills adorn, so thou to thine an ornament was't born_. _past_. . the next relates to the sweetness of _colinet_'s voice. _not half so sweet are midnight winds, that move in drowsy murmurs o're the waving grove; nor dropping waters, that in grotts distil, and with a tinkling sound their caverns fill_. _past_. . methinks thus dressing a thought so pompous in similies, raises so our expectation, that we are fit to smile when the last line comes. there are also another kind of similies, which being heapt in the same manner, seem to be design'd by _virgil_, and those who have taken their thoughts from him, rather to fill up space with somthing pastoral, than to be the natural talk of shepherds. for swains are not suppos'd to retard their storys by many or long similies; their talk comes from the heart, unornamental; but similies, in pastoral, are for ornament. but i must show what kind of thoughts i mean, which i also account similies, but they have a peculiar turn given to 'em. i remember but two in mr. _philips_ pastorals. _first then shall lightsome birds forget to fly, the briny ocean turn to pastures dry, and every rapid river cease to flow, 'ere i unmindful of_ menalcas _grow_. the other is this. _while mallow kids; and endive lambs pursue; while bees love thyme; and locusts sip the dew;_ _while birds delight in woods their notes to strain, thy name and sweet memorial shall remain_. but now i have given examples of those similies which seem faulty; and quoted at the beginning of the section, some that are good; i will bring an instance of a similie, which is more delightful to the fancy than all these put together; and which show's that _theocritus_ thought 'twas a small thing to put down pastoral thoughts or images, if he did not cull the most pleasurable in nature. _creech_ has translated it very well. _daphnis_ had conquer'd _menalcas_ in singing. _the boy rejoyc'd, he leap'd with youthful heat, as sucking colts leap when they swig the teat; the other griev'd, he hung his bashful head, as marry'd virgins when first laid in bed_. chap. viii. _of imitation; or stealing sentiments from the_ antients. if a direct imitation of the thoughts of the _greeks_ and _romans_, shows no great richness of genius, in any kind of poetry, in pastoral 'tis much more to be avoided. if a hero does sometimes talk out _homer_ and _virgil_, 'tis not so shocking, because tis not dissonant to reason to suppose such a person acquainted with letters and authors; nor is an heroick poems essence simplicity; but if a modern gives me the talk of a shepherd, and i have seen it almost all before in _theocritus_, _virgil_ and _spencer_, it cannot delight me. for that poetry pleases the most, that deceives the most naturally. but how can i, while i am reading a pastoral, impose upon my self that i am among swains and in the country, if i remember all they say is in _greek_ and _roman_ authors. and few read _modern-writers_ but have read the _antients_ first. a shepherd should speak from his heart, as if he had no design of pleasing, but is prompted to utter all he says: but if in all he says we see an imitation, or a thought stole from other authors, it destroys all simplicity, shows design and labour. besides, epick poetry warms and elevates the mind, hurries it on with fury and violence, which prevents our noting any slight inacuracy, so as to be offended by it; but in so cool a poem as pastoral, whose design is to sooth and soften the mind, we have leasure to consider every unnaturalness and every improbability. sect. . _of_ soloman'_s allegorical pastorals; entitled_ the canticles. yet i know not how, tho' 'tis so unnatural to find thoughts in the mouths of shepherds, which we have observ'd in _theocritus_ and _virgil_, yet i am never better pleased than with those thoughts which are taken out of the scripture. methinks the thoughts in the canticles are so exceeding fine for pastoral that 'tis pity to give 'em any other turn than what they have there; and if i did take any of those pastoral sentiments, i would translate the whole passage as we there find it. _milton_ in his soft passages has often imitated the thoughts in the canticles; and mr. _philips_ has taken from thence the hint of the finest image but one he has in his pastorals. _breath soft ye winds, ye waters gently flow, shield her ye trees, ye flow'rs around her grow, ye swains, i beg ye pass in silence by, my love in yonder vale asleep doth lye_. my not disliking thoughts taken from the canticles, makes me think that 'tis not so much the thoughts being stolen from _theocritus_ or _virgil_ that makes me dislike 'em, as the poor and mean figure they make in poetry. could poets take as fine pastoral images from the antients, as this of _philips_, i believe no one but would be pleased by 'em, come from whence they would. but the thoughts which our writers take from the antients are such, that would they trust their own genius's, i am satisfied they would, at least, not have worse, nor more false ones. i was a little surprized when i first read mr. _philips_'s _ th_ pastoral, (which has the most of a story or fable of any) how he came to take the very story which _strada_ tell's to show what a genius _claudian_ had. _ovid_'s _metamorphoses_ is full of such fairy and romantick tales, and he might well enough have given a description of a bird's contending with a man for the prize in singing, but methinks 'tis not wholly probable enough for a fable in pastoral. now the cause of my mentioning this in mr. _philips_, is to persuade, if possible, those who shall hereafter engage in pastoral-writing to trust to their own genius's. by that means we may hope pastoral will, one day, arrive at it's utmost perfection, which if writers pretend to go no farther than the first who undertook it (i mean _theocritus_) it never can do. for 'tis no one genius that can bring any kind of poetry to it's greatest compleatness. and all know by what slow steps epick poetry, tragedy, and comedy arrived at the perfection they now bear. sect. _last_. but now the time of day drew on, when cubbin must drive his heifers to water. sophy therefore withdrew, but promised to be there in the evening agen. when the heat of the day was over, and the evening air began to breath in a delightful manner, sophy accordingly appear'd, and setting him on the rushes, that esprouted up by the river side, open'd his book, and proceeded in the following manner. _the end of the third part_. part iv. chap. . _of the pastoral language in general_. i must here premise, that i intend not here a full and compleat discourse on the pastoral language; for that would take up a volume. but i would recommend it to some other hand; for i know nothing that would be more acceptable to the letter'd world than an enquiry into the nature of the _english_ language. but there is no dialect or part of our language so little understood, as that which relates to pastoral; nor none (not even the sublime) so difficult to write. of all who have attempted pastoral in our tongue, no one (but _spencer_) has gone so far as even the weakening and enervating their dialect; yet after that is perform'd, a pastoral-writer has gone but half way; for after the strength is taken away, a tenderness and simplicity of expression must supply its place, or else 'tis only bald and low, instead of soft and sweet. _spencer_'s language is what supports his pastorals; for i can maintain, that he has not above one sentiment in fifteen but is either false, or taken from the antients, throughout his pastorals. the greatest defect in his language is it's want of softness. he has introduced a sufficient, or perhaps too great a number, of old-words. but they are promiscuously used. he took not the pains to form his dialect before he wrote his pastorals, by which means he has used more rough and harsh old-words, than smooth and agreeable ones. they are used where our common words were infinitely more soft and musical. as _what gar's thee greet?_ for, _what makes thee grieve?_ how harsh and grating is the sound of _spencer_'s two words, but instances were endless. he is the more blamable, because there are full enough old-words to render a dialect rustick and uncommon of the most sweet and delightful sound imaginable. as _ween_ or _weet_, for _think_; _yclepen_, for _call'd_, and the like. these being so tender and soft, render the language of pastoral infinitely more tender also, than any common words, now in use, can do. chap. ii. _how to attain to the_ soft _in writing_. that a shepherd should talk in a different dialect from other people, is allow'd by all. that the pastoral language should be soft and agreeable is equally past dispute. the only remaining question then is, what it is that composes such a dialect, and how to attain it. in order to compose a pastoral dialect entirely perfect; the first thing, i think, a writer has to do, is, as we said before, to enervate it and deprive it of all strength. as for the manner of enervating a language, it must be perform'd by the genius of the poet, and not shown by a critick. however when the thing is done, 'tis not difficult to see what chiefly effected it. there are, i think, _cubbin_, two things that principally enervate your language. _first_, 'tis perform'd by throwing out all words that are _sonorous_ and raise a _verse_. mr. _philips_ comes the nearest to a pastoral language of any english swain but _spencer_. and he has truly enervated his language in four several lines. one of which is the last of these two. _ye swains, i beg ye pass in silence by; my love in yonder vale asleep doth lye_. the word doth, is what enervates the last line. but 'twould be still better enervated if mr. _philips_ had used only such words as have very few consonants in them. for by consonants, joyn'd with the vowel o, a writer may render his language, in epick poetry, just as sonorous as he will; and by the want of consonants and by delighting in the other soft vowels he may render it weak. i cannot see that mr. _philips_ has any line where the language is wholly enervated. but see how _spencer_ has done this. especially in the second of these lines. _the gentle shepherd sate beside a spring. all in the shadow of a bushy breer. &c_. in this last line, there is but one word end's with a consonant, where the following word begin's with one. but a writer, who is perfectly master of his language, will be able to have every line like this; and no word more strong than evening, rivulet, and the like, will he be forc'd to use. _secondly_, the language is by nothing more weaken'd, than by the use of monisyllables. this no one ever had the least notion of but _spencer_. which i wonder has not been observed, 'tis so very palpable in him. what makes the finess of these lines else? _all as the sheep such was the shepherd's look, for pale and wan he was (alas the while!) may seem he lov'd, or also some care he took, well could he tune his pipe and form his stile_. past. . here is but two words for four lines, except monosyllables. the best lines in _philips_, for the language, are these, where monosyllables reign. ..._fine gain at length, i trow, to hoard up to my self such deal of woe!_ and the last of these; for the first is rough thro' too many consonants. _a lewd desire strange lands and swains to know: ah gad! that ever i should covet woe!_ past. . there are other methods, i see, cubbin, you have taken to enervate your language; too minute and too numerous to recite, but they are easily, i think, observ'd, if a person peruses the pastoral writers with care. when our dialect is thus render'd weak and low, we must then add to it, (in order to render it as pleasant as a dialect that is not low and mean) simplicity, softness and rusticity. this is perform'd principally by these three things. by old-terms; by turns of words, and phrazes; and by compound words. of all which i shall crave leave to treat distinctly. and first of ancient terms. sect. . _of old-words_. when first i look'd into _chaucer_. i thought him the most dry insipid writer i ever saw. and there is indeed nothing very valuable in either his images or thoughts; but after a person is accustom'd to his manner of writing and his stile, there is something of simplicity in his old language, inimitably sweet and pleasing. if 'tis thus in _chaucer_, in pastoral such a language is vastly more delightful. for we expect something very much out of the way, when we come among shepherds; and how can the language of shepherds be made to differ from that of other persons, if they use not old-words? 'tis very remarkable that all our greatest poets whose works will live to eternity, have introduced into their language old-words; as _shakespear_, _spencer_, _milton_. _dryden_ also, whose genius was much inferiour to those writers; has used some few. and _ben. johnson_ (tho' he lived at the same time with _shakespear, spencer, &c_.) whose genius was yet meaner than _dryden_, has not one old-word. ancient terms were doubtless a great disadvantage, especially to _spencer_, when his works appear'd first in the world; but he had a soul large enough to write rather for posterity, than present applause. he took so excessive a delight in the old language of his admired _chaucer_, that he could not help, in some measure, imitating it. our greatest writers having all given into an ancient dialect, would almost encline us of the present age, to think of making their language a standing language; for queen _elizabeth_'s age is to us what _augustus_'s was to the _latins_; we must never hope to have so many noble genius's adorn any one age for the future; i might have said, any twenty ages. therefore if any _english_ dialect survives to the world's end, 'twill certainly be theirs; and 'twill be prudence in any after-writer to draw his language as near to theirs as possible; that if theirs are understood a thousand years hence, his may too. but to leave the consideration of old-words in epick poetry and tragedy, let us proceed to pastoral. there are several advantages flow from the use of old-words, but i have time to mention but two or three. there is a spirit and a liveliness of expression to be preserv'd in pastoral as well as other poetry; now i affirm that 'tis impossible to perform this without old-words; unless a writer make shepherds talk sublimely, and with passion, as in tragedies. again, if a writer has a genius for pastoral he will have some thoughts occur so inimitably simple, that they would appear ridiculous in the common language; and 'tis necessary that the language should answer to the thought. these are the finest thoughts of all for pastoral. there are also several thoughts which, tho' extreamly agreeable to the simple innocence of young country girls, will appear too luscious, unless the simplicity and rusticity of the speaker appear's, by the old language spoken. but we smile at a thought in such simple language, which perhaps we shall nauseate in a polite dialect. but one of the greatest advantages of old-words, is, that they afford the writer so fine an opportunity of rendring his language most inimitably soft and smooth. this cannot be done by any other means; and how proper soft and simple language is to pastoral (at least where the characters are young, tender, and innocent) i need not say. as for virgil and those pastoral writers who seem not to aim at simplicity in either their characters or sentiments, the using of old-words is entirely different with regard to them. to see a sentiment, which would as well become any other person as a shepherd, dress'd in the simplicity of an ancient dialect, would appear nothing but affectation. we are used to see such sentiments in another dress. nay, were their thoughts simple, 'twould not be agreeable for them to use old-words, unless the whole turn of their language was answerable to it; to have a common, ordinary language, with old-words scatter'd through it, is a mixt confused language, and what is very expressively named by our word hodge-podge. 'tis not enough therefore, for the forming a pastoral language to use old-words; a writer must set down, and by true pains and industry constitute a language entirely of a piece and consistant; in performing which the choicest old-words will be of some little assistance. if i might advise you, cubbin, i would have you always write pastorals in either such a language as this, entirely uniform and of a piece, or else to write in a strong polite language. never write any single thing in a low and mean language. polite language is only faulty with respect to it's being in pastoral; but low language is in it's own nature faulty. the first is only unnatural; the latter is stupid and dull. therefore unless you resolve to go quite thro', never weaken or enervate your pastoral language at all. unless you resolve to add simplicity and softness, to supply the place of strength, never rob it of it's strength. it had better have strength and sprightliness and politeness than nothing. the best way is that which sir _philip sidney_ has taken, to suppose your swains to live in the _golden-age_, and to be above the ordinary degree of shepherds, for kings sons and daughters, were then of that employ. and upon this supposition to make 'em talk in a polite, delightful and refined dialect. by this means you will disable the criticks at once. but perhaps some may expect that i should vindicate the use of old-words, on my own account. but for that reason i am the more careless in touching the subject; because i would leave the world to a free and unbias'd judgment of what i have done. nor is this an age, indeed, to begin to vindicate old-words in. the method has been approv'd of in all ages even in epick poetry and tragedy, and should we go now to defend it in pastoral? a friend indeed of _spencer_'s wrote a vindication of his old-words, but had _spencer_ been living be would doubtless have been ashamed of it's appearing in the world. 'tis the opinion of the best judges that the old-words used by mr. _row_, even in the tragedy of _jane shore_ are a great beauty to that piece. and those who have objected against _sallust_ for affecting old-words, have made nothing out. tho' history is to deliver plainly matters of fact, and not to flourish, and beautify it's self with foreign ornaments, as poetry is. there are not so many disapprove of _sallust_'s old-words, as commend him for adding a majesty and solemness to his writings thereby. i might add (were there occasion for vindicating old-words) that we have render'd our _english_ language unexpressive and bare of words, by throwing out several useful old-words; as _freundina_ a _she-friend_; _theowin_ a _she-servant_, &c. but as no one has shewn old-words to be faulty, for so many hundred years, 'twould be folly to trouble the reader with a vindication of 'em, at this day. the only question is, whether an author has chose the softest and finest; or has shown by his choice the weakness of his judgment. sect. . _of compound words_. another thing which occasions softness in the pastoral language, if rightly managed, is the use of compound words. but there is nothing requires a greater genius than to form beautiful compound words in epick poetry, or more exactness and labour in pastoral. in epick poetry 'tis absurd to make a compound word, unless it helps forward the sence; and in pastory, it must add to the softness of the dialect, and in some measure assist the thought, yet it need not do it so much as in epick poetry; where a writer of genius will form such compound words as will each contain as much as a whole line. as may be seen in _homer_, and the _greek_ poets, especially. among the _english_, _milton_'s are often very fine. _brandish'd aloft the horrid edge came down, wide-wasting_. the compound words, in pastory, must be so easy and natural, as scarce to be observ'd from the other language. they must run easy and smooth, and glide off the tongue, and that will occasion their not being observ'd in the reading. a pastoral writer will often be able, if he gives an image in one line, by a compound word in that line to give another image, or another thought as full and as fine an one as that which the whole line contains. but as this and the like observations cannot be well understood without instances quoted, i shall leave 'em to the observation of those who intend to engage in pastoral writing; for that and nothing else, will put 'em upon a thorough search into the springs and rules by which all former pastoral writers have excell'd. sect. . _of turns of words and phrazes_. another help to softness, and the very greatest beauty of all in the pastoral language, is, a handsome use of phrazes. this must depend entirely on the genius of the writers, for there is no one rule can be given for the attaining thereto. a person who writes now may imitate _ovid_ and _spencer_ in this particular (if he can submit his fancy to imitation) and that is all the assistance he can have. as for rural phrazes, there are not above half a dozen in all the counties or dialects that i am acquainted with. all that we can do on this head, is to leave the reader to observation. for i confess that i do not so much as know how i came by those few i myself have, farther than that by use and practising in an uncommon dialect, i happen'd on 'em at unawares. however i may quote those which are the very finest of any in _spencer_. who is the only writer in our language that ever attempted tender phrazes or turns of words. yet there are two such passages in _creech_'s _theocritus_, which i will also quote. _all as the sheep, such was the shepherd's look; for pale and wan he was (alas the while!)_ &c. and again. _ye gods of love, who pity lover's pain. (if any gods the pain of lovers pity)_ &c. and again. _a simple shepherd born in_ arcady, _of gentlest blood that ever shepherd bore_, &c. such beautiful turns of words as these are extremely scarce in _spencer_; but he has not one but what is inimitably fine and natural. let us now see the two phrazes which _creech_ has happen'd upon. whose language i have observ'd to be infinitely the best of any of our pastoral writers, next to spencer. this is one of them. a shepherdess says to a persuading swain. _you will deceive, you men are all deceit; and we so willing to believe the cheat_. the other is this, to diana; when she consents. _i liv'd your vot'ry, but no more can live_. chap. iii. _the tender in pastory distinguish'd from that in epick poetry or tragedy_. 'tis strange to me that our pastoral writers should make no distinction between their soft when they write pastories, and when they write epick poetry. this in _philips_ is the epick softness, or what we call the beautiful sometimes in epick poetry in opposition to the sublime. _breath soft ye winds, ye waters gently flow; shield her ye trees, ye flow'rs around her grow_, &c. and this which also is the sixth pastory. _once_ delia _lay, on easy moss reclin'd, her lovely limbs half bare, and rude the wind_, &c. this also is of the same kind of soft. _a girland deckt in all the pride of may, sweet as her breath, and as her beauty gay_, &c. but instances were endless. in opposition to this kind of soft, i shall quote out of _spencer_ some passages which have the truest softness. for such that author has, beyond any in the world, tho' perhaps not very often. he begins his last pastory thus. _a gentle shepherd sate besides a spring, all in the shadow of a bushy breer_, &c. and his first he begins thus. _a shepherd's boy (no better do him call)_ &c. his pastoral named _colin clout's come home_, begins thus. _the shepherd-boy (best known by that name) who after tityrus first sang his lay, lays of sweet love, without rebuke or blow, sate, as his manner was, upon a day_, &c. these lines of _spencer_ and those of _philips_, both contain agreeable images and thoughts, yet are they as different as _milton_ and _d'urfey_. i shall only make one observation on this difference. namely, that in the soft and beautiful lines of _philips_, each word, only signifies a soft and beautiful idea; as _breath, waters, flow, gently, soft_, &c. but in _spencer_ the sound also is soft. had such an author dress'd this inimitable thought of _philips_, the line would have glided as smooth and easy off the tongue, as the waters he mentions, do along the meadows. sect. ii. _that no language is so fit for pastoral as the english_. i have before observed, that this softness is effected, among other things by little words; yet i cannot help observing here, that our language is infinitely the finest of any in the world for pastoral, and it's abounding so much in little words is one reason of it. the pomps and stateliness of the latin lines could not have been made proper for pastoral, unless entirely alter'd, and 'tis not likely that a genius daring enough to do that would engage in pastoral. the _romans_ had not a particle, as we have, before their _substantives_; as _a_ and _the tree_. seldom used a word before the verbs; as _he goes_, _they go_. nor had they our _doth_ and _does_; without which no _englishman_ could form a pastoral language. as the sweet simplicity of that line, i have just quoted, is occasion'd by nothing else. _a shepherd-boy (no better do him call_.) the _greek_ language was greatly more fit for pastoral than the _latin_. among other reasons, because the former had so many particles; and could render their language uncommon, by their different dialects, and by their various methods of changing, and of compounding words. which no language will admit of in an equal degree, besides the _english_. but then the _greek_ language is too sonorous for pastoral. give me leave to show the inimitable softness and sweetness of the _english_ tongue, only by instancing in one word. which will also show how copious a language ours is. i know but three words the _greeks_ had to express the word lad or swain by: [greek: agrikôs, poimruos; and bôkolos]; and how sonorous are they all. we have six; swain, boy, shepherd, youth, stripling, lad; and how inimitably soft is the sound of 'em all. _theocritus_ has more turns of words or phrazes than _spencer_; yet he could in none of 'em come up to _spencer_'s smoothness and simplicity in his numbers. as i quoted only the phrazes of my country-men in the chapter on that head; i will here put down the finest in theocritus, tho' i cannot say indeed that he has any but in his first pastoral. [greek: archete boukolikas moisai philai harchet haoithas. thursis hod hôx ahitnas, kai thursidos adea phôna. pa pok had êsth, oka daphnis etaketo, pa poka numphai;] the finest of these lines (and the softest but one that i remember thro' all his pieces) is the middle one; it is most incorrigibly translated by _creech_: tho' i blame him not for it, because of the difficulty of inventing fine phrazes, much more of translating those of other men, into rhime; for which reason _creech_ has not attempted to give us any of _theocritus_'s turns of words. chap. iv. _that there may be several sorts of pastorals_. to conclude this essay, as there are tempers and genius's of all sorts, so perhaps it may not be amiss to allow writings of all sorts too. i think every person's aim should be to be subserving as much as possible, to the delight and amusement of his fellow-creatures. and if any can take pleasure in what is really not pleasant, 'tis pity, methinks, to rob 'em of it. yet if there is in nature a method which pursued will be still more delightful, the critick is to be observed who points out the way thereto. if any of my countrymen therefore can take delight from reading the pastorals of _theocritus_ and _virgil_, or any of those who have imitated those two ancients, i shall be ready to allow that there may be several sorts of pastorals. 'tis certain that _milton_ and _homer_, (thro' the scene of the former lying about the sphere of men) are as different as _east_ from _west_, yet both excellent. tragedy has as different sorts as epick-poetry; nor are _julius caesar_ and the _orphan_ of the same nature. the same difference in tragedy, is between all those, whose chief character is a hero, and those that draw a female, as _jane shore_, the lady _jane gray_, _and the like_, are to me entirely different from _shakespear's_, not respecting the excellency of 'em. _shakespear_ having a genius made for the sublime, and perhaps mr. _row_ rather for the soft and tender; as appears in two passages at the end of _jane shore_. which in my judgment are not much excell'd by even _otway_ himself. since i have mention'd that author, i can't help remarking how difficult a thing it is for any person to know what his own genius is fittest for; and how great a chance it is whether ever a writer comes to know it. tho' _otway_ had so fine a genius for the tender, it never appear'd till a little before he dyed. thro' all his plays we cannot trace even the least glimpse of it, till his two last, _the orphan_ and _venice preserv'd_. but we run the digression too far. sect. . _what kind of pastorals would please most universally; and delight the greatest number of readers_. for my own part, as i said, i could be delighted with any kind of pastoral, if the writer would but be at the pains of selecting the most beautiful images, and tenderest thoughts. this is the first and principal matter. yet this might be perform'd by a moderate capacity, without a genius born for tragedy. would a person but form a delightful story, invent new and uncommon and pleasing characters, and furnish his mind with a small number of fine images from the country, before he sate down to write his pieces, he would not fail of success. but if writers will only put down a parcel of common triffling thoughts from _theocritus_ and _virgil_, nor will so much as aim at any thing themselves, can you blame me cubbin, if i throw 'em aside. let 'em have a thousand faults, i can be pleas'd by 'em, if they have but beauties with 'em; nor will you ever hear me blame _shakespear_ for his irregularity. and pastoral is delightful to me in it's own nature, that were these authors to employ but my mind in any manner, i should have patience to peruse 'em. but if these authors were unwilling to be at the pains of forming a pleasant story themselves, they might go upon little tales already known, such as, _the two children in the wood_, and a thousand others inimitably pretty and delightful. and had we a set of such pastorals as these, i am satisfied they would take extreamly. more cubbin, perhaps than yours ever will; because perfect pastories are directed only to persons of reading and judgment. but you cannot i suppose satisfie your own mind, unless you write up to what you judge the standard of perfection in every sort of writing. _finis_. _notes on the text_. it was impractical to issue purney's _enquiry_ in facsimile because of the blurred condition of the photostats. this reprint follows the original text faithfully, with the following exceptions: the long "s" and the double "v" are modernized; small capitals, which appear frequently in the version, are reduced to lower-case letters; a few very slight typographical errors have been silently corrected. on page , line , _thoroughly_ reads _throughly_ in the original; and the three lines of greek on p. , somewhat garbled in the original, are given in corrected form. announcing the publications of the augustan reprint society _general editors_ richard c. boys edward niles hooker h.t. swedenberg, jr. _the augustan reprint society_ makes available _inexpensive reprints of rare materials_ from english literature of the seventeenth and eighteenth centuries students, scholars, and bibliographers of literature, history, and philology will find the publications valuable. _the johnsonian news letter_ has said of them: "excellent facsimiles, and cheap in price, these represent the triumph of modern scientific reproduction. be sure to become a subscriber; 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'i will ask them all, i will ask them all their dreams, i will hold my light above them and seek their faces. i will hear them whisper, invisible in their veins . . .' the eternal asker of answers becomes as the darkness, or as a wind blown over a myriad forest, or as the numberless voices of long-drawn rains. we hear him and take him among us, like a wind of music, like the ghost of a music we have somewhere heard; we crowd through the streets in a dazzle of pallid lamplight, we pour in a sinister wave, ascend a stair, with laughter and cry, and word upon murmured word; we flow, we descend, we turn . . . and the eternal dreamer moves among us like light, like evening air . . . good-night! good-night! good-night! we go our ways, the rain runs over the pavement before our feet, the cold rain falls, the rain sings. we walk, we run, we ride. we turn our faces to what the eternal evening brings. our hands are hot and raw with the stones we have laid, we have built a tower of stone high into the sky, we have built a city of towers. our hands are light, they are singing with emptiness. our souls are light; they have shaken a burden of hours . . . what did we build it for? was it all a dream? . . . ghostly above us in lamplight the towers gleam . . . and after a while they will fall to dust and rain; or else we will tear them down with impatient hands; and hew rock out of the earth, and build them again. ii. one, from his high bright window in a tower, leans out, as evening falls, and sees the advancing curtain of the shower splashing its silver on roofs and walls: sees how, swift as a shadow, it crosses the city, and murmurs beyond far walls to the sea, leaving a glimmer of water in the dark canyons, and silver falling from eave and tree. one, from his high bright window, looking down, peers like a dreamer over the rain-bright town, and thinks its towers are like a dream. the western windows flame in the sun's last flare, pale roofs begin to gleam. looking down from a window high in a wall he sees us all; lifting our pallid faces towards the rain, searching the sky, and going our ways again, standing in doorways, waiting under the trees . . . there, in the high bright window he dreams, and sees what we are blind to,--we who mass and crowd from wall to wall in the darkening of a cloud. the gulls drift slowly above the city of towers, over the roofs to the darkening sea they fly; night falls swiftly on an evening of rain. the yellow lamps wink one by one again. the towers reach higher and blacker against the sky. iii. one, where the pale sea foamed at the yellow sand, with wave upon slowly shattering wave, turned to the city of towers as evening fell; and slowly walked by the darkening road toward it; and saw how the towers darkened against the sky; and across the distance heard the toll of a bell. along the darkening road he hurried alone, with his eyes cast down, and thought how the streets were hoarse with a tide of people, with clamor of voices, and numberless faces . . . and it seemed to him, of a sudden, that he would drown here in the quiet of evening air, these empty and voiceless places . . . and he hurried towards the city, to enter there. along the darkening road, between tall trees that made a sinister whisper, loudly he walked. behind him, sea-gulls dipped over long grey seas. before him, numberless lovers smiled and talked. and death was observed with sudden cries, and birth with laughter and pain. and the trees grew taller and blacker against the skies and night came down again. iv. up high black walls, up sombre terraces, clinging like luminous birds to the sides of cliffs, the yellow lights went climbing towards the sky. from high black walls, gleaming vaguely with rain, each yellow light looked down like a golden eye. they trembled from coign to coign, and tower to tower, along high terraces quicker than dream they flew. and some of them steadily glowed, and some soon vanished, and some strange shadows threw. and behind them all the ghosts of thoughts went moving, restlessly moving in each lamplit room, from chair to mirror, from mirror to fire; from some, the light was scarcely more than a gloom: from some, a dazzling desire. and there was one, beneath black eaves, who thought, combing with lifted arms her golden hair, of the lover who hurried towards her through the night; and there was one who dreamed of a sudden death as she blew out her light. and there was one who turned from clamoring streets, and walked in lamplit gardens among black trees, and looked at the windy sky, and thought with terror how stones and roots would freeze and birds in the dead boughs cry . . . and she hurried back, as snow fell, mixed with rain, to mingle among the crowds again, to jostle beneath blue lamps along the street; and lost herself in the warm bright coiling dream, with a sound of murmuring voices and shuffling feet. and one, from his high bright window looking down on luminous chasms that cleft the basalt town, hearing a sea-like murmur rise, desired to leave his dream, descend from the tower, and drown in waves of shouts and laughter and cries. v. the snow floats down upon us, mingled with rain . . . it eddies around pale lilac lamps, and falls down golden-windowed walls. we were all born of flesh, in a flare of pain, we do not remember the red roots whence we rose, but we know that we rose and walked, that after a while we shall lie down again. the snow floats down upon us, we turn, we turn, through gorges filled with light we sound and flow . . . one is struck down and hurt, we crowd about him, we bear him away, gaze after his listless body; but whether he lives or dies we do not know. one of us sings in the street, and we listen to him; the words ring over us like vague bells of sorrow. he sings of a house he lived in long ago. it is strange; this house of dust was the house i lived in; the house you lived in, the house that all of us know. and coiling slowly about him, and laughing at him, and throwing him pennies, we bear away a mournful echo of other times and places, and follow a dream . . . a dream that will not stay. down long broad flights of lamplit stairs we flow; noisy, in scattered waves, crowding and shouting; in broken slow cascades. the gardens extend before us . . . we spread out swiftly; trees are above us, and darkness. the canyon fades . . . and we recall, with a gleaming stab of sadness, vaguely and incoherently, some dream of a world we came from, a world of sun-blue hills . . . a black wood whispers around us, green eyes gleam; someone cries in the forest, and someone kills. we flow to the east, to the white-lined shivering sea; we reach to the west, where the whirling sun went down; we close our eyes to music in bright cafees. we diverge from clamorous streets to streets that are silent. we loaf where the wind-spilled fountain plays. and, growing tired, we turn aside at last, remember our secret selves, seek out our towers, lay weary hands on the banisters, and climb; climbing, each, to his little four-square dream of love or lust or beauty or death or crime. vi. over the darkened city, the city of towers, the city of a thousand gates, over the gleaming terraced roofs, the huddled towers, over a somnolent whisper of loves and hates, the slow wind flows, drearily streams and falls, with a mournful sound down rain-dark walls. on one side purples the lustrous dusk of the sea, and dreams in white at the city's feet; on one side sleep the plains, with heaped-up hills. oaks and beeches whisper in rings about it. above the trees are towers where dread bells beat. the fisherman draws his streaming net from the sea and sails toward the far-off city, that seems like one vague tower. the dark bow plunges to foam on blue-black waves, and shrill rain seethes like a ghostly music about him in a quiet shower. rain with a shrill sings on the lapsing waves; rain thrills over the roofs again; like a shadow of shifting silver it crosses the city; the lamps in the streets are streamed with rain; and sparrows complain beneath deep eaves, and among whirled leaves the sea-gulls, blowing from tower to lower tower, from wall to remoter wall, skim with the driven rain to the rising sea-sound and close grey wings and fall . . . . . . hearing great rain above me, i now remember a girl who stood by the door and shut her eyes: her pale cheeks glistened with rain, she stood and shivered. into a forest of silver she vanished slowly . . . voices about me rise . . . voices clear and silvery, voices of raindrops,-- 'we struck with silver claws, we struck her down. we are the ghosts of the singing furies . . . ' a chorus of elfin voices blowing about me weaves to a babel of sound. each cries a secret. i run among them, reach out vain hands, and drown. 'i am the one who stood beside you and smiled, thinking your face so strangely young . . . ' 'i am the one who loved you but did not dare.' 'i am the one you followed through crowded streets, the one who escaped you, the one with red-gleamed hair.' 'i am the one you saw to-day, who fell senseless before you, hearing a certain bell: a bell that broke great memories in my brain.' 'i am the one who passed unnoticed before you, invisible, in a cloud of secret pain.' 'i am the one who suddenly cried, beholding the face of a certain man on the dazzling screen. they wrote me that he was dead. it was long ago. i walked in the streets for a long while, hearing nothing, and returned to see it again. and it was so.' weave, weave, weave, you streaks of rain! i am dissolved and woven again . . . thousands of faces rise and vanish before me. thousands of voices weave in the rain. 'i am the one who rode beside you, blinking at a dazzle of golden lights. tempests of music swept me: i was thinking of the gorgeous promise of certain nights: of the woman who suddenly smiled at me this day, smiled in a certain delicious sidelong way, and turned, as she reached the door, to smile once more . . . her hands are whiter than snow on midnight water. her throat is golden and full of golden laughter, her eyes are strange as the stealth of the moon on a night in june . . . she runs among whistling leaves; i hurry after; she dances in dreams over white-waved water; her body is white and fragrant and cool, magnolia petals that float on a white-starred pool . . . i have dreamed of her, dreaming for many nights of a broken music and golden lights, of broken webs of silver, heavily falling between my hands and their white desire: and dark-leaved boughs, edged with a golden radiance, dipping to screen a fire . . . i dream that i walk with her beneath high trees, but as i lean to kiss her face, she is blown aloft on wind, i catch at leaves, and run in a moonless place; and i hear a crashing of terrible rocks flung down, and shattering trees and cracking walls, and a net of intense white flame roars over the town, and someone cries; and darkness falls . . . but now she has leaned and smiled at me, my veins are afire with music, her eyes have kissed me, my body is turned to light; i shall dream to her secret heart tonight . . . ' he rises and moves away, he says no word, he folds his evening paper and turns away; i rush through the dark with rows of lamplit faces; fire bells peal, and some of us turn to listen, and some sit motionless in their accustomed places. cold rain lashes the car-roof, scurries in gusts, streams down the windows in waves and ripples of lustre; the lamps in the streets are distorted and strange. someone takes his watch from his pocket and yawns. one peers out in the night for the place to change. rain . . . rain . . . rain . . . we are buried in rain, it will rain forever, the swift wheels hiss through water, pale sheets of water gleam in the windy street. the pealing of bells is lost in a drive of rain-drops. remote and hurried the great bells beat. 'i am the one whom life so shrewdly betrayed, misfortune dogs me, it always hunted me down. and to-day the woman i love lies dead. i gave her roses, a ring with opals; these hands have touched her head. 'i bound her to me in all soft ways, i bound her to me in a net of days, yet now she has gone in silence and said no word. how can we face these dazzling things, i ask you? there is no use: we cry: and are not heard. 'they cover a body with roses . . . i shall not see it . . . must one return to the lifeless walls of a city whose soul is charred by fire? . . . ' his eyes are closed, his lips press tightly together. wheels hiss beneath us. he yields us our desire. 'no, do not stare so--he is weak with grief, he cannot face you, he turns his eyes aside; he is confused with pain. i suffered this. i know. it was long ago . . . he closes his eyes and drowns in death again.' the wind hurls blows at the rain-starred glistening windows, the wind shrills down from the half-seen walls. we flow on the mournful wind in a dream of dying; and at last a silence falls. vii. midnight; bells toll, and along the cloud-high towers the golden lights go out . . . the yellow windows darken, the shades are drawn, in thousands of rooms we sleep, we await the dawn, we lie face down, we dream, we cry aloud with terror, half rise, or seem to stare at the ceiling or walls . . . midnight . . . the last of shattering bell-notes falls. a rush of silence whirls over the cloud-high towers, a vortex of soundless hours. 'the bells have just struck twelve: i should be sleeping. but i cannot delay any longer to write and tell you. the woman is dead. she died--you know the way. just as we planned. smiling, with open sunlit eyes. smiling upon the outstretched fatal hand . . .' he folds his letter, steps softly down the stairs. the doors are closed and silent. a gas-jet flares. his shadow disturbs a shadow of balustrades. the door swings shut behind. night roars above him. into the night he fades. wind; wind; wind; carving the walls; blowing the water that gleams in the street; blowing the rain, the sleet. in the dark alley, an old tree cracks and falls, oak-boughs moan in the haunted air; lamps blow down with a crash and tinkle of glass . . . darkness whistles . . . wild hours pass . . . and those whom sleep eludes lie wide-eyed, hearing above their heads a goblin night go by; children are waked, and cry, the young girl hears the roar in her sleep, and dreams that her lover is caught in a burning tower, she clutches the pillow, she gasps for breath, she screams . . . and then by degrees her breath grows quiet and slow, she dreams of an evening, long ago: of colored lanterns balancing under trees, some of them softly catching afire; and beneath the lanterns a motionless face she sees, golden with lamplight, smiling, serene . . . the leaves are a pale and glittering green, the sound of horns blows over the trampled grass, shadows of dancers pass . . . the face smiles closer to hers, she tries to lean backward, away, the eyes burn close and strange, the face is beginning to change,-- it is her lover, she no longer desires to resist, she is held and kissed. she closes her eyes, and melts in a seethe of flame . . . with a smoking ghost of shame . . . wind, wind, wind . . . wind in an enormous brain blowing dark thoughts like fallen leaves . . . the wind shrieks, the wind grieves; it dashes the leaves on walls, it whirls then again; and the enormous sleeper vaguely and stupidly dreams and desires to stir, to resist a ghost of pain. one, whom the city imprisoned because of his cunning, who dreamed for years in a tower, seizes this hour of tumult and wind. he files through the rusted bar, leans his face to the rain, laughs up at the night, slides down the knotted sheet, swings over the wall, to fall to the street with a cat-like fall, slinks round a quavering rim of windy light, and at last is gone, leaving his empty cell for the pallor of dawn . . . the mother whose child was buried to-day turns her face to the window; her face is grey; and all her body is cold with the coldness of rain. he would have grown as easily as a tree, he would have spread a pleasure of shade above her, he would have been his father again . . . his growth was ended by a freezing invisible shadow. she lies, and does not move, and is stabbed by the rain. wind, wind, wind; we toss and dream; we dream we are clouds and stars, blown in a stream: windows rattle above our beds; we reach vague-gesturing hands, we lift our heads, hear sounds far off,--and dream, with quivering breath, our curious separate ways through life and death. viii. the white fog creeps from the cold sea over the city, over the pale grey tumbled towers,-- and settles among the roofs, the pale grey walls. along damp sinuous streets it crawls, curls like a dream among the motionless trees and seems to freeze. the fog slips ghostlike into a thousand rooms, whirls over sleeping faces, spins in an atomy dance round misty street lamps; and blows in cloudy waves over open spaces . . . and one from his high window, looking down, peers at the cloud-white town, and thinks its island towers are like a dream . . . it seems an enormous sleeper, within whose brain laborious shadows revolve and break and gleam. part ii. i. the round red sun heaves darkly out of the sea. the walls and towers are warmed and gleam. sounds go drowsily up from streets and wharves. the city stirs like one that is half in dream. and the mist flows up by dazzling walls and windows, where one by one we wake and rise. we gaze at the pale grey lustrous sea a moment, we rub the darkness from our eyes, and face our thousand devious secret mornings . . . and do not see how the pale mist, slowly ascending, shaped by the sun, shines like a white-robed dreamer compassionate over our towers bending. there, like one who gazes into a crystal, he broods upon our city with sombre eyes; he sees our secret fears vaguely unfolding, sees cloudy symbols shape to rise. each gleaming point of light is like a seed dilating swiftly to coiling fires. each cloud becomes a rapidly dimming face, each hurrying face records its strange desires. we descend our separate stairs toward the day, merge in the somnolent mass that fills the street, lift our eyes to the soft blue space of sky, and walk by the well-known walls with accustomed feet. ii. the fulfilled dream more towers must yet be built--more towers destroyed-- great rocks hoisted in air; and he must seek his bread in high pale sunlight with gulls about him, and clouds just over his eyes . . . and so he did not mention his dream of falling but drank his coffee in silence, and heard in his ears that horrible whistle of wind, and felt his breath sucked out of him, and saw the tower flash by and the small tree swell beneath him . . . he patted his boy on the head, and kissed his wife, looked quickly around the room, to remember it,-- and so went out . . . for once, he forgot his pail. something had changed--but it was not the street-- the street was just the same--it was himself. puddles flashed in the sun. in the pawn-shop door the same old black cat winked green amber eyes; the butcher stood by his window tying his apron; the same men walked beside him, smoking pipes, reading the morning paper . . . he would not yield, he thought, and walk more slowly, as if he knew for certain he walked to death: but with his usual pace,--deliberate, firm, looking about him calmly, watching the world, taking his ease . . . yet, when he thought again of the same dream, now dreamed three separate times, always the same, and heard that whistling wind, and saw the windows flashing upward past him,-- he slowed his pace a little, and thought with horror how monstrously that small tree thrust to meet him! . . . he slowed his pace a little and remembered his wife. was forty, then, too old for work like this? why should it be? he'd never been afraid-- his eye was sure, his hand was steady . . . but dreams had meanings. he walked more slowly, and looked along the roofs, all built by men, and saw the pale blue sky; and suddenly he was dizzy with looking at it, it seemed to whirl and swim, it seemed the color of terror, of speed, of death . . . he lowered his eyes to the stones, he walked more slowly; his thoughts were blown and scattered like leaves; he thought of the pail . . . why, then, was it forgotten? because he would not need it? then, just as he was grouping his thoughts again about that drug-store corner, under an arc-lamp, where first he met the girl whom he would marry,-- that blue-eyed innocent girl, in a soft blouse,-- he waved his hand for signal, and up he went in the dusty chute that hugged the wall; above the tree; from girdered floor to floor; above the flattening roofs, until the sea lay wide and waved before him . . . and then he stepped giddily out, from that security, to the red rib of iron against the sky, and walked along it, feeling it sing and tremble; and looking down one instant, saw the tree just as he dreamed it was; and looked away, and up again, feeling his blood go wild. he gave the signal; the long girder swung closer to him, dropped clanging into place, almost pushing him off. pneumatic hammers began their madhouse clatter, the white-hot rivets were tossed from below and deftly caught in pails; he signalled again, and wiped his mouth, and thought a place so high in the air should be more quiet. the tree, far down below, teased at his eyes, teased at the corners of them, until he looked, and felt his body go suddenly small and light; felt his brain float off like a dwindling vapor; and heard a whistle of wind, and saw a tree come plunging up to him, and thought to himself, 'by god--i'm done for now, the dream was right . . .' iii. interlude the warm sun dreams in the dust, the warm sun falls on bright red roofs and walls; the trees in the park exhale a ghost of rain; we go from door to door in the streets again, talking, laughing, dreaming, turning our faces, recalling other times and places . . . we crowd, not knowing why, around a gate, we crowd together and wait, a stretcher is carried out, voices are stilled, the ambulance drives away. we watch its roof flash by, hear someone say 'a man fell off the building and was killed-- fell right into a barrel . . .' we turn again among the frightened eyes of white-faced men, and go our separate ways, each bearing with him a thing he tries, but vainly, to forget,-- a sickened crowd, a stretcher red and wet. a hurdy-gurdy sings in the crowded street, the golden notes skip over the sunlit stones, wings are upon our feet. the sun seems warmer, the winding street more bright, sparrows come whirring down in a cloud of light. we bear our dreams among us, bear them all, like hurdy-gurdy music they rise and fall, climb to beauty and die. the wandering lover dreams of his lover's mouth, and smiles at the hostile sky. the broker smokes his pipe, and sees a fortune. the murderer hears a cry. iv. nightmare 'draw three cards, and i will tell your future . . . draw three cards, and lay them down, rest your palms upon them, stare at the crystal, and think of time . . . my father was a clown, my mother was a gypsy out of egypt; and she was gotten with child in a strange way; and i was born in a cold eclipse of the moon, with the future in my eyes as clear as day.' i sit before the gold-embroidered curtain and think her face is like a wrinkled desert. the crystal burns in lamplight beneath my eyes. a dragon slowly coils on the scaly curtain. upon a scarlet cloth a white skull lies. 'your hand is on the hand that holds three lilies. you will live long, love many times. i see a dark girl here who once betrayed you. i see a shadow of secret crimes. 'there was a man who came intent to kill you, and hid behind a door and waited for you; there was a woman who smiled at you and lied. there was a golden girl who loved you, begged you, crawled after you, and died. 'there is a ghost of murder in your blood-- coming or past, i know not which. and here is danger--a woman with sea-green eyes, and white-skinned as a witch . . .' the words hiss into me, like raindrops falling on sleepy fire . . . she smiles a meaning smile. suspicion eats my brain; i ask a question; something is creeping at me, something vile; and suddenly on the wall behind her head i see a monstrous shadow strike and spread, the lamp puffs out, a great blow crashes down. i plunge through the curtain, run through dark to the street, and hear swift steps retreat . . . the shades are drawn, the door is locked behind me. behind the door i hear a hammer sounding. i walk in a cloud of wonder; i am glad. i mingle among the crowds; my heart is pounding; you do not guess the adventure i have had! . . . yet you, too, all have had your dark adventures, your sudden adventures, or strange, or sweet . . . my peril goes out from me, is blown among you. we loiter, dreaming together, along the street. v. retrospect round white clouds roll slowly above the housetops, over the clear red roofs they flow and pass. a flock of pigeons rises with blue wings flashing, rises with whistle of wings, hovers an instant, and settles slowly again on the tarnished grass. and one old man looks down from a dusty window and sees the pigeons circling about the fountain and desires once more to walk among those trees. lovers walk in the noontime by that fountain. pigeons dip their beaks to drink from the water. and soon the pond must freeze. the light wind blows to his ears a sound of laughter, young men shuffle their feet, loaf in the sunlight; a girl's laugh rings like a silver bell. but clearer than all these sounds is a sound he hears more in his secret heart than in his ears,-- a hammer's steady crescendo, like a knell. he hears the snarl of pineboards under the plane, the rhythmic saw, and then the hammer again,-- playing with delicate strokes that sombre scale . . . and the fountain dwindles, the sunlight seems to pale. time is a dream, he thinks, a destroying dream; it lays great cities in dust, it fills the seas; it covers the face of beauty, and tumbles walls. where was the woman he loved? where was his youth? where was the dream that burned his brain like fire? even a dream grows grey at last and falls. he opened his book once more, beside the window, and read the printed words upon that page. the sunlight touched his hand; his eyes moved slowly, the quiet words enchanted time and age. 'death is never an ending, death is a change; death is beautiful, for death is strange; death is one dream out of another flowing; death is a chorded music, softly going by sweet transition from key to richer key. death is a meeting place of sea and sea.' vi. adele and davis she turned her head on the pillow, and cried once more. and drawing a shaken breath, and closing her eyes, to shut out, if she could, this dingy room, the wigs and costumes scattered around the floor,-- yellows and greens in the dark,--she walked again those nightmare streets which she had walked so often . . . here, at a certain corner, under an arc-lamp, blown by a bitter wind, she stopped and looked in through the brilliant windows of a drug-store, and wondered if she dared to ask for poison: but it was late, few customers were there, the eyes of all the clerks would freeze upon her, and she would wilt, and cry . . . here, by the river, she listened to the water slapping the wall, and felt queer fascination in its blackness: but it was cold, the little waves looked cruel, the stars were keen, and a windy dash of spray struck her cheek, and withered her veins . . . and so she dragged herself once more to home, and bed. paul hadn't guessed it yet--though twice, already, she'd fainted--once, the first time, on the stage. so she must tell him soon--or else--get out . . . how could she say it? that was the hideous thing. she'd rather die than say it! . . . and all the trouble, months when she couldn't earn a cent, and then, if he refused to marry her . . . well, what? she saw him laughing, making a foolish joke, his grey eyes turning quickly; and the words fled from her tongue . . . she saw him sitting silent, brooding over his morning coffee, maybe, and tried again . . . she bit her lips, and trembled, and looked away, and said . . . 'say paul, boy,--listen-- there's something i must tell you . . . ' there she stopped, wondering what he'd say . . . what would he say? 'spring it, kid! don't look so serious!' 'but what i've got to say--is--serious!' then she could see how, suddenly, he would sober, his eyes would darken, he'd look so terrifying-- he always did--and what could she do but cry? perhaps, then, he would guess--perhaps he wouldn't. and if he didn't, but asked her 'what's the matter?'-- she knew she'd never tell--just say she was sick . . . and after that, when would she dare again? and what would he do--even suppose she told him? if it were felix! if it were only felix!-- she wouldn't mind so much. but as it was, bitterness choked her, she had half a mind to pay out felix for never having liked her, by making people think that it was he . . . she'd write a letter to someone, before she died,-- just saying 'felix did it--and wouldn't marry.' and then she'd die . . . but that was hard on paul . . . paul would never forgive her--he'd never forgive her! sometimes she almost thought paul really loved her . . . she saw him look reproachfully at her coffin. and then she closed her eyes and walked again those nightmare streets that she had walked so often: under an arc-lamp swinging in the wind she stood, and stared in through a drug-store window, watching a clerk wrap up a little pill-box. but it was late. no customers were there,-- pitiless eyes would freeze her secret in her! and then--what poison would she dare to ask for? and if they asked her why, what would she say? vii. two lovers: overtones two lovers, here at the corner, by the steeple, two lovers blow together like music blowing: and the crowd dissolves about them like a sea. recurring waves of sound break vaguely about them, they drift from wall to wall, from tree to tree. 'well, am i late?' upward they look and laugh, they look at the great clock's golden hands, they laugh and talk, not knowing what they say: only, their words like music seem to play; and seeming to walk, they tread strange sarabands. 'i brought you this . . . ' the soft words float like stars down the smooth heaven of her memory. she stands again by a garden wall, the peach tree is in bloom, pink blossoms fall, water sings from an opened tap, the bees glisten and murmur among the trees. someone calls from the house. she does not answer. backward she leans her head, and dreamily smiles at the peach-tree leaves, wherethrough she sees an infinite may sky spread a vault profoundly blue. the voice from the house fades far away, the glistening leaves more vaguely ripple and sway . . the tap is closed, the water ceases to hiss . . . silence . . . blue sky . . . and then, 'i brought you this . . . ' she turns again, and smiles . . . he does not know she smiles from long ago . . . she turns to him and smiles . . . sunlight above him roars like a vast invisible sea, gold is beaten before him, shrill bells of silver; he is released of weight, his body is free, he lifts his arms to swim, dark years like sinister tides coil under him . . . the lazy sea-waves crumble along the beach with a whirring sound like wind in bells, he lies outstretched on the yellow wind-worn sands reaching his lazy hands among the golden grains and sea-white shells . . . 'one white rose . . . or is it pink, to-day?' they pause and smile, not caring what they say, if only they may talk. the crowd flows past them like dividing waters. dreaming they stand, dreaming they walk. 'pink,--to-day!'--face turns to dream-bright face, green leaves rise round them, sunshine settles upon them, water, in drops of silver, falls from the rose. she smiles at a face that smiles through leaves from the mirror. she breathes the fragrance; her dark eyes close . . . time is dissolved, it blows like a little dust: time, like a flurry of rain, patters and passes, starring the window-pane. once, long ago, one night, she saw the lightning, with long blue quiver of light, ripping the darkness . . . and as she turned in terror a soft face leaned above her, leaned softly down, softly around her a breath of roses was blown, she sank in waves of quiet, she seemed to float in a sea of silence . . . and soft steps grew remote . . 'well, let us walk in the park . . . the sun is warm, we'll sit on a bench and talk . . .' they turn and glide, the crowd of faces wavers and breaks and flows. 'look how the oak-tops turn to gold in the sunlight! look how the tower is changed and glows!' two lovers move in the crowd like a link of music, we press upon them, we hold them, and let them pass; a chord of music strikes us and straight we tremble; we tremble like wind-blown grass. what was this dream we had, a dream of music, music that rose from the opening earth like magic and shook its beauty upon us and died away? the long cold streets extend once more before us. the red sun drops, the walls grow grey. viii. the box with silver handles well,--it was two days after my husband died-- two days! and the earth still raw above him. and i was sweeping the carpet in their hall. in number four--the room with the red wall-paper-- some chorus girls and men were singing that song 'they'll soon be lighting candles round a box with silver handles'--and hearing them sing it i started to cry. just then he came along and stopped on the stairs and turned and looked at me, and took the cigar from his mouth and sort of smiled and said, 'say, what's the matter?' and then came down where i was leaning against the wall, and touched my shoulder, and put his arm around me . . . and i was so sad, thinking about it,-- thinking that it was raining, and a cold night, with jim so unaccustomed to being dead,-- that i was happy to have him sympathize, to feel his arm, and leaned against him and cried. and before i knew it, he got me into a room where a table was set, and no one there, and sat me down on a sofa, and held me close, and talked to me, telling me not to cry, that it was all right, he'd look after me,-- but not to cry, my eyes were getting red, which didn't make me pretty. and he was so nice, that when he turned my face between his hands, and looked at me, with those blue eyes of his, and smiled, and leaned, and kissed me-- somehow i couldn't tell him not to do it, somehow i didn't mind, i let him kiss me, and closed my eyes! . . . well, that was how it started. for when my heart was eased with crying, and grief had passed and left me quiet, somehow it seemed as if it wasn't honest to change my mind, to send him away, or say i hadn't meant it-- and, anyway, it seemed so hard to explain! and so we sat and talked, not talking much, but meaning as much in silence as in words, there in that empty room with palms about us, that private dining-room . . . and as we sat there i felt my future changing, day by day, with unknown streets opening left and right, new streets with farther lights, new taller houses, doors swinging into hallways filled with light, half-opened luminous windows, with white curtains streaming out in the night, and sudden music,-- and thinking of this, and through it half remembering a quick and horrible death, my husband's eyes, the broken-plastered walls, my boy asleep,-- it seemed as if my brain would break in two. my voice began to tremble . . . and when i stood, and told him i must go, and said good-night-- i couldn't see the end. how would it end? would he return to-morrow? or would he not? and did i want him to--or would i rather look for another job?--he took my shoulders between his hands, and looked down into my eyes, and smiled, and said good-night. if he had kissed me, that would have--well, i don't know; but he didn't . . and so i went downstairs, then, half elated, hoping to close the door before that party in number four should sing that song again-- 'they'll soon be lighting candles round a box with silver handles'-- and sure enough, i did. i faced the darkness. and my eyes were filled with tears. and i was happy. ix. interlude the days, the nights, flow one by one above us, the hours go silently over our lifted faces, we are like dreamers who walk beneath a sea. beneath high walls we flow in the sun together. we sleep, we wake, we laugh, we pursue, we flee. we sit at tables and sip our morning coffee, we read the papers for tales of lust or crime. the door swings shut behind the latest comer. we set our watches, regard the time. what have we done? i close my eyes, remember the great machine whose sinister brain before me smote and smote with a rhythmic beat. my hands have torn down walls, the stone and plaster. i dropped great beams to the dusty street. my eyes are worn with measuring cloths of purple, and golden cloths, and wavering cloths, and pale. i dream of a crowd of faces, white with menace. hands reach up to tear me. my brain will fail. here, where the walls go down beneath our picks, these walls whose windows gap against the sky, atom by atom of flesh and brain and marble will build a glittering tower before we die . . . the young boy whistles, hurrying down the street, the young girl hums beneath her breath. one goes out to beauty, and does not know it. and one goes out to death. x. sudden death 'number four--the girl who died on the table-- the girl with golden hair--' the purpling body lies on the polished marble. we open the throat, and lay the thyroid bare . . . one, who held the ether-cone, remembers her dark blue frightened eyes. he heard the sharp breath quiver, and saw her breast more hurriedly fall and rise. her hands made futile gestures, she turned her head fighting for breath; her cheeks were flushed to scarlet,-- and, suddenly, she lay dead. and all the dreams that hurried along her veins came to the darkness of a sudden wall. confusion ran among them, they whirled and clamored, they fell, they rose, they struck, they shouted, till at last a pallor of silence hushed them all. what was her name? where had she walked that morning? through what dark forest came her feet? along what sunlit walls, what peopled street? backward he dreamed along a chain of days, he saw her go her strange and secret ways, waking and sleeping, noon and night. she sat by a mirror, braiding her golden hair. she read a story by candlelight. her shadow ran before her along the street, she walked with rhythmic feet, turned a corner, descended a stair. she bought a paper, held it to scan the headlines, smiled for a moment at sea-gulls high in sunlight, and drew deep breaths of air. days passed, bright clouds of days. nights passed. and music murmured within the walls of lighted windows. she lifted her face to the light and danced. the dancers wreathed and grouped in moving patterns, clustered, receded, streamed, advanced. her dress was purple, her slippers were golden, her eyes were blue; and a purple orchid opened its golden heart on her breast . . . she leaned to the surly languor of lazy music, leaned on her partner's arm to rest. the violins were weaving a weft of silver, the horns were weaving a lustrous brede of gold, and time was caught in a glistening pattern, time, too elusive to hold . . . shadows of leaves fell over her face,--and sunlight: she turned her face away. nearer she moved to a crouching darkness with every step and day. death, who at first had thought of her only an instant, at a great distance, across the night, smiled from a window upon her, and followed her slowly from purple light to light. once, in her dreams, he spoke out clearly, crying, 'i am the murderer, death. i am the lover who keeps his appointment at the doors of breath!' she rose and stared at her own reflection, half dreading there to find the dark-eyed ghost, waiting beside her, or reaching from behind to lay pale hands upon her shoulders . . . or was this in her mind? . . . she combed her hair. the sunlight glimmered along the tossing strands. was there a stillness in this hair,-- a quiet in these hands? death was a dream. it could not change these eyes, blow out their light, or turn this mouth to dust. she combed her hair and sang. she would live forever. leaves flew past her window along a gust . . . and graves were dug in the earth, and coffins passed, and music ebbed with the ebbing hours. and dreams went along her veins, and scattering clouds threw streaming shadows on walls and towers. xi. snow falls. the sky is grey, and sullenly glares with purple lights in the canyoned street. the fiery sign on the dark tower wreathes and flares . . . the trodden grass in the park is covered with white, the streets grow silent beneath our feet . . . the city dreams, it forgets its past to-night. and one, from his high bright window looking down over the enchanted whiteness of the town, seeing through whirls of white the vague grey towers, desires like this to forget what will not pass, the littered papers, the dust, the tarnished grass, grey death, stale ugliness, and sodden hours. deep in his heart old bells are beaten again, slurred bells of grief and pain, dull echoes of hideous times and poisonous places. he desires to drown in a cold white peace of snow. he desires to forget a million faces . . . in one room breathes a woman who dies of hunger. the clock ticks slowly and stops. and no one winds it. in one room fade grey violets in a vase. snow flakes faintly hiss and melt on the window. in one room, minute by minute, the flutist plays the lamplit page of music, the tireless scales. his hands are trembling, his short breath fails. in one room, silently, lover looks upon lover, and thinks the air is fire. the drunkard swears and touches the harlot's heartstrings with the sudden hand of desire. and one goes late in the streets, and thinks of murder; and one lies staring, and thinks of death. and one, who has suffered, clenches her hands despairing, and holds her breath . . . who are all these, who flow in the veins of the city, coil and revolve and dream, vanish or gleam? some mount up to the brain and flower in fire. some are destroyed; some die; some slowly stream. and the new are born who desire to destroy the old; and fires are kindled and quenched; and dreams are broken, and walls flung down . . . and the slow night whirls in snow over towers of dreamers, and whiteness hushes the town. part iii i as evening falls, and the yellow lights leap one by one along high walls; and along black streets that glisten as if with rain, the muted city seems like one in a restless sleep, who lies and dreams of vague desires, and memories, and half-forgotten pain . . . along dark veins, like lights the quick dreams run, flash, are extinguished, flash again, to mingle and glow at last in the enormous brain and die away . . . as evening falls, a dream dissolves these insubstantial walls,-- a myriad secretly gliding lights lie bare . . . the lovers rise, the harlot combs her hair, the dead man's face grows blue in the dizzy lamplight, the watchman climbs the stair . . . the bank defaulter leers at a chaos of figures, and runs among them, and is beaten down; the sick man coughs and hears the chisels ringing; the tired clown sees the enormous crowd, a million faces, motionless in their places, ready to laugh, and seize, and crush and tear . . . the dancer smooths her hair, laces her golden slippers, and runs through the door to dance once more, hearing swift music like an enchantment rise, feeling the praise of a thousand eyes. as darkness falls the walls grow luminous and warm, the walls tremble and glow with the lives within them moving, moving like music, secret and rich and warm. how shall we live tonight? where shall we turn? to what new light or darkness yearn? a thousand winding stairs lead down before us; and one by one in myriads we descend by lamplit flowered walls, long balustrades, through half-lit halls which reach no end. ii. the screen maiden you read--what is it, then that you are reading? what music moves so silently in your mind? your bright hand turns the page. i watch you from my window, unsuspected: you move in an alien land, a silent age . . . . . . the poet--what was his name--? tokkei--tokkei-- the poet walked alone in a cold late rain, and thought his grief was like the crying of sea-birds; for his lover was dead, he never would love again. rain in the dreams of the mind--rain forever-- rain in the sky of the heart--rain in the willows-- but then he saw this face, this face like flame, this quiet lady, this portrait by hiroshigi; and took it home with him; and with it came what unexpected changes, subtle as weather! the dark room, cold as rain, grew faintly fragrant, stirred with a stir of april, warmed its corners with light again, and smoke of incense whirled about this portrait, and the quiet lady there, so young, so quietly smiling, with calm hands, seemed ready to loose her hair, and smile, and lean from the picture, or say one word, the word already clear, which seemed to rise like light between her eyelids . . he held his breath to hear, and smiled for shame, and drank a cup of wine, and held a candle, and searched her face through all the little shadows, to see what secret might give so warm a grace . . . was it the quiet mouth, restrained a little? the eyes, half-turned aside? the jade ring on her wrist, still almost swinging? . . . the secret was denied, he chose his favorite pen and drew these verses, and slept; and as he slept a dream came into his heart, his lover entered, and chided him, and wept. and in the morning, waking, he remembered, and thought the dream was strange. why did his darkened lover rise from the garden? he turned, and felt a change, as if a someone hidden smiled and watched him . . . yet there was only sunlight there. until he saw those young eyes, quietly smiling, and held his breath to stare, and could have sworn her cheek had turned--a little . . . had slightly turned away . . . sunlight dozed on the floor . . . he sat and wondered, nor left his room that day. and that day, and for many days thereafter, he sat alone, and thought no lady had ever lived so beautiful as hiroshigi wrought . . . or if she lived, no matter in what country, by what far river or hill or lonely sea, he would look in every face until he found her . . . there was no other as fair as she. and before her quiet face he burned soft incense, and brought her every day boughs of the peach, or almond, or snow-white cherry, and somehow, she seemed to say, that silent lady, young, and quietly smiling, that she was happy there; and sometimes, seeing this, he started to tremble, and desired to touch her hair, to lay his palm along her hand, touch faintly with delicate finger-tips the ghostly smile that seemed to hover and vanish upon her lips . . . until he knew he loved this quiet lady; and night by night a dread leered at his dreams, for he knew that hiroshigi was many centuries dead,-- and the lady, too, was dead, and all who knew her . . dead, and long turned to dust . . . the thin moon waxed and waned, and left him paler, the peach leaves flew in a gust, and he would surely have died; but there one day a wise man, white with age, stared at the portrait, and said, 'this hiroshigi knew more than archimage,-- cunningly drew the body, and called the spirit, till partly it entered there . . . sometimes, at death, it entered the portrait wholly . . do all i say with care, and she you love may come to you when you call her . . . ' so then this ghost, tokkei, ran in the sun, bought wine of a hundred merchants, and alone at the end of day entered the darkening room, and faced the portrait, and saw the quiet eyes gleaming and young in the dusk, and held the wine-cup, and knelt, and did not rise, and said, aloud, 'lo-san, will you drink this wine?' said it three times aloud. and at the third the faint blue smoke of incense rose to the walls in a cloud, and the lips moved faintly, and the eyes, and the calm hands stirred; and suddenly, with a sigh, the quiet lady came slowly down from the portrait, and stood, while worlds went by, and lifted her young white hands and took the wine cup; and the poet trembled, and said, 'lo-san, will you stay forever?'--'yes, i will stay.'-- 'but what when i am dead?' 'when you are dead your spirit will find my spirit, and then we shall die no more.' music came down upon them, and spring returning, they remembered worlds before, and years went over the earth, and over the sea, and lovers were born and spoke and died, but forever in sunlight went these two immortal, tokkei and the quiet bride . . . iii. haunted chambers the lamplit page is turned, the dream forgotten; the music changes tone, you wake, remember deep worlds you lived before,--deep worlds hereafter of leaf on falling leaf, music on music, rain and sorrow and wind and dust and laughter. helen was late and miriam came too soon. joseph was dead, his wife and children starving. elaine was married and soon to have a child. you dreamed last night of fiddler-crabs with fiddles; they played a buzzing melody, and you smiled. to-morrow--what? and what of yesterday? through soundless labyrinths of dream you pass, through many doors to the one door of all. soon as it's opened we shall hear a music: or see a skeleton fall . . . we walk with you. where is it that you lead us? we climb the muffled stairs beneath high lanterns. we descend again. we grope through darkened cells. you say: this darkness, here, will slowly kill me. it creeps and weighs upon me . . . is full of bells. this is the thing remembered i would forget-- no matter where i go, how soft i tread, this windy gesture menaces me with death. fatigue! it says, and points its finger at me; touches my throat and stops my breath. my fans--my jewels--the portrait of my husband-- the torn certificate for my daughter's grave-- these are but mortal seconds in immortal time. they brush me, fade away: like drops of water. they signify no crime. let us retrace our steps: i have deceived you: nothing is here i could not frankly tell you: no hint of guilt, or faithlessness, or threat. dreams--they are madness. staring eyes--illusion. let us return, hear music, and forget . . . iv. illicit of what she said to me that night--no matter. the strange thing came next day. my brain was full of music--something she played me--; i couldn't remember it all, but phrases of it wreathed and wreathed among faint memories, seeking for something, trying to tell me something, urging to restlessness: verging on grief. i tried to play the tune, from memory,-- but memory failed: the chords and discords climbed and found no resolution--only hung there, and left me morbid . . . where, then, had i heard it? . . . what secret dusty chamber was it hinting? 'dust', it said, 'dust . . . and dust . . . and sunlight . . a cold clear april evening . . . snow, bedraggled, rain-worn snow, dappling the hideous grass . . . and someone walking alone; and someone saying that all must end, for the time had come to go . . . ' these were the phrases . . . but behind, beneath them a greater shadow moved: and in this shadow i stood and guessed . . . was it the blue-eyed lady? the one who always danced in golden slippers-- and had i danced with her,--upon this music? or was it further back--the unplumbed twilight of childhood?--no--much recenter than that. you know, without my telling you, how sometimes a word or name eludes you, and you seek it through running ghosts of shadow,--leaping at it, lying in wait for it to spring upon it, spreading faint snares for it of sense or sound: until, of a sudden, as if in a phantom forest, you hear it, see it flash among the branches, and scarcely knowing how, suddenly have it-- well, it was so i followed down this music, glimpsing a face in darkness, hearing a cry, remembering days forgotten, moods exhausted, corners in sunlight, puddles reflecting stars--; until, of a sudden, and least of all suspected, the thing resolved itself: and i remembered an april afternoon, eight years ago-- or was it nine?--no matter--call it nine-- a room in which the last of sunlight faded; a vase of violets, fragrance in white curtains; and, she who played the same thing later, playing. she played this tune. and in the middle of it abruptly broke it off, letting her hands fall in her lap. she sat there so a moment, with shoulders drooped, then lifted up a rose, one great white rose, wide opened like a lotos, and pressed it to her cheek, and closed her eyes. 'you know--we've got to end this--miriam loves you . . . if she should ever know, or even guess it,-- what would she do?--listen!--i'm not absurd . . . i'm sure of it. if you had eyes, for women-- to understand them--which you've never had-- you'd know it too . . . ' so went this colloquy, half humorous, with undertones of pathos, half grave, half flippant . . . while her fingers, softly, felt for this tune, played it and let it fall, now note by singing note, now chord by chord, repeating phrases with a kind of pleasure . . . was it symbolic of the woman's weakness that she could neither break it--nor conclude? it paused . . . and wandered . . . paused again; while she, perplexed and tired, half told me i must go,-- half asked me if i thought i ought to go . . . well, april passed with many other evenings, evenings like this, with later suns and warmer, with violets always there, and fragrant curtains . . . and she was right: and miriam found it out . . . and after that, when eight deep years had passed-- or nine--we met once more,--by accident . . . but was it just by accident, i wonder, she played this tune?--or what, then, was intended? . . . v. melody in a restaurant the cigarette-smoke loops and slides above us, dipping and swirling as the waiter passes; you strike a match and stare upon the flame. the tiny fire leaps in your eyes a moment, and dwindles away as silently as it came. this melody, you say, has certain voices-- they rise like nereids from a river, singing, lift white faces, and dive to darkness again. wherever you go you bear this river with you: a leaf falls,--and it flows, and you have pain. so says the tune to you--but what to me? what to the waiter, as he pours your coffee, the violinist who suavely draws his bow? that man, who folds his paper, overhears it. a thousand dreams revolve and fall and flow. some one there is who sees a virgin stepping down marble stairs to a deep tomb of roses: at the last moment she lifts remembering eyes. green leaves blow down. the place is checked with shadows. a long-drawn murmur of rain goes down the skies. and oaks are stripped and bare, and smoke with lightning: and clouds are blown and torn upon high forests, and the great sea shakes its walls. and then falls silence . . . and through long silence falls this melody once more: 'down endless stairs she goes, as once before.' so says the tune to him--but what to me? what are the worlds i see? what shapes fantastic, terrible dreams? . . . i go my secret way, down secret alleys; my errand is not so simple as it seems. vi. portrait of one dead this is the house. on one side there is darkness, on one side there is light. into the darkness you may lift your lanterns-- o, any number--it will still be night. and here are echoing stairs to lead you downward to long sonorous halls. and here is spring forever at these windows, with roses on the walls. this is her room. on one side there is music-- on one side not a sound. at one step she could move from love to silence, feel myriad darkness coiling round. and here are balconies from which she heard you, your steady footsteps on the stair. and here the glass in which she saw your shadow as she unbound her hair. here is the room--with ghostly walls dissolving-- the twilight room in which she called you 'lover'; and the floorless room in which she called you 'friend.' so many times, in doubt, she ran between them!-- through windy corridors of darkening end. here she could stand with one dim light above her and hear far music, like a sea in caverns, murmur away at hollowed walls of stone. and here, in a roofless room where it was raining, she bore the patient sorrow of rain alone. your words were walls which suddenly froze around her. your words were windows,--large enough for moonlight, too small to let her through. your letters--fragrant cloisters faint with music. the music that assuaged her there was you. how many times she heard your step ascending yet never saw your face! she heard them turn again, ring slowly fainter, till silence swept the place. why had you gone? . . . the door, perhaps, mistaken . . . you would go elsewhere. the deep walls were shaken. a certain rose-leaf--sent without intention-- became, with time, a woven web of fire-- she wore it, and was warm. a certain hurried glance, let fall at parting, became, with time, the flashings of a storm. yet, there was nothing asked, no hint to tell you of secret idols carved in secret chambers from all you did and said. nothing was done, until at last she knew you. nothing was known, till, somehow, she was dead. how did she die?--you say, she died of poison. simple and swift. and much to be regretted. you did not see her pass so many thousand times from light to darkness, pausing so many times before her glass; you did not see how many times she hurried to lean from certain windows, vainly hoping, passionate still for beauty, remembered spring. you did not know how long she clung to music, you did not hear her sing. did she, then, make the choice, and step out bravely from sound to silence--close, herself, those windows? or was it true, instead, that darkness moved,--for once,--and so possessed her? . . . we'll never know, you say, for she is dead. vii. porcelain you see that porcelain ranged there in the window-- platters and soup-plates done with pale pink rosebuds, and tiny violets, and wreaths of ivy? see how the pattern clings to the gleaming edges! they're works of art--minutely seen and felt, each petal done devoutly. is it failure to spend your blood like this? study them . . . you will see there, in the porcelain, if you stare hard enough, a sort of swimming of lights and shadows, ghosts within a crystal-- my brain unfolding! there you'll see me sitting day after day, close to a certain window, looking down, sometimes, to see the people . . . sometimes my wife comes there to speak to me . . . sometimes the grey cat waves his tail around me . . . goldfish swim in a bowl, glisten in sunlight, dilate to a gorgeous size, blow delicate bubbles, drowse among dark green weeds. on rainy days, you'll see a gas-light shedding light behind me-- an eye-shade round my forehead. there i sit, twirling the tiny brushes in my paint-cups, painting the pale pink rosebuds, minute violets, exquisite wreaths of dark green ivy leaves. on this leaf, goes a dream i dreamed last night of two soft-patterned toads--i thought them stones, until they hopped! and then a great black spider,-- tarantula, perhaps, a hideous thing,-- it crossed the room in one tremendous leap. here,--as i coil the stems between two leaves,-- it is as if, dwindling to atomy size, i cried the secret between two universes . . . a friend of mine took hasheesh once, and said just as he fell asleep he had a dream,-- though with his eyes wide open,-- and felt, or saw, or knew himself a part of marvelous slowly-wreathing intricate patterns, plane upon plane, depth upon coiling depth, amazing leaves, folding one on another, voluted grasses, twists and curves and spirals-- all of it darkly moving . . . as for me, i need no hasheesh for it--it's too easy! soon as i shut my eyes i set out walking in a monstrous jungle of monstrous pale pink roseleaves, violets purple as death, dripping with water, and ivy-leaves as big as clouds above me. here, in a simple pattern of separate violets-- with scalloped edges gilded--here you have me thinking of something else. my wife, you know,-- there's something lacking--force, or will, or passion, i don't know what it is--and so, sometimes, when i am tired, or haven't slept three nights, or it is cloudy, with low threat of rain, i get uneasy--just like poplar trees ruffling their leaves--and i begin to think of poor pauline, so many years ago, and that delicious night. where is she now? i meant to write--but she has moved, by this time, and then, besides, she might find out i'm married. well, there is more--i'm getting old and timid-- the years have gnawed my will. i've lost my nerve! i never strike out boldly as i used to-- but sit here, painting violets, and remember that thrilling night. photographers, she said, asked her to pose for them; her eyes and forehead,-- dark brown eyes, and a smooth and pallid forehead,-- were thought so beautiful.--and so they were. pauline . . . these violets are like words remembered . . . darling! she whispered . . . darling! . . . darling! . . . darling! well, i suppose such days can come but once. lord, how happy we were! . . . here, if you only knew it, is a story-- here, in these leaves. i stopped my work to tell it, and then, when i had finished, went on thinking: a man i saw on a train . . . i was still a boy . . . who killed himself by diving against a wall. here is a recollection of my wife, when she was still my sweetheart, years ago. it's funny how things change,--just change, by growing, without an effort . . . and here are trivial things,-- a chill, an errand forgotten, a cut while shaving; a friend of mine who tells me he is married . . . or is that last so trivial? well, no matter! this is the sort of thing you'll see of me, if you look hard enough. this, in its way, is a kind of fame. my life arranged before you in scrolls of leaves, rosebuds, violets, ivy, clustered or wreathed on plate and cup and platter . . . sometimes, i say, i'm just like john the baptist-- you have my head before you . . . on a platter. viii. coffins: interlude wind blows. snow falls. the great clock in its tower ticks with reverberant coil and tolls the hour: at the deep sudden stroke the pigeons fly . . . the fine snow flutes the cracks between the flagstones. we close our coats, and hurry, and search the sky. we are like music, each voice of it pursuing a golden separate dream, remote, persistent, climbing to fire, receding to hoarse despair. what do you whisper, brother? what do you tell me? . . . we pass each other, are lost, and do not care. one mounts up to beauty, serenely singing, forgetful of the steps that cry behind him; one drifts slowly down from a waking dream. one, foreseeing, lingers forever unmoving . . . upward and downward, past him there, we stream. one has death in his eyes: and walks more slowly. death, among jonquils, told him a freezing secret. a cloud blows over his eyes, he ponders earth. he sees in the world a forest of sunlit jonquils: a slow black poison huddles beneath that mirth. death, from street to alley, from door to window, cries out his news,--of unplumbed worlds approaching, of a cloud of darkness soon to destroy the tower. but why comes death,--he asks,--in a world so perfect? or why the minute's grey in the golden hour? music, a sudden glissando, sinister, troubled, a drift of wind-torn petals, before him passes down jangled streets, and dies. the bodies of old and young, of maimed and lovely, are slowly borne to earth, with a dirge of cries. down cobbled streets they come; down huddled stairways; through silent halls; through carven golden doorways; from freezing rooms as bare as rock. the curtains are closed across deserted windows. earth streams out of the shovel; the pebbles knock. mary, whose hands rejoiced to move in sunlight; silent elaine; grave anne, who sang so clearly; fugitive helen, who loved and walked alone; miriam too soon dead, darkly remembered; childless ruth, who sorrowed, but could not atone; jean, whose laughter flashed over depths of terror, and eloise, who desired to love but dared not; doris, who turned alone to the dark and cried,-- they are blown away like windflung chords of music, they drift away; the sudden music has died. and one, with death in his eyes, comes walking slowly and sees the shadow of death in many faces, and thinks the world is strange. he desires immortal music and spring forever, and beauty that knows no change. ix. cabaret we sit together and talk, or smoke in silence. you say (but use no words) 'this night is passing as other nights when we are dead will pass . . .' perhaps i misconstrue you: you mean only, 'how deathly pale my face looks in that glass . . .' you say: 'we sit and talk, of things important . . . how many others like ourselves, this instant, mark the pendulum swinging against the wall? how many others, laughing, sip their coffee-- or stare at mirrors, and do not talk at all? . . . 'this is the moment' (so you would say, in silence) when suddenly we have had too much of laughter: and a freezing stillness falls, no word to say. our mouths feel foolish . . . for all the days hereafter what have we saved--what news, what tune, what play? 'we see each other as vain and futile tricksters,-- posturing like bald apes before a mirror; no pity dims our eyes . . . how many others, like ourselves, this instant, see how the great world wizens, and are wise? . . .' well, you are right . . . no doubt, they fall, these seconds . . . when suddenly all's distempered, vacuous, ugly, and even those most like angels creep for schemes. the one you love leans forward, smiles, deceives you, opens a door through which you see dark dreams. but this is momentary . . . or else, enduring, leads you with devious eyes through mists and poisons to horrible chaos, or suicide, or crime . . . and all these others who at your conjuration grow pale, feeling the skeleton touch of time,-- or, laughing sadly, talk of things important, or stare at mirrors, startled to see their faces, or drown in the waveless vacuum of their days,-- suddenly, as from sleep, awake, forgetting this nauseous dream; take up their accustomed ways, exhume the ghost of a joke, renew loud laughter, forget the moles above their sweethearts' eyebrows, lean to the music, rise, and dance once more in a rose-festooned illusion with kindness in their eyes . . . they say (as we ourselves have said, remember) 'what wizardry this slow waltz works upon us! and how it brings to mind forgotten things!' they say 'how strange it is that one such evening can wake vague memories of so many springs!' and so they go . . . in a thousand crowded places, they sit to smile and talk, or rise to ragtime, and, for their pleasures, agree or disagree. with secret symbols they play on secret passions. with cunning eyes they see the innocent word that sets remembrance trembling, the dubious word that sets the scared heart beating . . . the pendulum on the wall shakes down seconds . . . they laugh at time, dissembling; or coil for a victim and do not talk at all. x. letter from time to time, lifting his eyes, he sees the soft blue starlight through the one small window, the moon above black trees, and clouds, and venus,-- and turns to write . . . the clock, behind ticks softly. it is so long, indeed, since i have written,-- two years, almost, your last is turning yellow,-- that these first words i write seem cold and strange. are you the man i knew, or have you altered? altered, of course--just as i too have altered-- and whether towards each other, or more apart, we cannot say . . . i've just re-read your letter-- not through forgetfulness, but more for pleasure-- pondering much on all you say in it of mystic consciousness--divine conversion-- the sense of oneness with the infinite,-- faith in the world, its beauty, and its purpose . . . well, you believe one must have faith, in some sort, if one's to talk through this dark world contented. but is the world so dark? or is it rather our own brute minds,--in which we hurry, trembling, through streets as yet unlighted? this, i think. you have been always, let me say, "romantic,"-- eager for color, for beauty, soon discontented with a world of dust and stones and flesh too ailing: even before the question grew to problem and drove you bickering into metaphysics, you met on lower planes the same great dragon, seeking release, some fleeting satisfaction, in strange aesthetics . . . you tried, as i remember, one after one, strange cults, and some, too, morbid, the cruder first, more violent sensations, gorgeously carnal things, conceived and acted with splendid animal thirst . . . then, by degrees,-- savoring all more delicate gradations in all that hue and tone may play on flesh, or thought on brain,--you passed, if i may say so, from red and scarlet through morbid greens to mauve. let us regard ourselves, you used to say, as instruments of music, whereon our lives will play as we desire: and let us yield these subtle bodies and subtler brains and nerves to all experience plays . . . and so you went from subtle tune to subtler, each heard once, twice or thrice at the most, tiring of each; and closing one by one your doors, drew in slowly, through darkening labyrinths of feeling, towards the central chamber . . . which now you've reached. what, then's, the secret of this ultimate chamber-- or innermost, rather? if i see it clearly it is the last, and cunningest, resort of one who has found this world of dust and flesh,-- this world of lamentations, death, injustice, sickness, humiliation, slow defeat, bareness, and ugliness, and iteration,-- too meaningless; or, if it has a meaning, too tiresomely insistent on one meaning: futility . . . this world, i hear you saying,-- with lifted chin, and arm in outflung gesture, coldly imperious,--this transient world, what has it then to give, if not containing deep hints of nobler worlds? we know its beauties,-- momentary and trivial for the most part, perceived through flesh, passing like flesh away,-- and know how much outweighed they are by darkness. we are like searchers in a house of darkness, a house of dust; we creep with little lanterns, throwing our tremulous arcs of light at random, now here, now there, seeing a plane, an angle, an edge, a curve, a wall, a broken stairway leading to who knows what; but never seeing the whole at once . . . we grope our way a little, and then grow tired. no matter what we touch, dust is the answer--dust: dust everywhere. if this were all--what were the use, you ask? but this is not: for why should we be seeking, why should we bring this need to seek for beauty, to lift our minds, if there were only dust? this is the central chamber you have come to: turning your back to the world, until you came to this deep room, and looked through rose-stained windows, and saw the hues of the world so sweetly changed. well, in a measure, so only do we all. i am not sure that you can be refuted. at the very last we all put faith in something,-- you in this ghost that animates your world, this ethical ghost,--and i, you'll say, in reason,-- or sensuous beauty,--or in my secret self . . . though as for that you put your faith in these, as much as i do--and then, forsaking reason,-- ascending, you would say, to intuition,-- you predicate this ghost of yours, as well. of course, you might have argued,--and you should have,-- that no such deep appearance of design could shape our world without entailing purpose: for can design exist without a purpose? without conceiving mind? . . . we are like children who find, upon the sands, beside a sea, strange patterns drawn,--circles, arcs, ellipses, moulded in sand . . . who put them there, we wonder? did someone draw them here before we came? or was it just the sea?--we pore upon them, but find no answer--only suppositions. and if these perfect shapes are evidence of immanent mind, it is but circumstantial: we never come upon him at his work, he never troubles us. he stands aloof-- well, if he stands at all: is not concerned with what we are or do. you, if you like, may think he broods upon us, loves us, hates us, conceives some purpose of us. in so doing you see, without much reason, will in law. i am content to say, 'this world is ordered, happily so for us, by accident: we go our ways untroubled save by laws of natural things.' who makes the more assumption? if we were wise--which god knows we are not-- (notice i call on god!) we'd plumb this riddle not in the world we see, but in ourselves. these brains of ours--these delicate spinal clusters-- have limits: why not learn them, learn their cravings? which of the two minds, yours or mine, is sound? yours, which scorned the world that gave it freedom, until you managed to see that world as omen,-- or mine, which likes the world, takes all for granted, sorrow as much as joy, and death as life?-- you lean on dreams, and take more credit for it. i stand alone . . . well, i take credit, too. you find your pleasure in being at one with all things-- fusing in lambent dream, rising and falling as all things rise and fall . . . i do that too-- with reservations. i find more varied pleasure in understanding: and so find beauty even in this strange dream of yours you call the truth. well, i have bored you. and it's growing late. for household news--what have you heard, i wonder? you must have heard that paul was dead, by this time-- of spinal cancer. nothing could be done-- we found it out too late. his death has changed me, deflected much of me that lived as he lived, saddened me, slowed me down. such things will happen, life is composed of them; and it seems wisdom to see them clearly, meditate upon them, and understand what things flow out of them. otherwise, all goes on here much as always. why won't you come and see us, in the spring, and bring old times with you?--if you could see me sitting here by the window, watching venus go down behind my neighbor's poplar branches,-- just where you used to sit,--i'm sure you'd come. this year, they say, the springtime will be early. xi. conversation: undertones what shall we talk of? li po? hokusai? you narrow your long dark eyes to fascinate me; you smile a little. . . . outside, the night goes by. i walk alone in a forest of ghostly trees . . . your pale hands rest palm downwards on your knees. 'these lines--converging, they suggest such distance! the soul is drawn away, beyond horizons. lured out to what? one dares not think. sometimes, i glimpse these infinite perspectives in intimate talk (with such as you) and shrink . . . 'one feels so petty!--one feels such--emptiness!--' you mimic horror, let fall your lifted hand, and smile at me; with brooding tenderness . . . alone on darkened waters i fall and rise; slow waves above me break, faint waves of cries. 'and then these colors . . . but who would dare describe them? this faint rose-coral pink . . this green--pistachio?-- so insubstantial! like the dim ghostly things two lovers find in love's still-twilight chambers . . . old peacock-fans, and fragrant silks, and rings . . . 'rings, let us say, drawn from the hapless fingers of some great lady, many centuries nameless,-- or is that too sepulchral?--dulled with dust; and necklaces that crumble if you touch them; and gold brocades that, breathed on, fall to rust. 'no--i am wrong . . . it is not these i sought for--! why did they come to mind? you understand me-- you know these strange vagaries of the brain!--' --i walk alone in a forest of ghostly trees; your pale hands rest palm downwards on your knees; these strange vagaries of yours are all too plain. 'but why perplex ourselves with tedious problems of art or . . . such things? . . . while we sit here, living, with all that's in our secret hearts to say!--' hearts?--your pale hand softly strokes the satin. you play deep music--know well what you play. you stroke the satin with thrilling of finger-tips, you smile, with faintly perfumed lips, you loose your thoughts like birds, brushing our dreams with soft and shadowy words . . we know your words are foolish, yet sit here bound in tremulous webs of sound. 'how beautiful is intimate talk like this!-- it is as if we dissolved grey walls between us, stepped through the solid portals, become but shadows, to hear a hidden music . . . our own vast shadows lean to a giant size on the windy walls, or dwindle away; we hear our soft footfalls echo forever behind us, ghostly clear, music sings far off, flows suddenly near, and dies away like rain . . . we walk through subterranean caves again,-- vaguely above us feeling a shadowy weight of frescos on the ceiling, strange half-lit things, soundless grotesques with writhing claws and wings . . . and here a beautiful face looks down upon us; and someone hurries before, unseen, and sings . . . have we seen all, i wonder, in these chambers-- or is there yet some gorgeous vault, arched low, where sleeps an amazing beauty we do not know? . . ' the question falls: we walk in silence together, thinking of that deep vault and of its secret . . . this lamp, these books, this fire are suddenly blown away in a whistling darkness. deep walls crash down in the whirlwind of desire. xii. witches' sabbath now, when the moon slid under the cloud and the cold clear dark of starlight fell, he heard in his blood the well-known bell tolling slowly in heaves of sound, slowly beating, slowly beating, shaking its pulse on the stagnant air: sometimes it swung completely round, horribly gasping as if for breath; falling down with an anguished cry . . . now the red bat, he mused, will fly; something is marked, this night, for death . . . and while he mused, along his blood flew ghostly voices, remote and thin, they rose in the cavern of his brain, like ghosts they died away again; and hands upon his heart were laid, and music upon his flesh was played, until, as he was bidden to do, he walked the wood he so well knew. through the cold dew he moved his feet, and heard far off, as under the earth, discordant music in shuddering tones, screams of laughter, horrible mirth, clapping of hands, and thudding of drums, and the long-drawn wail of one in pain. to-night, he thought, i shall die again, we shall die again in the red-eyed fire to meet on the edge of the wood beyond with the placid gaze of fed desire . . . he walked; and behind the whisper of trees, in and out, one walked with him: she parted the branches and peered at him, through lowered lids her two eyes burned, he heard her breath, he saw her hand, wherever he turned his way, she turned: kept pace with him, now fast, now slow; moving her white knees as he moved . . . this is the one i have always loved; this is the one whose bat-soul comes to dance with me, flesh to flesh, in the starlight dance of horns and drums . . . the walls and roofs, the scarlet towers, sank down behind a rushing sky. he heard a sweet song just begun abruptly shatter in tones and die. it whirled away. cold silence fell. and again came tollings of a bell. * * * * * this air is alive with witches: the white witch rides swifter than smoke on the starlit wind. in the clear darkness, while the moon hides, they come like dreams, like something remembered . . let us hurry! beloved; take my hand, forget these things that trouble your eyes, forget, forget! our flesh is changed, lighter than smoke we wreathe and rise . . . the cold air hisses between us . . . beloved, beloved, what was the word you said? something about clear music that sang through water . . . i cannot remember. the storm-drops break on the leaves. something was lost in the darkness. someone is dead. someone lies in the garden and grieves. look how the branches are tossed in this air, flinging their green to the earth! black clouds rush to devour the stars in the sky, the moon stares down like a half-closed eye. the leaves are scattered, the birds are blown, oaks crash down in the darkness, we run from our windy shadows; we are running alone. * * * * * the moon was darkened: across it flew the swift grey tenebrous shape he knew, like a thing of smoke it crossed the sky, the witch! he said. and he heard a cry, and another came, and another came, and one, grown duskily red with blood, floated an instant across the moon, hung like a dull fantastic flame . . . the earth has veins: they throb to-night, the earth swells warm beneath my feet, the tips of the trees grow red and bright, the leaves are swollen, i feel them beat, they press together, they push and sigh, they listen to hear the great bat cry, the great red bat with the woman's face . . . hurry! he said. and pace for pace that other, who trod the dark with him, crushed the live leaves, reached out white hands and closed her eyes, the better to see the priests with claws, the lovers with hooves, the fire-lit rock, the sarabands. i am here! she said. the bough he broke-- was it the snapping bough that spoke? i am here! she said. the white thigh gleamed cold in starlight among dark leaves, the head thrown backward as he had dreamed, the shadowy red deep jasper mouth; and the lifted hands, and the virgin breasts, passed beside him, and vanished away. i am here! she cried. he answered 'stay!' and laughter arose, and near and far answering laughter rose and died . . . who is there? in the dark? he cried. he stood in terror, and heard a sound of terrible hooves on the hollow ground; they rushed, were still; a silence fell; and he heard deep tollings of a bell. * * * * * look beloved! why do you hide your face? look, in the centre there, above the fire, they are bearing the boy who blasphemed love! they are playing a piercing music upon him with a bow of living wire! . . . the virgin harlot sings, she leans above the beautiful anguished body, and draws slow music from those strings. they dance around him, they fling red roses upon him, they trample him with their naked feet, his cries are lost in laughter, their feet grow dark with his blood, they beat and beat, they dance upon him, until he cries no more . . . have we not heard that cry before? somewhere, somewhere, beside a sea, in the green evening, beneath green clouds, in a copper sky . . . was it you? was it i? they have quenched the fires, they dance in the darkness, the satyrs have run among them to seize and tear, look! he has caught one by the hair, she screams and falls, he bears her away with him, and the night grows full of whistling wings. far off, one voice, serene and sweet, rises and sings . . . 'by the clear waters where once i died, in the calm evening bright with stars. . . .' where have i heard these words? was it you who sang them? it was long ago. let us hurry, beloved! the hard hooves trample; the treetops tremble and glow. * * * * * in the clear dark, on silent wings, the red bat hovers beneath her moon; she drops through the fragrant night, and clings fast in the shadow, with hands like claws, with soft eyes closed and mouth that feeds, to the young white flesh that warmly bleeds. the maidens circle in dance, and raise from lifting throats, a soft-sung praise; their knees and breasts are white and bare, they have hung pale roses in their hair, each of them as she dances by peers at the blood with a narrowed eye. see how the red wing wraps him round, see how the white youth struggles in vain! the weak arms writhe in a soundless pain; he writhes in the soft red veiny wings, but still she whispers upon him and clings. . . . this is the secret feast of love, look well, look well, before it dies, see how the red one trembles above, see how quiet the white one lies! . . . . wind through the trees. . . . and a voice is heard singing far off. the dead leaves fall. . . . 'by the clear waters where once i died, in the calm evening bright with stars, one among numberless avatars, i wedded a mortal, a mortal bride, and lay on the stones and gave my flesh, and entered the hunger of him i loved. how shall i ever escape this mesh or be from my lover's body removed?' dead leaves stream through the hurrying air and the maenads dance with flying hair. * * * * * the priests with hooves, the lovers with horns, rise in the starlight, one by one, they draw their knives on the spurting throats, they smear the column with blood of goats, they dabble the blood on hair and lips and wait like stones for the moon's eclipse. they stand like stones and stare at the sky where the moon leers down like a half-closed eye. . . in the green moonlight still they stand while wind flows over the darkened sand and brood on the soft forgotten things that filled their shadowy yesterdays. . . . where are the breasts, the scarlet wings? . . . . they gaze at each other with troubled gaze. . . . and then, as the shadow closes the moon, shout, and strike with their hooves the ground, and rush through the dark, and fill the night with a slowly dying clamor of sound. there, where the great walls crowd the stars, there, by the black wind-riven walls, in a grove of twisted leafless trees. . . . who are these pilgrims, who are these, these three, the one of whom stands upright, while one lies weeping and one of them crawls? the face that he turned was a wounded face, i heard the dripping of blood on stones. . . . hooves had trampled and torn this place, and the leaves were strewn with blood and bones. sometimes, i think, beneath my feet, the warm earth stretches herself and sighs. . . . listen! i heard the slow heart beat. . . . i will lie on this grass as a lover lies and reach to the north and reach to the south and seek in the darkness for her mouth. * * * * * beloved, beloved, where the slow waves of the wind shatter pale foam among great trees, under the hurrying stars, under the heaving arches, like one whirled down under shadowy seas, i run to find you, i run and cry, where are you? where are you? it is i. it is i. it is your eyes i seek, it is your windy hair, your starlight body that breathes in the darkness there. under the darkness i feel you stirring. . . . is this you? is this you? bats in this air go whirring. . . . and this soft mouth that darkly meets my mouth, is this the soft mouth i knew? darkness, and wind in the tortured trees; and the patter of dew. * * * * * dance! dance! dance! dance! dance till the brain is red with speed! dance till you fall! lift your torches! kiss your lovers until they bleed! backward i draw your anguished hair until your eyes are stretched with pain; backward i press you until you cry, your lips grow white, i kiss you again, i will take a torch and set you afire, i will break your body and fling it away. . . . look, you are trembling. . . . lie still, beloved! lock your hands in my hair, and say darling! darling! darling! darling! all night long till the break of day. is it your heart i hear beneath me. . . . or the far tolling of that tower? the voices are still that cried around us. . . . the woods grow still for the sacred hour. rise, white lover! the day draws near. the grey trees lean to the east in fear. 'by the clear waters where once i died . . . .' beloved, whose voice was this that cried? 'by the clear waters that reach the sun by the clear waves that starward run. . . . i found love's body and lost his soul, and crumbled in flame that should have annealed. . . how shall i ever again be whole, by what dark waters shall i be healed?' silence. . . . the red leaves, one by one, fall. far off, the maenads run. silence. beneath my naked feet the veins of the red earth swell and beat. the dead leaves sigh on the troubled air, far off the maenads bind their hair. . . . hurry, beloved! the day comes soon. the fire is drawn from the heart of the moon. * * * * * the great bell cracks and falls at last. the moon whirls out. the sky grows still. look, how the white cloud crosses the stars and suddenly drops behind the hill! your eyes are placid, you smile at me, we sit in the room by candle-light. we peer in each other's veins and see no sign of the things we saw this night. only, a song is in your ears, a song you have heard, you think, in dream: the song which only the demon hears, in the dark forest where maenads scream . . . 'by the clear waters where once i died . . . in the calm evening bright with stars . . . ' what do the strange words mean? you say,-- and touch my hand, and turn away. xiii. the half-shut doors through which we heard that music are softly closed. horns mutter down to silence. the stars whirl out, the night grows deep. darkness settles upon us. a vague refrain drowsily teases at the drowsy brain. in numberless rooms we stretch ourselves and sleep. where have we been? what savage chaos of music whirls in our dreams?--we suddenly rise in darkness, open our eyes, cry out, and sleep once more. we dream we are numberless sea-waves languidly foaming a warm white moonlit shore; or clouds blown windily over a sky at midnight, or chords of music scattered in hurrying darkness, or a singing sound of rain . . . we open our eyes and stare at the coiling darkness, and enter our dreams again. part iv. i. clairvoyant 'this envelope you say has something in it which once belonged to your dead son--or something he knew, was fond of? something he remembers?-- the soul flies far, and we can only call it by things like these . . . a photograph, a letter, ribbon, or charm, or watch . . . ' . . . wind flows softly, the long slow even wind, over the low roofs white with snow; wind blows, bearing cold clouds over the ocean, one by one they melt and flow,-- streaming one by one over trees and towers, coiling and gleaming in shafts of sun; wind flows, bearing clouds; the hurrying shadows flow under them one by one . . . ' . . . a spirit darkens before me . . . it is the spirit which in the flesh you called your son . . . a spirit young and strong and beautiful . . . he says that he is happy, is much honored; forgives and is forgiven . . . rain and wind do not perplex him . . . storm and dust forgotten . . the glittering wheels in wheels of time are broken and laid aside . . . ' 'ask him why he did the thing he did!' 'he is unhappy. this thing, he says, transcends you: dust cannot hold what shines beyond the dust . . . what seems calamity is less than a sigh; what seems disgrace is nothing.' 'ask him if the one he hurt is there, and if she loves him still!' 'he tells you she is there, and loves him still,-- not as she did, but as all spirits love . . . a cloud of spirits has gathered about him. they praise him and call him, they do him honor; he is more beautiful, he shines upon them.' . . . wind flows softly, the long deep tremulous wind, over the low roofs white with snow . . . wind flows, bearing dreams; they gather and vanish, one by one they sing and flow; over the outstretched lands of days remembered, over remembered tower and wall, one by one they gather and talk in the darkness, rise and glimmer and fall . . . 'ask him why he did the thing he did! he knows i will understand!' 'it is too late: he will not hear me: i have lost my power.' 'three times i've asked him! he will never tell me. god have mercy upon him. i will ask no more.' ii. death: and a derisive chorus the door is shut. she leaves the curtained office, and down the grey-walled stairs comes trembling slowly towards the dazzling street. her withered hand clings tightly to the railing. the long stairs rise and fall beneath her feet. here in the brilliant sun we jostle, waiting to tear her secret out . . . we laugh, we hurry, we go our way, revolving, sinister, slow. she blinks in the sun, and then steps faintly downward. we whirl her away, we shout, we spin, we flow. where have you been, old lady? we know your secret!-- voices jangle about her, jeers, and laughter. . . . she trembles, tries to hurry, averts her eyes. tell us the truth, old lady! where have you been? she turns and turns, her brain grows dark with cries. look at the old fool tremble! she's been paying,-- paying good money, too,--to talk to spirits. . . . she thinks she's heard a message from one dead! what did he tell you? is he well and happy? don't lie to us--we all know what he said. he said the one he murdered once still loves him; he said the wheels in wheels of time are broken; and dust and storm forgotten; and all forgiven. . . . but what you asked he wouldn't tell you, though,-- ha ha! there's one thing you will never know! that's what you get for meddling so with heaven! where have you been, old lady? where are you going? we know, we know! she's been to gab with spirits. look at the old fool! getting ready to cry! what have you got in an envelope, old lady? a lock of hair? an eyelash from his eye? how do you know the medium didn't fool you? perhaps he had no spirit--perhaps he killed it. here she comes! the old fool's lost her son. what did he have--blue eyes and golden hair? we know your secret! what's done is done. look out, you'll fall--and fall, if you're not careful, right into an open grave. . . but what's the hurry? you don't think you will find him when you're dead? cry! cry! look at her mouth all twisted,-- look at her eyes all red! we know you--know your name and all about you, all you remember and think, and all you scheme for. we tear your secret out, we leave you, go laughingly down the street. . . . die, if you want to! die, then, if you're in such a hurry to know!-- . . . . she falls. we lift her head. the wasted body weighs nothing in our hands. does no one know her? was no one with her when she fell? . . . we eddy about her, move away in silence. we hear slow tollings of a bell. iii. palimpsest: a deceitful portrait well, as you say, we live for small horizons: we move in crowds, we flow and talk together, seeing so many eyes and hands and faces, so many mouths, and all with secret meanings,-- yet know so little of them; only seeing the small bright circle of our consciousness, beyond which lies the dark. some few we know-- or think we know. . . once, on a sun-bright morning, i walked in a certain hallway, trying to find a certain door: i found one, tried it, opened, and there in a spacious chamber, brightly lighted, a hundred men played music, loudly, swiftly, while one tall woman sent her voice above them in powerful sweetness. . . . closing then the door i heard it die behind me, fade to whisper,-- and walked in a quiet hallway as before. just such a glimpse, as through that opened door, is all we know of those we call our friends. . . . we hear a sudden music, see a playing of ordered thoughts--and all again is silence. the music, we suppose, (as in ourselves) goes on forever there, behind shut doors,-- as it continues after our departure, so, we divine, it played before we came . . . what do you know of me, or i of you? . . . little enough. . . . we set these doors ajar only for chosen movements of the music: this passage, (so i think--yet this is guesswork) will please him,--it is in a strain he fancies,-- more brilliant, though, than his; and while he likes it he will be piqued . . . he looks at me bewildered and thinks (to judge from self--this too is guesswork) the music strangely subtle, deep in meaning, perplexed with implications; he suspects me of hidden riches, unexpected wisdom. . . . or else i let him hear a lyric passage,-- simple and clear; and all the while he listens i make pretence to think my doors are closed. this too bewilders him. he eyes me sidelong wondering 'is he such a fool as this? or only mocking?'--there i let it end. . . . sometimes, of course, and when we least suspect it-- when we pursue our thoughts with too much passion, talking with too great zeal--our doors fly open without intention; and the hungry watcher stares at the feast, carries away our secrets, and laughs. . . . but this, for many counts, is seldom. and for the most part we vouchsafe our friends, our lovers too, only such few clear notes as we shall deem them likely to admire: 'praise me for this' we say, or 'laugh at this,' or 'marvel at my candor'. . . . all the while withholding what's most precious to ourselves,-- some sinister depth of lust or fear or hatred, the sombre note that gives the chord its power; or a white loveliness--if such we know-- too much like fire to speak of without shame. well, this being so, and we who know it being so curious about those well-locked houses, the minds of those we know,--to enter softly, and steal from floor to floor up shadowy stairways, from room to quiet room, from wall to wall, breathing deliberately the very air, pressing our hands and nerves against warm darkness to learn what ghosts are there,-- suppose for once i set my doors wide open and bid you in. . . . suppose i try to tell you the secrets of this house, and how i live here; suppose i tell you who i am, in fact. . . . deceiving you--as far as i may know it-- only so much as i deceive myself. if you are clever you already see me as one who moves forever in a cloud of warm bright vanity: a luminous cloud which falls on all things with a quivering magic, changing such outlines as a light may change, brightening what lies dark to me, concealing those things that will not change . . . i walk sustained in a world of things that flatter me: a sky just as i would have had it; trees and grass just as i would have shaped and colored them; pigeons and clouds and sun and whirling shadows, and stars that brightening climb through mist at nightfall,-- in some deep way i am aware these praise me: where they are beautiful, or hint of beauty, they point, somehow, to me. . . . this water says,-- shimmering at the sky, or undulating in broken gleaming parodies of clouds, rippled in blue, or sending from cool depths to meet the falling leaf the leaf's clear image,-- this water says, there is some secret in you akin to my clear beauty, silently responsive to all that circles you. this bare tree says,-- austere and stark and leafless, split with frost, resonant in the wind, with rigid branches flung out against the sky,--this tall tree says, there is some cold austerity in you, a frozen strength, with long roots gnarled on rocks, fertile and deep; you bide your time, are patient, serene in silence, bare to outward seeming, concealing what reserves of power and beauty! what teeming aprils!--chorus of leaves on leaves! these houses say, such walls in walls as ours, such streets of walls, solid and smooth of surface, such hills and cities of walls, walls upon walls; motionless in the sun, or dark with rain; walls pierced with windows, where the light may enter; walls windowless where darkness is desired; towers and labyrinths and domes and chambers,-- amazing deep recesses, dark on dark,-- all these are like the walls which shape your spirit: you move, are warm, within them, laugh within them, proud of their depth and strength; or sally from them, when you are bold, to blow great horns at the world. . this deep cool room, with shadowed walls and ceiling, tranquil and cloistral, fragrant of my mind, this cool room says,--just such a room have you, it waits you always at the tops of stairways, withdrawn, remote, familiar to your uses, where you may cease pretence and be yourself. . . . and this embroidery, hanging on this wall, hung there forever,--these so soundless glidings of dragons golden-scaled, sheer birds of azure, coilings of leaves in pale vermilion, griffins drawing their rainbow wings through involutions of mauve chrysanthemums and lotus flowers,-- this goblin wood where someone cries enchantment,-- this says, just such an involuted beauty of thought and coiling thought, dream linked with dream, image to image gliding, wreathing fires, soundlessly cries enchantment in your mind: you need but sit and close your eyes a moment to see these deep designs unfold themselves. and so, all things discern me, name me, praise me-- i walk in a world of silent voices, praising; and in this world you see me like a wraith blown softly here and there, on silent winds. 'praise me'--i say; and look, not in a glass, but in your eyes, to see my image there-- or in your mind; you smile, i am contented; you look at me, with interest unfeigned, and listen--i am pleased; or else, alone, i watch thin bubbles veering brightly upward from unknown depths,--my silver thoughts ascending; saying now this, now that, hinting of all things,-- dreams, and desires, velleities, regrets, faint ghosts of memory, strange recognitions,-- but all with one deep meaning: this is i, this is the glistening secret holy i, this silver-winged wonder, insubstantial, this singing ghost. . . . and hearing, i am warmed. * * * * * you see me moving, then, as one who moves forever at the centre of his circle: a circle filled with light. and into it come bulging shapes from darkness, loom gigantic, or huddle in dark again. . . . a clock ticks clearly, a gas-jet steadily whirs, light streams across me; two church bells, with alternate beat, strike nine; and through these things my pencil pushes softly to weave grey webs of lines on this clear page. snow falls and melts; the eaves make liquid music; black wheel-tracks line the snow-touched street; i turn and look one instant at the half-dark gardens, where skeleton elm-trees reach with frozen gesture above unsteady lamps,--with black boughs flung against a luminous snow-filled grey-gold sky. 'beauty!' i cry. . . . my feet move on, and take me between dark walls, with orange squares for windows. beauty; beheld like someone half-forgotten, remembered, with slow pang, as one neglected . . . well, i am frustrate; life has beaten me, the thing i strongly seized has turned to darkness, and darkness rides my heart. . . . these skeleton elm-trees-- leaning against that grey-gold snow filled sky-- beauty! they say, and at the edge of darkness extend vain arms in a frozen gesture of protest . . . a clock ticks softly; a gas-jet steadily whirs: the pencil meets its shadow upon clear paper, voices are raised, a door is slammed. the lovers, murmuring in an adjacent room, grow silent, the eaves make liquid music. . . . hours have passed, and nothing changes, and everything is changed. exultation is dead, beauty is harlot,-- and walks the streets. the thing i strongly seized has turned to darkness, and darkness rides my heart. if you could solve this darkness you would have me. this causeless melancholy that comes with rain, or on such days as this when large wet snowflakes drop heavily, with rain . . . whence rises this? well, so-and-so, this morning when i saw him, seemed much preoccupied, and would not smile; and you, i saw too much; and you, too little; and the word i chose for you, the golden word, the word that should have struck so deep in purpose, and set so many doors of wish wide open, you let it fall, and would not stoop for it, and smiled at me, and would not let me guess whether you saw it fall. . . these things, together, with other things, still slighter, wove to music, and this in time drew up dark memories; and there i stand. this music breaks and bleeds me, turning all frustrate dreams to chords and discords, faces and griefs, and words, and sunlit evenings, and chains self-forged that will not break nor lengthen, and cries that none can answer, few will hear. have these things meaning? or would you see more clearly if i should say 'my second wife grows tedious, or, like gay tulip, keeps no perfumed secret'? or 'one day dies eventless as another, leaving the seeker still unsatisfied, and more convinced life yields no satisfaction'? or 'seek too hard, the sight at length grows callous, and beauty shines in vain'?-- these things you ask for, these you shall have. . . so, talking with my first wife, at the dark end of evening, when she leaned and smiled at me, with blue eyes weaving webs of finest fire, revolving me in scarlet,-- calling to mind remote and small successions of countless other evenings ending so,-- i smiled, and met her kiss, and wished her dead; dead of a sudden sickness, or by my hands savagely killed; i saw her in her coffin, i saw her coffin borne downstairs with trouble, i saw myself alone there, palely watching, wearing a masque of grief so deeply acted that grief itself possessed me. time would pass, and i should meet this girl,--my second wife-- and drop the masque of grief for one of passion. forward we move to meet, half hesitating, we drown in each others' eyes, we laugh, we talk, looking now here, now there, faintly pretending we do not hear the powerful pulsing prelude roaring beneath our words . . . the time approaches. we lean unbalanced. the mute last glance between us, profoundly searching, opening, asking, yielding, is steadily met: our two lives draw together . . . . . . .'what are you thinking of?'. . . . my first wife's voice scattered these ghosts. 'oh nothing--nothing much-- just wondering where we'd be two years from now, and what we might be doing . . . ' and then remorse turned sharply in my mind to sudden pity, and pity to echoed love. and one more evening drew to the usual end of sleep and silence. and, as it is with this, so too with all things. the pages of our lives are blurred palimpsest: new lines are wreathed on old lines half-erased, and those on older still; and so forever. the old shines through the new, and colors it. what's new? what's old? all things have double meanings,-- all things return. i write a line with passion (or touch a woman's hand, or plumb a doctrine) only to find the same thing, done before,-- only to know the same thing comes to-morrow. . . . this curious riddled dream i dreamed last night,-- six years ago i dreamed it just as now; the same man stooped to me; we rose from darkness, and broke the accustomed order of our days, and struck for the morning world, and warmth, and freedom. . . . what does it mean? why is this hint repeated? what darkness does it spring from, seek to end? you see me, then, pass up and down these stairways, now through a beam of light, and now through shadow,-- pursuing silent ends. no rest there is,-- no more for me than you. i move here always, from quiet room to room, from wall to wall, searching and plotting, weaving a web of days. this is my house, and now, perhaps, you know me. . . yet i confess, for all my best intentions, once more i have deceived you. . . . i withhold the one thing precious, the one dark thing that guides me; and i have spread two snares for you, of lies. iv. counterpoint: two rooms he, in the room above, grown old and tired, she, in the room below--his floor her ceiling-- pursue their separate dreams. he turns his light, and throws himself on the bed, face down, in laughter. . . . she, by the window, smiles at a starlight night, his watch--the same he has heard these cycles of ages-- wearily chimes at seconds beneath his pillow. the clock, upon her mantelpiece, strikes nine. the night wears on. she hears dull steps above her. the world whirs on. . . . new stars come up to shine. his youth--far off--he sees it brightly walking in a golden cloud. . . . wings flashing about it. . . . darkness walls it around with dripping enormous walls. old age--far off--her death--what do they matter? down the smooth purple night a streaked star falls. she hears slow steps in the street--they chime like music; they climb to her heart, they break and flower in beauty, along her veins they glisten and ring and burn. . . . he hears his own slow steps tread down to silence. far off they pass. he knows they will never return. far off--on a smooth dark road--he hears them faintly. the road, like a sombre river, quietly flowing, moves among murmurous walls. a deeper breath swells them to sound: he hears his steps more clearly. and death seems nearer to him: or he to death. what's death?--she smiles. the cool stone hurts her elbows. the last of the rain-drops gather and fall from elm-boughs, she sees them glisten and break. the arc-lamp sings, the new leaves dip in the warm wet air and fragrance. a sparrow whirs to the eaves, and shakes his wings. what's death--what's death? the spring returns like music, the trees are like dark lovers who dream in starlight, the soft grey clouds go over the stars like dreams. the cool stone wounds her arms to pain, to pleasure. under the lamp a circle of wet street gleams. . . . and death seems far away, a thing of roses, a golden portal, where golden music closes, death seems far away: and spring returns, the countless singing of lovers, and spring returns to stay. . . . he, in the room above, grown old and tired, flings himself on the bed, face down, in laughter, and clenches his hands, and remembers, and desires to die. and she, by the window, smiles at a night of starlight. . . . the soft grey clouds go slowly across the sky. v. the bitter love-song no, i shall not say why it is that i love you-- why do you ask me, save for vanity? surely you would not have me, like a mirror, say 'yes,--your hair curls darkly back from the temples, your mouth has a humorous, tremulous, half-shy sweetness, your eyes are april grey. . . . with jonquils in them?' no, if i tell at all, i shall tell in silence . . . i'll say--my childhood broke through chords of music --or were they chords of sun?--wherein fell shadows, or silences; i rose through seas of sunlight; or sometimes found a darkness stooped above me with wings of death, and a face of cold clear beauty. . i lay in the warm sweet grass on a blue may morning, my chin in a dandelion, my hands in clover, and drowsed there like a bee. . . . blue days behind me stretched like a chain of deep blue pools of magic, enchanted, silent, timeless. . . . days before me murmured of blue-sea mornings, noons of gold, green evenings streaked with lilac, bee-starred nights. confused soft clouds of music fled above me. sharp shafts of music dazzled my eyes and pierced me. i ran and turned and spun and danced in the sunlight, shrank, sometimes, from the freezing silence of beauty, or crept once more to the warm white cave of sleep. no, i shall not say 'this is why i praise you-- because you say such wise things, or such foolish. . .' you would not have me say what you know better? let me instead be silent, only saying--: my childhood lives in me--or half-lives, rather-- and, if i close my eyes cool chords of music flow up to me . . . long chords of wind and sunlight. . . . shadows of intricate vines on sunlit walls, deep bells beating, with aeons of blue between them, grass blades leagues apart with worlds between them, walls rushing up to heaven with stars upon them. . . i lay in my bed and through the tall night window saw the green lightning plunging among the clouds, and heard the harsh rain storm at the panes and roof. . . . how should i know--how should i now remember-- what half-dreamed great wings curved and sang above me? what wings like swords? what eyes with the dread night in them? this i shall say.--i lay by the hot white sand-dunes. . small yellow flowers, sapless and squat and spiny, stared at the sky. and silently there above us day after day, beyond our dreams and knowledge, presences swept, and over us streamed their shadows, swift and blue, or dark. . . . what did they mean? what sinister threat of power? what hint of beauty? prelude to what gigantic music, or subtle? only i know these things leaned over me, brooded upon me, paused, went flowing softly, glided and passed. i loved, i desired, i hated, i struggled, i yielded and loved, was warmed to blossom . . . you, when your eyes have evening sunlight in them, set these dunes before me, these salt bright flowers, these presences. . . . i drowse, they stream above me, i struggle, i yield and love, i am warmed to dream. you are the window (if i could tell i'd tell you) through which i see a clear far world of sunlight. you are the silence (if you could hear you'd hear me) in which i remember a thin still whisper of singing. it is not you i laugh for, you i touch! my hands, that touch you, suddenly touch white cobwebs, coldly silvered, heavily silvered with dewdrops; and clover, heavy with rain; and cold green grass. . . vi. cinema as evening falls, the walls grow luminous and warm, the walls tremble and glow with the lives within them moving, moving like music, secret and rich and warm. how shall we live to-night, where shall we turn? to what new light or darkness yearn? a thousand winding stairs lead down before us; and one by one in myriads we descend by lamplit flowered walls, long balustrades, through half-lit halls which reach no end. . . . take my arm, then, you or you or you, and let us walk abroad on the solid air: look how the organist's head, in silhouette, leans to the lamplit music's orange square! . . . the dim-globed lamps illumine rows of faces, rows of hands and arms and hungry eyes, they have hurried down from a myriad secret places, from windy chambers next to the skies. . . . the music comes upon us. . . . it shakes the darkness, it shakes the darkness in our minds. . . . and brilliant figures suddenly fill the darkness, down the white shaft of light they run through darkness, and in our hearts a dazzling dream unwinds . . . take my hand, then, walk with me by the slow soundless crashings of a sea down miles on miles of glistening mirrorlike sand,-- take my hand and walk with me once more by crumbling walls; up mouldering stairs where grey-stemmed ivy clings, to hear forgotten bells, as evening falls, rippling above us invisibly their slowly widening rings. . . . did you once love me? did you bear a name? did you once stand before me without shame? . . . take my hand: your face is one i know, i loved you, long ago: you are like music, long forgotten, suddenly come to mind; you are like spring returned through snow. once, i know, i walked with you in starlight, and many nights i slept and dreamed of you; come, let us climb once more these stairs of starlight, this midnight stream of cloud-flung blue! . . . music murmurs beneath us like a sea, and faints to a ghostly whisper . . . come with me. are you still doubtful of me--hesitant still, fearful, perhaps, that i may yet remember what you would gladly, if you could, forget? you were unfaithful once, you met your lover; still in your heart you bear that red-eyed ember; and i was silent,--you remember my silence yet . . . you knew, as well as i, i could not kill him, nor touch him with hot hands, nor yet with hate. no, and it was not you i saw with anger. instead, i rose and beat at steel-walled fate, cried till i lay exhausted, sick, unfriended, that life, so seeming sure, and love, so certain, should loose such tricks, be so abruptly ended, ring down so suddenly an unlooked-for curtain. how could i find it in my heart to hurt you, you, whom this love could hurt much more than i? no, you were pitiful, and i gave you pity; and only hated you when i saw you cry. we were two dupes; if i could give forgiveness,-- had i the right,--i should forgive you now . . . we were two dupes . . . come, let us walk in starlight, and feed our griefs: we do not break, but bow. take my hand, then, come with me by the white shadowy crashings of a sea . . . look how the long volutes of foam unfold to spread their mottled shimmer along the sand! . . . take my hand, do not remember how these depths are cold, nor how, when you are dead, green leagues of sea will glimmer above your head. you lean your face upon your hands and cry, the blown sand whispers about your feet, terrible seems it now to die,-- terrible now, with life so incomplete, to turn away from the balconies and the music, the sunlit afternoons, to hear behind you there a far-off laughter lost in a stirring of sand among dry dunes . . . die not sadly, you whom life has beaten! lift your face up, laughing, die like a queen! take cold flowers of foam in your warm white fingers! death's but a change of sky from blue to green . . . as evening falls, the walls grow luminous and warm, the walls tremble and glow . . . the music breathes upon us, the rayed white shaft plays over our heads like magic, and to and fro we move and lean and change . . . you, in a world grown strange, laugh at a darkness, clench your hands despairing, smash your glass on a floor, no longer caring, sink suddenly down and cry . . . you hear the applause that greets your latest rival, you are forgotten: your rival--who knows?--is i . . . i laugh in the warm bright light of answering laughter, i am inspired and young . . . and though i see you sitting alone there, dark, with shut eyes crying, i bask in the light, and in your hate of me . . . failure . . . well, the time comes soon or later . . . the night must come . . . and i'll be one who clings, desperately, to hold the applause, one instant,-- to keep some youngster waiting in the wings. the music changes tone . . . a room is darkened, someone is moving . . . the crack of white light widens, and all is dark again; till suddenly falls a wandering disk of light on floor and walls, winks out, returns again, climbs and descends, gleams on a clock, a glass, shrinks back to darkness; and then at last, in the chaos of that place, dazzles like frozen fire on your clear face. well, i have found you. we have met at last. now you shall not escape me: in your eyes i see the horrible huddlings of your past,-- all you remember blackens, utters cries, reaches far hands and faint. i hold the light close to your cheek, watch the pained pupils shrink,-- watch the vile ghosts of all you vilely think . . . now all the hatreds of my life have met to hold high carnival . . . we do not speak, my fingers find the well-loved throat they seek, and press, and fling you down . . . and then forget. who plays for me? what sudden drums keep time to the ecstatic rhythm of my crime? what flute shrills out as moonlight strikes the floor? . . what violin so faintly cries seeing how strangely in the moon he lies? . . . the room grows dark once more, the crack of white light narrows around the door, and all is silent, except a slow complaining of flutes and violins, like music waning. take my hand, then, walk with me by the slow soundless crashings of a sea . . . look, how white these shells are, on this sand! take my hand, and watch the waves run inward from the sky line upon foaming line to plunge and die. the music that bound our lives is lost behind us, paltry it seems . . . here in this wind-swung place motionless under the sky's vast vault of azure we stand in a terror of beauty, face to face. the dry grass creaks in the wind, the blown sand whispers, the soft sand seethes on the dunes, the clear grains glisten, once they were rock . . . a chaos of golden boulders . . . now they are blown by the wind . . . we stand and listen to the sliding of grain upon timeless grain and feel our lives go past like a whisper of pain. have i not seen you, have we not met before here on this sun-and-sea-wrecked shore? you shade your sea-gray eyes with a sunlit hand and peer at me . . . far sea-gulls, in your eyes, flash in the sun, go down . . . i hear slow sand, and shrink to nothing beneath blue brilliant skies . . . * * * * * the music ends. the screen grows dark. we hurry to go our devious secret ways, forgetting those many lives . . . we loved, we laughed, we killed, we danced in fire, we drowned in a whirl of sea-waves. the flutes are stilled, and a thousand dreams are stilled. whose body have i found beside dark waters, the cold white body, garlanded with sea-weed? staring with wide eyes at the sky? i bent my head above it, and cried in silence. only the things i dreamed of heard my cry. once i loved, and she i loved was darkened. again i loved, and love itself was darkened. vainly we follow the circle of shadowy days. the screen at last grows dark, the flutes are silent. the doors of night are closed. we go our ways. vii. the sun goes down in a cold pale flare of light. the trees grow dark: the shadows lean to the east: and lights wink out through the windows, one by one. a clamor of frosty sirens mourns at the night. pale slate-grey clouds whirl up from the sunken sun. and the wandering one, the inquisitive dreamer of dreams, the eternal asker of answers, stands in the street, and lifts his palms for the first cold ghost of rain. the purple lights leap down the hill before him. the gorgeous night has begun again. 'i will ask them all, i will ask them all their dreams, i will hold my light above them and seek their faces, i will hear them whisper, invisible in their veins. . . . ' the eternal asker of answers becomes as the darkness, or as a wind blown over a myriad forest, or as the numberless voices of long-drawn rains. we hear him and take him among us like a wind of music, like the ghost of a music we have somewhere heard; we crowd through the streets in a dazzle of pallid lamplight, we pour in a sinister mass, we ascend a stair, with laughter and cry, with word upon murmured word, we flow, we descend, we turn. . . . and the eternal dreamer moves on among us like light, like evening air . . . good night! good night! good night! we go our ways, the rain runs over the pavement before our feet, the cold rain falls, the rain sings. we walk, we run, we ride. we turn our faces to what the eternal evening brings. our hands are hot and raw with the stones we have laid, we have built a tower of stone high into the sky. we have built a city of towers. our hands are light, they are singing with emptiness. our souls are light. they have shaken a burden of hours. . . . what did we build it for? was it all a dream? . . . ghostly above us in lamplight the towers gleam . . . and after a while they will fall to dust and rain; or else we will tear them down with impatient hands; and hew rock out of the earth, and build them again. - country sentiment by robert graves to nancy nicholson note: some of the poems included in this volume have appeared in "the new statesman", "the owl", "reveille", "land and water", "poetry", and other papers, english and american. robert graves. harlech, north wales. contents a frosty night song for two children dicky the three drinkers the boy out of church after the play one hard look true johnny the voice of beauty drowned the god called poetry rocky acres advice to lovers nebuchadnezzar's fall give us rain allie loving henry brittle bones apples and water manticor in arabia outlaws baloo loo for jenny hawk and buckle the "alice jean" the cupboard the beacon pot and kettle ghost raddled neglectful edward the well-dressed children thunder at night to e.m.--a ballad of nursery rhyme jane vain and careless nine o'clock the picture book the promised lullaby retrospect haunted retrospect: the jests of the clock here they lie tom taylor country at war sospan fach the leveller hate not, fear not a rhyme of friends a first review a frosty night. mother alice, dear, what ails you, dazed and white and shaken? has the chill night numbed you? is it fright you have taken? alice mother, i am very well, i felt never better, mother, do not hold me so, let me write my letter. mother sweet, my dear, what ails you? alice no, but i am well; the night was cold and frosty, there's no more to tell. mother ay, the night was frosty, coldly gaped the moon, yet the birds seemed twittering through green boughs of june. soft and thick the snow lay, stars danced in the sky. not all the lambs of may-day skip so bold and high. your feet were dancing, alice, seemed to dance on air, you looked a ghost or angel in the starlight there. your eyes were frosted starlight, your heart fire and snow. who was it said, "i love you"? alice mother, let me go! a song for two children. "make a song, father, a new little song, all for jenny and nancy." balow lalow or hey derry down, or else what might you fancy? is there any song sweet enough for nancy and for jenny? said simple simon to the pieman, "indeed i know not any." "i've counted the miles to babylon, i've flown the earth like a bird, i've ridden cock-horse to banbury cross, but no such song have i heard." "some speak of alexander, and some of hercules, but where are there any like nancy and jenny, where are there any like these?" dicky. mother oh, what a heavy sigh! dicky, are you ailing? dicky even by this fireside, mother, my heart is failing. to-night across the down, whistling and jolly, i sauntered out from town with my stick of holly. bounteous and cool from sea the wind was blowing, cloud shadows under the moon coming and going. i sang old roaring songs, ran and leaped quick, and turned home by st. swithin's twirling my stick. and there as i was passing the churchyard gate an old man stopped me, "dicky, you're walking late." i did not know the man, i grew afeared at his lean lolling jaw, his spreading beard. his garments old and musty, of antique cut, his body very lean and bony, his eyes tight shut. oh, even to tell it now my courage ebbs... his face was clay, mother, his beard, cobwebs. in that long horrid pause "good-night," he said, entered and clicked the gate, "each to his bed." mother do not sigh or fear, dicky, how is it right to grudge the dead their ghostly dark and wan moonlight? we have the glorious sun, lamp and fireside. grudge not the dead their moonshine when abroad they ride. the three drinkers. blacksmith green had three strong sons, with bread and beef did fill 'em, now john and ned are perished and dead, but plenty remains of william. john green was a whiskey drinker, the land of cakes supplied him, till at last his soul flew out by the hole that the fierce drink burned inside him. ned green was a water drinker, and, lord, how ned would fuddle! he rotted away his mortal clay like an old boot thrown in a puddle. will green was a wise young drinker, shrank from whiskey or water, but he made good cheer with headstrong beer, and married an alderman's daughter. the boy out of church. as jesus and his followers upon a sabbath morn were walking by a wheat field they plucked the ears of corn. they plucked it, they rubbed it, they blew the husks away, which grieved the pious pharisees upon the sabbath day. and jesus said, "a riddle answer if you can, was man made for the sabbath or sabbath made for man?" i do not love the sabbath, the soapsuds and the starch, the troops of solemn people who to salvation march. i take my book, i take my stick on the sabbath day, in woody nooks and valleys i hide myself away. to ponder there in quiet god's universal plan, resolved that church and sabbath were never made for man. after the play. father have you spent the money i gave you to-day? john ay, father i have. a fourpence on cakes, two pennies that away to a beggar i gave. father the lake of yellow brimstone boil for you in hell, such lies that you spin. tell the truth now, john, ere the falsehood swell, say, where have you been? john i'll lie no more to you, father, what is the need? to the play i went, with sixpence for a near seat, money's worth indeed, the best ever spent. grief to you, shame or grief, here is the story-- my splendid night! it was colour, scents, music, a tragic glory, fear with delight. hamlet, prince of denmark, title of the tale: he of that name, a tall, glum fellow, velvet cloaked, with a shirt of mail, two eyes like flame. all the furies of fate circled round the man, maddening his heart, there was old murder done before play began, ay, the ghost took part. there were grave-diggers delving, they brought up bones, and with rage and grief all the players shouted in full, kingly tones, grand, passing belief. oh, there were ladies there radiant like day, and changing scenes: great sounding words were tossed about like hay by kings and queens. how the plot turned about i watched in vain, though for grief i cried, as one and all they faded, poisoned or slain, in great agony died. father, you'll drive me forth never to return, doubting me your son-- father so i shall, john john --but that glory for which i burn shall be soon begun. i shall wear great boots, shall strut and shout, keep my locks curled. the fame of my name shall go ringing about over half the world. father horror that your prince found, john may you find, ever and again dying before the house in such torture of mind as you need not feign. while they clap and stamp at your nightly fate, they shall never know the curse that drags at you, until hell's gate. you have heard me. go! song: one hard look. small gnats that fly in hot july and lodge in sleeping ears, can rouse therein a trumpet's din with day-of-judgement fears. small mice at night can wake more fright than lions at midday. an urchin small torments us all who tread his prickly way. a straw will crack the camel's back, to die we need but sip, so little sand as fills the hand can stop a steaming ship. one smile relieves a heart that grieves though deadly sad it be, and one hard look can close the book that lovers love to see-- true johnny. johnny, sweetheart, can you be true to all those famous vows you've made, will you love me as i love you until we both in earth are laid? or shall the old wives nod and say his love was only for a day: the mood goes by, his fancies fly, and mary's left to sigh. mary, alas, you've hit the truth, and i with grief can but admit hot-blooded haste controls my youth, my idle fancies veer and flit from flower to flower, from tree to tree, and when the moment catches me, oh, love goes by away i fly and leave my girl to sigh. could you but now foretell the day, johnny, when this sad thing must be, when light and gay you'll turn away and laugh and break the heart in me? for like a nut for true love's sake my empty heart shall crack and break, when fancies fly and love goes by and mary's left to die. when the sun turns against the clock, when avon waters upward flow, when eggs are laid by barn-door cock, when dusty hens do strut and crow, when up is down, when left is right, oh, then i'll break the troth i plight, with careless eye away i'll fly and mary here shall die. the voice of beauty drowned. cry from the thicket my heart's bird! the other birds woke all around, rising with toot and howl they stirred their plumage, broke the trembling sound, they craned their necks, they fluttered wings, "while we are silent no one sings, and while we sing you hush your throat, or tune your melody to our note." cry from the thicket my heart's bird! the screams and hootings rose again: they gaped with raucous beaks, they whirred their noisy plumage; small but plain the lonely hidden singer made a well of grief within the glade. "whist, silly fool, be off," they shout, "or we'll come pluck your feathers out." cry from the thicket my heart's bird! slight and small the lovely cry came trickling down, but no one heard. parrot and cuckoo, crow, magpie jarred horrid notes and the jangling jay ripped the fine threads of song away, for why should peeping chick aspire to challenge their loud woodland choir? cried it so sweet that unseen bird? lovelier could no music be, clearer than water, soft as curd, fresh as the blossomed cherry tree. how sang the others all around? piercing and harsh, a maddening sound, with pretty poll, tuwit-tu-woo, peewit, caw caw, cuckoo-cuckoo. the god called poetry. now i begin to know at last, these nights when i sit down to rhyme, the form and measure of that vast god we call poetry, he who stoops and leaps me through his paper hoops a little higher every time. tempts me to think i'll grow a proper singing cricket or grass-hopper making prodigious jumps in air while shaken crowds about me stare aghast, and i sing, growing bolder to fly up on my master's shoulder rustling the thick strands of his hair. he is older than the seas, older than the plains and hills, and older than the light that spills from the sun's hot wheel on these. he wakes the gale that tears your trees, he sings to you from window sills. at you he roars, or he will coo, he shouts and screams when hell is hot, riding on the shell and shot. he smites you down, he succours you, and where you seek him, he is not. to-day i see he has two heads like janus--calm, benignant, this; that, grim and scowling: his beard spreads from chin to chin" this god has power immeasurable at every hour: he first taught lovers how to kiss, he brings down sunshine after shower, thunder and hate are his also, he is yes and he is no. the black beard spoke and said to me, "human frailty though you be, yet shout and crack your whip, be harsh! they'll obey you in the end: hill and field, river and marsh shall obey you, hop and skip at the terrour of your whip, to your gales of anger bend." the pale beard spoke and said in turn "true: a prize goes to the stern, but sing and laugh and easily run through the wide airs of my plain, bathe in my waters, drink my sun, and draw my creatures with soft song; they shall follow you along graciously with no doubt or pain." then speaking from his double head the glorious fearful monster said "i am yes and i am no, black as pitch and white as snow, love me, hate me, reconcile hate with love, perfect with vile, so equal justice shall be done and life shared between moon and sun. nature for you shall curse or smile: a poet you shall be, my son." rocky acres. this is a wild land, country of my choice, with harsh craggy mountain, moor ample and bare. seldom in these acres is heard any voice but voice of cold water that runs here and there through rocks and lank heather growing without care. no mice in the heath run nor no birds cry for fear of the dark speck that floats in the sky. he soars and he hovers rocking on his wings, he scans his wide parish with a sharp eye, he catches the trembling of small hidden things, he tears them in pieces, dropping from the sky: tenderness and pity the land will deny, where life is but nourished from water and rock a hardy adventure, full of fear and shock. time has never journeyed to this lost land, crakeberries and heather bloom out of date, the rocks jut, the streams flow singing on either hand, careless if the season be early or late. the skies wander overhead, now blue, now slate: winter would be known by his cold cutting snow if june did not borrow his armour also. yet this is my country be loved by me best, the first land that rose from chaos and the flood, nursing no fat valleys for comfort and rest, trampled by no hard hooves, stained with no blood. bold immortal country whose hill tops have stood strongholds for the proud gods when on earth they go, terror for fat burghers in far plains below. advice to lovers. i knew an old man at a fair who made it his twice-yearly task to clamber on a cider cask and cry to all the yokels there:-- "lovers to-day and for all time preserve the meaning of my rhyme: love is not kindly nor yet grim but does to you as you to him. "whistle, and love will come to you, hiss, and he fades without a word, do wrong, and he great wrong will do, speak, he retells what he has heard. "then all you lovers have good heed vex not young love in word or deed: love never leaves an unpaid debt, he will not pardon nor forget." the old man's voice was sweet yet loud and this shows what a man was he, he'd scatter apples to the crowd and give great draughts of cider, free. nebuchadnezzar's fall. frowning over the riddle that daniel told, down through the mist hung garden, below a feeble sun, the king of persia walked: oh, the chilling cold! his mind was webbed with a grey shroud vapour-spun. here for the pride of his soaring eagle heart, here for his great hand searching the skies for food, here for his courtship of heaven's high stars he shall smart, nebuchadnezzar shall fall, crawl, be subdued. hot sun struck through the vapour, leaf strewn mould breathed sweet decay: old earth called for her child. mist drew off from his mind, sun scattered gold, warmth came and earthy motives fresh and wild. down on his knees he sinks, the stiff-necked king, stoops and kneels and grovels, chin to the mud. out from his changed heart flutter on startled wing the fancy birds of his pride, honour, kinglihood. he crawls, he grunts, he is beast-like, frogs and snails his diet, and grass, and water with hand for cup. he herds with brutes that have hooves and horns and tails, he roars in his anger, he scratches, he looks not up. give us rain. "give us rain, rain," said the bean and the pea, "not so much sun, not so much sun." but the sun smiles bravely and encouragingly, and no rain falls and no waters run. "give us peace, peace," said the peoples oppressed, "not so many flags, not so many flags." but the flags fly and the drums beat, denying rest, and the children starve, they shiver in rags. allie. allie, call the birds in, the birds from the sky. allie calls, allie sings, down they all fly. first there came two white doves then a sparrow from his nest, then a clucking bantam hen, then a robin red-breast. allie, call the beasts in, the beasts, every one. allie calls, allie sings, in they all run. first there came two black lambs, then a grunting berkshire sow, then a dog without a tail, then a red and white cow. allie, call the fish up, the fish from the stream. allie calls, allie sings, up they all swim. first there came two gold fish, a minnow and a miller's thumb, then a pair of loving trout, then the twisted eels come. allie, call the children, children from the green. allie calls, allie sings, soon they run in. first there came tom and madge, kate and i who'll not forget how we played by the water's edge till the april sun set. loving henry. henry, henry, do you love me? do i love you, mary? oh, can you mean to liken me to the aspen tree. whose leaves do shake and vary, from white to green and back again, shifting and contrary? henry, henry, do you love me, do you love me truly? oh, mary, must i say again my love's a pain, a torment most unruly? it tosses me like a ship at sea when the storm rages fully. henry, henry, why do you love me? mary, dear, have pity! i swear, of all the girls there are both near and far, in country or in city, there's none like you, so kind, so true, so wise, so brave, so pretty. brittle bones. though i am an old man with my bones very brittle, though i am a poor old man worth very little, yet i suck at my long pipe at peace in the sun, i do not fret nor much regret that my work is done. if i were a young man with my bones full of marrow, oh, if i were a bold young man straight as an arrow, and if i had the same years to live once again, i would not change their simple range of laughter and pain. if i were a young man and young was my lily, a smart girl, a bold young man, both of us silly. and though from time before i knew she'd stab me with pain, though well i knew she'd not be true, i'd love her again. if i were a young man with a brisk, healthy body, oh, if i were a bold young man with love of rum toddy, though i knew that i was spiting my old age with pain, my happy lip would touch and sip again and again. if i were a young man with my bones full of marrow, oh, if i were a bold young man straight as an arrow, i'd store up no virtue for heaven's distant plain, i'd live at ease as i did please and sin once again. apples and water. dust in a cloud, blinding weather, drums that rattle and roar! a mother and daughter stood together beside their cottage door. "mother, the heavens are bright like brass, the dust is shaken high, with labouring breath the soldiers pass, their lips are cracked and dry." "mother, i'll throw them apples down, i'll bring them pails of water." the mother turned with an angry frown holding back her daughter. "but mother, see, they faint with thirst, they march away to die," "ah, sweet, had i but known at first their throats are always dry." "there is no water can supply them in western streams that flow, there is no fruit can satisfy them on orchard trees that grow." "once in my youth i gave, poor fool, a soldier apples and water, so may i die before you cool your father's drouth, my daughter." manticor in arabia. (the manticors of the montaines mighte feed them on thy braines.--skelton.) thick and scented daisies spread where with surface dull like lead arabian pools of slime invite manticors down from neighbouring height to dip heads, to cool fiery blood in oozy depths of sucking mud. sing then of ringstraked manticor, man-visaged tiger who of yore held whole arabian waste in fee with raging pride from sea to sea, that every lesser tribe would fly those armed feet, that hooded eye; till preying on himself at last manticor dwindled, sank, was passed by gryphon flocks he did disdain. ay, wyverns and rude dragons reign in ancient keep of manticor agreed old foe can rise no more. only here from lakes of slime drinks manticor and bides due time: six times fowl phoenix in yon tree must mount his pyre and burn and be renewed again, till in such hour as seventh phoenix flames to power and lifts young feathers, overnice from scented pool of steamy spice shall manticor his sway restore and rule arabian plains once more. outlaws. owls: they whinney down the night, bats go zigzag by. ambushed in shadow out of sight the outlaws lie. old gods, shrunk to shadows, there in the wet woods they lurk, greedy of human stuff to snare in webs of murk. look up, else your eye must drown in a moving sea of black between the tree-tops, upside down goes the sky-track. look up, else your feet will stray towards that dim ambuscade, where spider-like they catch their prey in nets of shade. for though creeds whirl away in dust, faith fails and men forget, these aged gods of fright and lust cling to life yet. old gods almost dead, malign, starved of their ancient dues, incense and fruit, fire, blood and wine and an unclean muse. banished to woods and a sickly moon, shrunk to mere bogey things, who spoke with thunder once at noon to prostrate kings. with thunder from an open sky to peasant, tyrant, priest, bowing in fear with a dazzled eye towards the east. proud gods, humbled, sunk so low, living with ghosts and ghouls, and ghosts of ghosts and last year's snow and dead toadstools. baloo loo for jenny. sing baloo loo for jenny and where is she gone? away to spy her mother's land, riding all alone. to the rich towns of scotland, the woods and the streams, high upon a spanish horse saddled for her dreams. by oxford and by chester, to berwick-on-the-tweed, then once across the borderland she shall find no need. a loaf for her at stirling, a scone at carlisle, honeyed cakes at edinbro'-- that shall make her smile. at aberdeen clear cider, mead for her at nairn, a cup of wine at john o' groats-- that shall please my bairn. sing baloo loo for jenny, mother will be fain to see her little truant child riding home again. hawk and buckle. where is the landlord of old hawk and buckle, and what of master straddler this hot summer weather? he's along in the tap-room with broad cheeks a-chuckle, and ten bold companions all drinking together. where is the daughter of old hawk and buckle, and what of mistress jenny this hot summer weather? she sits in the parlour with smell of honeysuckle, trimming her bonnet with red ostrich feather. where is the ostler of old hawk and buckle, and what of willy jakeman this hot summer weather? he is rubbing his eyes with a slow and lazy knuckle as he wakes from his nap on a bank of fresh heather. where is the page boy of old hawk and buckle, and what of our young charlie this hot summer weather? he is bobbing for tiddlers in a little trickle-truckle, with his line and his hook and his breeches of leather. where is the grey goat of old hawk and buckle, and what of pretty nanny this hot summer weather? she stays not contented with little or with muckle, straining for daisies at the end of her tether. for this is our motto at old hawk and buckle, we cling to it close and we sing all together, "every man for himself at our old hawk and buckle, and devil take the hindmost this hot summer weather." the "alice jean". one moonlit night a ship drove in, a ghost ship from the west, drifting with bare mast and lone tiller, like a mermaid drest in long green weed and barnacles: she beached and came to rest. all the watchers of the coast flocked to view the sight, men and women streaming down through the summer night, found her standing tall and ragged beached in the moonlight. then one old woman looked and wept "the 'alice jean'? but no! the ship that took my dick from me sixty years ago drifted back from the utmost west with the ocean's flow? "caught and caged in the weedy pool beyond the western brink, where crewless vessels lie and rot in waters black as ink. torn out again by a sudden storm is it the 'jean', you think?" a hundred women stared agape, the menfolk nudged and laughed, but none could find a likelier story for the strange craft. with fear and death and desolation rigged fore and aft. the blind ship came forgotten home to all but one of these of whom none dared to climb aboard her: and by and by the breeze sprang to a storm and the "alice jean" foundered in frothy seas. the cupboard. mother what's in that cupboard, mary? mary which cupboard, mother dear? mother the cupboard of red mahogany with handles shining clear. mary that cupboard, dearest mother, with shining crystal handles? there's nought inside but rags and jags and yellow tallow candles. mother what's in that cupboard, mary? mary which cupboard, mother mine? mother that cupboard stands in your sunny chamber, the silver corners shine. mary there's nothing there inside, mother, but wool and thread and flax, and bits of faded silk and velvet, and candles of white wax. mother what's in that cupboard, mary? and this time tell me true. mary white clothes for an unborn baby, mother, but what's the truth to you? the beacon. the silent shepherdess, she of my vows, here with me exchanging love under dim boughs. shines on our mysteries a sudden spark-- "dout the candle, glow-worm, let all be dark. "the birds have sung their last notes, the sun's to bed, glow-worm, dout your candle." the glow-worm said: "i also am a lover; the lamp i display is beacon for my true love wandering astray. "through the thick bushes and the grass comes she with a heartload of longing and love for me. "sir, enjoy your fancy, but spare me harm, a lover is a lover, though but a worm." pot and kettle. come close to me, dear annie, while i bind a lover's knot. a tale of burning love between a kettle and a pot. the pot was stalwart iron and the kettle trusty tin, and though their sides were black with smoke they bubbled love within. forget that kettle, jamie, and that pot of boiling broth, i know a dismal story of a candle and a moth. for while your pot is boiling and while your kettle sings my moth makes love to candle flame and burns away his wings. your moth, i envy, annie, that died by candle flame, but here are two more lovers, unto no damage came. there was a cuckoo loved a clock and found her always true. for every hour they told their hearts, "ring! ting! cuckoo! cuckoo!" as the pot boiled for the kettle, as the kettle for the pot, so boils my love within me till my breast is glowing hot. as the moth died for the candle, so could i die for you. and my fond heart beats time with yours and cries, "cuckoo! cuckoo!" ghost raddled. "come, surly fellow, come! a song!" what, madmen? sing to you? choose from the clouded tales of wrong and terror i bring to you. of a night so torn with cries, honest men sleeping start awake with glaring eyes, bone-chilled, flesh creeping. of spirits in the web hung room up above the stable, groans, knockings in the gloom, the dancing table. of demons in the dry well that cheep and mutter, clanging of an unseen bell, blood choking the gutter. of lust frightful, past belief, lurking unforgotten, unrestrainable endless grief from breasts long rotten. a song? what laughter or what song can this house remember? do flowers and butterflies belong to a blind december? neglectful edward. nancy "edward back from the indian sea, what have you brought for nancy?" edward "a rope of pearls and a gold earring, and a bird of the east that will not sing. a carven tooth, a box with a key--" nancy "god be praised you are back," says she, "have you nothing more for your nancy?" edward "long as i sailed the indian sea i gathered all for your fancy: toys and silk and jewels i bring, and a bird of the east that will not sing: what more can you want, dear girl, from me?" nancy "god be praised you are back," said she, "have you nothing better for nancy?" edward "safe and home from the indian sea, and nothing to take your fancy?" nancy "you can keep your pearls and your gold earring, and your bird of the east that will not sing, but, ned, have you nothing more for me than heathenish gew-gaw toys?" says she, "have you nothing better for nancy?" the well-dressed children. here's flowery taffeta for mary's new gown: here's black velvet, all the rage, for dick's birthday coat. pearly buttons for you, mary, all the way down, lace ruffles, dick, for you; you'll be a man of note. mary, here i've bought you a green gingham shade and a silk purse brocaded with roses gold and blue, you'll learn to hold them proudly like colours on parade. no banker's wife in all the town half so grand as you. i've bought for young diccon a long walking-stick, yellow gloves, well tanned, at woodstock village made. i'll teach you to flourish 'em and show your name is dick, strutting by your sister's side with the same parade. on sunday to church you go, each with a book of prayer: then up the street and down the aisles, everywhere you'll see of all the honours paid around, how small is virtue's share. how large the share of vulgar pride in peacock finery. thunder at night. restless and hot two children lay plagued with uneasy dreams, each wandered lonely through false day a twilight torn with screams. true to the bed-time story, ben pursued his wounded bear, ann dreamed of chattering monkey men, of snakes twined in her hair... now high aloft above the town the thick clouds gather and break, a flash, a roar, and rain drives down: aghast the young things wake. trembling for what their terror was, surprised by instant doom, with lightning in the looking glass, thunder that rocks the room. the monkeys' paws patter again, snakes hiss and flash their eyes: the bear roars out in hideous pain: ann prays: her brother cries. they cannot guess, could not be told how soon comes careless day, with birds and dandelion gold, wet grass, cool scents of may. to e.m.--a ballad of nursery rhyme. strawberries that in gardens grow are plump and juicy fine, but sweeter far as wise men know spring from the woodland vine. no need for bowl or silver spoon, sugar or spice or cream, has the wild berry plucked in june beside the trickling stream. one such to melt at the tongue's root, confounding taste with scent, beats a full peck of garden fruit: which points my argument. may sudden justice overtake and snap the froward pen, that old and palsied poets shake against the minds of men. blasphemers trusting to hold caught in far-flung webs of ink, the utmost ends of human thought till nothing's left to think. but may the gift of heavenly peace and glory for all time keep the boy tom who tending geese first made the nursery rhyme. by the brookside one august day, using the sun for clock, tom whiled the languid hours away beside his scattering flock. carving with a sharp pointed stone on a broad slab of slate the famous lives of jumping joan, dan fox and greedy kate. rhyming of wolves and bears and birds, spain, scotland, babylon, that sister kate might learn the words to tell to toddling john. but kate who could not stay content to learn her lesson pat new beauty to the rough lines lent by changing this or that. and she herself set fresh things down in corners of her slate, of lambs and lanes and london town. god's blessing fall on kate! the baby loved the simple sound, with jolly glee he shook, and soon the lines grew smooth and round like pebbles in tom's brook. from mouth to mouth told and retold by children sprawled at ease, before the fire in winter's cold, in june, beneath tall trees. till though long lost are stone and slate, though the brook no more runs, and dead long time are tom, john, kate, their sons and their sons' sons. yet as when time with stealthy tread lays the rich garden waste the woodland berry ripe and red fails not in scent or taste, so these same rhymes shall still be told to children yet unborn, while false philosophy growing old fades and is killed by scorn. jane. as jane walked out below the hill, she saw an old man standing still, his eyes in tranced sorrow bound on the broad stretch of barren ground. his limbs were knarled like aged trees, his thin beard wrapt about his knees, his visage broad and parchment white, aglint with pale reflected light. he seemed a creature fall'n afar from some dim planet or faint star. jane scanned him very close, and soon cried, "'tis the old man from the moon." he raised his voice, a grating creak, but only to himself would speak. groaning with tears in piteous pain, "o! o! would i were home again." then jane ran off, quick as she could, to cheer his heart with drink and food. but ah, too late came ale and bread, she found the poor soul stretched stone-dead. and a new moon rode overhead. vain and careless. lady, lovely lady, careless and gay! once when a beggar called she gave her child away. the beggar took the baby, wrapped it in a shawl, "bring her back," the lady said, "next time you call." hard by lived a vain man, so vain and so proud, he walked on stilts to be seen by the crowd. up above the chimney pots, tall as a mast, and all the people ran about shouting till he passed. "a splendid match surely," neighbours saw it plain, "although she is so careless, although he is so vain." but the lady played bobcherry, did not see or care, as the vain man went by her aloft in the air. this gentle-born couple lived and died apart. water will not mix with oil, nor vain with careless heart. nine o'clock. i. nine of the clock, oh! wake my lazy head! your shoes of red morocco, your silk bed-gown: rouse, rouse, speck-eyed mary in your high bed! a yawn, a smile, sleepy-starey, mary climbs down. "good-morning to my brothers, good-day to the sun, halloo, halloo to the lily-white sheep that up the mountain run." ii. good-night to the meadow, farewell to the nine o'clock sun, "he loves me not, loves me, he loves me not" (o jealous one!) "he loves me, he loves me not, loves me"--o soft nights of june, a bird sang for love on the cherry-bough: up swam the moon. the picture book. when i was not quite five years old i first saw the blue picture book, and fraulein spitzenburger told stories that sent me hot and cold; i loathed it, yet i had to look: it was a german book. i smiled at first, for she'd begun with a back-garden broad and green, and rabbits nibbling there: page one turned; and the gardener fired his gun from the low hedge: he lay unseen behind: oh, it was mean! they're hurt, they can't escape, and so he stuffs them head-down in a sack, not quite dead, wriggling in a row, and fraulein laughed, "ho, ho! ho, ho!" and gave my middle a hard smack, i wish that i'd hit back. then when i cried she laughed again; on the next page was a dead boy murdered by robbers in a lane; his clothes were red with a big stain of blood, he held a broken toy, the poor, poor little boy! i had to look: there was a town burning where every one got caught, then a fish pulled a nigger down into the lake and made him drown, and a man killed his friend; they fought for money, fraulein thought. old fraulein laughed, a horrid noise. "ho, ho!" then she explained it all how robbers kill the little boys and torture them and break their toys. robbers are always big and tall: i cried: i was so small. how a man often kills his wife, how every one dies in the end by fire, or water or a knife. if you're not careful in this life, even if you can trust your friend, you won't have long to spend. i hated it--old fraulein picked her teeth, slowly explaining it. i had to listen, fraulein licked her fingers several times and flicked the pages over; in a fit of rage i spat at it... and lying in my bed that night hungry, tired out with sobs, i found a stretch of barren years in sight, where right is wrong, but strength is right, where weak things must creep underground, and i could not sleep sound. the promised lullaby. can i find true-love a gift in this dark hour to restore her, when body's vessel breaks adrift, when hope and beauty fade before her? but in this plight i cannot think of song or music, that would grieve her, or toys or meat or snow-cooled drink; not this way can her sadness leave her. she lies and frets in childish fever, all i can do is but to cry "sleep, sleep, true-love and lullaby!" lullaby, and sleep again. two bright eyes through the window stare, a nose is flattened on the pane and infant fingers fumble there. "not yet, not yet, you lovely thing, but count and come nine weeks from now, when winter's tail has lost the sting, when buds come striking through the bough, then here's true-love will show you how her name she won, will hush your cry with "sleep, my baby! lullaby!" retrospect haunted. gulp down your wine, old friends of mine, roar through the darkness, stamp and sing and lay ghost hands on everything, but leave the noonday's warm sunshine to living lads for mirth and wine. i met you suddenly down the street, strangers assume your phantom faces, you grin at me from daylight places, dead, long dead, i'm ashamed to greet dead men down the morning street. retrospect: the jests of the clock. he had met hours of the clock he never guessed before-- dumb, dragging, mirthless hours confused with dreams and fear, bone-chilling, hungry hours when the gods sleep and snore, bequeathing earth and heaven to ghosts, and will not hear, and will not hear man groan chained to the sodden ground, rotting alive; in feather beds they slumbered sound. when noisome smells of day were sicklied by cold night, when sentries froze and muttered; when beyond the wire blank shadows crawled and tumbled, shaking, tricking the sight, when impotent hatred of life stifled desire, then soared the sudden rocket, broke in blanching showers. o lagging watch! o dawn! o hope-forsaken hours! how often with numbed heart, stale lips, venting his rage he swore he'd be a dolt, a traitor, a damned fool, if, when the guns stopped, ever again from youth to age he broke the early-rising, early-sleeping rule. no, though more bestial enemies roused a fouler war never again would he bear this, no never more! "rise with the cheerful sun, go to bed with the same, work in your field or kailyard all the shining day, but," he said, "never more in quest of wealth, honour, fame, search the small hours of night before the east goes grey. a healthy mind, a honest heart, a wise man leaves those ugly impious times to ghosts, devils, soldiers, thieves." poor fool, knowing too well deep in his heart that he'll be ready again if urgent orders come, to quit his rye and cabbages, kiss his wife and part at the first sullen rapping of the awakened drum, ready once more to sweat with fear and brace for the shock, to greet beneath a falling flare the jests of the clock. here they lie. here they lie who once learned here all that is taught of hurt or fear; dead, but by free will they died: they were true men, they had pride. tom taylor. on pay-day nights, neck-full with beer, old soldiers stumbling homeward here, homeward (still dazzled by the spark love kindled in some alley dark) young soldiers mooning in slow thought, start suddenly, turn about, are caught by a dancing sound, merry as a grig, tom taylor's piccolo playing jig. never was blown from human cheeks music like this, that calls and speaks till sots and lovers from one string dangle and dance in the same ring. tom, of your piping i've heard said and seen--that you can rouse the dead, dead-drunken men awash who lie in stinking gutters hear your cry, i've seen them twitch, draw breath, grope, sigh, heave up, sway, stand; grotesquely then you set them dancing, these dead men. they stamp and prance with sobbing breath, victims of wine or love or death, in ragged time they jump, they shake their heads, sweating to overtake the impetuous tune flying ahead. they flounder after, with legs of lead. now, suddenly as it started, play stops, the short echo dies away, the corpses drop, a senseless heap, the drunk men gaze about like sheep. grinning, the lovers sigh and stare up at the broad moon hanging there, while tom, five fingers to his nose, skips off...and the last bugle blows. country at war. and what of home--how goes it, boys, while we die here in stench and noise? "the hill stands up and hedges wind over the crest and drop behind; here swallows dip and wild things go on peaceful errands to and fro across the sloping meadow floor, and make no guess at blasting war. in woods that fledge the round hill-shoulder leaves shoot and open, fall and moulder, and shoot again. meadows yet show alternate white of drifted snow and daisies. children play at shop, warm days, on the flat boulder-top, with wildflower coinage, and the wares are bits of glass and unripe pears. crows perch upon the backs of sheep, the wheat goes yellow: women reap, autumn winds ruffle brook and pond, flutter the hedge and fly beyond. so the first things of nature run, and stand not still for any one, contemptuous of the distant cry wherewith you harrow earth and sky. and high french clouds, praying to be back, back in peace beyond the sea, where nature with accustomed round sweeps and garnishes the ground with kindly beauty, warm or cold-- alternate seasons never old: heathen, how furiously you rage, cursing this blood and brimstone age, how furiously against your will you kill and kill again, and kill: all thought of peace behind you cast, till like small boys with fear aghast, each cries for god to understand, 'i could not help it, it was my hand.'" sospan fach. (the little saucepan) four collier lads from ebbw vale took shelter from a shower of hail, and there beneath a spreading tree attuned their mouths to harmony. with smiling joy on every face two warbled tenor, two sang bass, and while the leaves above them hissed with rough hail, they started "aberystwyth." old parry's hymn, triumphant, rich, they changed through with even pitch, till at the end of their grand noise i called: "give us the 'sospan' boys!" who knows a tune so soft, so strong, so pitiful as that "saucepan" song for exiled hope, despaired desire of lost souls for their cottage fire? then low at first with gathering sound rose their four voices, smooth and round, till back went time: once more i stood with fusiliers in mametz wood. fierce burned the sun, yet cheeks were pale, for ice hail they had leaden hail; in that fine forest, green and big, there stayed unbroken not one twig. they sang, they swore, they plunged in haste, stumbling and shouting through the waste; the little "saucepan" flamed on high, emblem of hope and ease gone by. rough pit-boys from the coaly south, they sang, even in the cannon's mouth; like sunday's chapel, monday's inn, the death-trap sounded with their din. *** the storm blows over, sun comes out, the choir breaks up with jest and shout, with what relief i watch them part-- another note would break my heart! the leveller. near martinpuisch that night of hell two men were struck by the same shell, together tumbling in one heap senseless and limp like slaughtered sheep. one was a pale eighteen-year-old, girlish and thin and not too bold, pressed for the war ten years too soon, the shame and pity of his platoon. the other came from far-off lands with bristling chin and whiskered hands, he had known death and hell before in mexico and ecuador. yet in his death this cut-throat wild groaned "mother! mother!" like a child, while that poor innocent in man's clothes died cursing god with brutal oaths. old sergeant smith, kindest of men, wrote out two copies there and then of his accustomed funeral speech to cheer the womenfolk of each. hate not, fear not. kill if you must, but never hate: man is but grass and hate is blight, the sun will scorch you soon or late, die wholesome then, since you must fight. hate is a fear, and fear is rot that cankers root and fruit alike, fight cleanly then, hate not, fear not, strike with no madness when you strike. fever and fear distract the world, but calm be you though madmen shout, through blazing fires of battle hurled, hate not, strike, fear not, stare death out! a rhyme of friends. (in a style skeltonical) listen now this time shortly to my rhyme that herewith starts about certain kind hearts in those stricken parts that lie behind calais, old crones and aged men and young children. about the picardais, who earned my thousand thanks, dwellers by the banks of mournful somme (god keep me therefrom until war ends)-- these, then, are my friends: madame averlant lune, from the town of bethune; good professeur la brune from that town also. he played the piccolo, and left his locks to grow. dear madame hojdes, sempstress of saint fe. with jules and susette and antoinette. her children, my sweethearts, for whom i made darts of paper to throw in their mimic show, "la guerre aux tranchees." that was a pretty play. there was old jacques caron, of the hamlet mailleton. he let me look at his household book, "comment vivre cent ans." what cares i took to obey this wise book, i, who feared each hour lest death's cruel power on the poppied plain might make cares vain! by noeus-les-mines lived old adelphine, withered and clean, she nodded and smiled, and used me like a child. how that old trot beguiled my leisure with her chatter, gave me a china platter painted with cherubim and mottoes on the rim. but when instead of thanks i gave her francs how her pride was hurt! she counted francs as dirt, (god knows, she was not rich) she called the kaiser bitch, she spat on the floor, cursing this prussian war, that she had known before forty years past and more. there was also "tomi," with looks sweet and free, who called me cher ami. this orphan's age was nine, his folk were in their graves, else they were slaves behind the german line to terror and rapine-- o, little friends of mine how kind and brave you were, you smoothed away care when life was hard to bear. and you, old women and men, who gave me billets then, how patient and great-hearted! strangers though we started, yet friends we ever parted. god bless you all: now ends this homage to my friends. a first review. love, fear and hate and childish toys are here discreetly blent; admire, you ladies, read, you boys, my country sentiment. but kate says, "cut that anger and fear, true love's the stuff we need! with laughing children and the running deer that makes a book indeed." then tom, a hard and bloody chap, though much beloved by me, "robert, have done with nursery pap, write like a man," says he. hate and fear are not wanted here, nor toys nor country lovers, everything they took from my new poem book but the flyleaf and the covers. poems of william blake by william blake songs of innocence and of experience and the book of thel songs of innocence introduction piping down the valleys wild, piping songs of pleasant glee, on a cloud i saw a child, and he laughing said to me: "pipe a song about a lamb!" so i piped with merry cheer. "piper, pipe that song again;" so i piped: he wept to hear. "drop thy pipe, thy happy pipe; sing thy songs of happy cheer!" so i sang the same again, while he wept with joy to hear. "piper, sit thee down and write in a book, that all may read." so he vanish'd from my sight; and i pluck'd a hollow reed, and i made a rural pen, and i stain'd the water clear, and i wrote my happy songs every child may joy to hear. the shepherd how sweet is the shepherd's sweet lot! from the morn to the evening he stays; he shall follow his sheep all the day, and his tongue shall be filled with praise. for he hears the lambs' innocent call, and he hears the ewes' tender reply; he is watching while they are in peace, for they know when their shepherd is nigh. the echoing green the sun does arise, and make happy the skies; the merry bells ring to welcome the spring; the skylark and thrush, the birds of the bush, sing louder around to the bells' cheerful sound; while our sports shall be seen on the echoing green. old john, with white hair, does laugh away care, sitting under the oak, among the old folk. they laugh at our play, and soon they all say, "such, such were the joys when we all--girls and boys-- in our youth-time were seen on the echoing green." till the little ones, weary, no more can be merry: the sun does descend, and our sports have an end. round the laps of their mothers many sisters and brothers, like birds in their nest, are ready for rest, and sport no more seen on the darkening green. the lamb little lamb, who made thee dost thou know who made thee, gave thee life, and bid thee feed by the stream and o'er the mead; gave thee clothing of delight, softest clothing, woolly, bright; gave thee such a tender voice, making all the vales rejoice? little lamb, who made thee? dost thou know who made thee? little lamb, i'll tell thee; little lamb, i'll tell thee: he is called by thy name, for he calls himself a lamb he is meek, and he is mild, he became a little child. i a child, and thou a lamb, we are called by his name. little lamb, god bless thee! little lamb, god bless thee! the little black boy my mother bore me in the southern wild, and i am black, but oh my soul is white! white as an angel is the english child, but i am black, as if bereaved of light. my mother taught me underneath a tree, and, sitting down before the heat of day, she took me on her lap and kissed me, and, pointed to the east, began to say: "look on the rising sun: there god does live, and gives his light, and gives his heat away, and flowers and trees and beasts and men receive comfort in morning, joy in the noonday. "and we are put on earth a little space, that we may learn to bear the beams of love and these black bodies and this sunburnt face is but a cloud, and like a shady grove. "for when our souls have learn'd the heat to bear, the cloud will vanish, we shall hear his voice, saying, 'come out from the grove, my love and care and round my golden tent like lambs rejoice'," thus did my mother say, and kissed me; and thus i say to little english boy. when i from black and he from white cloud free, and round the tent of god like lambs we joy i'll shade him from the heat till he can bear to lean in joy upon our father's knee; and then i'll stand and stroke his silver hair, and be like him, and he will then love me. the blossom merry, merry sparrow! under leaves so green a happy blossom sees you, swift as arrow, seek your cradle narrow, near my bosom. pretty, pretty robin! under leaves so green a happy blossom hears you sobbing, sobbing, pretty, pretty robin, near my bosom. the chimney-sweeper when my mother died i was very young, and my father sold me while yet my tongue could scarcely cry "weep! weep! weep! weep!" so your chimneys i sweep, and in soot i sleep. there's little tom dacre, who cried when his head, that curled like a lamb's back, was shaved; so i said, "hush, tom! never mind it, for, when your head's bare, you know that the soot cannot spoil your white hair." and so he was quiet, and that very night, as tom was a-sleeping, he had such a sight!-- that thousands of sweepers, dick, joe, ned, and jack, were all of them locked up in coffins of black. and by came an angel, who had a bright key, and he opened the coffins, and let them all free; then down a green plain, leaping, laughing, they run, and wash in a river, and shine in the sun. then naked and white, all their bags left behind, they rise upon clouds, and sport in the wind; and the angel told tom, if he'd be a good boy, he'd have god for his father, and never want joy. and so tom awoke, and we rose in the dark, and got with our bags and our brushes to work. though the morning was cold, tom was happy and warm: so, if all do their duty, they need not fear harm. the little boy lost "father, father, where are you going? oh do not walk so fast! speak, father, speak to your little boy, or else i shall be lost." the night was dark, no father was there, the child was wet with dew; the mire was deep, and the child did weep, and away the vapour flew. the little boy found the little boy lost in the lonely fen, led by the wandering light, began to cry, but god, ever nigh, appeared like his father, in white. he kissed the child, and by the hand led, and to his mother brought, who in sorrow pale, through the lonely dale, the little boy weeping sought. laughing song when the green woods laugh with the voice of joy, and the dimpling stream runs laughing by; when the air does laugh with our merry wit, and the green hill laughs with the noise of it; when the meadows laugh with lively green, and the grasshopper laughs in the merry scene, when mary and susan and emily with their sweet round mouths sing "ha, ha he!" when the painted birds laugh in the shade, where our table with cherries and nuts is spread: come live, and be merry, and join with me, to sing the sweet chorus of "ha, ha, he!" a song sweet dreams, form a shade o'er my lovely infant's head! sweet dreams of pleasant streams by happy, silent, moony beams! sweet sleep, with soft down weave thy brows an infant crown sweet sleep, angel mild, hover o'er my happy child! sweet smiles, in the night hover over my delight! sweet smiles, mother's smile, all the livelong night beguile. sweet moans, dovelike sighs, chase not slumber from thine eyes! sweet moan, sweeter smile, all the dovelike moans beguile. sleep, sleep, happy child! all creation slept and smiled. sleep, sleep, happy sleep, while o'er thee doth mother weep. sweet babe, in thy face holy image i can trace; sweet babe, once like thee thy maker lay, and wept for me: wept for me, for thee, for all, when he was an infant small. thou his image ever see, heavenly face that smiles on thee! smiles on thee, on me, on all, who became an infant small; infant smiles are his own smiles; heaven and earth to peace beguiles. divine image to mercy, pity, peace, and love, all pray in their distress, and to these virtues of delight return their thankfulness. for mercy, pity, peace, and love, is god our father dear; and mercy, pity, peace, and love, is man, his child and care. for mercy has a human heart pity, a human face; and love, the human form divine; and peace, the human dress. then every man, of every clime, that prays in his distress, prays to the human form divine: love, mercy, pity, peace. and all must love the human form, in heathen, turk, or jew. where mercy, love, and pity dwell, there god is dwelling too. holy thursday 'twas on a holy thursday, their innocent faces clean, came children walking two and two, in read, and blue, and green: grey-headed beadles walked before, with wands as white as snow, till into the high dome of paul's they like thames waters flow. oh what a multitude they seemed, these flowers of london town! seated in companies they sit, with radiance all their own. the hum of multitudes was there, but multitudes of lambs, thousands of little boys and girls raising their innocent hands. now like a mighty wild they raise to heaven the voice of song, or like harmonious thunderings the seats of heaven among: beneath them sit the aged man, wise guardians of the poor. then cherish pity, lest you drive an angel from your door. night the sun descending in the west, the evening star does shine; the birds are silent in their nest, and i must seek for mine. the moon, like a flower in heaven's high bower, with silent delight, sits and smiles on the night. farewell, green fields and happy grove, where flocks have ta'en delight. where lambs have nibbled, silent move the feet of angels bright; unseen they pour blessing, and joy without ceasing, on each bud and blossom, and each sleeping bosom. they look in every thoughtless nest where birds are covered warm; they visit caves of every beast, to keep them all from harm: if they see any weeping that should have been sleeping, they pour sleep on their head, and sit down by their bed. when wolves and tigers howl for prey, they pitying stand and weep; seeking to drive their thirst away, and keep them from the sheep. but, if they rush dreadful, the angels, most heedful, receive each mild spirit, new worlds to inherit. and there the lion's ruddy eyes shall flow with tears of gold: and pitying the tender cries, and walking round the fold: saying: "wrath by his meekness, and, by his health, sickness, are driven away from our immortal day. "and now beside thee, bleating lamb, i can lie down and sleep, or think on him who bore thy name, graze after thee, and weep. for, washed in life's river, my bright mane for ever shall shine like the gold, as i guard o'er the fold." spring sound the flute! now it's mute! bird's delight, day and night, nightingale, in the dale, lark in sky,-- merrily, merrily merrily, to welcome in the year. little boy, full of joy; little girl, sweet and small; cock does crow, so do you; merry voice, infant noise; merrily, merrily, to welcome in the year. little lamb, here i am; come and lick my white neck; let me pull your soft wool; let me kiss your soft face; merrily, merrily, to welcome in the year. nurse's song when the voices of children are heard on the green, and laughing is heard on the hill, my heart is at rest within my breast, and everything else is still. "then come home, my children, the sun is gone down, and the dews of night arise; come, come, leave off play, and let us away, till the morning appears in the skies." "no, no, let us play, for it is yet day, and we cannot go to sleep; besides, in the sky the little birds fly, and the hills are all covered with sheep." "well, well, go and play till the light fades away, and then go home to bed." the little ones leaped, and shouted, and laughed, and all the hills echoed. infant joy "i have no name; i am but two days old." what shall i call thee? "i happy am, joy is my name." sweet joy befall thee! pretty joy! sweet joy, but two days old. sweet joy i call thee: thou dost smile, i sing the while; sweet joy befall thee! a dream once a dream did weave a shade o'er my angel-guarded bed, that an emmet lost its way where on grass methought i lay. troubled, wildered, and forlorn, dark, benighted, travel-worn, over many a tangle spray, all heart-broke, i heard her say: "oh my children! do they cry, do they hear their father sigh? now they look abroad to see, now return and weep for me." pitying, i dropped a tear: but i saw a glow-worm near, who replied, "what wailing wight calls the watchman of the night? "i am set to light the ground, while the beetle goes his round: follow now the beetle's hum; little wanderer, hie thee home!" on another's sorrow can i see another's woe, and not be in sorrow too? can i see another's grief, and not seek for kind relief? can i see a falling tear, and not feel my sorrow's share? can a father see his child weep, nor be with sorrow filled? can a mother sit and hear an infant groan, an infant fear? no, no! never can it be! never, never can it be! and can he who smiles on all hear the wren with sorrows small, hear the small bird's grief and care, hear the woes that infants bear-- and not sit beside the next, pouring pity in their breast, and not sit the cradle near, weeping tear on infant's tear? and not sit both night and day, wiping all our tears away? oh no! never can it be! never, never can it be! he doth give his joy to all: he becomes an infant small, he becomes a man of woe, he doth feel the sorrow too. think not thou canst sigh a sigh, and thy maker is not by: think not thou canst weep a tear, and thy maker is not near. oh he gives to us his joy, that our grief he may destroy: till our grief is fled an gone he doth sit by us and moan. songs of experience introduction hear the voice of the bard, who present, past, and future, sees; whose ears have heard the holy word that walked among the ancient tree; calling the lapsed soul, and weeping in the evening dew; that might control the starry pole, and fallen, fallen light renew! "o earth, o earth, return! arise from out the dewy grass! night is worn, and the morn rises from the slumbrous mass. "turn away no more; why wilt thou turn away? the starry floor, the watery shore, are given thee till the break of day." earth's answer earth raised up her head from the darkness dread and drear, her light fled, stony, dread, and her locks covered with grey despair. "prisoned on watery shore, starry jealousy does keep my den cold and hoar; weeping o'er, i hear the father of the ancient men. "selfish father of men! cruel, jealous, selfish fear! can delight, chained in night, the virgins of youth and morning bear? "does spring hide its joy, when buds and blossoms grow? does the sower sow by night, or the plowman in darkness plough? "break this heavy chain, that does freeze my bones around! selfish, vain, eternal bane, that free love with bondage bound." the clod and the pebble "love seeketh not itself to please, nor for itself hath any care, but for another gives it ease, and builds a heaven in hell's despair." so sang a little clod of clay, trodden with the cattle's feet, but a pebble of the brook warbled out these metres meet: "love seeketh only self to please, to bind another to its delight, joys in another's loss of ease, and builds a hell in heaven's despite." holy thursday is this a holy thing to see in a rich and fruitful land,-- babes reduced to misery, fed with cold and usurous hand? is that trembling cry a song? can it be a song of joy? and so many children poor? it is a land of poverty! and their son does never shine, and their fields are bleak and bare, and their ways are filled with thorns: it is eternal winter there. for where'er the sun does shine, and where'er the rain does fall, babes should never hunger there, nor poverty the mind appall. the little girl lost in futurity i prophetic see that the earth from sleep (grave the sentence deep) shall arise, and seek for her maker meek; and the desert wild become a garden mild. in the southern clime, where the summer's prime never fades away, lovely lyca lay. seven summers old lovely lyca told. she had wandered long, hearing wild birds' song. "sweet sleep, come to me underneath this tree; do father, mother, weep? where can lyca sleep? "lost in desert wild is your little child. how can lyca sleep if her mother weep? "if her heart does ache, then let lyca wake; if my mother sleep, lyca shall not weep. "frowning, frowning night, o'er this desert bright let thy moon arise, while i close my eyes." sleeping lyca lay while the beasts of prey, come from caverns deep, viewed the maid asleep. the kingly lion stood, and the virgin viewed: then he gambolled round o'er the hallowed ground. leopards, tigers, play round her as she lay; while the lion old bowed his mane of gold, and her breast did lick and upon her neck, from his eyes of flame, ruby tears there came; while the lioness loosed her slender dress, and naked they conveyed to caves the sleeping maid. the little girl found all the night in woe lyca's parents go over valleys deep, while the deserts weep. tired and woe-begone, hoarse with making moan, arm in arm, seven days they traced the desert ways. seven nights they sleep among shadows deep, and dream they see their child starved in desert wild. pale through pathless ways the fancied image strays, famished, weeping, weak, with hollow piteous shriek. rising from unrest, the trembling woman pressed with feet of weary woe; she could no further go. in his arms he bore her, armed with sorrow sore; till before their way a couching lion lay. turning back was vain: soon his heavy mane bore them to the ground, then he stalked around, smelling to his prey; but their fears allay when he licks their hands, and silent by them stands. they look upon his eyes, filled with deep surprise; and wondering behold a spirit armed in gold. on his head a crown, on his shoulders down flowed his golden hair. gone was all their care. "follow me," he said; "weep not for the maid; in my palace deep, lyca lies asleep." then they followed where the vision led, and saw their sleeping child among tigers wild. to this day they dwell in a lonely dell, nor fear the wolvish howl nor the lion's growl. the chimney sweeper a little black thing in the snow, crying "weep! weep!" in notes of woe! "where are thy father and mother? say!"-- "they are both gone up to the church to pray. "because i was happy upon the heath, and smiled among the winter's snow, they clothed me in the clothes of death, and taught me to sing the notes of woe. "and because i am happy and dance and sing, they think they have done me no injury, and are gone to praise god and his priest and king, who make up a heaven of our misery." nurse's song when voices of children are heard on the green, and whisperings are in the dale, the days of my youth rise fresh in my mind, my face turns green and pale. then come home, my children, the sun is gone down, and the dews of night arise; your spring and your day are wasted in play, and your winter and night in disguise. the sick rose o rose, thou art sick! the invisible worm, that flies in the night, in the howling storm, has found out thy bed of crimson joy, and his dark secret love does thy life destroy. the fly little fly, thy summer's play my thoughtless hand has brushed away. am not i a fly like thee? or art not thou a man like me? for i dance and drink, and sing, till some blind hand shall brush my wing. if thought is life and strength and breath and the want of thought is death; then am i a happy fly, if i live, or if i die. the angel i dreamt a dream! what can it mean? and that i was a maiden queen guarded by an angel mild: witless woe was ne'er beguiled! and i wept both night and day, and he wiped my tears away; and i wept both day and night, and hid from him my heart's delight. so he took his wings, and fled; then the morn blushed rosy red. i dried my tears, and armed my fears with ten-thousand shields and spears. soon my angel came again; i was armed, he came in vain; for the time of youth was fled, and grey hairs were on my head. the tyger tyger, tyger, burning bright in the forests of the night, what immortal hand or eye could frame thy fearful symmetry? in what distant deeps or skies burnt the fire of thine eyes? on what wings dare he aspire? what the hand dare seize the fire? and what shoulder and what art could twist the sinews of thy heart? and, when thy heart began to beat, what dread hand and what dread feet? what the hammer? what the chain? in what furnace was thy brain? what the anvil? what dread grasp dare its deadly terrors clasp? when the stars threw down their spears, and watered heaven with their tears, did he smile his work to see? did he who made the lamb make thee? tyger, tyger, burning bright in the forests of the night, what immortal hand or eye dare frame thy fearful symmetry? my pretty rose tree a flower was offered to me, such a flower as may never bore; but i said "i've a pretty rose tree," and i passed the sweet flower o'er. then i went to my pretty rose tree, to tend her by day and by night; but my rose turned away with jealousy, and her thorns were my only delight. ah sunflower ah sunflower, weary of time, who countest the steps of the sun; seeking after that sweet golden clime where the traveller's journey is done; where the youth pined away with desire, and the pale virgin shrouded in snow, arise from their graves, and aspire where my sunflower wishes to go! the lily the modest rose puts forth a thorn, the humble sheep a threat'ning horn: while the lily white shall in love delight, nor a thorn nor a threat stain her beauty bright. the garden of love i laid me down upon a bank, where love lay sleeping; i heard among the rushes dank weeping, weeping. then i went to the heath and the wild, to the thistles and thorns of the waste; and they told me how they were beguiled, driven out, and compelled to the chaste. i went to the garden of love, and saw what i never had seen; a chapel was built in the midst, where i used to play on the green. and the gates of this chapel were shut and "thou shalt not," writ over the door; so i turned to the garden of love that so many sweet flowers bore. and i saw it was filled with graves, and tombstones where flowers should be; and priests in black gowns were walking their rounds, and binding with briars my joys and desires. the little vagabond dear mother, dear mother, the church is cold; but the alehouse is healthy, and pleasant, and warm. besides, i can tell where i am used well; the poor parsons with wind like a blown bladder swell. but, if at the church they would give us some ale, and a pleasant fire our souls to regale, we'd sing and we'd pray all the livelong day, nor ever once wish from the church to stray. then the parson might preach, and drink, and sing, and we'd be as happy as birds in the spring; and modest dame lurch, who is always at church, would not have bandy children, nor fasting, nor birch. and god, like a father, rejoicing to see his children as pleasant and happy as he, would have no more quarrel with the devil or the barrel, but kiss him, and give him both drink and apparel. london i wandered through each chartered street, near where the chartered thames does flow, a mark in every face i meet, marks of weakness, marks of woe. in every cry of every man, in every infant's cry of fear, in every voice, in every ban, the mind-forged manacles i hear: how the chimney-sweeper's cry every blackening church appalls, and the hapless soldier's sigh runs in blood down palace-walls. but most, through midnight streets i hear how the youthful harlot's curse blasts the new-born infant's tear, and blights with plagues the marriage-hearse. the human abstract pity would be no more if we did not make somebody poor, and mercy no more could be if all were as happy as we. and mutual fear brings peace, till the selfish loves increase; then cruelty knits a snare, and spreads his baits with care. he sits down with his holy fears, and waters the ground with tears; then humility takes its root underneath his foot. soon spreads the dismal shade of mystery over his head, and the caterpillar and fly feed on the mystery. and it bears the fruit of deceit, ruddy and sweet to eat, and the raven his nest has made in its thickest shade. the gods of the earth and sea sought through nature to find this tree, but their search was all in vain: there grows one in the human brain. infant sorrow my mother groaned, my father wept: into the dangerous world i leapt, helpless, naked, piping loud, like a fiend hid in a cloud. struggling in my father's hands, striving against my swaddling-bands, bound and weary, i thought best to sulk upon my mother's breast. a poison tree i was angry with my friend: i told my wrath, my wrath did end. i was angry with my foe: i told it not, my wrath did grow. and i watered it in fears night and morning with my tears, and i sunned it with smiles and with soft deceitful wiles. and it grew both day and night, till it bore an apple bright, and my foe beheld it shine, and he knew that it was mine,-- and into my garden stole when the night had veiled the pole; in the morning, glad, i see my foe outstretched beneath the tree. a little boy lost "nought loves another as itself, nor venerates another so, nor is it possible to thought a greater than itself to know. "and, father, how can i love you or any of my brothers more? i love you like the little bird that picks up crumbs around the door." the priest sat by and heard the child; in trembling zeal he seized his hair, he led him by his little coat, and all admired the priestly care. and standing on the altar high, "lo, what a fiend is here!" said he: "one who sets reason up for judge of our most holy mystery." the weeping child could not be heard, the weeping parents wept in vain: they stripped him to his little shirt, and bound him in an iron chain, and burned him in a holy place where many had been burned before; the weeping parents wept in vain. are such thing done on albion's shore? a little girl lost children of the future age, reading this indignant page, know that in a former time love, sweet love, was thought a crime. in the age of gold, free from winter's cold, youth and maiden bright, to the holy light, naked in the sunny beams delight. once a youthful pair, filled with softest care, met in garden bright where the holy light had just removed the curtains of the night. then, in rising day, on the grass they play; parents were afar, strangers came not near, and the maiden soon forgot her fear. tired with kisses sweet, they agree to meet when the silent sleep waves o'er heaven's deep, and the weary tired wanderers weep. to her father white came the maiden bright; but his loving look, like the holy book all her tender limbs with terror shook. "ona, pale and weak, to thy father speak! oh the trembling fear! oh the dismal care that shakes the blossoms of my hoary hair!" the schoolboy i love to rise on a summer morn, when birds are singing on every tree; the distant huntsman winds his horn, and the skylark sings with me: oh what sweet company! but to go to school in a summer morn,-- oh it drives all joy away! under a cruel eye outworn, the little ones spend the day in sighing and dismay. ah then at times i drooping sit, and spend many an anxious hour; nor in my book can i take delight, nor sit in learning's bower, worn through with the dreary shower. how can the bird that is born for joy sit in a cage and sing? how can a child, when fears annoy, but droop his tender wing, and forget his youthful spring? oh father and mother, if buds are nipped, and blossoms blown away; and if the tender plants are stripped of their joy in the springing day, by sorrow and care's dismay,-- how shall the summer arise in joy, or the summer fruits appear? or how shall we gather what griefs destroy, or bless the mellowing year, when the blasts of winter appear? to tirzah whate'er is born of mortal birth must be consumed with the earth, to rise from generation free: then what have i to do with thee? the sexes sprang from shame and pride, blown in the morn, in evening died; but mercy changed death into sleep; the sexes rose to work and weep. thou, mother of my mortal part, with cruelty didst mould my heart, and with false self-deceiving tears didst bind my nostrils, eyes, and ears, didst close my tongue in senseless clay, and me to mortal life betray. the death of jesus set me free: then what have i to do with thee? the voice of the ancient bard youth of delight! come hither and see the opening morn, image of truth new-born. doubt is fled, and clouds of reason, dark disputes and artful teazing. folly is an endless maze; tangled roots perplex her ways; how many have fallen there! they stumble all night over bones of the dead; and feel--they know not what but care; and wish to lead others, when they should be led. appendix a divine image cruelty has a human heart, and jealousy a human face; terror the human form divine, and secresy the human dress. the human dress is forged iron, the human form a fiery forge, the human face a furnace sealed, the human heart its hungry gorge. note: though written and engraved by blake, "a divine image" was never included in the songs of innocence and of experience. william blake's the book of thel thel's motto does the eagle know what is in the pit? or wilt thou go ask the mole: can wisdom be put in a silver rod? or love in a golden bowl? the book of thel the author & printer willm. blake. thel i the daughters of mne seraphim led round their sunny flocks, all but the youngest: she in paleness sought the secret air. to fade away like morning beauty from her mortal day: down by the river of adona her soft voice is heard; and thus her gentle lamentation falls like morning dew. o life of this our spring! why fades the lotus of the water? why fade these children of the spring? born but to smile & fall. ah! thel is like a watry bow, and like a parting cloud, like a reflection in a glass: like shadows in the water like dreams of infants, like a smile upon an infants face. like the doves voice, like transient day, like music in the air: ah! gentle may i lay me down and gentle rest my head. and gentle sleep the sleep of death, and gently hear the voice of him that walketh in the garden in the evening time. the lilly of the valley breathing in the humble grass answerd the lovely maid and said: i am a watry weed, and i am very small and love to dwell in lowly vales: so weak the gilded butterfly scarce perches on my head yet i am visited from heaven and he that smiles on all walks in the valley, and each morn over me spreads his hand saying, rejoice thou humble grass, thou new-born lily flower. thou gentle maid of silent valleys and of modest brooks: for thou shall be clothed in light, and fed with morning manna: till summers heat melts thee beside the fountains and the springs to flourish in eternal vales: they why should thel complain. why should the mistress of the vales of har, utter a sigh. she ceasd & smild in tears, then sat down in her silver shrine. thel answerd, o thou little virgin of the peaceful valley. giving to those that cannot crave, the voiceless, the o'er tired the breath doth nourish the innocent lamb, he smells the milky garments he crops thy flowers while thou sittest smiling in his face, wiping his mild and meekin mouth from all contagious taints. thy wine doth purify the golden honey; thy perfume. which thou dost scatter on every little blade of grass that springs revives the milked cow, & tames the fire-breathing steed. but thel is like a faint cloud kindled at the rising sun: i vanish from my pearly throne, and who shall find my place. queen of the vales the lily answered, ask the tender cloud, and it shall tell thee why it glitters in the morning sky. and why it scatters its bright beauty thro the humid air. descend o little cloud & hover before the eyes of thel. the cloud descended and the lily bowd her modest head: and went to mind her numerous charge among the verdant grass. ii. o little cloud the virgin said, i charge thee to tell me why thou complainest now when in one hour thou fade away: then we shall seek thee but not find: ah thel is like to thee. i pass away, yet i complain, and no one hears my voice. the cloud then shewd his golden head & his bright form emerg'd. hovering and glittering on the air before the face of thel. o virgin know'st thou not our steeds drink of the golden springs where luvah doth renew his horses: lookst thou on my youth. and fearest thou because i vanish and am seen no more. nothing remains; o maid i tell thee, when i pass away. it is to tenfold life, to love, to peace, and raptures holy: unseen descending, weigh my light wings upon balmy flowers: and court the fair eyed dew, to take me to her shining tent the weeping virgin, trembling kneels before the risen sun. till we arise link'd in a golden band and never part: but walk united bearing food to all our tender flowers. dost thou o little cloud? i fear that i am not like thee: for i walk through the vales of har, and smell the sweetest flowers: but i feed not the little flowers: i hear the warbling birds, but i feed not the warbling birds, they fly and seek their food: but thel delights in these no more because i fade away and all shall say, without a use this shining women liv'd, or did she only live to be at death the food of worms. the cloud reclind upon his airy throne and answerd thus. then if thou art the food of worms, o virgin of the skies, how great thy use, how great thy blessing, every thing that lives. lives not alone nor or itself: fear not and i will call, the weak worm from its lowly bed, and thou shalt hear its voice. come forth worm and the silent valley, to thy pensive queen. the helpless worm arose and sat upon the lillys leaf, and the bright cloud saild on, to find his partner in the vale. iii. then thel astonish'd view'd the worm upon its dewy bed. art thou a worm? image of weakness, art thou but a worm? i see thee like an infant wrapped in the lillys leaf; ah weep not little voice, thou can'st not speak, but thou can'st weep: is this a worm? i see they lay helpless & naked: weeping and none to answer, none to cherish thee with mothers smiles. the clod of clay heard the worms voice & rais'd her pitying head: she bowd over the weeping infant, and her life exhald in milky fondness, then on thel she fix'd her humble eyes; o beauty of the vales of har, we live not for ourselves, thou seest me the meanest thing, and so i am indeed: my bosom of itself is cold, and of itself is dark, but he that loves the lowly, pours his oil upon my head and kisses me, and binds his nuptial bands around my breast. and says; thou mother of my children, i have loved thee and i have given thee a crown that none can take away. but how this is sweet maid, i know not, and i cannot know i ponder, and i cannot ponder; yet i live and love. the daughter of beauty wip'd her pitying tears with her white veil, and said, alas! i knew not this, and therefore did i weep: that god would love a worm i knew, and punish the evil foot that wilful bruis'd its helpless form: but that he cherish'd it with milk and oil i never knew, and therefore did i weep, and i complaind in the mild air, because i fade away. and lay me down in thy cold bed, and leave my shining lot. queen of the vales, the matron clay answered: i heard thy sighs. and all thy moans flew o'er my roof, but i have call'd them down: wilt thou o queen enter my house, tis given thee to enter, and to return: fear nothing, enter with thy virgin feet. iv. the eternal gates terrific porter lifted the northern bar: thel enter'd in & saw the secrets of the land unknown; she saw the couches of the dead, & where the fibrous roots of every heart on earth infixes deep its restless twists: a land of sorrows & of tears where never smile was seen. she wandered in the land of clouds thro' valleys dark, listning dolors & lamentations: waiting oft beside the dewy grave she stood in silence, listning to the voices of the ground, till to her own grave plot she came, & there she sat down. and heard this voice of sorrow breathed from the hollow pit. why cannot the ear be closed to its own destruction? or the glistening eye to the poison of a smile! why are eyelids stord with arrows ready drawn, where a thousand fighting men in ambush lie! or an eye of gifts & graces showring fruits & coined gold! why a tongue impress'd with honey from every wind? why an ear, a whirlpool fierce to draw creations in? why a nostril wide inhaling terror trembling & affright why a tender curb upon the youthful burning boy? why a little curtain of flesh on the bed of our desire? the virgin started from her seat, & with a shriek, fled back unhinderd till she came into the vales of har. [note on text: italicized stanzas will be indented spaces. italicized and indented stanzas will be indented spaces. italicized words or phrases will be capitalised. some obvious errors may have been corrected.] +-------------------------------------------------+ | by vachel lindsay | | | | the congo and other poems | | general william booth enters into heaven | | the art of the moving picture | | adventures while preaching the gospel of beauty | +-------------------------------------------------+ general william booth enters into heaven and other poems by vachel lindsay [nicholas vachel lindsay, illinois poet-- - ] [this etext has been transcribed from a reprint (new york) of the original edition.] this book is dedicated to dr. arthur paul wakefield and olive lindsay wakefield missionaries in china contents general william booth enters into heaven the drunkards in the street the city that will not repent the trap where is david, the next king of israel? on reading omar khayyam the beggar's valentine honor among scamps the gamblers on the road to nowhere upon returning to the country road the angel and the clown springfield magical incense the wedding of the rose and the lotos king arthur's men have come again foreign missions in battle array star of my heart look you, i'll go pray at mass heart of god the empty boats with a bouquet of twelve roses st. francis of assisi buddha a prayer to all the dead among mine own people to reformers in despair why i voted the socialist ticket to the united states senate the knight in disguise the wizard in the street the eagle that is forgotten shakespeare michelangelo titian lincoln the cornfields sweet briars of the stairways fantasies and whims:-- the fairy bridal hymn the potato's dance how a little girl sang ghosts in love the queen of bubbles the tree of laughing bells, or the wings of the morning sweethearts of the year the sorceress! caught in a net eden in winter genesis queen mab in the village the dandelion the light o' the moon a net to snare the moonlight beyond the moon the song of the garden-toad a gospel of beauty:-- the proud farmer the illinois village on the building of springfield general william booth enters into heaven [to be sung to the tune of 'the blood of the lamb' with indicated instrument] i [bass drum beaten loudly.] booth led boldly with his big bass drum-- (are you washed in the blood of the lamb?) the saints smiled gravely and they said: "he's come." (are you washed in the blood of the lamb?) walking lepers followed, rank on rank, lurching bravoes from the ditches dank, drabs from the alleyways and drug fiends pale-- minds still passion-ridden, soul-powers frail:-- vermin-eaten saints with mouldy breath, unwashed legions with the ways of death-- (are you washed in the blood of the lamb?) [banjos.] every slum had sent its half-a-score the round world over. (booth had groaned for more.) every banner that the wide world flies bloomed with glory and transcendent dyes. big-voiced lasses made their banjos bang, tranced, fanatical they shrieked and sang:-- "are you washed in the blood of the lamb?" hallelujah! it was queer to see bull-necked convicts with that land make free. loons with trumpets blowed a blare, blare, blare on, on upward thro' the golden air! (are you washed in the blood of the lamb?) ii [bass drum slower and softer.] booth died blind and still by faith he trod, eyes still dazzled by the ways of god. booth led boldly, and he looked the chief eagle countenance in sharp relief, beard a-flying, air of high command unabated in that holy land. [sweet flute music.] jesus came from out the court-house door, stretched his hands above the passing poor. booth saw not, but led his queer ones there round and round the mighty court-house square. yet in an instant all that blear review marched on spotless, clad in raiment new. the lame were straightened, withered limbs uncurled and blind eyes opened on a new, sweet world. [bass drum louder.] drabs and vixens in a flash made whole! gone was the weasel-head, the snout, the jowl! sages and sibyls now, and athletes clean, rulers of empires, and of forests green! [grand chorus of all instruments. tambourines to the foreground.] the hosts were sandalled, and their wings were fire! (are you washed in the blood of the lamb?) but their noise played havoc with the angel-choir. (are you washed in the blood of the lamb?) o, shout salvation! it was good to see kings and princes by the lamb set free. the banjos rattled and the tambourines jing-jing-jingled in the hands of queens. [reverently sung, no instruments.] and when booth halted by the curb for prayer he saw his master thro' the flag-filled air. christ came gently with a robe and crown for booth the soldier, while the throng knelt down. he saw king jesus. they were face to face, and he knelt a-weeping in that holy place. are you washed in the blood of the lamb? the drunkards in the street the drunkards in the street are calling one another, heeding not the night-wind, great of heart and gay,-- publicans and wantons-- calling, laughing, calling, while the spirit bloweth space and time away. why should i feel the sobbing, the secrecy, the glory, this comforter, this fitful wind divine? i the cautious pharisee, the scribe, the whited sepulchre-- i have no right to god, he is not mine. * * * * * within their gutters, drunkards dream of hell. i say my prayers by my white bed to-night, with the arms of god about me, with the angels singing, singing until the grayness of my soul grows white. the city that will not repent climbing the heights of berkeley nightly i watch the west. there lies new san francisco, sea-maid in purple dressed, wearing a dancer's girdle all to inflame desire: scorning her days of sackcloth, scorning her cleansing fire. see, like a burning city sets now the red sun's dome. see, mystic firebrands sparkle there on each store and home. see how the golden gateway burns with the day to be-- torch-bearing fiends of portent loom o'er the earth and sea. not by the earthquake daunted nor by new fears made tame, painting her face and laughing plays she a new-found game. here on her half-cool cinders 'frisco abides in mirth, planning the wildest splendor ever upon the earth. here on this crumbling rock-ledge 'frisco her all will stake, blowing her bubble-towers, swearing they will not break, rearing her fair transcendent, singing with piercing art, calling to ancient asia, wooing young europe's heart. here where her god has scourged her wantoning, singing sweet: waiting her mad bad lovers here by the judgment-seat! 'frisco, god's doughty foeman, scorns and blasphemes him strong. tho' he again should smite her she would not slack her song. nay, she would shriek and rally-- 'frisco would ten times rise! not till her last tower crumbles, not till her last rose dies, not till the coast sinks seaward, not till the cold tides beat over the high white shasta, 'frisco will cry defeat. god loves this rebel city, loves foemen brisk and game, tho', just to please the angels, he may send down his flame. god loves the golden leopard tho' he may spoil her lair. god smites, yet loves the lion. god makes the panther fair. dance then, wild guests of 'frisco, yellow, bronze, white and red! dance by the golden gateway-- dance, tho' he smite you dead! the trap she was taught desire in the street, not at the angels' feet. by the good no word was said of the worth of the bridal bed. the secret was learned from the vile, not from her mother's smile. home spoke not. and the girl was caught in the public whirl. do you say "she gave consent: life drunk, she was content with beasts that her fire could please?" but she did not choose disease of mind and nerves and breath. she was trapped to a slow, foul death. the door was watched so well, that the steep dark stair to hell was the only escaping way . . . "she gave consent," you say? some think she was meek and good, only lost in the wood of youth, and deceived in man when the hunger of sex began that ties the husband and wife to the end in a strong fond life. her captor, by chance was one of those whose passion was done, a cold fierce worm of the sea enslaving for you and me. the wages the poor must take have forced them to serve this snake. yea, half-paid girls must go for bread to his pit below. what hangman shall wait his host of butchers from coast to coast, new york to the golden gate-- the merger of death and fate, lust-kings with a careful plan clean-cut, american? in liberty's name we cry for these women about to die. o mothers who failed to tell the mazes of heaven and hell, who failed to advise, implore your daughters at love's strange door, what will you do this day? your dear ones are hidden away, as good as chained to the bed, hid like the mad, or the dead:-- the glories of endless years drowned in their harlot-tears: the children they hoped to bear, grandchildren strong and fair, the life for ages to be, cut off like a blasted tree, murdered in filth in a day, somehow, by the merchant gay! in liberty's name we cry for these women about to die. what shall be said of a state where traps for the white brides wait? of sellers of drink who play the game for the extra pay? of statesmen in league with all who hope for the girl-child's fall? of banks where hell's money is paid and pharisees all afraid of pandars that help them sin? when will our wrath begin? where is david, the next king of israel? where is david? . . . o god's people, saul has passed, the good and great. mourn for saul the first-anointed-- head and shoulders o'er the state. he was found among the prophets: judge and monarch, merged in one. but the wars of saul are ended and the works of saul are done. where is david, ruddy shepherd, god's boy-king for israel? mystic, ardent, dowered with beauty, singing where still waters dwell? prophet, find that destined minstrel wandering on the range to-day, driving sheep and crooning softly psalms that cannot pass away. "david waits," the prophet answers, "in a black notorious den, in a cave upon the border with four hundred outlaw men. "he is fair, and loved of women, mighty-hearted, born to sing: thieving, weeping, erring, praying, radiant royal rebel-king. "he will come with harp and psaltry, quell his troop of convict swine, quell his mad-dog roaring rascals, witching them with words divine-- "they will ram the walls of zion! they will win us salem hill, all for david, shepherd david-- singing like a mountain rill!" on reading omar khayyam [during an anti-saloon campaign, in central illinois.] in the midst of the battle i turned, (for the thunders could flourish without me) and hid by a rose-hung wall, forgetting the murder about me; and wrote, from my wound, on the stone, in mirth, half prayer, half play:-- "send me a picture book, send me a song, to-day." i saw him there by the wall when i scarce had written the line, in the enemy's colors dressed and the serpent-standard of wine writhing its withered length from his ghostly hands o'er the ground, and there by his shadowy breast the glorious poem i found. this was his world-old cry: thus read the famous prayer: "wine, wine, wine and flowers and cup-bearers always fair!" 'twas a book of the snares of earth bordered in gold and blue, and i read each line to the wind and read to the roses too: and they nodded their womanly heads and told to the wall just why for wine of the earth men bleed, kingdoms and empires die. i envied the grape stained sage: (the roses were praising him.) the ways of the world seemed good and the glory of heaven dim. i envied the endless kings who found great pearls in the mire, who bought with the nation's life the cup of delicious fire. but the wine of god came down, and i drank it out of the air. (fair is the serpent-cup, but the cup of god more fair.) the wine of god came down that makes no drinker to weep. and i went back to battle again leaving the singer asleep. the beggar's valentine kiss me and comfort my heart maiden honest and fine. i am the pilgrim boy lame, but hunting the shrine; fleeing away from the sweets, seeking the dust and rain, sworn to the staff and road, scorning pleasure and pain; nevertheless my mouth would rest like a bird an hour and find in your curls a nest and find in your breast a bower: nevertheless my eyes would lose themselves in your own, rivers that seek the sea, angels before the throne: kiss me and comfort my heart, for love can never be mine: passion, hunger and pain, these are the only wine of the pilgrim bound to the road. he would rob no man of his own. your heart is another's i know, your honor is his alone. the feasts of a long drawn love, the feasts of a wedded life, the harvests of patient years, and hearthstone and children and wife: these are your lords i know. these can never be mine-- this is the price i pay for the foolish search for the shrine: this is the price i pay for the joy of my midnight prayers, kneeling beneath the moon with hills for my altar stairs; this is the price i pay for the throb of the mystic wings, when the dove of god comes down and beats round my heart and sings; this is the price i pay for the light i shall some day see at the ends of the infinite earth when truth shall come to me. and what if my body die before i meet the truth? the road is dear, more dear than love or life or youth. the road, it is the road, mystical, endless, kind, mother of visions vast, mother of soul and mind; mother of all of me but the blood that cries for a mate-- that cries for a farewell kiss from the child of god at the gate. honor among scamps we are the smirched. queen honor is the spotless. we slept thro' wars where honor could not sleep. we were faint-hearted. honor was full-valiant. we kept a silence honor could not keep. yet this late day we make a song to praise her. we, codeless, will yet vindicate her code. she who was mighty, walks with us, the beggars. the merchants drive her out upon the road. she makes a throne of sod beside our campfire. we give the maiden-queen our rags and tears. a battered, rascal guard have rallied round her, to keep her safe until the better years. the gamblers life's a jail where men have common lot. gaunt the one who has, and who has not. all our treasures neither less nor more, bread alone comes thro' the guarded door. cards are foolish in this jail, i think, yet they play for shoes, for drabs and drink. she, my lawless, sharp-tongued gypsy maid will not scorn with me this jail-bird trade, pets some fox-eyed boy who turns the trick, tho' he win a button or a stick, pencil, garter, ribbon, corset-lace-- his the glory, mine is the disgrace. sweet, i'd rather lose than win despite love of hearty words and maids polite. "love's a gamble," say you. i deny. love's a gift. i love you till i die. gamblers fight like rats. i will not play. all i ever had i gave away. all i ever coveted was peace such as comes if we have jail release. cards are puzzles, tho' the prize be gold, cards help not the bread that tastes of mold, cards dye not your hair to black more deep, cards make not the children cease to weep. scorned, i sit with half shut eyes all day-- watch the cataract of sunshine play down the wall, and dance upon the floor. sun, come down and break the dungeon door! of such gold dust could i make a key,-- turn the bolt--how soon we would be free! over borders we would hurry on safe by sunrise farms, and springs of dawn, wash our wounds and jail stains there at last, azure rivers flowing, flowing past. god has great estates just past the line, green farms for all, and meat and corn and wine. on the road to nowhere on the road to nowhere what wild oats did you sow when you left your father's house with your cheeks aglow? eyes so strained and eager to see what you might see? were you thief or were you fool or most nobly free? were the tramp-days knightly, true sowing of wild seed? did you dare to make the songs vanquished workmen need? did you waste much money to deck a leper's feast? love the truth, defy the crowd scandalize the priest? on the road to nowhere what wild oats did you sow? stupids find the nowhere-road dusty, grim and slow. ere their sowing's ended they turn them on their track, look at the caitiff craven wights repentant, hurrying back! grown ashamed of nowhere, of rags endured for years, lust for velvet in their hearts, pierced with mammon's spears, all but a few fanatics give up their darling goal, seek to be as others are, stultify the soul. reapings now confront them, glut them, or destroy, curious seeds, grain or weeds sown with awful joy. hurried is their harvest, they make soft peace with men. pilgrims pass. they care not, will not tramp again. o nowhere, golden nowhere! sages and fools go on to your chaotic ocean, to your tremendous dawn. far in your fair dream-haven, is nothing or is all . . . they press on, singing, sowing wild deeds without recall! upon returning to the country road even the shrewd and bitter, gnarled by the old world's greed, cherished the stranger softly seeing his utter need. shelter and patient hearing, these were their gifts to him, to the minstrel, grimly begging as the sunset-fire grew dim. the rich said "you are welcome." yea, even the rich were good. how strange that in their feasting his songs were understood! the doors of the poor were open, the poor who had wandered too, who had slept with ne'er a roof-tree under the wind and dew. the minds of the poor were open, their dark mistrust was dead. they loved his wizard stories, they bought his rhymes with bread. those were his days of glory, of faith in his fellow-men. therefore, to-day the singer turns beggar once again. the angel and the clown i saw wild domes and bowers and smoking incense towers and mad exotic flowers in illinois. where ragged ditches ran now springs of heaven began celestial drink for man in illinois. there stood beside the town beneath its incense-crown an angel and a clown in illinois. he was as clowns are: she was snow and star with eyes that looked afar in illinois. i asked, "how came this place of antique asian grace amid our callow race in illinois?" said clown and angel fair: "by laughter and by prayer, by casting off all care in illinois." springfield magical in this, the city of my discontent, sometimes there comes a whisper from the grass, "romance, romance--is here. no hindu town is quite so strange. no citadel of brass by sinbad found, held half such love and hate; no picture-palace in a picture-book such webs of friendship, beauty, greed and fate!" in this, the city of my discontent, down from the sky, up from the smoking deep wild legends new and old burn round my bed while trees and grass and men are wrapped in sleep. angels come down, with christmas in their hearts, gentle, whimsical, laughing, heaven-sent; and, for a day, fair peace have given me in this, the city of my discontent! incense think not that incense-smoke has had its day. my friends, the incense-time has but begun. creed upon creed, cult upon cult shall bloom, shrine after shrine grow gray beneath the sun. and mountain-boulders in our aged west shall guard the graves of hermits truth-endowed: and there the scholar from the chinese hills shall do deep honor, with his wise head bowed. and on our old, old plains some muddy stream, dark as the ganges, shall, like that strange tide-- (whispering mystery to half the earth)-- gather the praying millions to its side, and flow past halls with statues in white stone to saints unborn to-day, whose lives of grace shall make one shining, universal church where all faiths kneel, as brothers, in one place. the wedding of the rose and the lotos the wide pacific waters and the atlantic meet. with cries of joy they mingle, in tides of love they greet. above the drowned ages a wind of wooing blows:-- the red rose woos the lotos, the lotos woos the rose . . . the lotos conquered egypt. the rose was loved in rome. great india crowned the lotos: (britain the rose's home). old china crowned the lotos, they crowned it in japan. but christendom adored the rose ere christendom began . . . the lotos speaks of slumber: the rose is as a dart. the lotos is nirvana: the rose is mary's heart. the rose is deathless, restless, the splendor of our pain: the flush and fire of labor that builds, not all in vain. . . . the genius of the lotos shall heal earth's too-much fret. the rose, in blinding glory, shall waken asia yet. hail to their loves, ye peoples! behold, a world-wind blows, that aids the ivory lotos to wed the red red rose! king arthur's men have come again [written while a field-worker in the anti-saloon league of illinois.] king arthur's men have come again. they challenge everywhere the foes of christ's eternal church. her incense crowns the air. the heathen knighthood cower and curse to hear the bugles ring, but spears are set, the charge is on, wise arthur shall be king! and cromwell's men have come again, i meet them in the street. stern but in this--no way of thorns shall snare the children's feet. the reveling foemen wreak but waste, a sodden poisonous band. fierce cromwell builds the flower-bright towns, and a more sunlit land! and lincoln's men have come again. up from the south he flayed, the grandsons of his foes arise in his own cause arrayed. they rise for freedom and clean laws high laws, that shall endure. our god establishes his arm and makes the battle sure! foreign missions in battle array an endless line of splendor, these troops with heaven for home, with creeds they go from scotland, with incense go from rome. these, in the name of jesus, against the dark gods stand, they gird the earth with valor, they heed their king's command. onward the line advances, shaking the hills with power, slaying the hidden demons, the lions that devour. no bloodshed in the wrestling,-- but souls new-born arise-- the nations growing kinder, the child-hearts growing wise. what is the final ending? the issue, can we know? will christ outlive mohammed? will kali's altar go? this is our faith tremendous,-- our wild hope, who shall scorn,-- that in the name of jesus the world shall be reborn! star of my heart star of my heart, i follow from afar. sweet love on high, lead on where shepherds are, where time is not, and only dreamers are. star from of old, the magi-kings are dead and a foolish saxon seeks the manger-bed. o lead me to jehovah's child across this dreamland lone and wild, then will i speak this prayer unsaid, and kiss his little haloed head-- "my star and i, we love thee, little child." except the christ be born again to-night in dreams of all men, saints and sons of shame, the world will never see his kingdom bright. stars of all hearts, lead onward thro' the night past death-black deserts, doubts without a name, past hills of pain and mountains of new sin to that far sky where mystic births begin, where dreaming ears the angel-song shall win. our christmas shall be rare at dawning there, and each shall find his brother fair, like a little child within: all hearts of the earth shall find new birth and wake, no more to sin. look you, i'll go pray look you, i'll go pray, my shame is crying, my soul is gray and faint, my faith is dying. look you, i'll go pray-- "sweet mary, make me clean, thou rainstorm of the soul, thou wine from worlds unseen." at mass no doubt to-morrow i will hide my face from you, my king. let me rejoice this sunday noon, and kneel while gray priests sing. it is not wisdom to forget. but since it is my fate fill thou my soul with hidden wine to make this white hour great. my god, my god, this marvelous hour i am your son i know. once in a thousand days your voice has laid temptation low. heart of god o great heart of god, once vague and lost to me, why do i throb with your throb to-night, in this land, eternity? o little heart of god, sweet intruding stranger, you are laughing in my human breast, a christ-child in a manger. heart, dear heart of god, beside you now i kneel, strong heart of faith. o heart not mine, where god has set his seal. wild thundering heart of god out of my doubt i come, and my foolish feet with prophets' feet, march with the prophets' drum. the empty boats why do i see these empty boats, sailing on airy seas? one haunted me the whole night long, swaying with every breeze, returning always near the eaves, or by the skylight glass: there it will wait me many weeks, and then, at last, will pass. each soul is haunted by a ship in which that soul might ride and climb the glorious mysteries of heaven's silent tide in voyages that change the very metes and bounds of fate-- o empty boats, we all refuse, that by our windows wait! with a bouquet of twelve roses i saw lord buddha towering by my gate saying: "once more, good youth, i stand and wait." saying: "i bring you my fair law of peace and from your withering passion full release; release from that white hand that stabbed you so. the road is calling. with the wind you go, forgetting her imperious disdain-- quenching all memory in the sun and rain." "excellent lord, i come. but first," i said, "grant that i bring her these twelve roses red. yea, twelve flower kisses for her rose-leaf mouth, and then indeed i go in bitter drouth to that far valley where your river flows in peace, that once i found in every rose." st. francis of assisi would i might wake st. francis in you all, brother of birds and trees, god's troubadour, blinded with weeping for the sad and poor; our wealth undone, all strict franciscan men, come, let us chant the canticle again of mother earth and the enduring sun. god make each soul the lonely leper's slave; god make us saints, and brave. buddha would that by hindu magic we became dark monks of jeweled india long ago, sitting at prince siddartha's feet to know the foolishness of gold and love and station, the gospel of the great renunciation, the ragged cloak, the staff, the rain and sun, the beggar's life, with far nirvana gleaming: lord, make us buddhas, dreaming. a prayer to all the dead among mine own people are these your presences, my clan from heaven? are these your hands upon my wounded soul? mine own, mine own, blood of my blood be with me, fly by my path till you have made me whole! to reformers in despair 'tis not too late to build our young land right, cleaner than holland, courtlier than japan, devout like early rome, with hearths like hers, hearths that will recreate the breed called man. why i voted the socialist ticket i am unjust, but i can strive for justice. my life's unkind, but i can vote for kindness. i, the unloving, say life should be lovely. i, that am blind, cry out against my blindness. man is a curious brute--he pets his fancies-- fighting mankind, to win sweet luxury. so he will be, tho' law be clear as crystal, tho' all men plan to live in harmony. come, let us vote against our human nature, crying to god in all the polling places to heal our everlasting sinfulness and make us sages with transfigured faces. the following verses were written on the evening of march the first, nineteen hundred and eleven, and printed next morning in the illinois state register. they celebrate the arrival of the news that the united states senate had declared the election of william lorimer good and valid, by a vote of forty-six to forty. to the united states senate [revelation : verses - ] and must the senator from illinois be this squat thing, with blinking, half-closed eyes? this brazen gutter idol, reared to power upon a leering pyramid of lies? and must the senator from illinois be the world's proverb of successful shame, dazzling all state house flies that steal and steal, who, when the sad state spares them, count it fame? if once or twice within his new won hall his vote had counted for the broken men; if in his early days he wrought some good-- we might a great soul's sins forgive him then. but must the senator from illinois be vindicated by fat kings of gold? and must he be belauded by the smirched, the sleek, uncanny chiefs in lies grown old? be warned, o wanton ones, who shielded him-- black wrath awaits. you all shall eat the dust. you dare not say: "to-morrow will bring peace; let us make merry, and go forth in lust." what will you trading frogs do on a day when armageddon thunders thro' the land; when each sad patriot rises, mad with shame, his ballot or his musket in his hand? in the distracted states from which you came the day is big with war hopes fierce and strange; our iron chicagos and our grimy mines rumble with hate and love and solemn change. too many weary men shed honest tears, ground by machines that give the senate ease. too many little babes with bleeding hands have heaped the fruits of empire on your knees. and swine within the senate in this day, when all the smothering by-streets weep and wail; when wisdom breaks the hearts of her best sons; when kingly men, voting for truth, may fail:-- these are a portent and a call to arms. our protest turns into a battle cry: "our shame must end, our states be free and clean; and in this war we choose to live and die." [so far as the writer knows this is the first use of the popular term armageddon in present day politics.] the knight in disguise [concerning o. henry (sidney porter)] "he could not forget that he was a sidney." is this sir philip sidney, this loud clown, the darling of the glad and gaping town? this is that dubious hero of the press whose slangy tongue and insolent address were spiced to rouse on sunday afternoon the man with yellow journals round him strewn. we laughed and dozed, then roused and read again, and vowed o. henry funniest of men. he always worked a triple-hinged surprise to end the scene and make one rub his eyes. he comes with vaudeville, with stare and leer. he comes with megaphone and specious cheer. his troupe, too fat or short or long or lean, step from the pages of the magazine with slapstick or sombrero or with cane: the rube, the cowboy or the masher vain. they over-act each part. but at the height of banter and of canter and delight the masks fall off for one queer instant there and show real faces: faces full of care and desperate longing: love that's hot or cold; and subtle thoughts, and countenances bold. the masks go back. 'tis one more joke. laugh on! the goodly grown-up company is gone. no doubt had he occasion to address the brilliant court of purple-clad queen bess, he would have wrought for them the best he knew and led more loftily his actor-crew. how coolly he misquoted. 'twas his art-- slave-scholar, who misquoted--from the heart. so when we slapped his back with friendly roar aesop awaited him without the door,-- aesop the greek, who made dull masters laugh with little tales of fox and dog and calf. and be it said, mid these his pranks so odd with something nigh to chivalry he trod and oft the drear and driven would defend-- the little shopgirls' knight unto the end. yea, he had passed, ere we could understand the blade of sidney glimmered in his hand. yea, ere we knew, sir philip's sword was drawn with valiant cut and thrust, and he was gone. the wizard in the street [concerning edgar allan poe] who now will praise the wizard in the street with loyal songs, with humors grave and sweet-- this jingle-man, of strolling players born, whom holy folk have hurried by in scorn, this threadbare jester, neither wise nor good, with melancholy bells upon his hood? the hurrying great ones scorn his raven's croak, and well may mock his mystifying cloak inscribed with runes from tongues he has not read to make the ignoramus turn his head. the artificial glitter of his eyes has captured half-grown boys. they think him wise. some shallow player-folk esteem him deep, soothed by his steady wand's mesmeric sweep. the little lacquered boxes in his hands somehow suggest old times and reverenced lands. from them doll-monsters come, we know not how: puppets, with cain's black rubric on the brow. some passing jugglers, smiling, now concede that his best cabinet-work is made, indeed by bleeding his right arm, day after day, triumphantly to seal and to inlay. they praise his little act of shedding tears; a trick, well learned, with patience, thro' the years. i love him in this blatant, well-fed place. of all the faces, his the only face beautiful, tho' painted for the stage, lit up with song, then torn with cold, small rage, shames that are living, loves and hopes long dead, consuming pride, and hunger, real, for bread. here by the curb, ye prophets thunder deep: "what nations sow, they must expect to reap," or haste to clothe the race with truth and power, with hymns and shouts increasing every hour. useful are you. there stands the useless one who builds the haunted palace in the sun. good tailors, can you dress a doll for me with silks that whisper of the sounding sea? one moment, citizens,--the weary tramp unveileth psyche with the agate lamp. which one of you can spread a spotted cloak and raise an unaccounted incense smoke until within the twilight of the day stands dark ligeia in her disarray, witchcraft and desperate passion in her breath and battling will, that conquers even death? and now the evening goes. no man has thrown the weary dog his well-earned crust or bone. we grin and hie us home and go to sleep, or feast like kings till midnight, drinking deep. he drank alone, for sorrow, and then slept, and few there were that watched him, few that wept. he found the gutter, lost to love and man. too slowly came the good samaritan. the eagle that is forgotten [john p. altgeld. born dec. , ; died march , ] sleep softly * * * eagle forgotten * * * under the stone. time has its way with you there, and the clay has its own. "we have buried him now," thought your foes, and in secret rejoiced. they made a brave show of their mourning, their hatred unvoiced. they had snarled at you, barked at you, foamed at you day after day, now you were ended. they praised you, * * * and laid you away. the others that mourned you in silence and terror and truth, the widow bereft of her crust, and the boy without youth, the mocked and the scorned and the wounded, the lame and the poor that should have remembered forever, * * * remember no more. where are those lovers of yours, on what name do they call the lost, that in armies wept over your funeral pall? they call on the names of a hundred high-valiant ones, a hundred white eagles have risen the sons of your sons, the zeal in their wings is a zeal that your dreaming began the valor that wore out your soul in the service of man. sleep softly, * * * eagle forgotten, * * * under the stone, time has its way with you there and the clay has its own. sleep on, o brave hearted, o wise man, that kindled the flame-- to live in mankind is far more than to live in a name, to live in mankind, far, far more * * * than to live in a name. shakespeare would that in body and spirit shakespeare came visible emperor of the deeds of time, with justice still the genius of his rhyme, giving each man his due, each passion grace, impartial as the rain from heaven's face or sunshine from the heaven-enthroned sun. sweet swan of avon, come to us again. teach us to write, and writing, to be men. michelangelo would i might wake in you the whirl-wind soul of michelangelo, who hewed the stone and night and day revealed, whose arm alone could draw the face of god, the titan high whose genius smote like lightning from the sky-- and shall he mold like dead leaves in the grave? nay he is in us! let us dare and dare. god help us to be brave. titian would that such hills and cities round us sang, such vistas of the actual earth and man as kindled titian when his life began; would that this latter greek could put his gold, wisdom and splendor in our brushes bold till greece and venice, children of the sun, become our every-day, and we aspire to colors fairer far, and glories higher. lincoln would i might rouse the lincoln in you all, that which is gendered in the wilderness from lonely prairies and god's tenderness. imperial soul, star of a weedy stream, born where the ghosts of buffaloes still dream, whose spirit hoof-beats storm above his grave, above that breast of earth and prairie-fire-- fire that freed the slave. the cornfields the cornfields rise above mankind, lifting white torches to the blue, each season not ashamed to be magnificently decked for you. what right have you to call them yours, and in brute lust of riches burn without some radiant penance wrought, some beautiful, devout return? sweet briars of the stairways we are happy all the time even when we fight: sweet briars of the stairways, gay fairies of the grime; we, who are playing to-night. "our feet are in the gutters, our eyes are sore with dust, but still our eyes are bright. the wide street roars and mutters-- we know it works because it must-- we, who are playing to-night! "dirt is everlasting.-- we never, never fear it. toil is never ceasing.-- we will play until we near it. tears are never ending.-- when once real tears have come; "when we see our people as they are-- our fathers--broken, dumb-- our mothers--broken, dumb-- the weariest of women and of men; ah--then our eyes will lose their light-- then we will never play again-- we, who are playing to-night." fantasies and whims:-- the fairy bridal hymn [this is the hymn to eleanor, daughter of mab and a golden drone, sung by the locust choir when the fairy child marries her god, the yellow rose] this is a song to the white-armed one cold in the breast as the frost-wrapped spring, whose feet are slow on the hills of life, whose round mouth rules by whispering. this is a song to the white-armed one whose breast shall burn as a summer field, whose wings shall rise to the doors of gold, whose poppy lips to the god shall yield. this is a song to the white-armed one when the closing rose shall bind her fast, and a song of the song their blood shall sing, when the rose-god drinks her soul at last. the potato's dance "down cellar," said the cricket, "i saw a ball last night in honor of a lady whose wings were pearly-white. the breath of bitter weather had smashed the cellar pane: we entertained a drift of leaves and then of snow and rain. but we were dressed for winter, and loved to hear it blow in honor of the lady who makes potatoes grow-- our guest, the irish lady, the tiny irish lady, the fairy irish lady that makes potatoes grow. "potatoes were the waiters, potatoes were the band, potatoes were the dancers kicking up the sand: their legs were old burnt matches, their arms were just the same, they jigged and whirled and scrambled in honor of the dame: the noble irish lady who makes potatoes dance, the witty irish lady, the saucy irish lady, the laughing irish lady who makes potatoes prance. "there was just one sweet potato. he was golden-brown and slim: the lady loved his figure. she danced all night with him. alas, he wasn't irish. so when she flew away, they threw him in the coal-bin and there he is to-day, where they cannot hear his sighs-- his weeping for the lady, the beauteous irish lady, the radiant irish lady who gives potatoes eyes." how a little girl sang ah, she was music in herself, a symphony of joyousness. she sang, she sang from finger tips, from every tremble of her dress. i saw sweet haunting harmony, an ecstasy, an ecstasy, in that strange curling of her lips, that happy curling of her lips. and quivering with melody those eyes i saw, that tossing head. and so i saw what music was, tho' still accursed with ears of lead. ghosts in love "tell me, where do ghosts in love find their bridal veils?" "if you and i were ghosts in love we'd climb the cliffs of mystery, above the sea of wails. i'd trim your gray and streaming hair with veils of fantasy from the tree of memory. 'tis there the ghosts that fall in love find their bridal veils." the queen of bubbles [written for a picture] the youth speaks:-- "why do you seek the sun in your bubble-crown ascending? your chariot will melt to mist. your crown will have an ending." the goddess replies:-- "nay, sun is but a bubble, earth is a whiff of foam-- to my caves on the coast of thule each night i call them home. thence faiths blow forth to angels and loves blow forth to men-- they break and turn to nothing and i make them whole again. on the crested waves of chaos i ride them back reborn: new stars i bring at evening for those that burst at morn: my soul is the wind of thule and evening is the sign-- the sun is but a bubble, a fragile child of mine." the tree of laughing bells, or the wings of the morning [a poem for aviators] how the wings were made from many morning-glories that in an hour will fade, from many pansy buds gathered in the shade, from lily of the valley and dandelion buds, from fiery poppy-buds are the wings of the morning made. the indian girl who made them these, the wings of the morning, an indian maiden wove, intertwining subtilely wands from a willow grove beside the sangamon-- rude stream of dreamland town. she bound them to my shoulders with fingers golden-brown. the wings were part of me; the willow-wands were hot. pulses from my heart healed each bruise and spot of the morning-glory buds, beginning to unfold beneath her burning song of suns untold. the indian girl tells the hero where to go to get the laughing bell "to the farthest star of all, go, make a moment's raid. to the west--escape the earth before your pennons fade! west! west! o'ertake the night that flees the morning sun. there's a path between the stars-- a black and silent one. o tremble when you near the smallest star that sings: only the farthest star is cool for willow wings. "there's a sky within the west-- there's a sky beyond the skies where only one star shines-- the star of laughing bells-- in chaos-land it lies; cold as morning-dew, a gray and tiny boat moored on chaos-shore, where nothing else can float but the wings of the morning strong and the lilt of laughing song from many a ruddy throat: "for the tree of laughing bells grew from a bleeding seed planted mid enchantment played on a harp and reed: darkness was the harp-- chaos-wind the reed; the fruit of the tree is a bell, blood-red-- the seed was the heart of a fairy, dead. part of the bells of the laughing tree fell to-day at a blast from the reed. bring a fallen bell to me. go!" the maiden said. "for the bell will quench our memory, our hope, our borrowed sorrow; we will have no thirst for yesterday, no thought for to-morrow." the journey starts swiftly a thousand times ten thousand times more swift than the sun's swift light were the morning wings in their flight on-- on-- west of the universe, thro' the west to chaos-night. he nears the goal how the red bells rang as i neared the chaos-shore! as i flew across to the end of the west the young bells rang and rang above the chaos roar, and the wings of the morning beat in tune and bore me like a bird along-- and the nearing star turned to a moon-- gray moon, with a brow of red-- gray moon with a golden song. like a diver after pearls i plunged to that stifling floor. it was wide as a giant's wheat-field an icy, wind-washed shore. o laughing, proud, but trembling star! o wind that wounded sore! he climbs the hill where the tree grows on-- thro' the gleaming gray i ran to the storm and clang-- to the red, red hill where the great tree swayed-- and scattered bells like autumn leaves. how the red bells rang! my breath within my breast was held like a diver's breath-- the leaves were tangled locks of gray-- the boughs of the tree were white and gray, shaped like scythes of death. the boughs of the tree would sweep and sway-- sway like scythes of death. but it was beautiful! i knew that all was well. a thousand bells from a thousand boughs each moment bloomed and fell. on the hill of the wind-swept tree there were no bells asleep; they sang beneath my trailing wings like rivers sweet and steep. deep rock-clefts before my feet mighty chimes did keep and little choirs did keep. he receives the bells honeyed, small and fair, like flowers, in flowery lands-- like little maidens' hands-- two bells fell in my hair, two bells caressed my hair. i pressed them to my purple lips in the strangling chaos-air. he starts on the return journey on desperate wings and strong, two bells within my breast, i breathed again, i breathed again-- west of the universe-- west of the skies of the west. into the black toward home, and never a star in sight, by faith that is blind i took my way with my two bosomed blossoms gay till a speck in the east was the milky way: till starlit was the night. and the bells had quenched all memory-- all hope-- all borrowed sorrow: i had no thirst for yesterday, no thought for to-morrow. like hearts within my breast the bells would throb to me and drown the siren stars that sang enticingly; my heart became a bell-- three bells were in my breast, three hearts to comfort me. we reached the daytime happily-- we reached the earth with glee. in an hour, in an hour it was done! the wings in their morning flight were a thousand times ten thousand times more swift than beams of light. he gives what he won to the indian girl i panted in the grassy wood; i kissed the indian maid as she took my wings from me: with all the grace i could i gave two throbbing bells to her from the foot of the laughing tree. and one she pressed to her golden breast and one, gave back to me. from lilies of the valley-- see them fade. from poppy-blooms all frayed, from dandelions gray with care, from pansy-faces, worn and torn, from morning-glories-- see them fade-- from all things fragile, faint and fair are the wings of the morning made! sweethearts of the year sweetheart spring our sweetheart, spring, came softly, her gliding hands were fire, her lilac breath upon our cheeks consumed us with desire. by her our god began to build, began to sow and till. he laid foundations in our loves for every good and ill. we asked him not for blessing, we asked him not for pain-- still, to the just and unjust he sent his fire and rain. sweetheart summer we prayed not, yet she came to us, the silken, shining one, on jacob's noble ladder descended from the sun. she reached our town of every day, our dry and dusty sod-- we prayed not, yet she brought to us the misty wine of god. sweetheart autumn the woods were black and crimson, the frost-bit flowers were dead, but sweetheart indian summer came with love-winds round her head. while fruits god-given and splendid belonged to her domain: baskets of corn in perfect ear and grapes with purple stain, the treacherous winds persuaded her spring love was in the wood altho' the end of love was hers-- fruition, motherhood. sweetheart winter we had done naught of service to win our maker's praise. yet sweetheart winter came to us to gild our waning days. down jacob's winding ladder she came from sunshine town, bearing the sparkling mornings and clouds of silver-brown; bearing the seeds of springtime. upon her snowy seas bearing the fairy star-flowers for baby christmas trees. the sorceress! i asked her, "is aladdin's lamp hidden anywhere?" "look into your heart," she said, "aladdin's lamp is there." she took my heart with glowing hands. it burned to dust and air and smoke and rolling thistledown blowing everywhere. "follow the thistledown," she said, "till doomsday, if you dare, over the hills and far away. aladdin's lamp is there." caught in a net upon her breast her hands and hair were tangled all together. the moon of june forbade me not-- the golden night time weather in balmy sighs commanded me to kiss them like a feather. her looming hair, her burning hands, were tangled black and white. my face i buried there. i pray-- so far from her to-night-- for grace, to dream i kiss her soul amid the black and white. eden in winter [supposed to be chanted to some rude instrument at a modern fireplace] chant we the story now tho' in a house we sleep; tho' by a hearth of coals vigil to-night we keep. chant we the story now, of the vague love we knew when i from out the sea rose to the feet of you. bird from the cliffs you came, flew thro' the snow to me, facing the icy blast there by the icy sea. how did i reach your feet? why should i--at the end hold out half-frozen hands dumbly to you my friend? ne'er had i woman seen, ne'er had i seen a flame. there you piled fagots on, heat rose--the blast to tame. there by the cave-door dark, comforting me you cried-- wailed o'er my wounded knee, wept for my rock-torn side. up from the south i trailed-- left regions fierce and fair! left all the jungle-trees, left the red tiger's lair. dream led, i scarce knew why, into your north i trod-- ne'er had i known the snow, or the frost-blasted sod. o how the flakes came down! o how the fire burned high! strange thing to see he was, thro' his dry twigs would fly, creep there awhile and sleep-- then wake and bark for fight-- biting if i too near came to his eye so bright. then with a will you fed wood to his hungry tongue. then he did leap and sing-- dancing the clouds among, turning the night to noon, stinging my eyes with light, making the snow retreat, making the cave-house bright. there were dry fagots piled, nuts and dry leaves and roots, stores there of furs and hides, sweet-barks and grains and fruits. there wrapped in fur we lay, half-burned, half-frozen still-- ne'er will my soul forget all the night's bitter chill. we had not learned to speak, i was to you a strange wolfling or wounded fawn, lost from his forest-range. thirsting for bloody meat, out at the dawn we went. weighed with our prey at eve, home-came we all forespent. comrades and hunters tried ere we were maid and man-- not till the spring awoke laughter and speech began. whining like forest dogs, rustling like budding trees, bubbling like thawing springs, humming like little bees, crooning like maytime tides, chattering parrot words, crying the panther's cry, chirping like mating birds-- thus, thus, we learned to speak, who mid the snows were dumb, nor did we learn to kiss until the spring had come. genesis i was but a half-grown boy, you were a girl-child slight. ah, how weary you were! you had led in the bullock-fight . . . we slew the bullock at length with knives and maces of stone. and so your feet were torn, your lean arms bruised to the bone. perhaps 'twas the slain beast's blood we drank, or a root we ate, or our reveling evening bath in the fall by the garden gate, but you turned to a witching thing, side-glancing, and frightened me; you purred like a panther's cub, you sighed like a shell from the sea. we knelt. i caressed your hair by the light of the leaping fire: your fierce eyes blinked with smoke, pine-fumes, that enhanced desire. i helped to unbraid your hair in wonder and fear profound: you were humming your hunting tune as it swept to the grassy ground. our comrades, the shaggy bear, the tiger with velvet feet, the lion, crept to the light whining for bullock meat. we fed them and stroked their necks . . . they took their way to the fen where they hunted or hid all night; no enemies, they, of men. evil had entered not the cobra, since defiled. he watched, when the beasts had gone our kissing and singing wild. beautiful friend he was, sage, not a tempter grim. many a year should pass ere satan should enter him. he danced while the evening dove and the nightingale kept in tune. i sang of the angel sun: you sang of the angel-moon: we sang of the angel-chief who blew thro' the trees strange breath, who helped in the hunt all day and granted the bullock's death. o eve with the fire-lit breast and child-face red and white! i heaped the great logs high! that was our bridal night. queen mab in the village once i loved a fairy, queen mab it was. her voice was like a little fountain that bids the birds rejoice. her face was wise and solemn, her hair was brown and fine. her dress was pansy velvet, a butterfly design. to see her hover round me or walk the hills of air, awakened love's deep pulses and boyhood's first despair; a passion like a sword-blade that pierced me thro' and thro': her fingers healed the sorrow her whisper would renew. we sighed and reigned and feasted within a hollow tree, we vowed our love was boundless, eternal as the sea. she banished from her kingdom the mortal boy i grew-- so tall and crude and noisy, i killed grasshoppers too. i threw big rocks at pigeons, i plucked and tore apart the weeping, wailing daisies, and broke my lady's heart. at length i grew to manhood, i scarcely could believe i ever loved the lady, or caused her court to grieve, until a dream came to me, one bleak first night of spring, ere tides of apple blossoms rolled in o'er everything, while rain and sleet and snowbanks were still a-vexing men, ere robin and his comrades were nesting once again. i saw mab's book of judgment-- its clasps were iron and stone, its leaves were mammoth ivory, its boards were mammoth bone,-- hid in her seaside mountains, forgotten or unkept, beneath its mighty covers her wrath against me slept. and deeply i repented of brash and boyish crime, of murder of things lovely now and in olden time. i cursed my vain ambition, my would-be worldly days, and craved the paths of wonder, of dewy dawns and fays. i cried, "our love was boundless, eternal as the sea, o queen, reverse the sentence, come back and master me!" the book was by the cliff-side upon its edge upright. i laid me by it softly, and wept throughout the night. and there at dawn i saw it, no book now, but a door, upon its panels written, "judgment is no more." the bolt flew back with thunder, i saw within that place a mermaid wrapped in seaweed with mab's immortal face, yet grown now to a woman, a woman to the knee. she cried, she clasped me fondly, we soon were in the sea. ah, she was wise and subtle, and gay and strong and sleek, we chained the wicked sword-fish, we played at hide and seek. we floated on the water, we heard the dawn-wind sing, i made from ocean-wonders, her bridal wreath and ring. all mortal girls were shadows, all earth-life but a mist, when deep beneath the maelstrom, the mermaid's heart i kissed. i woke beside the church-door of our small inland town, bowing to a maiden in a pansy-velvet gown, who had not heard of fairies, yet seemed of love to dream. we planned an earthly cottage beside an earthly stream. our wedding long is over, with toil the years fill up, yet in the evening silence, we drink a deep-sea cup. nothing the fay remembers, yet when she turns to me, we meet beneath the whirlpool, we swim the golden sea. the dandelion o dandelion, rich and haughty, king of village flowers! each day is coronation time, you have no humble hours. i like to see you bring a troop to beat the blue-grass spears, to scorn the lawn-mower that would be like fate's triumphant shears. your yellow heads are cut away, it seems your reign is o'er. by noon you raise a sea of stars more golden than before. the light o' the moon [how different people and different animals look upon the moon: showing that each creature finds in it his own mood and disposition] the old horse in the city the moon's a peck of corn. it lies heaped up for me to eat. i wish that i might climb the path and taste that supper sweet. men feed me straw and scanty grain and beat me till i'm sore. some day i'll break the halter-rope and smash the stable-door, run down the street and mount the hill just as the corn appears. i've seen it rise at certain times for years and years and years. what the hyena said the moon is but a golden skull, she mounts the heavens now, and moon-worms, mighty moon-worms are wreathed around her brow. the moon-worms are a doughty race: they eat her gray and golden face. her eye-sockets dead, and molding head: these caverns are their dwelling-place. the moon-worms, serpents of the skies, from the great hollows of her eyes behold all souls, and they are wise: with tiny, keen and icy eyes, behold how each man sins and dies. when earth in gold-corruption lies long dead, the moon-worm butterflies on cyclone wings will reach this place-- yea, rear their brood on earth's dead face. what the snow man said the moon's a snowball. see the drifts of white that cross the sphere. the moon's a snowball, melted down a dozen times a year. yet rolled again in hot july when all my days are done and cool to greet the weary eye after the scorching sun. the moon's a piece of winter fair renewed the year around, behold it, deathless and unstained, above the grimy ground! it rolls on high so brave and white where the clear air-rivers flow, proclaiming christmas all the time and the glory of the snow! what the scare-crow said the dim-winged spirits of the night do fear and serve me well. they creep from out the hedges of the garden where i dwell. i wave my arms across the walk. the troops obey the sign, and bring me shimmering shadow-robes and cups of cowslip-wine. then dig a treasure called the moon, a very precious thing, and keep it in the air for me because i am a king. what grandpa mouse said the moon's a holy owl-queen. she keeps them in a jar under her arm till evening, then sallies forth to war. she pours the owls upon us. they hoot with horrid noise and eat the naughty mousie-girls and wicked mousie-boys. so climb the moonvine every night and to the owl-queen pray: leave good green cheese by moonlit trees for her to take away. and never squeak, my children, nor gnaw the smoke-house door: the owl-queen then will love us and send her birds no more. the beggar speaks "what mister moon said to me." come, eat the bread of idleness, come, sit beside the spring: some of the flowers will keep awake, some of the birds will sing. come, eat the bread no man has sought for half a hundred years: men hurry so they have no griefs, nor even idle tears: they hurry so they have no loves: they cannot curse nor laugh-- their hearts die in their youth with neither grave nor epitaph. my bread would make them careless, and never quite on time-- their eyelids would be heavy, their fancies full of rhyme: each soul a mystic rose-tree, or a curious incense tree: . . . . come, eat the bread of idleness, said mister moon to me. what the forester said the moon is but a candle-glow that flickers thro' the gloom: the starry space, a castle hall: and earth, the children's room, where all night long the old trees stand to watch the streams asleep: grandmothers guarding trundle-beds: good shepherds guarding sheep. a net to snare the moonlight [what the man of faith said] the dew, the rain and moonlight all prove our father's mind. the dew, the rain and moonlight descend to bless mankind. come, let us see that all men have land to catch the rain, have grass to snare the spheres of dew, and fields spread for the grain. yea, we would give to each poor man ripe wheat and poppies red,-- a peaceful place at evening with the stars just overhead: a net to snare the moonlight, a sod spread to the sun, a place of toil by daytime, of dreams when toil is done. beyond the moon [written to the most beautiful woman in the world] my sweetheart is the truth beyond the moon, and never have i been in love with woman, always aspiring to be set in tune with one who is invisible, inhuman. o laughing girl, cold truth has stepped between, spoiling the fevers of your virgin face: making your shining eyes but lead and clay, mocking your brilliant brain and lady's grace. truth haunted me the day i wooed and lost, the day i wooed and won, or wooed in play: tho' you were juliet or rosalind, thus shall it be, forever and a day. i doubt my vows, tho' sworn on my own blood, tho' i draw toward you weeping, soul to soul, i have a lonely goal beyond the moon; ay, beyond heaven and hell, i have a goal! the song of the garden-toad down, down beneath the daisy beds, o hear the cries of pain! and moaning on the cinder-path they're blind amid the rain. can murmurs of the worms arise to higher hearts than mine? i wonder if that gardener hears who made the mold all fine and packed each gentle seedling down so carefully in line? i watched the red rose reaching up to ask him if he heard those cries that stung the evening earth till all the rose-roots stirred. she asked him if he felt the hate that burned beneath them there. she asked him if he heard the curse of worms in black despair. he kissed the rose. what did it mean? what of the rose's prayer? down, down where rain has never come they fight in burning graves, bleeding and drinking blood within those venom-caves. blaspheming still the gardener's name, they live and hate and go. i wonder if the gardener heard the rose that told him so? a gospel of beauty:-- i recited these three poems more than any others in my late mendicant preaching tour through the west. taken as a triad, they hold in solution my theory of american civilization. the proud farmer [in memory of e. s. frazee, rush county, indiana] into the acres of the newborn state he poured his strength, and plowed his ancient name, and, when the traders followed him, he stood towering above their furtive souls and tame. that brow without a stain, that fearless eye oft left the passing stranger wondering to find such knighthood in the sprawling land, to see a democrat well-nigh a king. he lived with liberal hand, with guests from far, with talk and joke and fellowship to spare,-- watching the wide world's life from sun to sun, lining his walls with books from everywhere. he read by night, he built his world by day. the farm and house of god to him were one. for forty years he preached and plowed and wrought-- a statesman in the fields, who bent to none. his plowmen-neighbors were as lords to him. his was an ironside, democratic pride. he served a rigid christ, but served him well-- and, for a lifetime, saved the countryside. here lie the dead, who gave the church their best under his fiery preaching of the word. they sleep with him beneath the ragged grass . . . the village withers, by his voice unstirred. and tho' his tribe be scattered to the wind from the atlantic to the china sea, yet do they think of that bright lamp he burned of family worth and proud integrity. and many a sturdy grandchild hears his name in reverence spoken, till he feels akin to all the lion-eyed who built the world-- and lion-dreams begin to burn within. the illinois village o you who lose the art of hope, whose temples seem to shrine a lie, whose sidewalks are but stones of fear, who weep that liberty must die, turn to the little prairie towns, your higher hope shall yet begin. on every side awaits you there some gate where glory enters in. yet when i see the flocks of girls, watching the sunday train go thro' (as tho' the whole wide world went by) with eyes that long to travel too, i sigh, despite my soul made glad by cloudy dresses and brown hair, sigh for the sweet life wrenched and torn by thundering commerce, fierce and bare. nymphs of the wheat these girls should be: kings of the grove, their lovers strong. why are they not inspired, aflame? this beauty calls for valiant song-- for men to carve these fairy-forms and faces in a fountain-frieze; dancers that own immortal hours; painters that work upon their knees; maids, lovers, friends, so deep in life, so deep in love and poet's deeds, the railroad is a thing disowned, the city but a field of weeds. who can pass a village church by night in these clean prairie lands without a touch of spirit-power? so white and fixed and cool it stands-- a thing from some strange fairy-town, a pious amaranthine flower, unsullied by the winds, as pure as jade or marble, wrought this hour:-- rural in form, foursquare and plain, and yet our sister, the new moon, makes it a praying wizard's dream. the trees that watch at dusty noon breaking its sharpest lines, veil not the whiteness it reflects from god, flashing like spring on many an eye, making clean flesh, that once was clod. who can pass a district school without the hope that there may wait some baby-heart the books shall flame with zeal to make his playmates great, to make the whole wide village gleam a strangely carved celestial gem, eternal in its beauty-light, the artist's town of bethlehem! on the building of springfield let not our town be large, remembering that little athens was the muses' home, that oxford rules the heart of london still, that florence gave the renaissance to rome. record it for the grandson of your son-- a city is not builded in a day: our little town cannot complete her soul till countless generations pass away. now let each child be joined as to a church to her perpetual hopes, each man ordained: let every street be made a reverent aisle where music grows and beauty is unchained. let science and machinery and trade be slaves of her, and make her all in all, building against our blatant, restless time an unseen, skilful, medieval wall. let every citizen be rich toward god. let christ the beggar, teach divinity. let no man rule who holds his money dear. let this, our city, be our luxury. we should build parks that students from afar would choose to starve in, rather than go home, fair little squares, with phidian ornament, food for the spirit, milk and honeycomb. songs shall be sung by us in that good day, songs we have written, blood within the rhyme beating, as when old england still was glad,-- the purple, rich elizabethan time. . . . . . say, is my prophecy too fair and far? i only know, unless her faith be high, the soul of this, our nineveh, is doomed, our little babylon will surely die. some city on the breast of illinois no wiser and no better at the start by faith shall rise redeemed, by faith shall rise bearing the western glory in her heart. the genius of the maple, elm and oak, the secret hidden in each grain of corn, the glory that the prairie angels sing at night when sons of life and love are born, born but to struggle, squalid and alone, broken and wandering in their early years. when will they make our dusty streets their goal, within our attics hide their sacred tears? when will they start our vulgar blood athrill with living language, words that set us free? when will they make a path of beauty clear between our riches and our liberty? we must have many lincoln-hearted men. a city is not builded in a day. and they must do their work, and come and go while countless generations pass away. [end of original text.] nicholas vachel lindsay ( - ): (vachel is pronounced vay-chul, that is, it rhymes with 'rachel'). vachel lindsay, of springfield, illinois, is best known for his efforts to restore the vocal tradition to poetry. he made a journey on foot as far as new mexico, taking along copies of a pamphlet, "rhymes to be traded for bread", for the purpose the title suggests. he wrote of this journey in "adventures while preaching the gospel of beauty". "the eagle that is forgotten" and "the congo" are his best-known poems, and appear in his first two volumes of verse, "general william booth enters into heaven" ( ) and "the congo" ( ). as a sidenote, he became close friends with the poet sara teasdale (well worth reading in her own right--perhaps the better poet), and his third volume of verse, "the chinese nightingale" ( ), is dedicated to her. in turn, she wrote a memorial verse for him after he committed suicide in . none